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ONE morning during the Christmas of 1937 I sat cross-legged in a small room in a little house on the outskirts of the
town of Jammu, the winter capital of the Jammu and Kashmir State in northern India. I was meditating with my face
towards the window on the east through which the first grey streaks of the slowly brightening dawn fell into the room.
Long practice had accustomed me to sit in the same posture for hours at a time without the least discomfort, and I sat
breathing slowly and rhythmically, my attention drawn towards the crown of my head, contemplating an imaginary lotus
in full bloom, radiating light.
I sat steadily, unmoving and erect, my thoughts uninterruptedly centered on the shining lotus, intent on keeping my
attention from wandering and bringing it back again and again whenever it moved in any other direction. The intensity
of concentration interrupted my breathing; gradually it slowed down to such an extent that at times it was barely
perceptible. My whole being was so engrossed in the contemplation of the lotus that for several minutes at a time I lost
touch with my body and surroundings. During such intervals I used to feel as if I were poised in mid-air, without any
feeling of a body around me. The only object of which I was aware was a lotus of brilliant colour, emitting rays of light.
This experience has happened to many people who practise meditation in any form regularly for a sufficient length of
time, but what followed on that fateful morning in my case, changing the whole course of my life and outlook, has
happened to few.
During one such spell of intense concentration I suddenly felt a strange sensation below the base of the spine, at the
place touching the seat, while I sat cross-legged on a folded blanket spread on the floor. The sensation was so
extraordinary and so pleasing that my attention was forcibly drawn towards it. The moment my attention was thus
unexpectedly withdrawn from the point on which it was focused, the sensation ceased. Thinking it to be a trick played
by my imagination to relax the tension, I dismissed the matter from my mind and brought my attention back to the point
from which it had wandered. Again I fixed it on the lotus, and as the image grew clear and distinct at the top of my head,
again the sensation occurred. This time I tried to maintain the fixity of my attention and succeeded for a few seconds,
but the sensation extending upwards grew so intense and was so extraordinary, as compared to anything I had
experienced before, that in spite of myself my mind went towards it, and at that very moment it again disappeared. I was
now convinced that something unusual had happened for which my daily practice of concentration was probably
responsible.
I had read glowing accounts, written by learned men, of great benefits resulting from concentration, and of the
miraculous powers acquired by yogis through such exercises. My heart began to beat wildly, and I found it difficult to
bring my attention to the required degree of fixity. After a while I grew composed and was soon as deep in meditation as
before. When completely immersed I again experienced the sensation, but this time, instead of allowing my mind to
leave the point where I had fixed it, I maintained a rigidity of attention throughout. The sensation again extended
upwards, growing in intensity, and I felt myself wavering; but with a great effort I kept my attention centered round the
lotus. Suddenly, with a roar like that of a waterfall, I felt a stream of liquid light entering my brain through the spinal
cord.
Entirely unprepared for such a development, I was completely taken by surprise; but regaining self-control
instantaneously, I remained sitting in the same posture, keeping my mind on the point of concentration. The illumination
grew brighter and brighter, the roaring louder, I experienced a rocking sensation and then felt myself slipping out of my
body, entirely enveloped in a halo of light. It is impossible to describe the experience accurately. I felt the point of
consciousness that was myself growing wider, surrounded by waves of light. It grew wider and wider, spreading
outward while the body, normally the immediate object of its perception, appeared to have receded into the distance
until I became entirely unconscious of it. I was now all consciousness, without any outline, without any idea of a
corporeal appendage, without any feeling or sensation coming from the senses, immersed in a sea of light
simultaneously conscious and aware of every point, spread out, as it were, in all directions without any barrier or
material obstruction. I was no longer myself, or to be more accurate, no longer as I knew myself to be, a small point of
awareness confined in a body, but instead was a vast circle of consciousness in which the body was but a point, bathed
in light and in a state of exaltation and happiness impossible to describe.
