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Patanjali's Yoga Sutras - A Long Read
The following post is an extension of what I talk about in my book. Please note, these opinions are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of yogic culture. Like all commentaries and interpretations, this is opinion-based, not fact. We’re all out here just figuring things out, right?
This is a discussion between the student and teacher.
Student: Before you explain the eight steps that Patanjali has mapped out for us, could you please explain the concept of "non-attachment" that Patanjali talks about? It’s incredibly confusing.
Earlier in the Yoga Sutras (1.15), Patanjali introduces us to the famous "non-attachment" or "vairagya."
Second only to dhyana (meditation), the word vairagya is probably one of the most misunderstood concepts in all of yogic lore. Vairagya loosely translates to "non-attachment" or "detachment." The idea is to free the mind from things it clings to—repulsion, fear, attraction, pain, pleasure, you name it. But let’s be clear: it does not mean you should go around forcing yourself to "detach" from everything, as some folks might suggest. Again, this is all up for interpretation.
The real issue is that the concept of vairagya has become like a catchphrase in yoga circles. Most people in the yoga world don’t really understand what it means or how to apply it to their lives. Yoga teachers often throw the term around because, well, it sounds profound, and let’s be honest, standing in front of a group of students using big Sanskrit words makes you look like a guru. It’s the yoga version of putting on airs, and many teachers play the part so well that they start believing their own hype. They’ve built this character, this facade of the "yogi," and after a while, the line between the role they play and their real self gets blurred. Why? Because deep down, we’re all afraid we’re nobodies, so we put on masks to hide it. We construct these elaborate alter egos to prove, not to ourselves but to others, that we’re special, that we’re "yogis."
Now, back to vairagya. It’s not about creating a life devoid of attachment, but more of a gentle warning not to depend on external things for your happiness. If you do, you risk becoming attached to that source, and attachment inevitably leads to suffering. But Patanjali isn’t issuing a strict commandment here—he’s just saying, "Hey, watch out for this." For example, does being attached to your wife make you un-yogic? Patanjali would say, "Only if that attachment is unhealthy and causes suffering." The real question is, are you both independent individuals who can survive without each other? The answer is likely yes. You existed before you met, right? So, technically, you could exist without (though it wouldn’t be ideal!).
Love, by the way, isn’t attachment. If your happiness depends solely on the other person, that’s not love—it’s possession. And possession will always lead to suffering.
Take a moment to reflect on Kahlil Gibran’s words from The Prophet (1923):
"Let there be spaces in your togetherness, and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls..."
I personally consider The Prophet to be one of the most beautiful books ever written. Lately, I’ve been reading it to my wife’s pregnant belly, and the words never fail to move me.
So, this idea of non-attachment isn’t about detaching yourself from everything and everyone. If I love certain people or cherish certain things, that doesn’t mean I’m breaking Patanjali’s rules. He’s not anti-pleasure or anti-life; he’s simply saying that we shouldn’t let our happiness depend on these things. It’s not something you can achieve overnight—it’s a process, a lifelong journey.
Patanjali’s take on non-attachment is that our suffering comes from unhealthy attachments to things and people. We’ve become addicted to certain emotions and external validations to stay sane, and that’s the problem. The 8th-century yogi Gorakhnath said, "Die O yogi, die." What he meant was that if you’re afraid of death, you’ll cling to life and all its attachments. But if you let go, you free yourself. He also said, "Die as a drop and become the ocean." It’s about letting go of these attachments so you can live fully, without fear.
We, in the West, aren’t expected to drop all attachments immediately. Yoga, after all, is sadhana—a dedicated, lifelong practice.
To sum it up: Attachment can lead to suffering, but not always. The Buddha is famous for saying that attachment is the root of all suffering. But this isn’t a commandment; it’s more of an invitation to reflect. We need to understand this concept on our own terms, not assume that Patanjali is anti-life. He’s simply giving us the heads-up about the potential pitfalls. And that’s why Raja Yoga, Patanjali’s path, isn’t a religion—it’s moral guidance accessible to everyone.
Let’s get to the eight steps Patanjali laid out for us.
The genius of Patanjali’s eight steps is that they are incredibly logical and straightforward, like a road map for your spiritual journey. Each step leads naturally to the next, guiding you from where you are now to where you want to be—whether that’s a peaceful mind, greater awareness, or total enlightenment. It’s a methodical process: one foot in front of the other.
Steps 1 & 2: Yam and Niyama
The first two steps, yam and niyama, serve as your moral, social, and ethical code. If this were a game, these would be the rules, or better yet, the framework of how you’re supposed to behave on this path. And listen, I could dedicate an entire book to these two steps alone, so forgive me for simplifying things here. The essence is that before you even think about hopping into advanced asanas or pranayama, you need to get your ethical house in order. This is the foundation—how to be a decent human being.
Let’s break these down a little.
The yamas are often translated as "restraints." Think of them as boundaries for how you interact with the world. They include:
Ahimsa (non-harming or non-violence in thought, word, and deed).
Now, let’s dive into Ahimsa because, frankly, it’s one of the most misunderstood concepts in yoga. In modern times, it’s become synonymous with being vegetarian or not causing harm to any living being, which is fair—but it misses the bigger picture. Patanjali isn’t asking you to tick off a checklist of what’s right or wrong. It’s much deeper than that.
