Yoga as philosophy and religion

We shall get a more definite notion of prakṛti as we advance further into the details of the later transformations of the prakṛti in connection with the purushas. The most difficult point is to understand the nature of its connection with the purushas. Prakṛti is a material, non-intelligent, independent principle, and the souls or spirits are isolated, neutral, intelligent and inactive. Then how can the one come into connection with the other?

In most systems of philosophy the same trouble has arisen and has caused the same difficulty in comprehending it rightly. Plato fights the difficulty of solving the unification of the idea and the non-being and offers his participation theory; even in Aristotle’s attempt to avoid the difficulty by his theory of form and matter, we are not fully satisfied, though he has shown much ingenuity and subtlety of thought in devising the “expedient in the single conception of development.”

The universe is but a gradation between the two extremes of potentiality and actuality, matter and form. But all students of Aristotle know that it is very difficult to understand the true relation between form and matter, and the particular nature of their interaction with each other, and this has created a great divergence of opinion among his commentators. It was probably to avoid this difficulty that the dualistic appearance of the philosophy of Descartes had to be reconstructed in the pantheism of Spinoza. Again we find also how Kant failed to bring about the relation between noumenon and phenomenon, and created two worlds absolutely unrelated to each other. He tried to reconcile the schism that he effected in his Critique of Pure Reason by his Critique of Practical Reason, and again supplemented it with his Critique of Judgment, but met only with dubious success.

In India also this question has always been a little puzzling, and before trying to explain the Yoga point of view, I shall first give some of the other expedients devised for the purpose, by the different schools of Advaita (monistic) Vedāntism.

I. The reflection theory of the Vedānta holds that the māyā is without beginning, unspeakable, mother of gross matter, which comes in connection with intelligence, so that by its reflection in the former we have Īśvara. The illustrations that are given to explain it both in Siddhāntaleśa[14] and in Advaita-Brahmasiddhi are only cases of physical reflection, viz. the reflection of the sun in water, or of the sky in water.

II. The limitation theory of the Vedānta holds that the all-pervading intelligence must necessarily be limited by mind, etc., so of necessity it follows that “the soul” is its limitation. This theory is illustrated by giving those common examples in which the Ākāśa (space) though unbounded in itself is often spoken of as belonging to a jug or limited by the jug and as such appears to fit itself to the shape and form of the jug and is thus called ghaṭāvacchinna ākāśa, i.e. space as within the jug.

Then we have a third school of Vedāntists, which seeks to explain it in another way:—The soul is neither a reflection nor a limitation, but just as the son of Kuntī was known as the son of Rādhā, so the pure Brahman by his nescience is known as the jīva, and like the prince who was brought up in the family of a low caste, it is the pure Brahman who by his own nescience undergoes birth and death, and by his own nescience is again released.[15]

The Sāṃkhya-sūtra also avails itself of the same story in IV. 1, “rājaputtravattattvopadeśāt,” which Vijñāna Bhikshu explains as follows:—A certain king’s son in consequence of his being born under the star Gaṇḍa having been expelled from his city and reared by a certain forester remains under the idea: “I am a forester.” Having learnt that he is alive, a certain minister informs him. “Thou art not a forester, thou art a king’s son.” As he, immediately having abandoned the idea of being an outcast, betakes himself to his true royal state, saying, “I am a king,” so too the soul realises its purity in consequence of instruction by some good tutor, to the effect—“Thou, who didst originate from the first soul, which manifests itself merely as pure thought, art a portion thereof.”

(2) As in the case of the hibiscus and the crystal, there is not a tinge, but a fancy. Now it will be seen that all these theories only show that the transcendent nature of the union of the principle of pure intelligence is very difficult to comprehend. Neither the reflection nor the limitation theory can clear the situation from vagueness and incomprehensibility, which is rather increased by their physical illustrations, for the cit or pure intelligence cannot undergo reflection like a physical thing, nor can it be obstructed or limited by it. The reflection theory adduced by the Sāṃkhya-sūtra, “japāsphiṭikayoriva noparāgaḥ kintvabhimānaḥ,” is not an adequate explanation. For here the reflection produces only a seeming redness of the colourless crystal, which was not what was meant by the Vedāntists of the reflection school. But here, though the metaphor is more suitable to express the relation of purusha with the prakṛti, the exact nature of the relation is more lost sight of than comprehended. Let us now see how Patañjali and Vyāsa seek to explain it.

