The term yoga means “union,” and more precisely, the union of man with the sphere that transcends him—that which is usually called the “Divine.” More rigorously, yoga is the integral rediscovery of one’s participation in the all-encompassing Divine. Man fails to realize that he is, in fact, part of the Whole, because he believes himself to be an I opposed to an other-than-I. Yet this very isolation, derived from representation, is the self-deception of life.
For philosophy, psychology, psychoanalysis, the literary arts, science, and neuroscience in the Western world from antiquity to our day, representation has always been the supreme moment wherein the realization of the self and the knowledge of reality are expressed. In truth, however, representation is but the veil of illusion for minds deprived of the light of True Knowledge. The yogas, precisely, are the Science aimed at transcending representation, and thus the restricted and deforming dimension of the ego.
The yogas are complexes of techniques—each distinct from the other—whose aim is to make man realize that he is not the I. Indeed, one cannot “will” to transcend the ego, for the very one who wills would still be the ego itself, namely that which must be overcome. For this reason, the yogas provide the instruments through which one may discover oneself already dwelling where one has always in truth been: they make one physically and neurobiologically touch, as it were, the fact that the famous and much-praised I is nothing but a puppet upon the mirror of the mind’s nature.
There are three great paths of yoga: Bhakti-yoga, Karma-yoga, and Jñāna-yoga. Bhakti-yoga is the path of devotion; Karma-yoga, of action; and Jñāna yoga, of knowledge. These three ways permeate the entire spiritual knowledge of India, as well as its civic and social life. (It must be noted, in this regard, that the rigid caste system—founded on hereditary immutability—does not belong to Vedic knowledge, within whose sphere one could pass from one class to another, as in Plato’s Republic; rather, it is a later degeneration of that primordial order.)
The Bhagavad-Gītā—The Song of God—forms the central portion of the grand epic Mahābhārata, much as the Yoga-Vāsiṣṭha lies at the heart of the Rāmāyaṇa and the Ribhu-Gītā of the Śivarāhasya. Regarded in India with the same reverence that the Gospels receive in the Christian world, it is here that Kṛṣṇa, the avatāra of Viṣṇu, unveils and expounds the three great paths of yoga. Bhakti-yoga consists in adoring the Divinity and surrendering oneself to it; Karma-yoga, in acting righteously—that is, in harmony with karma, the cosmic order; and Jñāna-yoga, in knowing, and then in experiencing. According to Kṛṣṇa, each of these paths is supreme in itself, for a man does not choose which way to follow by deliberation, but is led to it by his own nature, which guides him toward the path most consonant with his being. He who is naturally open to communion with the Whole will follow Bhakti-yoga; he who burns with the fire of true knowledge, Jñāna-yoga; and he who, without these two tendencies, is animated by detachment and justice, will follow Karma-yoga.
Each path, in its essence, embraces the other two. Yet it is one’s inner temperament that determines the region in which a person can most readily rise toward realization. For those who are aware, however dimly, that their true reality is not the ego, the practice of yoga becomes a means of ripening and inner refinement. For those still bound to their sense of self, the paths of yoga remain exemplary models—guiding principles to be followed, at least within the horizon of a just and harmonious civic life. Refining the description of the different yogas, one may say that Bhakti-yoga consists in dedicating one’s actions to the veneration of the Divinity, so as to find oneself abandoned to it. Jñāna-yoga consists in the study of the sacred texts, in order to experience directly what they reveal. Karma-yoga consists in acting righteously, so as to become free from the law of karma itself—that is, to act without attachment to ends. These three domains may appear distinct, yet in truth they are three aspects of a single condition: the ascent toward the divine, all-pervading life through the transcendence of the limits of human nature—such limits consist in representation, and thus in the isolation of the moments of reality. In the true and authentic reality, access to which requires, as said, the surpassing of the ego, man discovers himself united with the Divine, experiences extraordinary states of consciousness, and stands above phenomenal nature with its mechanistic chain of cause and effect. This is the declared aim of the tantras and of the writings composed by the yogin. All the yogas thus share a single purpose: liberation from the fetters of the ego, the awakening from the dreamlike state in which ordinary life unfolds—a prelude to full illumination. Each of the yogas offers a different skillful means (upāya) for attaining this end.
The impossibility for Western man to grasp the meaning of such propositions stems from the fact that he is so thoroughly permeated by his own Ego that he cannot even conceive that the “I” itself might be a self-deception. As a consequence, the states that precede the ego—those described in the sacred texts—are reduced by Western man to whatever his ego can comprehend: namely, to states of delirium, swoon, or self-suggestion. Yet in truth, as the revealed scriptures proclaim, the one who believes himself to be his ego is the truly self-suggested.
In defining the yogas, what proves decisive is the very notion that their methods are called “skillful means.” The scriptures repeatedly stress that spiritual realization is never guaranteed merely by walking a yogic path. To engage in yoga, to undertake one’s sādhana, is certainly beneficial—it purifies and harmonizes life in countless ways—yet, in most cases, it leads to realization only after many successive rebirths, unless one is among those destined to awakening. From this viewpoint, the yogas test precisely the possibility of such predestination. At the same time, if one is indeed destined, the awakening arises of itself; and then the yogas—whether Bhakti, Karma, or Jñāna—serve to protect and cultivate that gift, allowing one to advance toward full illumination, always in harmony with divine grace. For this reason, the sacred texts affirm, on the one hand, that a guru is needed to guide one’s practice; yet on the other, they declare that the only true guru is the ātman itself—the Self rediscovered once the ego has vanished.
