Toward A Yoga of The Imagination: 5.1. TH Ree Non-Boys

5
Toward a Yoga of the Imagination
5.1. Three Non-Boys

It’s time we moved away from the realm of technical discussions to more
practical domains, if one can use such a term for forms of practice that
mostly undermine the concrete givenness of the world and the discrete
existence of its visible objects and effects. Consider the following unset-
tling story, supposed to have been told by a nanny to amuse an innocent
child and recorded in the great Kashmiri classic of metaphysical narrative,
the Yoga-vāsistha-mahā-rāmāyana (ninth century):
Somewhere or other, in a city that was totally nonexistent—a wide and

empty city, like stars reflected in water—there were three handsome and
courageous princes. Two of them were never born, and the third never
even entered the womb. As it happened, they lost all their families; so,
grieving at heart, their faces grim, they left that empty city in search of
some fine reward, like when Mercury, Venus, and Saturn come together
in the sky. Their bodies, however, were extremely delicate, soft as the
śirīsa flower, and the sun burned their backs as they walked on the path
over glowing sand; they were like fresh buds wilted by summer’s heat, or
like deer lost to the herd. Sharp darbha grass pricked the soles of their
feet; their joints were inflamed; in torment, they kept calling out to their
absent fathers. After they had walked a long way, their bodies gray with
dust, they happened upon three trees in full bloom, with fruits hanging
from their branches, home to many animals and birds. Two of those trees
had never been born, and there was never even a seed for the third.
They rested there, as Indra, the Wind, and Yama rest in the shade of
the wishing trees in heaven. They feasted on the delicious fruit, drank
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110 More than Real
their juices, and covered themselves with garlands made from the flow-
ers. Then they set off again. It was high noon when they arrived at three
rivers, their waves murmuring and shimmering. One of the rivers was
totally dry, and there was no trace of water in the other two, as there is
no vision in blind eyes. Being utterly exhausted because of the heat,
they were all too happy to bathe in these rivers, like Brahmā, Visnu,
and Śiva bathing in the Ganges. They played in the water and drank
their fi ll; then, refreshed, they moved on. Toward evening, as the sun
began to set, they came to a vast city that was about to be built. It was
fi lled with banners and lotus ponds, with water blue as the blue sky,
and you could hear even from a great distance the buzz and hum of its
inhabitants.
In the city they happened upon three marvelous palaces made of gold
and precious stones, tall as mountain peaks. Two of these palaces were
not yet built, and the third had no walls. They entered that third one,
explored it, sat down, and found three golden bowls, two of them broken
into pieces, the third ground to dust. In the bowl that was ground to dust
they cooked ninety-nine minus one hundred measures of rice and invited
three Brahmins for a meal—two without a body, one without a mouth. The
one without a mouth ate all hundred measures of rice, and the three
princes ate up whatever was left. They were completely satisfied. Those
princes are still living happily in that city that will one day be built; mostly
they spend their time hunting. Isn’t this a nice story that I’ve told you,
little boy? If you take it to heart, you’ll grow up to be wise.
Is this a nursery tale, of a type known in many literatures? A bedtime