True Ahimsa has to come from your core, from a place of genuine understanding. It can’t just be something you do because it’s expected of you. If you’re not eating meat just because society (or your yoga teacher) says that’s what "good yogis" do, then guess what? You’re not practicing Ahimsa. You’re just conforming to an external expectation. You’re running on autopilot, driven by conditioning rather than conscious choice.
Look, if you were raised to think that meat is gross, and you’ve never eaten it, that’s fine—but don’t mistake that for Ahimsa. You haven’t made a moral choice; you’ve just followed the script someone else wrote for you. Real Ahimsa is a concept you grow into. It has to resonate with who you are at your core, not just what you think society wants you to be. Otherwise, you’re living a lie. You’re doing it for appearances, and deep down, you’ll always know it.
Here’s the kicker: many people undertake Ahimsa for a reward. Maybe they want social validation—Instagram likes for being the ultimate compassionate yogi. Or maybe they think abstaining from violence will earn them some divine brownie points with their god. But that’s not real Ahimsa; that’s just another form of greed. It’s the desire for more—more approval, more praise, more spiritual status.
To borrow a quote from the Sufi Idries Shah: "I will not serve God like a laborer, in expectation of my wages." Real Ahimsa is something that comes from within, without expectation. It’s not about being rewarded for your virtue. It’s about embodying the principle because it’s true to who you are, no matter the consequences.
Now, here’s where things get even murkier. The yoga teacher who refuses to eat meat in the name of Ahimsa might still be downing glasses of wine at dinner. And guess what? Alcohol can also be harmful—to your body, your mind, and even your spirit. So, technically, isn’t that a violation of Ahimsa too? But we conveniently ignore that part because, well, it doesn’t fit into the neat little box we’ve created for ourselves.
I remember going to dinner once with a group of yoga teachers. I was hesitant, knowing I’d probably be judged. Sure enough, when the waitress asked what I wanted, and I said, “I’ll have the chicken with a side of sweet potato fries,” the table went silent. One woman stared at me like I was the devil incarnate. But then, another brave soul spoke up: “Oh, thank god you’re not a vegan! I’ll have the chicken too.” We all had a good laugh after that, but it made me think.
Why surround yourself with people who make you feel like you have to conform to their standards? I’m not going to stop eating meat just because that’s what’s expected of me as a yoga teacher. What’s more important is being true to myself, even if that means going against the grain. I eat less meat now than I used to, and maybe one day, I’ll stop altogether—but if I do, it’ll be because that choice feels authentic to me, not because I’m trying to fit into someone else’s mold.
As Lao Tzu wisely said, "If you constantly act in a way that meets the expectations of others, you will always be a slave."
I’m not here to advocate for eating meat or to say that anything is inherently right or wrong. What I’m saying is that your choices—whether it’s about Ahimsa or anything else—need to come from you, not from some externally imposed idea of what’s "yogic." Don’t let the so-called noble yoga community make you feel guilty for being on your own journey of understanding. As B.K.S. Iyengar once said in Light on Life, "We should not use truth as a club with which to beat other people. Morality is not about looking at other people and finding them inferior to ourselves."
These days, Ahimsa has become a tool for showing off yogic superiority. I once had a yoga teacher ask me, “Do you eat meat, Zahir?” When I said yes, her response was, “How can you? That’s so un-yogic!” I just laughed. I wasn’t the one making the judgment here.
Real Ahimsa also involves compassion and non-judgment. The irony is that the less someone understands a concept, the more firmly they believe in it. It’s a classic case of "a little knowledge is dangerous." You think you know, but you don’t really know. That’s where ignorance stems from. Gandhi said it best: "I cannot teach you violence, as I do not myself believe in it. I can only teach you not to bow your heads before anyone, even at the cost of your life."
But what do yoga students do? They bow their heads in shame for not living up to some imaginary standard of perfection. And that, my friends, is the real Himsa (violence)—the violence we bring upon ourselves.
Oh, and for the record, Ahimsa doesn’t mean you shouldn’t push your body in yoga poses. Some teachers love to say this, but it shows a shallow understanding of the concept. If you hurt yourself trying to be the best version of yourself, that’s not violence—it’s dedication to your dharma (your sense of responsibility). It’s about striving to become the highest version of yourself, not because you’re trying to win a medal, but because you believe in your potential. You’ve got heart. You’re courageous. And your dharma overrides everything.
As Martin Luther King Jr. once said, "At the center of non-violence stands the principle of love." So, if you love what you do, love your practice, and you hurt yourself along the way—that’s not Himsa. You’re doing what you love. So let the judgment of the so-called "yogis" roll off your back. Keep doing you.
Continuing with the Yamas...
The remaining yamas are:
Satya (truthfulness);
Brahmacharya (appropriate use of sexual energy, not necessarily celibacy);
Aparigraha (non-possessiveness);
Asteya (honesty).
Let’s focus on Satya and Asteya for a moment because truth and honesty are often thought of as the same thing—but they’re not quite identical. Truthfulness (Satya) is about aligning your speech and actions with what’s real, with what is, while Asteya takes it a step further—it’s not just about not taking what isn’t yours, but also about being honest with yourself about your own needs and desires.
