विवेचन सारांश

When Vision Becomes Wisdom: Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa Describes How Every Action Is Shaped by Divine Forces and How True Knowledge Sees Unity Beyond All Division

In verse 18.14, Bhagavān explained that every action performed by a human being has five causes—adhiṣṭhāna (the base or seat of action), kartā (the doer), karaṇa (the instruments), ceṣṭā (the efforts), and daiva (the divine element).

Here, in verse 18.15, Bhagavān declares that whether a person performs a righteous action (nyāyyaṁ) or an unrighteous one (viparītam), through body (śarīra), speech (vāk), or mind (manas), these five are the fundamental causes behind every karma.

In this verse, Bhagavān reveals a subtle truth. Despite this knowledge, there are some who, due to akṛta-buddhitvāt—impurity or immaturity of intellect—consider the Ātman (pure Self) as the doer of actions. Such a person, Bhagavān says, is durmatiḥ, one of perverted or unrefined understanding.

The term akṛta-buddhi refers to an intellect that is unpolished, clouded, and impure. It mistakes fragments of information for true knowledge—collecting ideas from books, social media, or hearsay, yet failing to grasp the essence of wisdom. Such a mind believes, “The Ātman acts; the Ātman feels pleasure or pain.”

Even in daily speech, people reflect this misconception—saying, “My soul is sorrowful,” or “My soul is very happy.” In truth, the Ātman neither feels joy nor sorrow. It neither acts nor experiences. It is the eternal witness, ever pure and changeless.

To clarify this, consider the example of technology. Through computers, microphones, and phones, people across the world can listen to a discourse—some from Lucknow, others from Mumbai, Delhi, America, or Australia. Yet, without electricity, all these devices are useless. The speaker, the listener, and the devices may exist, but communication is impossible without the current.

Electricity enables the process but does not itself act. It neither speaks nor listens. Everything occurs through its presence, yet it remains untouched. Similarly, the Ātman is the life-giving principle—because of which the body, speech, and mind function. Without it, the body is dead matter. However, though all actions happen in its presence, the Ātman itself does nothing.

A second example makes this even clearer. The rays of the sun ripen crops and provide warmth and nourishment. Yet the sun itself neither cooks the grains nor gives vitamins consciously. It simply shines. Those who wish to receive energy, warmth, or light draw from it according to their capacity. Likewise, the Ātman is the kāraṇa-bhūta—the essential cause of life—but not the kartā—the doer of action.

When the Ātman departs from the body, everything remains the same—eyes, ears, skin, weight—yet it is declared lifeless. What was once adorned with care is now called inert matter. Just as a phone without charge, though valuable, is useless, so too the body without the Ātman is but clay.

Thus, the Ātman is the cause behind all activities, yet never the actor. It neither performs actions nor experiences their results.

An incident further illustrates this truth. A seeker once wrote, saying he had listened to the teachings of the second chapter and had learnt that the Ātman is distinct from the body. Suffering from severe pain in his leg, he wished to know the “technique” to separate the Self from the body so that he would no longer feel pain.

His sincerity was evident, yet his understanding was mistaken. The Ātman never experiences pain—the body does. The experience of pain occurs through the nerves and the brain. Painkillers, for example, do not remove pain; they simply sedate the neural pathways that perceive it. The pain remains, but the perception is numbed. When the effect fades, the same pain returns.

The Ātman, being pure consciousness, does not act, feel, or experience. Just as electricity powers a mobile phone but does not capture images itself, the Ātman enlivens the body but does not partake in its experiences.

Hence, Bhagavān declares—
“tatraivaṁ sati kartāram ātmānaṁ kevalaṁ tu yaḥ,
paśyaty akṛta-buddhitvān na sa paśyati durmatiḥ.” (18.16)

“One who, due to impure intellect, perceives the pure Ātman as the doer—such a person, though appearing to see, truly does not see.”

The teaching is profound: the Ātman is the substratum, the silent witness, the enabler of all activity—yet untouched by all that happens. Actions arise and subside in Its presence, but It remains ever pure, ever still, and ever free.

In this shloka, Bhagavān explains a profound truth about the one who has risen above the sense of doership. He says—“yasya nāhaṅkṛto bhāvo, buddhiryasya na lipyate”—one whose inner disposition is free from the idea of “I am the doer”, and whose intellect remains untainted by worldly attachments, even if such a person performs great actions—even if he were to destroy the entire world—“na hanti na nibadhyate”—he neither kills nor is bound by the act.

Here, Bhagavān introduces a very significant concept—ahaṅkṛita bhāva, the sense of “I am doing”. There is a vital distinction between ahaṅkṛita and aham-sphurti. Ahaṅkṛita means identifying oneself as the doer—“I act”, “I perform”. The mistake begins right there.

To understand this, imagine electricity identifying itself as the mobile phone. The mobile functions because of electricity, but electricity itself is not the mobile—it merely powers it. Similarly, the Ātmā is not the body; it only energises and sustains the body. The body performs actions, and the results of those actions also belong to the body—not to the Ātmā.

