When there is water in two tanks which are beside each other on the same level of
ground, there is no movement of water from one tank to another tank; we cannot see
the movement at all. When the other tank is on a little inclination, there can be a
movement. If the inclination is not there—there is a balance between the two on
account of the same level that they maintain—the water in both tanks will be
connected without actually a flow or an activity of movement.
Something like that happens in this condition of the establishment of balance
between the subject that meditates and the object that is meditated upon. In this
balance there is a fusion of the content of the two. They become one in an
extraordinary sense, and here it is that one gains insight into the nature of the object.
This is called intuition. We begin to cognise, perceive and enter into the content of
the object more clearly and in greater detail than we would have done by any sensory
contact. We can see everything that is inside the object, without the operation of the
senses. The mind enters the object and begins to pervade every part of its body, and
begins to be aware of everything that is there. This is called insight; this is called
intuition. This is what they call the third eye—other than the two eyes with which we
see physical objects. But this is a very terrific job because whatever may be the effort
we make in concentration of mind, the object will manage to wrench itself away from
our grasp and remain outside us. This is the difficulty.
We have lived in a world of externality to such an extent that it is difficult to teach the
mind the lesson of there being such a thing as internality of perception. How on earth
will it be possible to conceive that there can be an internal relationship of the object
with the subject? We have never known such a thing. We have never been taught
such a thing anywhere. No school, no college will teach us all this, because these are
all strange things which are unearthly, outside the syllabus of any study in any
branch of learning. This is the secret of nature, which we are not taught anywhere—
neither by our parents, nor by our teachers, nor do our friends talk about this subject.
Everything is kept a guarded secret. This secret has to be unearthed and brought to
the surface of perception. Here is the benefit of yoga.
How long it will take for us to establish a proper communion with the object, as
required in this technique of meditation, will be known only by ourselves, each for
oneself, and another cannot make a judgement on this. It depends upon the absence
of extraneous interest in the mind. If there is any kind of extra-curricular interest, if
we would like to call it so, in the mind, there would be a diminution of the intensity of
concentration. We should have only one interest. The difficulty is: how is it possible
to have one interest? Such a thing is impossible for the mind. We have many
interests. We want so many things. We want our dinner; we want our supper; we
want our lunch; we have got friends to contact; we have got works in this world; we
have got a business; we have got relationships of umpteen kinds. With this kind of
distracted attention, where comes the question of the whole-souled attention of the
mind on any object, even if it be yoga?
This difficulty, this doubt, arises because one does not know what the object of
meditation is. We have a wrong notion that the object of meditation is one among the
many objects of the world; therefore, a doubt arises as to how it is possible to take
total interest in one of the objects while there are many others which are equally
good. The point in our doubt is that the object of our meditation is not one of the
objects of the world—it is the only object that exists. This is the thesis that has to be