3. Tada drastuh svarupe vasthanam   (Chapter 1, v.3) 

     Then the seer abides in it own nature 

     This is one of the most important verses in the entire book.  It is based upon the fundamental concepts of purusa and prakrti.  Purusa is universal consciousness, immutable and untouchable; prakrti is “that which uses matter as its bed”.  It is the constantly unfolding, evolving and changing aspects of the universe.  Together purusa and prakrti are the yin and yang of yoga philosophy  They are expressed in the universe and in the individual as spirit and matter. 

     “Tada” translates as “then”, meaning when one is in the state of yoga, then the seer, “drastuh”, abides, “vasthanam” in its own, “sva”, form, “rupe”.  Thus when one is living in the state of yoga, the seer or purusa which already exists within us, shines out. It is no longer hidden by the agitations of prakrti which have been resolved. 

     A simple example can explain this verse.  In order to create a statue, a sculptor merely removes all the stone that is not the statue; nothing is added to the stone.  Likewise, the practice of yoga is not about adding anything to the individual.  Instead, as this verse explains, the state of yoga is that state in which everything which is not equanimity is removed from the citta and thus purusa is free to shine out unabated.  

When you are in a state of yoga, all misconceptions (vrittis) that can exist in the mutable aspect of human beings (chitta) disappears.


yogaḥ - yoga
citta - all that is mutable in human beings; thoughts, mind,
vṛtti - vratthi means work. the work of the mind is to think all the time.
nirodhaḥ - to stop, to stop the thinking process.