Thus in Yoga-sūtra, II. 6, dṛik or purusha the seer is spoken of as śakti or power as much as the prakṛti itself, and we see that their identity is only apparent. Vyāsa in his Bhāshya explains ekātmatā (unity of nature or identity) as avibhāgaprāptāviva, “as if there is no difference.” And Pañcaśikha, as quoted in Vyāsa-bhāshya, writes: “not knowing the purusha beyond the mind to be different therefrom, in nature, character and knowledge, etc., a man has the notion of self, in the mind through delusion.”

Thus we see that when the mind and purusha are known to be separated, the real nature of purusha is realised. This seeming identity is again described as that which perceives the particular form of the mind and thereby appears, as identical with it though it is not so (pratyayānupaśya—pratyayāni bauddhamanupaśyati tamanupaśyannatadātmāpi tadātmaka iva pratibhāti, Vāysa-bhāshya, II. 20).

The purusha thus we see, cognises the phenomena of consciousness after they have been formed, and though its nature is different from conscious states yet it appears to be the same. Vyāsa in explaining this sūtra says that purusha is neither quite similar to the mind nor altogether different from it. For the mind (buddhi) is always changeful, according to the change of the objects that are offered to it; so that it may be said to be changeful according as it knows or does not know objects; but the purusha is not such, for it always appears as the self, being reflected through the mind by which it is thus connected with the phenomenal form of knowledge. The notion of self that appears connected with all our mental phenomena and which always illumines them is only duo to this reflection of purusha in the mind. All phenomenal knowledge which has the form of the object can only be transformed into conscious knowledge as “I know this,” when it becomes connected with the self or purusha. So the purusha may in a way be said to see again what was perceived by the mind and thus to impart consciousness by transferring its illumination into the mind. The mind suffers changes according to the form of the object of cognition, and thus results a state of conscious cognition in the shape of “I know it,” when the mind, having assumed the shape of an object, becomes connected with the constant factor purusha, through the transcendent reflection or identification of purusha in the mind.

This is what is meant by pratyayānupaśya reperception of the mind-transformations by purusha, whereby the mind which has assumed the shape of any object of consciousness becomes intelligent. Even when the mind is without any objective form, it is always being seen by purusha. The exact nature of this reflection is indeed very hard to comprehend; no physical illustrations can really serve to make it clear. And we see that neither the Vyāsa-bhāshya nor the sūtras offer any such illustrations as Sāṃkhya did. But the Bhāshya proceeds to show the points in which the mind may be said to differ from purusha, as well as those in which it agrees with it. So that though we cannot express it anyhow, we may at least make some advance towards conceiving the situation.

Thus the Bhāshya says that the main difference between the mind and purusha is that the mind is constantly undergoing modifications, as it grasps its objects one by one; for the grasping of an object, the act of having a percept is nothing but its own undergoing of different modifications, and thus, since an object sometimes comes within the grasp of the mind and again disappears in the subconscious as a saṃskāra (potency) and again comes into the field of the understanding as smṛti (memory), we see that it is pariṇāmi or changing. But purusha is the constant seer of the mind when it has an object, as in ordinary forms of phenomenal knowledge, or when it has no object as in the state of nirodha or cessation. Purusha is unchanging. It is the light which remains unchanged amidst all the changing modifications of the mind, so that we cannot distinguish purusha separately from the mind. This is what is meant by saying buddheḥ pratisaṃvedī purushaḥ, i.e. purusha reflects or turns into its own light the concepts of mind and thus is said to know it. Its knowing is manifested in our consciousness as the ever-persistent notion of the self, which is always a constant factor in all the phenomena of consciousness. Thus purusha always appears in our consciousness as the knowing agent. Truly speaking, however, purusha only sees himself; he is not in any way in touch with the mind. He is absolutely free from all bondage, absolutely unconnected with prakṛti.