There’s a Zen story I heard once on the subject of truth. In an old Indian-Chinese Buddhist tradition, they say that someone who makes false statements concerning the dharma—the spiritual path or truth—will lose all their facial hair. Apparently, Chan master Cuiyan (9th–10th century) once remarked to his students, “Since the beginning of this summer session, I have talked much. Please see if my eyebrows are still there!”
The point is that even masters know they walk a fine line. It’s not just about never telling a lie; it’s about having the humility to question even your own understanding of truth. Because sometimes, what we think is "truth" can change with time, experience, and perspective.
Let’s get into Asteya, honesty. Here's a little story for context. The sage Vasishtha, who even has a yoga pose named after him, was one of the seven great sages of India. He held these "meditation weekends" (a kind of ancient yoga retreat) that attracted students from all over India. During one such retreat, a pupil was caught stealing. The other students were outraged and demanded that the thief be expelled. But Vasishtha ignored the incident.
Then, the same student got caught stealing again. This time, the others were really angry, so they drew up a petition asking Vasishtha to dismiss the thief. Vasishtha read the petition and gathered everyone. “You are all wise,” he said. “You know what is right and what is wrong. If you wish, you may go somewhere else to study. But this poor brother doesn’t even know the difference between right and wrong. Who will teach him if I don’t? I’m going to keep him here, even if all the rest of you leave.”
Now, if you take a step back and analyze this story, it shows how quickly people are to turn their backs on those who make mistakes. Stealing is a crime, yes, but Vasishtha understood that someone who commits a crime isn’t necessarily a bad person. Often, they’re just someone who needs guidance, someone who’s lost their way. And this is exactly what Patanjali’s first two steps—Yama and Niyama—are all about. They’re like a moral compass to help us find our way before we dive deeper into the path of yoga.
The Niyamas -
Saucha (cleanliness);
Santosha (contentment);
Tapas (discipline, or the heat that drives transformation);
Svadhyaya (self-study or self-awareness);
Isvara Pranidhana (surrender to a higher being or contemplation of a higher power).
Let’s talk about Isvara Pranidhana, because this one often gets misunderstood. Some people look at it and immediately think it’s referring to "God" in the traditional religious sense. But here’s the thing—it doesn’t specify A god, THE god, or anything like that. It’s broader than that. You could interpret it as surrendering to your own understanding of the divine, whether that’s a god, the universe, nature, or even science. The point is that there’s something larger than us mortals, something beyond the everyday. The idea is to "surrender" to this concept so that we don’t get too attached to the fleeting aspects of life.
If you’ve been raised with a solid moral code, a lot of the yamas and niyamas will make sense. But then, there are some concepts—like Brahmacharya (restraint in sexual energy)—that might sound strange to Western minds. These require deeper exploration and, honestly, they make more sense when you immerse yourself in the third step: asana (the physical poses).
Here’s what I believe: for most Western yoga practitioners, we’ll probably spend the rest of our lives dancing around the first three steps—yama, niyama, and asana. And that’s totally fine. Not everyone needs to aim for enlightenment or master all eight limbs. There’s no rush to reach some "final destination."
Applying the Yamas and Niyamas
The moral and ethical guidelines that Patanjali laid out aren’t easy to live by, let’s be real. But even a basic understanding and honest effort can lead to greater peace of mind. The goal isn’t to be perfect or to live like an ascetic monk in a cave. It’s about finding balance, being true to yourself, and applying these principles in a way that makes sense for your life. If you can do that, you’re already ahead of the game.
Step 3: Asana (the poses)
Below - My wife Laura in Visvamitrasana - https://www.instagram.com/_laurayoga/
Immersion into Asanas
Immersing ourselves in asanas, the physical poses, is where most of us start our yoga journey. We begin with the body because it’s the most tangible and accessible layer of our being. This is the entry point, and if we’re being honest with ourselves, for many of us, this is also where the journey ends. And that’s okay. The steps beyond asana—those higher limbs of Patanjali’s path—aren’t necessarily made for the Western practitioner. In fact, they may even be out of reach for many of us. We’ll dive into this more later, but for now, let’s focus on what Patanjali said about asana itself.
Patanjali’s instruction on asana is straightforward: "Steady and comfortable should be the posture." Iyengar, ever the master of precision, elaborated on this by saying that asana is "perfect firmness of body, steadiness of intelligence, and benevolence of spirit." Think of it like this: a well-executed posture isn’t just about physical grace—it’s an embodiment of poise and inner balance. It’s not about being weak, flimsy, or overly rigid; it’s about finding elegance through effort. This elegance, this balance, illuminates the body.
The purpose of asana, according to Patanjali, is to harmonize the body’s nerve impulses—those signals of pain, pleasure, tension, and release—until everything settles into steadiness and comfort.
Here’s where we often get it wrong. Patanjali didn’t mean that asana starts out steady and comfortable; it becomes steady and comfortable through practice. We don’t magically float into a pose with zero effort. First, we grapple with the discomfort. We confront the tension. It’s only through overcoming these obstacles that we arrive at the ease Patanjali speaks of.
Many yoga teachers out there will tell you that a pose should be steady and comfortable right from the start, but this is a misinterpretation of the sutra. That idea allows teachers to stay in their comfort zone, to avoid progressing in their own practice. They use this misunderstanding as a way to justify their fear of advancing. And while that might be fine for them personally, it becomes problematic when they pass on this limited interpretation to their students. In reality, it’s about arriving at a place where the posture becomes steady and comfortable—after you’ve worked through the struggle.