The question then arises—who am I truly? If one identifies with the body, that identity keeps changing. The body was once two years old, then ten, then twenty, then eighty—but the awareness of “I” remains constant. The body has changed countless times, yet I have not.

Take the example of a mobile phone: its battery may be replaced, its screen changed, even its motherboard repaired, yet it continues to be called the same phone. Likewise, eyes may be replaced, hearts and kidneys may be transplanted, but the Ātmā—the conscious being—remains unchanged.

If one were merely the body, one should be able to recognise oneself from a childhood photograph. Yet, if several pictures of the same person—taken at two, fifteen, thirty, and eighty—are shown together without names, even the person himself may fail to recognise them as his own. This itself shows that the “I” is distinct from the body. The Ātmā existed before the body and continues to exist after it.

When this understanding dawns—“I am not the body; I am merely the power behind it”—the illusion of doership begins to dissolve. Actions happen through the body, and their fruits are experienced by the body. The Ātmā neither acts nor enjoys the results.

However, aham-sphurti—the awareness of “I exist”—remains until the very end of the body. Due to ignorance, this sense of self gets associated with bodily actions. Thus, one begins to feel, “I am the doer”, and consequently, becomes the enjoyer or sufferer of the results—pleasure or pain, merit or sin.

Bhagavān explains this with a simple example. Suppose a murder is committed. The investigation does not only punish the one who pulled the trigger—it also punishes all who were involved in the planning, or who assisted in any way. Even if someone merely associates with the doer and claims, “I was also part of it,” that person, too is bound to receive punishment.

In the same way, although the body performs all actions, if the Ātmā, out of delusion, identifies with the body and says, “I am also doing this,” it becomes bound by the results of those actions. Thus, as long as one carries the false notion of being the doer (kartā-bhāva), one must also bear the fruits—be they pleasant (iṣṭa), unpleasant (aniṣṭa), or mixed (miśrita). To be free from these consequences, one must rise above the sense of doership.

When hunger arises, it is the stomach that hungers, the eyes that see the food, the hands that pick it up, and the mouth that chews. The Ātmā does nothing. As the Gītā earlier said—guṇā guṇeṣu vartante—“the guṇas interact with the guṇas.” The wise one knows, “I am not the doer.”

Such is the life of the jñānī. Having transcended the illusion of “I” and “mine”, he moves through the world performing all actions, yet remains untouched by them—neither the doer nor the enjoyer, ever established in the awareness of the Self.

In this verse, Bhagavān begins to unfold the subtle and technical structure of action. He tells Arjuna that jñāna (knowledge), jñeya (the object of knowledge), and parijñātā (the knower) together form the trividhā karmacodanā—the threefold impulse behind all action. Likewise, karaṇa (the instrument), karma (the act), and kartā (the doer) constitute the trividhaḥ karmasaṅgrahaḥ—the threefold basis of action.

Bhagavān now leads the listener into a more intricate understanding. The next few verses, though technical, are filled with great joy for one who contemplates deeply. He explains that in every act, three factors operate. There is jñāna—that which illuminates or reveals; jñeya—that which is to be known; and jñātā—the one who knows.

Just as in devotion there is bhakta (the devotee), bhakti (the act of devotion), and Bhagavān (the object of devotion), or in meditation there is dhyātā (the meditator), dhyeya (the object of meditation), and dhyāna (the act of meditation). In the same way, action too has this triad: jñāna, jñeya, and jñātā.

Bhagavān also uses the term parijñātā—the one who completely comprehends all knowledge and all that is to be known. Through this, He draws attention to the very origin of action, the subtle point from which motivation arises. At that subtle level, three tendencies are born—the jñātā (knower), the jñeya (known), and the jñāna (knowledge). From this subtle inspiration, the gross action manifests.

When the process of action begins, it again operates through a triad—kartā (the doer), karaṇa (the instruments of action), and karma (the act itself). Bhagavān illustrates this beautifully: grains, lentils, sugar, and rice kept in the house do not by themselves become food—they are merely karaṇa, the instruments or materials. A cook, the kartā, is required; the act of cooking, karma, must also occur. Only when all three combine—kartā, karaṇa, and karma—does the meal manifest.

If the kartā is present but there are no materials (karaṇa), food cannot be prepared. If the materials are there but no one acts, again there is no result. And if an act is imagined without both doer and instrument, that too is meaningless. Only when these three unite does the outcome take shape.

Hence Bhagavān declares that in the gross domain of action, these three—kartā, karaṇa, and karma—are the essential causes.

However, as the teaching deepens, Bhagavān refines this triad further. From the first set—jñāna, jñeya, and jñātā—He now focuses only on jñāna, setting aside jñeya and jñātā. From the second set—kartā, karaṇa, and karma—He retains kartā and karma, omitting karaṇa. Thus, out of six elements, He takes only three—jñāna, kartā, and karma. These alone will now be expanded upon in the coming verses.

Why does Bhagavān do so? Why focus on jñāna alone, leaving aside jñeya and jñātā? Because when jñāna reaches its highest perfection, these three distinctions dissolve. The knower, the known, and knowledge all merge into one unified awareness. As it is beautifully expressed—

when one truly knows Bhagavān, one becomes that very Being. After such realisation, there remains neither jñātā nor jñeya—only jñāna, pure consciousness.

