tremendous gulf is created by the mind in its definitions. The definitions have so
much meaning.
What is a definition? It is nothing but a characterisation of an object in terms of our
notion about that object. The moment we say, “It is my son,” there is so much
meaning implied in that statement. If it is somebody else’s son, that is another thing
altogether. Why has such a meaning been foisted upon the object? It is because the
idea is connected with the object, and the name is also there, together with it. We
distinguish one of our sons from another of our sons by a name that we give. “He is
Rama. That is Gopal.” They are only two words—empty sounds that we have uttered.
They themselves have no meaning, but they assume a meaning on account of their
getting identified with the object, so that the word ‘Rama’, or ‘Krishna’, or ‘Gopala’
etc., which are the names of our children, evoke in our minds certain feelings. The
name generates or stirs certain ideas in the mind, and this name which stirs ideas in
the mind will not allow us to have a correct concept of the object as it is. Our son is
the most beautiful of all people. He is beautiful because he is our son.
There is an old story of a barber. He had a son who he thought was the most
beautiful. The king of the country ordered the people to bring the most handsome of
people. The barber brought his own son. He said, “I think this is the most charming
boy.” The barber thought he was charming because he was his son—that is all.
Otherwise what is the charm? He was an unattractive fellow! Anyhow, the idea is so
predominant in the mind that it will not allow us to have an impersonal,
dispassionate idea of the object. And samyama on the object is not possible as long
as we do not have a dispassionate definition of the object in our mind. There should
not be an emotional content in that definition. We should not say, “It is mine.” This is
no good. It may be anybody’s—even then, it has a value.
The sutra, tatra śabda artha jñāna vikalpaiḥ saṅkīrṇā savitarkā samāpattiḥ (I.42), tells us
that the gross form of samyama is in the form of the envisagement of the object as it
is defined by a mix-up of the essential nature of the object, together with the name
and the idea of it. But when the name and the idea are withdrawn, the object stands
in its pristine purity. When we can conceive the object independent of our idea about
it and divested of the name that we have foisted upon it, we go to nirvitarka:
smṛtipariśuddhau svarūpaśūnye iva arthamātranirbhāsā nirvitarkā (I.43). But nobody can
reach that state, however much we may scratch our heads. We cannot go even one
step above. We are always in the lowest because who can be free from the idea of the
object and the name that is attached to the object? When we look at the tree, we have
an idea of tree: “It is a tree.” We have attached some name to that particular
substance which we call by this name or that name. The independent concept of an
object, free from ideational evaluations, is difficult because we have been brought up
in an atmosphere of prejudice. Yoga is against all prejudice. We must be thoroughly
dispassionate and impersonal to the core if we want to know the nature of anything
in this world.
That is what we are trying to achieve by samyama. Tasya bhūmiṣu viniyogaḥ (III.6).
The bhumis, or the levels of concentration, which are suggested in this sutra are the
levels mentioned in the Samadhi Pada where the various levels of samadhis, or
samapattis, are described. The grossest form of the object as it is visible to the
ordinary, conceptual mind is the first stage of concentration. We take the object as it
is, in the manner we are able to conceive it, think of it, etc. Then, we try to free it