But how can we truly understand "comfort" without first knowing discomfort? How can we fully appreciate light without experiencing darkness? To understand ease, you must first wrestle with challenge. You’ve got to work through the discomfort of a pose until, suddenly, you’ve reached this almost impossible place where all effort ceases. The asana becomes so perfectly aligned that tension dissolves. There’s no stress, no strain, and in that moment, you forget about your body entirely.
Sadhguru Jaggi Vasudev once said something similar about effort: "Logically, somebody who never put effort into anything should be the master of effortlessness. But it is not so. If you want to know effortlessness, you need to know effort. When you reach the peak of effort, you become effortless." It’s a paradox. Only someone who has pushed themselves knows what it feels like to truly rest. Those who are always "resting" never find real peace; they sink into lethargy. Life is about engaging fully, and only through that engagement do we find true stillness.
Patanjali echoes this in the Yoga Sutras: "Perfection is achieved when the effort to perform it becomes effortless, and the infinite being within is reached."
But let’s be real—reaching that stage isn’t easy. Think about the poses you’ve struggled with over the years. In how many of them have you actually achieved that cessation of effort? If you’re like most of us, the answer is probably close to none. Even something as seemingly simple as Tadasana (Mountain Pose) can feel like an uphill battle, as though we’re constantly hitting a brick wall. Whether we’ll ever reach that state of no effort is an open question. But here’s the thing—are we trying to merge with the infinite? Is that really our goal? If not, there’s no need to obsess over mastering asana. The goal isn’t to "win" yoga; it’s simply to do the best we can with where we are. As I’ve said before, if we show up with willingness, the science of yoga will take care of the rest.
For modern-day practitioners, especially those who are more focused on improving health and mental well-being than attaining enlightenment, asana can and should be the destination. As you move through the remaining steps, you’ll start to see why the higher limbs of yoga may not be for everyone. The remaining steps are for the yogis seeking union with the ultimate—the kind of consciousness experienced in Nirvana, a union with Shiva or Bhairava.
Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, though. One final note—without causing confusion—there’s a possibility that when Patanjali spoke about asana, he was referring specifically to seated meditative postures, not the modern Hatha yoga poses we practice today. The physical practice of Hatha yoga may have been considered a preparatory practice before diving into the deeper aspects of yoga. In fact, Patanjali begins the Yoga Sutras with, "Now the instruction in yoga…" which suggests that one might already have a foundation in physical yoga. The Hatha poses could have been a way to make seated meditation more accessible.
In that sense, you could argue that many of us Western practitioners—whose bodies are stressed from sitting at desks, playing sports, or simply living our Western lives—will spend most of our yoga journey in the realm of Hatha yoga. And that’s perfectly fine. There’s some debate among scholars on whether Patanjali was talking about Hatha poses or just meditative postures. Commentators are divided, but personally, I trust Mr. Iyengar’s interpretation that asana includes the poses we practice today. So let’s continue working through our poses until effort gives way to effortlessness—yes, in all of them.
Student: How is “effortlessness” achieved?
We’ve touched on this already, but let’s go deeper. In the Asana chapter, we discussed how science plays a role in yoga. Show up with nothing but a willingness to try, and science will handle the rest. Over time, the body stops resisting the shapes you’re guiding it into. The muscles that were once foreign and stiff begin to work unconsciously, and eventually, the pose becomes steady and comfortable.
A Zen master put it so simply when he said, "When walking, just walk. When sitting, just sit. Above all, do not wobble."
When we first learn a pose, like a headstand, we have to consciously activate the muscles needed to support ourselves. We have to tell our arms to take the weight, instruct our core muscles to engage. Nothing happens automatically because the body hasn’t developed the muscle memory yet. Over time, though, the body learns.
Eventually, just like walking, the muscles switch on without you having to think about it. This is the magic of muscle memory. One day, you’ll find that a pose that once required so much effort now feels almost effortless.
But there’s another element to consider—your breath. If you’re holding your breath in a pose, you’ve got a ways to go. Slow, controlled breathing is key. The mind, too, plays a critical role. It’s that voice in your head that whispers, "You can’t do a headstand," or "You’re not strong enough." This doubt plants seeds that can take root and grow into full-blown resistance. But remember, you also have seeds of courage and perseverance within you. Water those instead. The mind is a powerful tool—it can either be madness or meditation.
For me, the key has been to stop overthinking each pose. Don’t give your mind the chance to develop its own narrative. Instead, take action. Be willing to try something new. In the old Bollywood movie Khuda Gawah, Amitabh Bachchan famously said, "Don’t think so much. If thoughts go too deep, decisions become weak."
So once the mind is under your control, once your breathing is mastered, and once the muscles work unconsciously, you’ve achieved mastery of asana. It’s as simple—and as complex—as that. You can see why Iyengar spent his entire life dedicated to mastering asana. It’s a journey that takes years, if not a lifetime.
At first, it all seems wonderful when a teacher tells you that each pose should be steady and comfortable. But the reality is, nothing in life worth having comes without effort. There’s no beauty in mindless floating. To live with purpose—to really live—requires effort. And that’s where the true beauty lies.
Step 4: Pranayama
So, let's just say you do master asana in this lifetime - stranger things have happened - you move onto rung or step number four: pranayama.
“Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Forget this and attaining enlightenment will be the least of your problems.”
When we break down the word pranayama, it’s got layers to it. Prana refers to the subtle life force, which could mean breath, vitality, or even energy. It’s the stuff that animates all living things. Ayama, on the other hand, means control, restraint, or extension. Essentially, pranayama is the expansion and regulation of this subtle life force that sustains us. It’s not just about breathing deeply—it’s about stretching, regulating, and prolonging the breath in such a way that we tap into that vital energy that underpins all of existence.
In the Siva Samhita (one of the earliest texts on Hatha yoga), pranayama is referred to as "vayu sadhana"—vayu meaning breath and sadhana meaning practice or quest. That’s exactly what pranayama is: a quest through the breath, toward life force mastery.
But here’s the thing—prana isn’t like the energy we think of in the Western sense. It’s not something you can plug in, charge, or even see. It’s a subtle biological force, something that animates life but exists just below the surface. As B.K.S. Iyengar so aptly put it, “Prana is usually translated as breath, yet breath is just one of the many manifestations of prana within the human body.” In other words, breath is the vehicle, but prana is the fuel. Iyengar even suggests that explaining prana is as difficult as explaining God—both are beyond simple description, both are felt rather than fully understood.
Think of prana as the delivery system that takes oxygen from your breath and disperses it through your body, energizing every cell. Without prana, we’re just empty vessels. Prana and breath are so intertwined that we often mistake them as one and the same, but they’re not. Prana is the driving power behind all life, and you can see it in every manifestation of the natural world.
Now, tradition says that to truly experience prana, you need to master your breath. This takes time—years, in fact—because you have to become sensitive to the subtle sensations of each inhale and exhale. There’s this moment, sometimes referred to as the "touch" of the breath, when the act of breathing becomes something you’re consciously aware of, and in that awareness, you glimpse the life force itself. That’s when you’ve known prana. It’s not just breath; it’s vitality.
The fact that we, as humans, manage to survive with unconscious breath control is nothing short of miraculous. Think about it: your breath has been sustaining you every second of every day without you even noticing. This isn’t just survival—it’s a constant, ongoing miracle. The body’s ability to keep us alive, functioning, and thriving without us needing to think about it is awe-inspiring. But pranayama asks: What happens if we take control? What if, instead of leaving it to the body, we consciously direct our breath and expand this subtle life force? What kind of potential lies within our reach if we master the very breath that sustains life?
When we experience firsthand what happens when oxygen is taken away from us (like, say, when you’ve held your breath a little too long in pranayama practice), we start to understand why ancient yogis revered prana as a goddess—prana-sakti, the life-giving force of Mother Nature. She’s the ultimate provider, and without her, nothing else is possible.
The science of yoga explores these questions: What can we achieve if we master prana? If, without even thinking about it, we humans can run marathons, build skyscrapers, and compose symphonies, imagine what we could do if we learned to consciously direct our prana. With control over breath and mastery of this subtle life force, the doors to the next step of yoga are opened.
Lao Tzu famously said, “A perfect man breathes as if he is not breathing at all.” In other words, mastery of breath is mastery of life. To breathe in harmony with the natural world, so subtly and seamlessly that the breath seems almost invisible, is to touch the divine.
Now, here’s where things get interesting: The pranayama that Patanjali talks about isn’t the same as what you’ve probably experienced in most yoga classes. Sure, they may have the same name, but they’re not the same thing at all—much like how meditation and dhyana are often confused but are entirely different. What you’re doing in your yoga class—alternate nostril breathing, kapalabhati, and so on—are breathing exercises. Important, yes, but they’re not quite what Patanjali had in mind when he referred to pranayama.
Patanjali’s pranayama is about breath retention. It’s about the cessation of breath, the space where inhalation and exhalation stop. In the Yoga Sutras, he says, "The asana having been done, pranayama is the cessation of the movement of inhalation and exhalation." This cessation is called kumbhaka, the stopping of breath. This is where pranayama really begins—when the breath is held, when it’s suspended in that space between the inhale and exhale. That stillness is where the magic happens.
Patanjali even breaks it down into four types of pranayama, but here’s the catch: you can’t learn these techniques from a book or a YouTube video. They have to be taught by a realized guru—one of the few living gurus who’ve truly mastered these practices. This is one of those things that’s nearly impossible to learn unless you’re under the guidance of someone who has been there. So, while we can talk about pranayama all day, the actual practice is something far deeper and requires a guide.
But here we are, living in a time where “yoga teachers” all over the world claim to teach pranayama. And why not, right? They’ve done a course. But there’s a big difference between learning the basics of breathwork and truly practicing pranayama in the way Patanjali intended. That’s the part people often miss—the deep, transformative power behind these ancient practices can’t be mastered in a weekend workshop.
Step 5: Pratyahara
Once the yogi has achieved mastery of breathing—whether through control, expansion, or retention—an effortless glide into the next step, pratyahara, becomes possible. Derived from the Sanskrit roots prati (meaning "away" or "against") and ahara (meaning "nourishment"), pratyahara refers to the withdrawal from that which nourishes the senses.
What does this mean in practical terms? Essentially, you’re turning off the input channels to the brain, the senses that constantly feed you information about the external world. When you practice pratyahara, it’s like hitting the mute button on reality. No external stimuli, no sensory feedback. You stop responding to the outside world because the mechanism that makes sense of the world—your sensory system—has been switched off.