From the side of appearance he seems only to be the intelligent seer imparting consciousness to our conscious-like conception, though in reality he remains the seer of himself all the while. The difference between purusha and prakṛti will be clear when we see that purusha is altogether independent, existing in and for himself, free from any bondage whatsoever; but buddhi exists on the other hand for the enjoyment and release of purusha. That which exists in and for itself, must ever be the selfsame, unchangeable entity, suffering no transformations or modifications, for it has no other end owing to which it will be liable to change. It is the self-centred, self-satisfied light, which never seeks any other end and never leaves itself. But prakṛti is not such; it is always undergoing endless, complex modifications and as such does not exist for itself but for purusha, and is dependent upon him. The mind is unconscious, while purusha is the pure light of intelligence, for the three guṇas are all non-intelligent, and the mind is nothing but a modification of these three guṇas which are all non-intelligent.

“Well then let him be dissimilar. To meet this he says: He is not quite dissimilar. Why? Although pure, he sees the ideas after they have come into the mind. Inasmuch as purusha cognises the ideas in the form of mind-modification, he appears to be, by the act of cognition, the very self of the mind although in reality he is not.” As has been said, the power of the enjoyer, purusha (dṛkśakti), is certainly unchangeable and it does not run after every object. In connection with a changeful object it appears forever as if it were being transferred to every object and as if it were assimilating its modifications. And when the modifications of the mind assume the form of the consciousness by which it is coloured, they imitate it and look as if they were manifestations of purusha’s consciousness unqualified by the modifications of the non-intelligent mind.

All our states of consciousness are analysed into two parts—a permanent and a changing part. The changing part is the form of our consciousness, which is constantly varying according to the constant change of its contents. The permanent part is that pure light of intelligence, by virtue of which we have the notion of self reflected in our consciousness. Now, as this self persists through all the varying changes of the objects of consciousness, it is inferred that the light which thus shines in our consciousness is unchangeable. Our mind is constantly suffering a thousand modifications, but the notion of self is the only thing permanent amidst all this change. It is this self that imports consciousness to the material parts of our knowledge. All our concepts originated from our perception of external material objects. Therefore the forms of our concepts which could exactly and clearly represent these material objects in their own terms, must be made of a stuff which in essence is not different from them. But with the reflection of purusha, the soul, the notion of self comes within the content of our consciousness, spiritualising, as it were, all our concepts and making them conscious and intelligent. Thus this seeming identity of purusha and the mind, by which purusha may be spoken of as the seer of the concept, appears to the self, which is manifested in consciousness by virtue of the seeming reflection. For this is that self, or personality, which remains unchanged all through our consciousness.

But the question arises, how is it that there can even be a seeming reflection of purusha in the mind which is altogether non-intelligent? How is it possible for the mind to catch a glimpse of purusha, which illuminates all the concepts of consciousness, the expression “anupaśya” meaning that he perceives by imitation (anukāreṇa paśyati)? How can purusha, which is altogether formless, allow any reflection of itself to imitate the form of buddhi, by virtue of which it appears as the self—the supreme possessor and knower of all our mental conceptions? There must be at least some resemblance between the mind and the purusha, to justify in some sense this seeming reflection. And we find that the last sūtra of the Vibhūtipāda says: sattvapurushayoḥ śuddhisāmye kaivalyaṃ—which means that when the sattva or the preponderating mind-stuff becomes as pure as purusha, kaivalya or oneness is attained. This shows that the pure nature of sattva has a great resemblance to the pure nature of purusha. So much so, that the last stage preceding the state of kaivalya, is almost the same as kaivalya itself, when purusha is in himself and there are no thoughts to reflect. In this state, we see that the mind can be so pure as to reflect exactly the nature of purusha, as he is in himself.

This state in which the mind becomes as pure as purusha and reflects him in his purity, does not materially differ from the state of kaivalya, in which purusha is in himself—the only difference being that the mind, when it becomes so pure as this, becomes gradually lost in prakṛti and cannot again serve to bind purusha.

I cannot refrain here from the temptation of referring to a beautiful illustration from Vyāsa, to explain the way in which the mind serves the purposes of purusha. Cittamayaskāntamaṇikalpaṃ sannidhimātropakāri dṛśyatvena svaṃ bhavati purushasya svāminaḥ (I. 4), which is explained in Yoga-vārttika as follows: Tathāyaskāntamaṇiḥ svasminneva ayaḥsannidhīkaraṇamātrāt śalyarishkarshaṇākhyam upakāram kurvat purushasya svāminaḥ svam bhvati bhogasādhanatvāt, i.e. just as a magnet draws iron towards it, though it remains unmoved itself, so the mind-modifications become drawn towards purusha, and thereby become visible to purusha and serve his purpose.