A profound explanation of this non-dual truth is also found in Karana Nirpeksha Sādhana by the revered Brahma-svāmī Rāma-sutāji Mahārāj. There, he writes that when one says, “It is,” and another says, “It is not,” in both statements the word “is” (hai) persists. The existence denoted by “is” is the eternal reality. Even to say “it is not,” one must first acknowledge its potential being. Hence, whether in affirmation or negation, the reference always points to that one same existence—the unchanging jñāna, the pure being itself.

Thus, all distinctions ultimately merge into the one truth of existence-consciousness-bliss. Having revealed this subtle vision, Bhagavān now proceeds further.

Bhagavān continues, saying—“jñānaṃ karma ca kartā ca, tridhaiva guṇabhedataḥ”—knowledge, action, and the doer are each threefold, distinguished by the predominance of the three guṇas—sattva, rajas, and tamas.

He instructs Arjuna, “procyate guṇasaṅkhyāne, yathāvac chṛṇu tāni api”—as explained in the scriptures dealing with the enumeration of the guṇas, listen attentively as I now describe them to you.

In other words, guṇa-bhedataḥ means that according to the influence of the three qualities—sattva (purity and light), rajas (activity and passion), and tamas (inertia and ignorance)—jñāna, karma, and kartā each express themselves in three distinct forms.

Bhagavān will now elaborate upon these—what constitutes sāttvika jñāna, what defines rājasa jñāna, and what characterises tāmasa jñāna. With this, the discourse begins to unfold the subtle differentiation of the guṇas within the realm of knowledge, action, and the doer.

This verse reveals the nature of Sāttvika Jñāna—the highest form of spiritual understanding. Though its meaning may appear simple at first, the depth with which the great saints have contemplated it is profound.

There are two kinds of knowledge: laukika jñāna, the worldly knowledge, and adhyātmika jñāna, the spiritual or transcendental knowledge. Bhagavān Śrī Krishna has referred to this higher knowledge as rāja-vidyā rāja-guhyaṃ—the king of sciences and the secret of secrets.

To understand the distinction between these two, one may consider the example of a student aspiring to become a pilot. For mastering any discipline—whether it is aviation, medicine, engineering, or business—four essential steps are required:

1. Śravaṇa — learning from a competent teacher or guru.
2. Svādhyāya — self-study through relevant texts.
3. Practical training — application of what is learnt under guided supervision.
4. Abhyāsa — continued practice to gain mastery.

Without these four, no field of knowledge can be perfected.

When a student joins a pilot training institute, the teachers first impart theoretical lessons on a whiteboard. The student listens carefully, then studies the prescribed manuals and books on his own. Once the basics are clear, the practical training begins. But before allowing him into an actual aircraft, he is first placed in a simulator—a device that mimics the cockpit of a real airplane.

Inside the simulator, he experiences the sounds, vibrations, and motions of a real flight. He learns every switch and button, how to take off, how to land, and what errors could lead to danger. Only after successfully passing simulator tests is he allowed to accompany an experienced pilot as a co-pilot.

In the initial flights, he merely observes how the pilot operates—connecting the theoretical knowledge he acquired from his teacher and books with its real-life application. After a few sessions, the main pilot gradually allows him to handle small operations: starting the plane, adjusting its direction, or maintaining its speed. Eventually, as his skill matures, the co-pilot gains complete control.

After sufficient hours of flying under supervision, the senior pilot certifies that the trainee has now attained full proficiency. The Directorate General of Civil Aviation (DGCA) then issues a formal license.

At this point, when the young man—say, Amit Kumar—walks into the airport wearing his pilot’s uniform, no one calls him by his old name. People simply say, “The pilot has arrived.” The knower and the knowledge both merge into one identity—the pilot. The student is no longer separate from his learning.

The same happens with a doctor. One may not know his name or the details of his education; his identity is now merged with his knowledge. One calls him simply “Doctor.”

Thus, at the culmination of any discipline, the knower (jñātā) and the known (jñeya) dissolve, leaving only knowledge (jñāna). Bhagavān therefore refers not to the knower or the known, but to knowledge itself—the unifying awareness that remains when duality ends.

In worldly knowledge, this process has a time frame—one can say how many years it takes to become a pilot, doctor, or engineer. But spiritual knowledge (alaukika jñāna) has no fixed duration. No one knows when one began this inner journey—whether a hundred or a thousand births ago—and no one can predict when its culmination will come.

Sometimes knowledge is already present but covered (ācchādita), waiting for the right moment to manifest. Ādi Śaṅkarācārya, for instance, was born a jñānī. By the age of seven, he was so learned that even his teachers acknowledged his brilliance and said, “We cannot teach you further; you already know more than us.”

On the other hand, consider the life of Bhagavān Buddha. Until the age of twenty, Siddhārtha lived a life of luxury, completely immersed in worldly pleasures. Yet, one night, divine awakening arose within him, and he renounced everything in pursuit of truth. His knowledge was not absent—it was veiled, waiting for the right moment to unfold.