This is where things get interesting. Our very survival depends on the ability to sense changes in our environment, right? From ancient times, humans evolved to respond to shifts in weather, the presence of danger, even social cues. It’s this constant adaptation to our surroundings that made us one of the most advanced species on the planet. Yet pratyahara asks us to go against this survival mechanism—to desensitize ourselves from the world. It’s essentially a form of sensory deprivation.
Imagine sitting in a room, immersed in your breathing practice. A spider could crawl across your leg, and you wouldn’t even flinch. Why? Because your mind has withdrawn from the outside world and is no longer directing its attention outward. Instead, there’s an inward turning. The spider doesn’t register as a threat. You don’t react, you don’t flinch, and most importantly, you don’t fear—because the sensory nerves responsible for interpreting that experience have been temporarily switched off.
The Bhagavad Gita captures this beautifully: “Just as the tortoise withdraws its limbs, so when a man withdraws his senses from the sense objects, his wisdom becomes steady.” By withdrawing from sensory input, your consciousness becomes sharper, more refined. You’re no longer bombarded by distractions, and as a result, the intuitive mind awakens. But let’s be clear—if you’re constantly distracted by the senses, it’s impossible to explore the deeper layers of your mind.
Next time your yoga teacher is sitting upright in lotus pose, with impeccable posture and hands in some intricate mudra, leading a "yogic meditation," go ahead and give their arm a little pinch. If they scream, you’ve got your answer: they haven’t yet mastered pratyahara. Because if they had, their senses would be fully withdrawn, and they wouldn’t even register that pinch. It’s a fun little test. Try it, I dare you.
Step 6: Dharana
Once you’ve mastered pratyahara—the withdrawal of the senses—the external world starts to fade into the background. The chaos of life, the noise, the distractions, all take a backseat as you naturally progress into dharana.
Dharana isn’t just any ordinary focus; it’s not like concentrating on finishing a task or trying to read a book in a noisy room. It’s the kind of concentration where your mind becomes laser-focused on a single point, like the steady flame of a candle, unwavering in the wind. This is a deliberate, deep concentration that transcends what we usually think of as focus.
Single-Pointed Focus: The Core of Dharana
Dharana comes from the root word dhri, which means "to hold, to keep, or to maintain." So, in this step, you're holding your mind on one object, unwaveringly. This could be your breath, a mantra, a physical object, or even an idea. The key here is that your mind is trained to stay put. No distractions, no wandering thoughts, no mental chatter.
Think of the mind like a wild horse, constantly running in different directions. Through dharana, you’ve tamed this horse, so that now it stays exactly where you direct it. You’re no longer reacting to every sensory input around you—the spider can still crawl across your leg, and the dog can bark in the background—but it doesn’t shake your focus. You’ve disconnected from the external world and created a kind of mental tunnel vision where only one thing exists.
But this isn’t something that just happens instantly. Dharana requires practice. It’s a discipline. It’s like training your mind to stand still in a crowded room, unaffected by the noise, the people, or the activity around you. It’s more than blocking things out—it’s about immersing yourself fully in one thing to the point that the external environment becomes irrelevant.
The Threshold Between Concentration and Meditation
Dharana is often considered the doorway between the physical aspects of yoga (like asana and pranayama) and the more subtle, internal practices of meditation. In fact, it’s the precursor to dhyana (meditation). When you’re in dharana, you’re holding the mind in a state of sustained focus, and with continued practice, this can naturally spill into meditation. But here’s the catch—dharana isn’t meditation itself. It’s more like preparing the soil for meditation to take root.
In dharana, the effort is still there. You’re consciously maintaining your focus, pulling your attention back to the object of concentration whenever it wavers. It’s an active state of mind, almost like standing guard. But with practice, the effort gradually dissolves, and dharana transforms into dhyana—a state where concentration becomes effortless, and you simply flow with your focus. This is where the transition happens from concentration to meditation.
The Power of Focus: Shiva’s Teachings to Parvati
As the story goes, Lord Shiva revealed 112 techniques of concentration to Parvati, his divine consort. These were essentially methods of dharana, designed to help focus the mind on a particular object or sensation. Each technique was a gateway into deeper states of awareness, a method of sharpening focus so that the mind could be used as a tool rather than a chaotic playground of thoughts.
When Patanjali organized the eight limbs of yoga, he formalized these ancient teachings, setting dharana as the necessary prelude to true meditation. In a sense, Shiva’s techniques gave practitioners options—different ways to train the mind depending on the person. Whether focusing on the breath, an image, a sound, or even the space between breaths, the point was to create such a sharp, single-pointed awareness that the mind becomes a tool for exploring consciousness itself.
Why Dharana is Critical in Today’s World
In our modern lives, dharana may be more important than ever. We’re bombarded by distractions—constant notifications, social media, emails, and the general fast pace of life. Our minds have become conditioned to jump from one thing to another without ever really resting. Dharana offers us an antidote to this. It teaches us how to slow down, how to focus on one thing deeply, without the need for external validation or constant mental stimulation.
Think of it as the training ground for your mind. By practicing dharana, you’re teaching your brain how to work for you, instead of against you. It’s the difference between living reactively—constantly being pulled in different directions—and living proactively, with intention and clarity. You’re in control of where your attention goes, and more importantly, where it doesn’t go.