After some time, the duration of which I could not judge, the circle began to narrow down; I felt myself contracting,
becoming smaller and smaller, until I again became dimly conscious of the outline of my body, then more clearly; and
as I slipped back to my old condition, I became suddenly aware of the noises in the street, felt again my arms and legs
and head, and once more became my narrow self in touch with body and surroundings. When I opened my eyes and
looked about, I felt a little dazed and bewildered, as if coming back from a strange land completely foreign to me. The
sun had risen and was shining full on my face, warm and soothing. I tried to lift my hands, which always rested in my
lap, one upon the other, during meditation. My arms felt limp and lifeless. With an effort I raised them up and stretched
them to enable the blood to flow freely. Then I tried to free my legs from the posture in which I was sitting and to place
them in a more comfortable position but could not. They were heavy and stiff. With the help of my hands I freed them
and stretched them out, then put my back against the wall, reclining in a position of ease and comfort.
What had happened to me? Was I the victim of a hallucination? Or had I by some strange vagary of fate succeeded in
experiencing the Transcendental? Had I really succeeded where millions of others had failed? Was there, after all, really
some truth in the oft-repeated claim of the sages and ascetics of India, made for thousands of years and verified and
repeated generation after generation, that it was possible to apprehend reality in this life if one followed certain rules of
conduct and practised meditation in a certain way? My thoughts were in a daze. I could hardly believe that I had a vision
of divinity. There had been an expansion of my own self, my own consciousness, and the transformation had been
brought about by the vital current that had started from below the spine and found access to my brain through the
backbone. I recalled that I had read long ago in books on Yoga of a certain vital mechanism called Kundalini, connected
with the lower end of the spine, which becomes active by means of certain exercises, and when once roused carries the
limited human consciousness to transcendental heights, endowing the individual with incredible psychic and mental
powers. Had I been lucky enough to find the key to this wonderful mechanism, which was wrapped up in the legendary
mist of ages, about which people talked and whispered without having once seen it in action in themselves or in others?
I tried once again to repeat the experience, but was so weak and flabbergasted that I could not collect my thoughts
sufficiently enough to induce a state of concentration. My mind was in a ferment. I looked at the sun. Could it be that in
my condition of extreme concentration I had mistaken it for the effulgent halo that had surrounded me in the
superconscious state? I closed my eyes again, allowing the rays of the sun to play upon my face. No, the glow that I
could perceive across my closed eyelids was quite different. It was external and had not that splendour. The light I had
experienced was internal, an integral part of enlarged consciousness, a part of my self.
I stood up. My legs felt weak and tottered under me. It seemed as if my vitality had been drained out. My arms were no
better. I massaged my thighs and legs gently, and, feeling a little better, slowly walked downstairs. Saying nothing to my
wife, I took my meal in silence and left for work. My appetite was not as keen as usual, my mouth appeared dry, and I
could not put my thoughts into my work in the office. I was in a state of exhaustion and lassitude, disinclined to talk.
After a while, feeling suffocated and ill at ease, I left for a short walk in the street with the idea of finding diversion for
my thoughts. My mind reverted again and again to the experience of the morning, trying to recreate in imagination the
marvellous phenomenon I had witnessed, but without success. My body, especially the legs, still felt weak, and I could
not walk for long. I took no interest in the people whom I met, and walked with a sense of detachment and indifference
to my surroundings quite foreign to me. I returned to my desk sooner than I had intended, and passed the remaining
hours toying with my pen and papers, unable to compose my thoughts sufficiently to work.
When I returned home in the afternoon I felt no better. I could not bring myself to sit down and read, my usual habit in
the evening. I ate supper in silence, without appetite or relish, and retired to bed. Usually I was asleep within minutes of
putting my head to the pillow, but this night I felt strangely restless and disturbed. I could not reconcile the exaltation of
the morning with the depression that sat heavily on me while I tossed from side to side on the bed. |
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