Therefore, in the path of adhyātma-vidyā, one cannot determine who is in the first grade or the seventh; the stages of progress are not outwardly visible.

Just as a child in the first standard delights in reading simple phonetic combinations like “P-U-T put,” one who has just begun spiritual practice finds joy in basic devotional expressions. A senior student may find it childish, but that very repetition is essential for progress. If the child were stopped from reading simple words, he would never learn to form complete sentences later.

In the same way, a person engaged in sākāma bhakti—worshipping Bhagavān with desires and material expectations—should not be ridiculed. Such a devotee is in the early stage, but the beginning itself is auspicious. Bhagavān has accepted even them as devotees in the verse:

ārto jijñāsur arthārthī jñānī ca bharatarṣabha (7.16)
“O best among Bharatas, four kinds of devotees worship Me—the distressed, the seeker of knowledge, the seeker of wealth, and the wise.”

Even the one who prays to Bhagavān only in distress, or offers vows in exchange for favors, is still a devotee, because at least he turns towards the Divine. Hence, one should never look down upon others’ forms of worship.

Just as children begin by chanting “put-put-put,” every seeker begins somewhere. The early practices—offering flowers, tying threads, making vows—are stepping stones to higher realization.

Each person finds joy according to his inner level. The great saints experience divine rasa even in long hours of worship. One such revered saint, despite having early morning flights, would wake up at 1:30 a.m. to complete his pūjā before leaving. Others might excuse themselves, saying, “Today I will do mānasa-pūjā (mental worship),” but the saint would never forgo his ritual, for it was his source of bliss.

Thus, one’s own spiritual state (avasthā) determines what one finds meaningful.

The difficulty arises when beginners of scriptural study start judging others—considering those engaged in sākāma bhakti as inferior. In truth, every stage has its purpose.

Ultimately, the culmination of knowledge (jñāna), devotion (bhakti), and meditation (dhyāna) is one and the same. So long as these are actions, there exist three entities—the doer, the process, and the object:

But when realization dawns, all duality dissolves. The meditator and the meditated become one; only dhyāna remains. The devotee and Bhagavān merge into bhakti itself. The knower and the known unite into jñāna.

When time, self, and object disappear in deep absorption—when one loses awareness of how long or what one was doing—that is true samādhi.

As long as duality is seen—“I am the devotee, and Bhagavān is separate”—the experience is divided (vibhakta). The moment unity is realized, all separateness ends.

Then remains only the one undivided vision of the verse:

avibhaktaṃ vibhakteṣu taj jñānaṃ viddhi sāttvikam —
“To see the one undivided Reality in all divisions—know that as the Sāttvika Knowledge.”

Yoga Vāsiṣṭha – The Seven Stages of Knowledge
Yoga Vāsiṣṭha is the sacred dialogue between Bhagavān Śrī Rāma and Ṛṣi Vaśiṣṭha. It is regarded as the supreme text on the path of knowledge (Jñāna Mārga)—so much so that it is often called the Maha-Rāmāyaṇa.

If Bhagavad Gītā is revered because Bhagavān Śrī Krishna is its speaker, then Yoga Vāsiṣṭha is equally unique, for here Bhagavān Himself is the listener. The gravity of such a text is beyond words.

In it, Śrī Rāma discusses eight types of imperfections (doṣas). While he doesn’t go into exhaustive detail, certain aspects are beautifully highlighted. Ṛṣi Vaśiṣṭha explains to Śrī Rāma that the attainment of knowledge (Jñāna-prāpti) takes place through seven sequential stages, called the Saptabhūmikā of Jñāna.

The Seven Stages of Knowledge



Śubhēcchā, Vicāraṇā, Tanumānāsā, Sattvāpatti, Asaṅśakti, Padārthabhāvanī, and Turyagā.

These seven steps are the ladder of enlightenment—anyone who seeks realization must ascend through each of these.

1. Śubhēcchā  (The Noble Desire)

The journey begins with a pure and auspicious desire to know the Truth.
It is the awakening of a sincere wish — “I want to know the Self. I want to understand the purpose of life.”

Just as Dhruva, even as a child, felt a burning desire to behold Bhagavān, so too does every seeker begin with this inner calling.
Without this first spark, no spiritual progress is possible.

2. Vicāraṇā (The Enquiry)

Once this noble desire awakens, the mind begins to inquire — “How can I fulfill this longing?”
The seeker begins searching for the means — a teacher, scriptures, guidance, or a method of learning.

Dhruva, moved by this very enquiry, sought out Nārada Muni as his Guru.
This stage marks the transition from mere wishing to active seeking.

3. Tanumānāsā (Thinning of the Mind)

Here begins detachment from the body and the senses.
As the seeker realizes, “I am not this body,” natural disinterest arises toward bodily comforts and worldly indulgences.

Such a person may forget to eat or sleep properly, for the mind is deeply absorbed in contemplation. Others may worry about him, but within, he feels fulfilled.

Without reducing the body’s importance, true spiritual practice cannot begin. This stage marks the loosening of attachment to comfort, pleasure, and sense gratification.