To summarise: We have seen that something like a union takes place between the mind and purusha, i.e. there is a seeming reflection of purusha in the mind, simultaneously with its being determined conceptually, as a result whereof this reflection of purusha in the mind, which is known as the self, becomes united with these conceptual determinations of the mind and the former is said to be the perceiver of all these determinations. Our conscious personality or self is thus the seeming unity of the knowable as the mind in the shape of conceptual or judgmental representations with the reflections of purusha in the mind. Thus, in the single act of cognition, we have the notion of our own personality and the particular conceptual or perceptual representation with which this ego identifies itself. The true seer, the pure intelligence, the free, the eternal, remains all the while beyond any touch of impurity from the mind, though it must be remembered that it is its own seeming reflection in the mind that appears as the ego, the cogniser of all our states, pleasures and sorrows of the mind and one who is the apperceiver of this unity of the seeming reflection—of purusha and the determinations of the mind. In all our conscious states, there is such a synthetic unity between the determinations of our mind and the self, that they cannot be distinguished one from the other—a fact which is exemplified in all our cognitions, which are the union of the knower and the known. The nature of this reflection is a transcendent one and can never be explained by any physical illustration.

Purusha is altogether different from the mind, inasmuch as he is the pure intelligence and is absolutely free, while the latter is non-intelligent and dependent on purusha’s enjoyment and release, which are the sole causes of its movement. But there is some similarity between the two, for how could the mind otherwise catch a seeming glimpse of him? It is also said that the pure mind can adapt itself to the pure form of purusha; this is followed by the state of kaivalya.

We have discussed the nature of purusha and its general relations with the mind. We must now give a few more illustrations. The chief point in which purusha of the Sāṃkhya-Pātañjala differs from the similar spiritual principle of Vedānta is, that it regards its soul, not as one, but as many. Let us try to discuss this point, in connection with the arguments of the Sāṃkhya-Pātañjala doctrine in favour of a separate principle of purusha. Thus the Kārikā says: saṃghātaparārthatvāt triguṇādiviparyyayādadhishthānāt purusho’sti bhoktṛbhāvāt kaivalyārthaṃ pravṛtteśca,[16] “Because an assemblage of things is for the sake of another; because there must be an entity different from the three guṇas and the rest (their modifications); because there must be a superintending power; because there must be someone who enjoys; and because of (the existence of) active exertion for the sake of abstraction or isolation (from the contact with prakṛti) therefore the soul exists.” The first argument is from design or teleology by which it is inferred that there must be some other simple entity for which these complex collocations of things are intended.

Thus Gauḍapāda says: “In such manner as a bed, which is an assemblage of bedding, props, cotton, coverlet and pillows, is for another’s use, not for its own, and its several component parts render no mutual service, and it is concluded that there is a man who sleeps upon the bed and for whose sake it was made; so this world, which is an assemblage of the five elements, is for use and there is a soul, for whose enjoyment this body, another’s consisting of intellect and the rest, has been produced.”[17]

The second argument is that all the knowable is composed of just three elements: first, the element of sattva, or intelligence-stuff, causing all manifestations; second, the element of rajas or energy, which is ever causing transformations; and third, tamas, or the mass, which enables rajas to actualise. Now such a prakṛti, composed of these three elements, cannot itself be a seer. For the seer must be always the same unchangeable, actionless entity, the ever present, ever constant factor in all stages of our consciousness.

Third argument: There must be a supreme background of pure consciousness, all our co-ordinated basis of experience. This background is the pure actionless purusha, reflected in which all our mental states become conscious. Davies explains this a little differently, in accordance with a simile in the Tattva-Kaumudī, yathā rathādi yantrādibhiḥ, thus: “This idea of Kapila seems to be that the power of self-control cannot be predicted of matter, which must be directed or controlled for the accomplishment of any purpose, and this controlling power must be something external to matter and diverse from it. The soul, however, never acts. It only seems to act; and it is difficult to reconcile this part of the system with that which gives to the soul a controlling force. If the soul is a charioteer, it must be an active force.” But Davies here commits the mistake of carrying the simile too far. The comparison of the charioteer and the chariot holds good, to the extent that the chariot can take a particular course only when there is a particular purpose for the charioteer to perform. The motion of the chariot is fulfilled only when it is connected with the living person of the charioteer, whose purpose it must fulfil.