story, not free of aggression, meant to tease the listener into sleep and
dreaming? Somewhat unusually for Sanskrit narrative genres, the young
listener is not allowed to respond, to ask for more information or clarifica-
tion, or to check the earnestness of the narrator. What would the child
have said? “Don’t be silly! How can someone go into a city that is not yet
built?” And probably, after a while, with a groan or a smile: “Not again!” But
perhaps the child would enter into the game, which can surely be extended
indefinitely. Always there will be 2 + 1, a complete set of nonexistent enti-
ties, the third even more outrageous in its nonbeing than the first two. You
can read the story in linear sequence, as it is told, but you can also read it
as a deepening progression through a series of nested layers: in the experi-
ence, or the minds, of the unborn boys there are three dry rivers flowing
Toward a Yoga of the Imagination 111
not far from a nonex istent city, in which there are unbuilt houses with
broken pots in which a negative quantity of rice can be cooked—to every-
one’s utter satisfaction. Each subsequent stage of nonexistence inheres in
the prior one and is generated out of the prior one—if nonexistence is
something that can inhere (this is a classical theme in Indian logic). There is
no lower limit to these encapsulations except for the concluding experience—
the story must, after all, have an end—of universal satisfaction, which I take
to be real.
At the bottom of a progression that has no bottom lies the satisfaction
proper to a subtle internal space empty of objects, hence utterly full. This
same space is the locus of imagination, as the text proceeds to explain.
Before we listen to it further, we should render the spatial topology
more precise. A vertical linearity is unlikely to be any more accurate than
a horizontal one. In all probability—though this is only a guess—this little
story, like so many others in this profoundly unnerving book, speaks to a
notion of simultaneous mutual embedding and mirroring. A is in B inso-
far as B is in A (the overlap may, however, be incomplete; there may be gaps
and discontinuities). Where, exactly, does this interweaving take place?
Possibly among the minds of the three non-boys; possibly somewhere
between the minds of narrator and listener, to which we have to add the
mind of the reader (our mind); probably all such minds and players are
active at any given moment.
Why insist on the role of the mind? Because the narrator explains his
story, at least up to a point:
Like this story about the boys, this universe, which looks so solid, is in re-
ality entirely a tissue of mentation [vikalpa-jālikā] and the stuff of reflec-
tions (pratibhāsâtmikā); like the story, it, too, is constructed from fierce,
tough acts of imagination [ugraih sa{kalpair drdha-kalpitaih]. Nothing
whatsoever exists apart from the imagination. Whatever is there by force
of the imagination is not really a “something,” or it might be a “little some-
thing.” Just like the boys, the rivers, and the city-to-be, the existence of the
world is an imaginary production, tremulous, shimmering all around us.
(32–37)
Before we rush to characterize this passage, or indeed the whole of the

Yoga-vāsistha, as “idealist” in the Western Eu ropean sense, we would
do well to examine the terms of its explanation more closely. The two key
words are vikalpa and sa{kalpa, which we have already encountered.
112 More than Real
Both come from the root √klp, the verb of making, fashioning, determining,
performing. In the Yoga-vāsistha, the former term tends to mean something
like “conceptualization” or “thinking” generally; it is not uncommon for
the narrator to tell his listener (Rāma, according to the framing story) that
thinking generates the stuff of experience. Sa{kalpa, on the other hand,
while it can also mean just “thought,” especially a thought heavy with in-
tention or resolution or determination, commonly serves in this text for
an imaginative act, as I have translated. Not thinking alone but thought
crystallizing into active and vivid images that look and feel real is what
sa{kalpa conveys in these stories. In the explication the storyteller offers
for the story just cited, sa{kalpa has a “fierce, tough” quality. These adjec-
tives are eloquent testimony to the substantial, even recalcitrant nature
of imaginative production and present a lucid contrast with our modern,
Western notions of fantasy as somehow ethereal and lacking in existential
power.
Sa{kalpa is explored and discursively defined, often with subtle distinc-
tions, in many passages in the Yoga-vāsistha, which could well be renamed
“The Yoga of the Imagination at Work.” Take another explanatory exam-
ple, from the most baffling and complex of all narratives in this book, the
quasi-allegorical romance “The Woman in the Stone”:
An effect must proceed from a cause, as the shoot emerges from a seed.
If there is no seed, there will be no shoot. Has anyone ever seen a tree
standing free in the empty sky? What is seen in empty space—let us say
a tree—is apparent because of the imagination [sa{kalpa]. There is no
object that is unimagined.
This does not mean that there are no objects. Once imagined, objects exist,
though not perhaps in the stubborn, rigidly contoured way we tend to think
of them. In the Yoga-vāsistha, imagined objects have a tendency to merge
with one another, to fill up, by an extraordinary expansiveness and restless
inter-existence, the originally empty but creative space of the cosmos. In
this cosmos, nothing unimagined has any real ontic claim except, possibly,
the truly unimaginable openness that continuously generates these shift-
ing forms. The real contrast here lies not between what is imagined and
what is experienced as real but between imaginative mentation, on the one
hand, and “awareness” or “consciousness” in itself, as the deeper repository
of existential reality-making, on the other. Such awareness has the density
and simultaneity of rock:
Tender, luminous, soft to the touch, very expansive, continuous, always