Everything is said here. The four words of the second sutra define the “discipline” in a practical way. But then one should know their meaning and mostly how they beckon us. Chitta is the mind field, that is the ocean of perception and reflection. Even deep sleep is included in that world of perception, or cognitive activity. We speak of a mental field as soon as there are a subject and a separate object, that is a center of perception as opposed to the “rest” which is perceived. Everything that can be grasped over there is the mind field.
The meaning of vritti surpasses what we generally mean by thought. The idea of something rolling, of a wave in motion, is the first meaning. It is a more fundamental process than the sole conscious thinking. We can say mental activity of form of consciousness, and that’s how we will translate it most of the time. But here this word definitely bears the meaning of a separation between a perceiving subject and a perceived object. The profound meaning is more easily carved out with the understanding of the next word.
The word nirodha carries in itself the complete essence of spiritual realization, the full grace dawning in the open soul. It is the cessation, the silence. But what is silence? Silence imposed by thought —what we often designate by the word “control”— is not silence” It is an effort, a struggle, an uneasiness: in other words, it is still divisive thought: there is still someone looking after a goal. Nothing new that would allow this cry “from now on!” to be heard in the first sutra. On the opposite, the discipline of yoga is the cessation of something that has hardly ceased until now and which we evoke by the expression chitta vritti. Any perception in which the perceived object is perceived as separate form the perceiving subject is designated by the expression chitta vritti.
This sutra can be translated in two ways, depending on if we translate chitta vritti by “mental activity” or by “mental fragmentation”. “Yoga is the cessation of mental activity” would refer to a temporary cessation, a peace depending on particular circumstances. That would be a mental truce, even if the joy felt in it is definitely different than the joy linked to the objects and circumstance of mundane existence. That is what certain popular meditation techniques propose and it is after all much better than the usual mental agitation of man, because in this truce, the source of mental activity can be perceived. But then it is perceived only in the absence of thought or perception. The one who doesn’t go beyond that kind of meditation eventually finds himself again powerless when mental activity and “the world” come back. Far from being the antithesis of the word, nirodha is its essence, its ultimate accomplishment.
The word lets memory rise form silence. The logos is the word. From the 5th Century B.C. on, this word means, in Greek literature: the word, the expression (as opposed to gramma, the word in the technical sense). In Latin, it was translated by verbum.
But it means much more than that, at least in the beginning. Homer, the most ancient Greek source that reached us, uses it in the sense of “gathering”. The bucolic poet Moschus form Syracuse (circa 270 B.C.) says: Aglaïèn rodou legein, which is: “to gather the brightness of a rose”. While saying this, the poet is gathering for us the brightness of the rose; it is no surprise that later on legein means “to speak”, “to say something”. The word is the gathering of memory: it beckons. To what does it beckons? What does it want to gather? Without any doubt, reality, what is. It wants to signify an existence. In this sense, the word is a concentration, a gathering as oppose to what is diffuse and unexpressed. That must be why the neurological activity associated with language is located in the left hemisphere of the brain.
The word shows: it shows the existence of things, of objects. In Latin, objectum is “what is lying there”. What is lying there in front the word? Objects, for sure. But by giving this answer we do not learn anything about the nature of these objects. The word names the objects according to their form, their color, their sound, etc., according to what the senses can perceive. But then we don’t know anything more about that which is lying there. Our scientific instruments, these extensions of our senses, only add to the description of the phenomena, without ever revealing the identity of the presence of anything. At the atomic and subatomic levels, the spin and the electric charge replaces form and color, but we know strictly nothing more about the presence itself, about bare reality.
Problèma, in Classical Greek, means “that which offers itself to be seen” and it has the same meaning as objectum in Latin. It is really because we are not able to recognize the essential nature of that which offers itself to the gaze that it becomes what modern language calls “a problem”. It is because we don’t grasp the true nature of objects that we blame them for our difficulties.
Scientific observation, man’s usual distraction and ordinary language: all these remains dependant on phenomena. This word comes from the verb phainô, which means “to appear”. A long time ago the word has been reduced to the level of phenomena: forms, colors, spins, electric charges, races, religions, nationalities, opinions, theories, dogmas, etc. Very briefly, when we take an upward plunge, it has gathered us around the presence, the being; it has fulfilled itself during these very moments. To “fulfill the word of the Scriptures” is neither only nor mainly fulfilling prophecies, it is letting the word play its original and final role, that is to gather the presence and gather us in it. Any human being who knows his true nature is an authentic prophet, because he prophesizes, he “speaks for” (the word).
When the word mostly pinpoints the differences between men, it divides them and is no longer the gathering word. When it speaks of the essential, when it beckons to it, it gathers men, which is the essence of the word legein.
How are we to gather the presence? Legein, insists the philosopher Heidegger, also means “to be present there, in front of us”, “letting be present there”. If we could let the presence simply be present in front of us, could we not gather it as it is, in all its purity? This is what Eastern Traditions have kept alive since the beginning: the gathering, meditation. It really is “to let be there”, in the sense of a cessation of fragmentary mental activity, the cessation of the noise of our badly oiled neurons.
The surface level agitation never disturbs the abyssal tranquility of being. Patanjali call such a tranquility nirodha. In fact, nirodha and legein are more or less synonymous. But one has to know what is the cessation, the gathering and the silence of the mind. It is not a cessation imposed by the individual will or some for of coercion: that new form of project would only reproduce the dualistic mental activity, by introducing a distance between what is here and now and what the mind wishes. Such is not the true silence or meditation. How does the cessation dawns in us? We only need to apply the meaning of legein: to let be there, to welcome in peace. It is really to gather the presence as it is, to remain attentive to it; that is to guard it faithfully, to identify with it.
To meditate is to maintain our attention continuously on that, in us, which knows. It is to look after that which is awake and alert. It is to watch that which is at the same time the watcher and the watching. Whether there are thoughts or not, consciousness remains the same. When no ripple appears on the surface, water can be seen as water. But when a ripple gives it some shape, it becomes of kind of wave, but never does it ceases to be water. No surface level motion can make it loose its oceanic nature. To meditate is to let our attention gather the oceanic nature of consciousness. Therefore, nothing can disturb meditation: in meditation, we are never bothered by anything, because whatever “botheration” is perceived and carried by the same consciousness, the same and unique oceanic reality.
So, logos reflects, by its original and subsequent meaning the two aspect of the word: the gathering of the presence (meditation) and its expression. The word first means “to gather”, then “to say”. That man has always tried saying before gathering needs no comment so large is the evidence. The cry “from now on” thrown by Patanjali inaugurates a new era in our life.
The true cessation announced by this sutra is the same that is talked about at the very end of this chapter (I-51), when no seed of duality remains in stock. The memory is then completely empty of its previous impressions based on the notions of subject and object. There is no more question of a difference between mental activity and cessation, between subject and object, between spiritual life and mundane life. Any mental activity is perceived as a modality of the Same, of the One. This goes beyond a mere state of consciousness (such as the waking state, deep sleep state and dream state), because it is reality itself, whereas these states are mere modulations, vrittis. The expression itself reveals it: a “state” of consciousness really means a particular state of consciousness, exactly like ice, liquid water and water vapor are particular states of one and the same reality: water. True cessation is neither sleep —Patanjali designates explicitly sleep as a form of consciousness— nor unconsciousness nor insensitivity. The Spandakârikâ, an important text of the Kashmerian Shivaism tradition, reveals the same reality:

Although that (spanda*) spreads itself into the distinct states of waking, sleeping and others, which are in reality not distinct from it, it never leaves its own nature of subject who perceives.Where there is neither pain, nor pleasure, nor perceptible thing, nor perceiving agent, nor insensitivity, there abides what exists in the supreme sense.

Between the two possible translations of this sutra the whole spectrum of spiritual life is unfolded. Meditation gathers span, taking under its cape not only the cessation of mental activity, but also that very activity. One doesn’t try to empty himself, or to stop thoughts, even subtly. One only recognizes the One, Pure Gaze, through all its modalities, including perception and the absence of perception. It is thus that slowly the dualistic mental impressions loose their grip over the meditator.
In all its sobriety, this sutra calmly announces something immense, unheard of, something that the intellect cannot possibly measure. It is the One. It is the end of mental fragmentation, the perfect cessation: nirodha.

Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras begin with the sutra ‘Atha yoganushasanam.” 
The sutra means “Now the teaching of Yoga”

The word atha there, the first word of the Sutras, means “now.”

In the Indian culture, atha is symbolic of an auspicious beginning. Atha indicates the beginning just as iti indicates the end. Thus the Narada Bhakti Sutra begins with ‘Athato bhakti-jijnasa.’ The Brahmasutras begin with ‘Athato brahma-jijnasa.’ Vatsyayana’s Kamasutra, again, begins with the word atha. Innumerable other texts begin with atha. 

But of course atha means much, much more than just an auspicious beginning. 

Let us first look at some of these meanings from a contemporary standpoint, particularly as relevant to the modern urban executive, male or female. Later we shall look at how the ancients understood the word atha in the Yoga Sutras. 

The job of an executive today is more challenging than it has ever been in the past. His pace of work is hectic and unrelenting, and the content of his work is varied and fragmented. Much of his work is reactive rather than proactive in nature, requiring him to react to decisions taken by others and actions initiated by others. The decision making processes are disorderly, characterised more by confusion and emotionality than by rationality and frequently involve hard negotiations, organizational politics and self-serving interests of individuals and groups complicating the process. 

While his job involves dealing with his boss and higher executives on one side, it involves dealing with direct and indirect subordinates, peers, lateral superiors and lateral juniors on another side and officials in government agencies, clients, suppliers, colleagues in the same position and important people in the community on yet another. His responsibilities involve supervising, planning, organizing, decision making, monitoring, controlling, representing, coordinating, consulting and administering and he is called upon to play the leader role, the liaison role, the spokesperson role, the entrepreneur role, the resource allocator role, the disturbance handler role and the negotiator role, to mention just a few. And has to do all these under severe constraints of numerous kinds imposed upon him. 

Atha for an executive today means now that such are the conditions and the demands on the executive, he needs Yoga and therefore the teaching of Yoga. 

Patanjali’s yoga can be of immense value to the modern executive. It can help him retain mental serenity even when he is in the middle of his stormy executive life. While storms rage outside, he will still be able to function from that inner serenity. His decisions will arise from his inner calm and not from chaos. The inner calm will help him become more intuitive – and intuitiveness is invaluable when you have to take decisions with insufficient data. Yoga will help the modern executive by enabling him to work effectively even in the middle of hectic and unrelenting work conditions. It will enable him to find meaning behind the disorder of his workplace, meet the challenges of confusion and emotionality there, and deal better with the different levels and kinds of people he has constantly to deal with. It will help him multitask effectively – and his job requires that he supervises, plans, organizes, makes decisions, monitors, controls, coordinates and does numerous other things, many of these at the same time. 