4. Sattvāpatti (Establishment in Truth)

At this point, the seeker becomes deeply absorbed in Sat (Truth).
A clear distinction arises between Sat (the Real) and Asat (the Unreal).

At this level, the attraction toward Truth intensifies while worldly allure fades away.
The seeker naturally finds joy in spiritual practice and disinterest in transient pleasures.

As Swāmījī beautifully said, in the beginning one must struggle to practice detachment, but later it becomes effortless. What was once abhyāsa (practice) becomes sahaja (natural).

5. Asaṅśakti (Non-Attachment)

Now arises complete freedom from attachment.
Bhagavān says in the Gītā:

“Asaṅga-śastreṇa dṛḍhena chittvā” — Cut off attachment with the sword of detachment.

In this state, one may continue to act in the world — eating, traveling, engaging socially — yet remain untouched inwardly.

Swāmījī Maharaj himself exemplified this. Whether traveling in a chartered plane or sitting by the doorway of a crowded train, his inner state remained unchanged.

He neither preferred luxury nor avoided discomfort. Both honor and hardship were equal.
Such equanimity is the hallmark of asaṅśakti.

6. Padārthabhāvanī (Transcendence of Objects)

At this stage, the world of objects fades from awareness.
The seeker perceives only Paramātmā everywhere.
Body and world lose their separate identity.

Most spiritual aspirants revolve between the third, fourth, and fifth stages — few reach the sixth, and rarer still is the seventh.

This state is almost unimaginable, where even the notion of “I” and “mine” dissolves, leaving only the experience of Brahman.

7. Turyagā (Supreme Absorption)

This is the final culmination — where the seeker becomes one with the Supreme Reality.
All duality, effort, and experience dissolve into pure Being.

In this state, there is no knower, nothing to be known, and no process of knowing.
Only Oneness remains.

The Yoga Vāsiṣṭha reveals that spiritual ascent is a gradual unfolding—from the awakening of desire to ultimate realization.
Each step refines the seeker’s awareness, moving from intellectual curiosity to existential stillness, from longing to Being.

As Pūjya Swāmījī Maharaj often emphasized, “The highest truths must be approached with guidance; reading alone cannot reveal them.”
Without Guru-kṛpā (grace of the Guru), these truths remain words — with grace, they become living experience.

The Vision of the Divine – From Padārthabhāvanī to Turyagā

Once, Swāmī Rāmatīrtha was sitting quietly with his disciples.
Suddenly, dark clouds gathered in the sky, and the weather turned gloomy.
The disciples grew concerned and said, “Swāmījī, look! The sky has turned black.”

Swāmī Rāmatīrtha looked up — and tears began to flow from his eyes.
The disciples, surprised, asked, “Swāmījī, why are you crying?”

With eyes still moist, Swāmījī softly replied,

“Ah, how beautiful! These dark clouds look just like Kanhaiyā (Śrī Krishna)!”

The disciples couldn’t understand. To them, the sky was covered with dark, formless clouds.
But for Swāmījī, those clouds were Kanhaiyā Himself. His vision had transformed — wherever he looked, he saw only the Divine.
Tears of devotion flowed spontaneously.

“Jit dekho ut tū hī tū” — wherever such a realized soul looks, he beholds nothing but Bhagavān.
In every particle of creation, he experiences Vāsudevaḥ Sarvam Iti — the Truth that all is indeed Vāsudeva.

At this point, the seeker no longer sees Bhagavān as an object of vision; he experiences Bhagavān as the very essence of all perception. The sense of “worldly objects” (padārtha) disappears. Only the eternal Sat remains visible everywhere.

Śrī Rāmakṛṣṇa Paramahaṁsa once said, “When the veil of ignorance is lifted, even a leaf reveals the presence of the Divine.” So too did Swāmī Rāmatīrtha and other realized beings behold God in all forms — light or dark, pleasant or unpleasant.

Realized Vision – Examples of Saints
Standing on the shores of Kanyakumari, Swāmī Vivekānanda too had such a vision. Gazing at the vast ocean, he declared, “I am this ocean!”

It was not a statement of ego, but of realization — the wave had recognized itself as water. Later, drifting upon that very sea, he reached a rock where today stands the Vivekānanda Rock Memorial — a monument to that boundless vision of Oneness.

Such was the experience described by Ṛṣi Vaśiṣṭha to Bhagavān Śrī Rāma.
When one reaches this sixth stage, where all duality dissolves and one perceives Bhagavān everywhere, the seeker then ascends to the seventh step – Turyagā.

The Inexpressible Seventh State – Turyagā
Śrī Rāma asked, “Maharṣi, what is the seventh stage?”
Ṛṣi Vaśiṣṭha smiled and replied, “Rāma, this cannot be described in words. It is beyond expression — it can only be experienced.”

Just as the sweetness of a rasgullā cannot be explained to one who has never tasted it — no matter how many words you use like “soft” or “sweet,” the essence remains unknown — so too is the seventh state, Turyagā.

It transcends all human experience. Ordinary beings move among three states — jāgrat (waking), svapna (dream), and suṣupti (deep sleep). But one who has gone beyond these three enters Turyagā, the fourth, where awareness remains unbroken even beyond sleep or dream.