This is why dharana is such a crucial step in yoga. Without the ability to concentrate deeply, there’s no foundation for meditation, no way to explore the deeper aspects of consciousness. It’s like trying to meditate with a mind that’s running in all directions—it just doesn’t work. Dharana gives you the tools to still the mind, to sharpen your focus, so that when you do enter meditation, it’s a seamless transition rather than a struggle.
Step 7: Dhyana or Meditation - The Fall into True Reality
Dhyana, often referred to as yogic meditation, is a natural progression from dharana. If dharana is the intense concentration on a single point, dhyana is the next step where that effort dissolves into something more effortless. It’s as though, from the deep focus of dharana, there is a gentle fall—a slipping into the true nature of reality. In this state, you move beyond the conscious act of concentration and begin to enter into the deeper realms of meditative awareness.
In dhyana, the mind has fewer and fewer traces left. What remains are the final collections of thoughts, imaginations, and memories—those deeply ingrained mental impressions that are stored within. By this stage, the external environment has been completely switched off. All that remains is the internal landscape—the remnants of the mind, the thoughts and ideas that have been accumulated over time.
As these final mental traces fade, and as you become more deeply absorbed in meditation, even these last flickers of the mind start to dissolve. When the stored impressions and conditioned responses have all been released, the mind itself begins to cease. This is often described as the state of no-mind (nirvichara). You are no longer identified with thoughts, emotions, or external stimuli. There’s no more thinking, no more analyzing, no more attachment to the self. The mind, as we know it, vanishes.
This is the essence of dhyana—yogic meditation. It’s not the kind of meditation we typically think of, where the mind is still busy but simply calmer or more focused. This is the complete dissolution of the mind, where consciousness itself begins to merge with something far greater than the self.
The Infinite Beyond the Finite Mind
The mind, in its natural state, is finite. It is bound by thoughts, by sensory experiences, and by memories. It has limitations because it is tethered to the material world. However, in the state of dhyana, you begin to transcend these limitations. The mind—finite by its very nature—starts to disappear, and in its place, what emerges is something boundless.
This is where the concept of no-mind (samadhi) becomes essential. The finite mind gives way to the infinite, and this is what Patanjali and many other yogic masters speak of when they talk about the state of dhyana. It’s the space beyond thoughts, beyond memories, beyond the individual identity. It’s a space of pure awareness, where there is no longer any separation between you and the universe.
In this state, the no-mind, the sense of self dissolves, and what’s left is the infinite—an expansive, all-encompassing awareness that is beyond the boundaries of the individual. You move from identifying with the finite aspects of your being to merging with the infinite source of all existence.
The Dance Between the Finite and Infinite
What makes dhyana so profound is the way it bridges the gap between the finite and the infinite. The mind—limited by its very nature—can only take you so far. It can help you focus, it can help you concentrate, but at some point, it must dissolve for you to enter into the vastness of the infinite. This is where the mind reaches its limits, and true meditation begins.
In dhyana, the mind, with all its thoughts and attachments, becomes irrelevant. You are no longer bound by the need to think or understand. You have entered a state where the finite melts into the infinite, where time and space become irrelevant, and where the self is no longer separate from the whole.
This is the true essence of yogic meditation. It is the moment when the mind ceases to exist as a separate entity, and what remains is pure consciousness—a state where the individual and the universal are one and the same.
Step 8: Samadhi - The Ultimate Homecoming
Samadhi is often referred to as the final step in the eightfold path, but in reality, it’s not so much a step as it is a homecoming—a return to your true self. It’s the culmination of all the work, the discipline, and the surrender that came before. Samadhi is self-realization; it is nirvana. At this point, you have transcended the layers of identity that define you as a separate being, and you have merged with the universe itself.
You are no longer "you" as you know it—you are now a Buddha, a being who has awakened to the ultimate truth.
This awakening is not an intellectual understanding; it’s an embodied, transcendental state of consciousness. There is no more ego, no more "monkey mind" jumping from thought to thought, no more clouds blocking the pure, infinite sky of your awareness. Everything that once held you back—the attachments, the desires, the mental chatter—has been dissolved. What remains is pure consciousness.
While it might seem like samadhi is a distinct "step" above dhyana, it’s really an extension of it, in the same way that dhyana isn’t a step above dharana, but a deepening of it. Once you enter the flow of deep meditation (dhyana), you naturally move toward samadhi. It’s a seamless transition from profound concentration to a complete merging with the infinite.
Buddha's Samadhi: The Realization of Nirvana
When we talk about samadhi, we can’t overlook the experience of the Buddha. His journey to enlightenment is perhaps the most well-known example of samadhi. After years of meditation and intense practice, the Buddha entered samadhi under the Bodhi tree. In this state, he moved beyond the limitations of the mind and body, beyond duality, and realized nirvana—the extinguishing of all suffering.
For the Buddha, samadhi was the direct experience of the interconnectedness of all life. He saw that everything is impermanent and that the self is an illusion. This realization wasn’t just intellectual—it was a full, embodied awareness that changed the way he related to the world. He wasn’t just observing the universe; he was one with it. The Buddha’s samadhi was the ultimate liberation, the release from the cycles of birth, death, and rebirth (samsara).