0o0

Man is possessed by a strange madness today. A madness that has taken over the heart of the individual, organizations and society alike. And possessed by that madness, we are all chasing windmills mistaking them for giants, as Miguel Cervantes’ hero, or ante-hero, Don Quixote did in The Adventures of Don Quixote. We all feel compelled to run after things and we frequently have no clue what we are running after or why we are running after it. Of course, we do have our reasons – it is only that these reasons are the same as the reasons of Don Quixote. 

Everyone today seemS to suffering a kind of insanity.

I remember reading a while back Robin Sharma’s international bestseller The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari. Here are some excerpts from the first chapter of his book where he describes the life of the lawyer Julian Mantle. 

He collapsed right in the middle of a packed courtroom. He was one of this country’s most distinguished trial lawyers. He was also a man who was as well known for the three-thousand-dollar Italian suits which draped his well-fed frame as for his remarkable string of legal victories. The great Julian Mantle had been reduced to a victim and was now squirming on the ground like a helpless infant, shaking and shivering and sweating.

I had known Julian for seventeen years. Back then, he had it all. He was a brilliant, handsome and fearless trial attorney with dreams of greatness. Julian was tough, hard-driving and willing to work eighteen-hour days for the success he believed was his destiny.

For the first few years he justified his long hours by saying that he was “doing it for the good of the firm”, and that he planned to take a month off and go to the Caymans “next winter for sure.” As time passed, however, Julian’s reputation for brilliance spread and his workload continued to increase. The cases just kept on getting bigger and better, and Julian, never one to back down from a good challenge, continued to push himself harder and harder. In his rare moments of quiet, he confided that he could no longer sleep for more than a couple of hours without waking up feeling guilty that he was not working on a file. It soon became clear to me that he was being consumed by the hunger for more: more prestige, more glory and more money.

As expected, Julian became enormously successful. He achieved everything most people could ever want: a stellar professional reputation with an income in seven figures, a spectacular mansion in a neighbourhood favoured by celebrities, a private jet, a summer home on a tropical island and his prized possession — a shiny red Ferrari parked in the center of his driveway.

However, none of these was enough for Julian. He wanted ever bigger cases to win. He wanted his preparations to be more thorough than ever before. He wanted his research into each case to be no less than perfect. 

The more time I spent with Julian, the more I could see that he was driving himself deeper into the ground. It was as if he had some kind of a death wish. Nothing ever satisfied him. Eventually, his marriage failed, he no longer spoke with his father, and though he had every material possession anyone could want, he still had not found whatever it was that he was looking for.

It showed, emotionally, physically — and spiritually. At fifty-three years of age, Julian looked as if he was in his late seventies. His face was a mass of wrinkles, a less than glorious tribute to his “take no prisoners” approach to life in general and the tremendous stress of his out-of-balance lifestyle in particular. He had lost his sense of humour and never seemed to laugh anymore. Julian’s once enthusiastic nature had been replaced by a deathly sombreness. Personally, I think that his life had lost all sense of purpose.

Perhaps the saddest thing was that he had also lost his focus in the courtroom. Where he would once dazzle all those present with an eloquent and airtight closing argument, he now droned on for hours. Where once he would react gracefully to the objections of opposing counsel, he now displayed a biting sarcasm that severely tested the patience of judges.

And then it happened. This massive heart attack that brought the brilliant Julian Mantle back down to earth and reconnected him to his mortality. Right in the middle of courtroom number seven on a Monday morning, the same courtroom where we had won the Mother of All Murder Trials.

Many of us are Julian Mantles. Many of us are Don Quixotes. And what we do with our lives is exactly what Julian Mantle did, what Don Quixote did. 

Atha means when we are driven by the madness of Julian Mantle. Atha means when we are driven by the madness of Don Quixote. 

Atha means when we have awakened to the fact that we are driven by the madness of Julian Mantle and Don Quixote.

Sometimes, by some grace, we get a glimpse into the madness we are living. Atha means when that has happened.