In jāgrat, the gross body and the mind are active. In svapna, the body sleeps, but the subtle mind remains awake. In suṣupti, both body and mind rest — awareness of the world ceases. But in Turyagā, the seeker remains awake beyond all these, resting in the pure Consciousness that underlies them all.

Śraddhā – The Foundation of Attainment

Ṛṣi Vaśiṣṭha further explained — such realization cannot be reached without Śraddhā (faith).
As Garuḍa once asked Kākabhūṣuṇḍi, “How does this inner light of knowledge arise?”
Kākabhūṣuṇḍi replied with a beautiful metaphor from Rāmcharitmānas:

When the cow of faith (śraddhā-rūpī gau) is received through Bhagavān’s grace, and is nourished through japa, tapas, niyama, and good conduct, the milk that flows from her is Knowledge (Jñāna).

Thus, faith is the beginning, and grace is the sustenance. Without śraddhā, the practice remains dry; without kṛpā, the goal remains distant.

In the sixth stage (Padārthabhāvanī), the seeker perceives only the Divine in all forms of the world.
In the seventh (Turyagā), even the sense of perception disappears — only Pure Consciousness remains.

The stories of Swāmī Rāmatīrtha and Swāmī Vivekānanda exemplify this living realization. Words cannot convey it; it must be lived. And the key to that ascent — as emphasized by Kākabhūṣuṇḍi — is unwavering Śraddhā (faith) nurtured by sādhanā (practice) and kṛpā (grace).

Bhagavān Śrī Krishna here speaks of rājasa jñāna — the knowledge born of passion. He explains that when one perceives multiplicity among beings, when one’s understanding is fragmented and divided—seeing different entities as separate from one another—that knowledge is to be known as rājasa jñāna.

The true essence of rājasa jñāna is that it divides and discriminates; it lacks the awareness of the underlying unity. A person with such knowledge perceives variety, distinctions, and separation among living beings. To illustrate this, a profound story was narrated.

Once, there was a flock of parrots. Among them lived an elderly parrot who sensed his end was near. Before departing, he called the younger parrots and said, “Listen carefully. I will teach you something vital for your survival. Repeat after me: Śikārī āyegā, jāl bichhāegā, dānā ḍālegā, phansnā mat—the hunter will come, he will spread his net, scatter grains, but you must not get trapped.” The parrots respectfully repeated after him, memorizing every word. Satisfied that he had saved them from danger, the old parrot passed away peacefully.

A few days later, a young hunter entered the forest with his net. The moment the parrots saw him, they began shouting in unison: “Śikārī āyegā, jāl bichhāegā, dānā ḍālegā, phansnā mat!” Hearing this, the hunter was startled. “Our secret is out,” he thought, and fled home. His father, an experienced hunter, asked why he returned empty-handed. When the boy explained, his father laughed and said, “Don’t worry. Let’s both go tomorrow.”

The next day, both father and son went to the forest. As soon as they began spreading the net, the parrots again shouted loudly, “Śikārī āyegā, jāl bichhāegā, dānā ḍālegā, phansnā mat!” The son grew anxious, “Father, what are you doing? They already know!” The father calmly replied, “Wait and watch.”

After laying the net and scattering grains, they moved aside. Within moments, the parrots who had been chanting so loudly flew down to peck the grains. One by one, they all landed on the net and were trapped—still repeating the same line, “Śikārī āyegā, jāl bichhāegā, dānā ḍālegā, phansnā mat!”

The young boy was stunned. “How could this happen?” he asked. His father smiled, “These are parrots. They can repeat what they have been taught but cannot understand what they say.”

So too are many humans—those who speak of wisdom yet fail to live by it. They repeat spiritual truths endlessly—“Now I’ll detach myself,” “I won’t get caught in worldly webs”—but continue to behave as before. As the saying goes:

“Par-updeśa kuśala bahutere, je āchara hi te na ghanere.”
(“Many are skilled in advising others, but few live by what they teach.”)

Such knowledge, merely theoretical and without transformation in conduct, is tāmasa jñāna—dark and inert.

The Three Types of Knowledge
After understanding tāmasa jñāna, let's understand the difference between rājasa and sāttvika knowledge.

Once, a merchant dealing in diamonds suddenly fell ill and passed away, leaving behind his wife and a sixteen-year-old son. Before dying, he had stored a pouch of gems in his cupboard. The mother handed it to her son, saying, “Take this to your uncle; he will guide you.” The uncle, also a jeweller, examined the stones and said, “These are precious, but the market is low. Keep them for now. Come to my shop from tomorrow—I’ll teach you the trade.”

The boy obediently learned everything in six months. When he became skilled, the uncle said, “Now bring those stones again. The time may be right to sell.” The boy opened the pouch and was shocked. “Mother, these are not diamonds but mere glass pieces!” Both mother and son were devastated.

The next day, he took the pouch to his uncle, who calmly said, “I knew that already.” The boy was astonished. “If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?” The uncle replied, “Had I told you then, you would have doubted my honesty. I wanted you to learn to discern truth from falsehood yourself. Now that you can recognise real gems, you no longer need those fake ones. You can earn real diamonds through your skill.”