In this state of nirvana, the Buddha experienced the purest form of no-mind. There was no grasping, no aversion, no clinging to thoughts or identities. There was just being—a state of perfect balance and peace, beyond suffering and beyond time. This is the essence of samadhi—not just for the Buddha, but for any seeker who reaches this state.
Shiva and Parvati: The Union of Duality
Another powerful symbol of samadhi is the divine union of Shiva and Parvati. In yogic mythology, Shiva represents pure consciousness, the silent observer, while Parvati represents shakti, the dynamic, creative energy of the universe. Together, they symbolize the merging of opposites—male and female, stillness and movement, consciousness and energy.
When Shiva and Parvati unite, they transcend their duality and become one. This union represents the ultimate state of samadhi, where all dualities dissolve and there is only the experience of oneness. Shiva is the ultimate yogi, sitting in eternal meditation, but even in his stillness, he is incomplete without Parvati’s energy. Likewise, Parvati’s dynamism finds its center in Shiva’s calm. Their union is a metaphor for the experience of samadhi—when the individual consciousness (shakti) merges with the universal consciousness (Shiva), dissolving all separations.
In this sense, samadhi is not just the quieting of the mind or the cessation of thought—it is the merging of all that is within and without. It is the moment when you realize that you and the universe are not two separate entities, but one unified whole. Just as Shiva and Parvati come together in divine union, the seeker in samadhi experiences the merging of the self with the infinite.
The Infinite Beyond the Mind
In both the Buddha’s samadhi and the union of Shiva and Parvati, the central theme is the dissolution of boundaries—the end of duality. In the state of samadhi, you move beyond the mind, beyond the finite limitations of thought, identity, and the ego. What remains is the infinite.
The mind, with all its thoughts, memories, and desires, is inherently finite. It is conditioned by time, space, and experience. But in samadhi, this finite mind dissolves, and what remains is the infinite, timeless awareness. You are no longer limited by your individuality; instead, you are immersed in the vast ocean of pure consciousness.
It’s as though you’ve been a drop of water, believing yourself to be separate from the ocean. In samadhi, you realize that you were never separate at all—you were always part of the ocean, always part of the infinite. The experience of no-mind is the experience of the infinite. It’s a state where the boundaries between the self and the universe vanish, and all that’s left is pure being.
The Journey from Dharana to Samadhi
Ultimately, samadhi is not a destination but a return—a homecoming to your true nature. It’s the state where you realize that the separation between you and the universe was always an illusion. The steps of dharana and dhyana are simply the preparations, the practice that helps you strip away the layers of illusion and enter into the profound stillness of samadhi.
In samadhi, you don’t lose yourself—you become your true self. You become Shiva, you become Buddha, you become the universe itself. There is no more need for striving or seeking. You have arrived home.
The image above is a murti of Shiva and Parvati in my studio as they merge and become one—Ardhanarishvara. This divine form represents the union of Shiva and Parvati, where both masculine and feminine energies merge seamlessly into a single being. In Ardhanarishvara, Shiva embodies pure consciousness, while Parvati represents dynamic energy or shakti. Together, they symbolize the balance of stillness and movement, awareness and action, logic and intuition.
This is what yoga truly means: to unite, to bring together, to merge dualities into a greater whole. The word “yoga” itself comes from the Sanskrit root yuj, meaning “to yoke” or “to join.” It’s not just about the physical practice of postures—it’s about the union of opposites, the coming together of seemingly separate parts to form a cohesive, interconnected whole.
In the Ardhanarishvara form, Shiva and Parvati are not two distinct beings; they merge, becoming one. This merging is the essence of yoga. Just as Shiva and Parvati join to form a single entity, yoga invites us to merge with something greater than ourselves—whether that be the universe, our higher self, or the divine. It’s the recognition that we are not separate from the world around us but intimately connected to it, like a drop of water that finally realizes it is part of the vast ocean.
This merging with something greater doesn’t mean losing our individuality. Instead, it means understanding that our individual self is a reflection of the greater whole. In the same way that Ardhanarishvara is a perfect balance of opposites, yoga teaches us to find balance within ourselves—between effort and ease, between strength and surrender, between the body and the mind.
When we practice yoga, we are not just stretching our muscles or focusing our breath. We are engaging in a much deeper process of union. Every time we move through an asana, focus on our breath, or quiet our mind in meditation, we are practicing this merging. We are bringing together the different aspects of ourselves—body, mind, and spirit—and yoking them to something far greater.
The murti of Ardhanarishvara in my studio is a powerful reminder of this deeper meaning of yoga. It’s not just about the physical poses or the external practice—it’s about inner transformation. It’s about realizing that within each of us lies the capacity to merge with the divine, to become whole, and to experience the oneness that is at the heart of yoga.
Just as Shiva and Parvati become one in Ardhanarishvara, yoga asks us to transcend the dualities in our own lives. Whether it's the mind and body, the masculine and feminine, or the inner and outer worlds, the practice of yoga is a journey toward union—toward bringing all parts of ourselves together into harmony.
In this way, the image of Ardhanarishvara isn’t just a representation of a mythological concept. It’s a living symbol of the path we walk every time we step onto the mat or sit in meditation. It reminds us that yoga is about merging with the infinite, bringing together all the parts of our being, and realizing that we are always connected to something greater.
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Zahir Akram - Eternal Seeker
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