Taking these considerations into account, one can understand the twofold nature of the paths of yoga, which varies according to whether they are followed by one’s own choice or through having been inwardly called to them. Let us take Jñāna-yoga as an example. At its first level, it consists in studying and thus coming to know the sacred scriptures; yet the mere objective knowledge of them—the possession of notions about such matters—does not lead to realization. It is not enough to read and study the Veda, the Upaniṣad, or the tantras in order to attain awakening: if one reads them recognizing that they speak of true things but without going beyond the simple comprehension of their words, one thus begins the long journey toward liberation—a journey that may be fulfilled only in future lives (such is the long way, as contrasted with the via brevis mentioned above). If, however, one approaches them in the Western way—which is neither the via brevis nor the long journey—and merely reads the texts as if they were systems of philosophy, literary works, or collections of superstition and autosuggestion, such reading will bring no benefit, not even in aeons to come. For the piling up of notions and practices without crossing the threshold of true knowledge only leads one farther from awakening, since erudition merely inflates the ego—and it is precisely the ego that is the monster to be slain.
What, then, is Jñāna-yoga in its true sense, if the study of the texts and the practice of their precepts by themselves avail so little? For in the Indian view, true knowledge—found alike in the Vedānta and in the tantras, in haṭha-yoga, rāja-yoga, and other less canonized forms, all of them encompassed within the current of Jñāna-yoga—is not conceptual but experiential: it is the direct realization of what the scriptures proclaim. They speak of ātman and prāṇa, of kuṇḍalinī, Agni, Indra, and Soma—all of which are not abstractions, but operative realities, stages to be reached, states to be attained. One of the highest expressions of Jñāna-yoga is the tantra, which consists precisely in bringing forth within oneself those superhuman states of consciousness that the ṛṣis designated by such names. As the great yogin teach, the literal and living meaning of the sacred scriptures can be realized only by one who is a seer—one who directly experiences those states of awareness. Ordinary readers, by contrast, take the names and ascribe to them arbitrary ritual, cultural, or etymological meanings according to the narrow horizon of their learning; and thus they fail to perceive anything of what the text truly communicates. He who attains those higher states truly knows—not because he has read, but because he lives them. Giordano Bruno, Jung, and Heidegger, each in his own way, likewise affirm that genuine knowing is experiential (that is, a pre-theoretical experience—of course not representational); and in this, they echo the Indian teaching, which never ceases to remind us that true knowledge is lived, not merely thought. The sacred texts must therefore be enacted: it is a canonical principle that they possess value not so much as instruction, but as confirmation—confirmation of the states or conditions that the adept has already attained.
So it is not reading but the living practice of the teachings that truly opens the way to realization, though practice alone is never enough. As said, one also needs divine grace—or perhaps the merit accumulated through former lives. If the practitioner is fortunate, practice will blossom into direct experience; and that is the sign that he is truly walking the path toward the goal. On the other hand, one who is blessed by a descent of power may awaken in an instant, even without ever having practised, or taken any interest in kuṇḍalinī or meditation. Such a person will then turn to the sacred and revealed texts to nurture what, in Western terms, would be called a gift; for him, knowledge means recognizing in the scriptures precisely the confirmation of what he already experiences.
What has been said about Jñāna-yoga applies equally to the other paths of yoga. A person drawn to the Divine may live a life of devotion and sincere worship, yet nothing overtly spiritual may ever occur; another, without warning, may suddenly find herself caught up in ecstasy. In the same way, to find oneself beyond karma is not at all the automatic result of merely living in accordance with karmic principles. This is what Kṛṣṇa means when he says: “Among thousands of men, one perhaps strives for perfection; and among those who strive and succeed, only one perhaps knows Me in truth” (Bhagavad-Gītā 7.3).
It can thus be seen that this body of Eastern wisdom has a twofold, simultaneous function. The yogas are directed toward the spiritual progress of the individual and, as such, are properly esoteric, being reserved for those who can comprehend their value. Yet, in their widespread diffusion, they also have the effect of helping to establish a social life inspired by principles of humanity and benevolence—whereas Western thought has followed the path of the ego’s egotistic dominion, of prevarication.
One last remark is called for—o tempora, o mores. The recent fame of the Bhagavad-Gītā in the West owes much to Oppenheimer’s oft-quoted words at the first nuclear explosion: “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” Yet this translation is entirely mistaken. What Kṛṣṇa truly says is: “I am Time, the agent of the worlds’ decay.” And the context in which this verse occurs (indeed the very theme of the Bhagavad-Gītā itself) is this: Prince Arjuna, hesitant to slay in battle his own kinsmen who had usurped the kingdom, is told by Kṛṣṇa among other things that to kill them is his duty, for they are already destined to die through the passing of Time—while what will perish is only their ego, not their ātman, the eternal and divine particle within.