Soon, the boy discovered that his father’s shirts had buttons made of real diamonds—thirty or forty shirts in total! His uncle smiled and said, “Your father was wise. Had he left you the diamonds directly, you might have wasted them. But by leaving imitation stones, he ensured you learned to identify the real ones. That knowledge will serve you lifelong.”

This is rājasa jñāna—knowledge that relates to the world, to skill, effort, and worldly success. It is useful but still bound within samsāra.

The Greatness of Sāttvika Jñāna
True sāttvika jñāna transcends both passion and ignorance. To illustrate this, the story of Guru Nānak Dev Ji is recalled.

Guru Nānak never stayed in one village for more than a night and preferred resting outside the village. Once, he halted near a settlement of robbers. The villagers, angered by his presence, came wielding sticks and ordered him to leave. Bālā and Mardanā, his companions, were frightened and pleaded to depart immediately. Guru Nānak simply raised his hands in blessing and said, “Baso, phalo, ānanda karo—May you prosper and live happily here.”

Then they reached another village of kind, virtuous people. The villagers welcomed them warmly, offering food and service, urging Guru Nānak to stay longer. As he left the next morning, he blessed them saying, “Ujhaṛ jāo, bikhar jāo—May you disperse and spread afar.”

Bālā and Mardanā were confused. “Master,” they asked, “Why bless the wicked to prosper and the good to scatter?” Guru Nānak smiled gently, “Those robbers, if they remain confined to one place, will harm only a few. But if they wander elsewhere, their wickedness will spread. Hence, I wished them to stay where they are. As for the good people—if they remain in one place, only that village benefits. But if they disperse, they will purify and uplift every place they reach. That is why I blessed them to scatter.”

Such is sāttvika jñāna—the wisdom that sees the unity and divine purpose behind all differences, that acts selflessly for the welfare of all beings.

Thus, Bhagavān reveals the distinction between tāmasa, rājasa, and sāttvika jñāna—teaching that true wisdom lies not in words or intellect, but in inner transformation and selfless conduct.

Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa here explains the nature of tāmasa jñāna — the knowledge born of ignorance. Such knowledge is ekasmin kārye saktam — confined to a single aspect or limited object of perception, often attached solely to the physical form (śarīra-rūpa). It fails to perceive the wholeness of truth (kṛtsnavat), and is therefore ahaitukam — without proper reasoning, atattvārthavat — devoid of the essential understanding of reality, and alpam — trivial or insignificant in scope.

In simple terms, it is the kind of understanding that grasps only the surface, not the substance; that recognizes the body, but not the Self within. Such fragmented awareness, Bhagavān says, is tāmasa jñāna — knowledge clouded by darkness.

To illustrate, it was compared to the learning of a tota (parrot) — knowledge that merely repeats words without understanding their essence. It is knowledge that echoes, but does not awaken.

At this point, the reflection concluded, marking the transition in the next session. Before closing, all were invited to join in a moment of collective nāma-saṅkīrtana, chanting with the feeling that Bhagavān Himself listens to every name uttered with devotion:

Hari śaraṇam Hari śaraṇam Hari śaraṇam...

And with the chant resonating in the atmosphere, all bowed in reverence —

“Yogeśvara Śrī Kṛṣṇa Chandra Bhagavān kī Jai! Nārayana!”

Rajnish Ji
Q: The relationship between Ātmā and śarīra (body) is still not entirely clear to me. We understand that Ātmā and body are different. The eyes belong to the body, not the Ātmā; the ears too. The experiences of pleasure and pain are felt by the body, not the Ātmā. Yet, when the Ātmā leaves one body and takes another, it carries the karma along, which the next body experiences. If Ātmā never actually experiences pleasure or pain, then why does it carry the karma forward? And if the Ātmā mistakenly identifies itself with the body, it too begins to experience suffering and joy—how is that possible?
A: The Ātmā never truly suffers or enjoys. The pain and pleasure are experienced only through the body. However, when one identifies the Ātmā as the doer (kartā), it becomes a witness to the act, and thus, accountability arises. Just as a witness involved in a deed becomes answerable for it, so too does the Ātmā appear to bear the consequences when it associates itself with the body and actions.
In the fifteenth chapter of the Bhagavad Gītā, Bhagavān explains that just as the wind carries fragrances from one place to another without getting attached to them, the Ātmā too carries saṃskāras (impressions) from one body to another, yet remains untouched by them. The Ātmā itself never feels pleasure or pain—it merely animates the body, much like electricity. Electricity enables sight and sound through devices, yet it neither sees nor hears. This cycle of karma and embodiment is part of the divine play crafted by Bhagavān’s will, whose reasons lie beyond human comprehension.

Rajendra Ji
Q: Could you please explain the difference between asakti (attachment) and padaartha-abhāv-bhāvanā (the perception of absence of matter) on the path of jñāna? Why is there such a vast difference between the two?
A: In asakti-lessness (asakti), the practitioner has awareness of other objects but has no attachment to them. One continues to see the world yet remains inwardly unaffected, practicing non-attachment. However, in padaartha-abhāv-bhāvanā, the perception of “otherness” itself ceases to exist—nothing apart from Bhagavān is seen. The world of multiplicity dissolves into the singular vision of divinity.
In asakti, one perceives the world but does not desire it. In padaartha-abhāv-bhāvanā, the world itself disappears from perception—only Bhagavān remains visible everywhere. As Tulasīdāsa says, “Siyārāma maya saba jaga jānī” — “I see the entire world pervaded by Sītā and Rāma.”
In asakti, there is still awareness of other entities. In padaartha-abhāv-bhāvanā, there is no such awareness at all.
This state is distinct from turīya. In turīya, even the experiencer (jñātā) dissolves—what remains is pure knowledge (jñāna) alone. The knower, the known, and the process of knowing—jñātā, jñeya, and jñāna—merge into one undivided reality. When nothing remains apart, what can be described, and by whom? Thus, turīya transcends even padaartha-abhāv-bhāvanā—it is the silence beyond expression.

Dr. Hema Ji
Q: You had once spoken about Gītā Bhāva Darśana, and for me, it felt like finding a hidden treasure. I watched all forty videos in three days. I understood many things, but now I have even more questions—perhaps I took an overdose of wisdom! I’d like to clarify a few basic doubts.
From what I’ve understood: we are the Ātmā, and we possess a body. The body is composed of prakṛti and puruṣa, where prakṛti is inert (jaḍa) and puruṣa is conscious (caitanya). Is this consciousness the same as Ātmā or jīvātmā? Are they different references to the same essence? Also, does this puruṣa represent the energy or reflection of Ātmā, as illustrated in the example of the moon’s reflection in water?
A: Whether you call it puruṣa, caitanya, akṣara, parama, or Ātmā—all these refer to the same essence. The conscious principle (puruṣa) present within the body is none other than Ātmā. The terms differ, but the reality they denote is one and the same.

Q: And when the Ātmā leaves the body, it carries saṃskāras along with it. Does it take the sūkṣma-śarīra (subtle body) too?
A: No, the Ātmā does not carry the sūkṣma-śarīra itself, but only the saṃskāras contained within it. These impressions are carried forward into the next embodiment, like data transferred from one system to another. The Ātmā remains untouched, merely serving as the carrier—never the experiencer.

Q: Thank you so much! Also, could you please share the link to Yoga Vāsiṣṭha discourses by Swāmījī?
A: Certainly—it can be found by searching online; you should easily locate it on YouTube.

Ashish Ji
Q: Bhagavān mentions ahiṃsā as a daivī guṇa (divine quality) in Chapter 16. But what if one unintentionally commits an act of violence—for instance, in family situations where control is lost? Would that still be considered a pāpa (sin)?
A: Yes, such an act is indeed pāpa and falls under niṣiddha karma (prohibited action). If such harm has occurred unintentionally, one must perform prāyaścitta (atonement) and engage in jīva-sevā (service to living beings) as a means of repentance. The first duty, however, is to ensure that such actions do not recur.

Q: Could you please specify what all comes under niṣiddha karma?
A: Any act that causes pain to a living being, telling lies, or violating scriptural injunctions—all these are considered niṣiddha karma. One should be vigilant to avoid them at all times.

Kalpana Ji
Q: In verses 13–14, where Bhagavān speaks of the five causes of action (pañca tāni mahābāho kāraṇāni nibodha me), it is said that adhiṣṭhāna is the body, karaṇa are the senses, ceṣṭā are activities, and daiva refers to prārabdha—the destined outcome that unfolds inevitably, like a fixed deposit maturing. Is that correct?
A: Yes, quite right. Adhiṣṭhāna refers to the body—the base. Karaṇa are the instruments, such as the senses, mind, and intellect. Ceṣṭā are the activities, and daiva indeed refers to the unseen divine factor—prārabdha karma—which determines the result when the time comes.

Q: Then what exactly is kartā (the doer)? Since the Ātmā is only the witness and not the doer, how should we understand kartā here?
A: The kartā is not merely the mind or intellect. It is the collective identity that carries the feeling “I am doing this.” The moment this sense of doership arises—“I will act”—the kartā is born. To illustrate: suppose one wants to start a business.

• The adhiṣṭhāna (foundation) is the purpose—earning livelihood.
• The kartā are the people or entities who will execute the plan.
• The karaṇa are the tools and means—capital, staff, equipment.
• The ceṣṭā are the actions—opening the shop daily, serving customers, managing work.
• And daiva is that unseen grace which determines the final outcome.

If the adhiṣṭhāna—the intent—is unclear, even the best effort fails. Just as one might spend crores on building a showroom without clarity of purpose, ending up in loss. Thus, clarity of adhiṣṭhāna is crucial for the success of any karma.

Q: And, a bit unrelated—since Gītā Parivār has grown so beautifully and even teaches children, is there any plan to start a matrimonial platform for like-minded, cultured families within the group?
A: Yes, such a thought is indeed under consideration. It is in the vision for the future.

The session concluded with a heartfelt prayer followed by the chanting of the Hanumān Chālīsā.