without gaps—somewhere or other, there is a great rock like this. Inside
it, as if inside a lake, there are very many flowering lotuses, lovely and
limitless. Their leaves are tangled together; some are separated from one
another, others are growing on top of one another, some hidden, others
visible. Some have roots in the sky, others have roots down below, some
lack roots of any kind. Nearby are hundreds of thousands of conch-shells
and masses of wheels, folded into themselves like lotuses. . . . What I am
describing to you is an awareness-rock, in which the whole universe
abides. For awareness is indeed a rock—because it is condensed and en-
tirely self-contained. A vast array of worlds exists inside that rock, even
though it is so solidly condensed and utterly without gaps, like the wild
wind blowing in the sky.
Such rock-like awareness has, among other properties, a propensity to

generate imaginative worlds inside itself. “Awareness” is the more compre-
hensive state, we can be sure. But unlike the Advaita system, for example,
which seeks to awaken us from the illusion that we take for normal reality,
the Yoga-vāsistha, as Gary Tubb has shown in an important essay, seeks to
wake the reader into the illusion that the mind creates. In much the same
vein, the famous Buddhist philosopher Nāgârjuna and his successor Vasu-
bandhu seem to want us to internalize a reality that is continuously rei-
magined and thus neither empty nor full (to use their language) but rather
a beginningless and endless series of what might be called “true illusions.”
In what sense can an illusion be true? For both the Yoga-vāsistha and
the Mahāyāna Buddhists, there are at least three primary options for mak-
ing sense of such a paradox. First, we have a pragmatic and intersubjective
consideration. The shared illusions we call reality actually “work”; indeed,
by virtue of the continuous interweaving of our projections, the images we
see constantly corroborate our perceptions of them and normally act in
the ways we expect them to (sometimes, however, they don’t). Second, these
projections are profoundly rooted in consequential acts of linguistic cre-
ativity, like all other forms of the imaginative life considered in this book.
Finally, and most interesting, an operative distinction emerges between
what is real and what is true (with a slight preference for insight commit-
ted to the latter term). In the Yoga-vāsistha, such insight occasionally in-
tensifies the apparent paradox by asserting that only such real illusions can
be true—that is, what we are calling illusion is the proper stuff of a reality
114 More than Real
defined, ab initio, as the imagination in action, even if the base state of

open-ended awareness is in theory, as I have said, a still more profound
repository of existential experimentation. (One does well, in such a system,
to avoid linear notions of “ultimacy” altogether.) But this conclusion is not
the only possible trajectory branching off from the crossroads we have
reached; in Part II we will trace the further history of this critical distinc-
tion in medieval south Indian materials, which, as we will see, for their
own reasons tend to privilege the “real” over the “true.”
We could also restate the whole problem in a more moderate and gen-
eral, but perhaps rather routine, way with wide application throughout the
South Asian schools, both Hindu and Buddhist. Underlying the notion of
true illusions is an appreciation of the creative capacity of the mind and,
above all, of the imaginative faculty, which constitutes the core of the expe-
riential domain we inhabit, however this core is characterized. What
would a nontrivial articulation of this hypothesis look like? It is proba-
bly time to move away from the attempt to ascribe differential degrees of
reality-content to mind-generated projections. Only a very narrow read-
ing of the story of the three Brahmins would follow this familiar path.
Those who were never born or even conceived live a remarkably rich and
happy life, apparently undisturbed by metaphysical niceties; they rest
peacefully in nonexistent shade and consume to their satisfaction the non-
existent rice, as, it seems, do we. On the other hand, the nonexistent heroes
are quite capable of feeling grief and physical pain (as do we). How is this
possible? We might posit a world of such dense, organic interconnectivity
that it makes no sense at all to separate out the mind as an alien specta-
tor or actor from some point outside the frame of perception. Of course,
words such as “mind” and “language” define aspects of the reality brocade
that have their proper pragmatic functions; but just as language is largely
coterminous and isomorphic with the phenomena it names (thereby also
generating them, certainly not simply representing them), similarly the
mind observes and projects from within the compacted—rock-like, simul-
taneous, restless—space of awareness. Language is the medium we breathe
in and think in, mind its close analogue or derivate. In such a world, “non-
existence” is not an absence or a lack. It is an integral part of the brocade,
internal to it, woof to its warp. In what sense, then, can a profound percep-
tion of “nonexistence” free the perceiving person from suffering—as the
Yoga-vāsistha repeatedly tells us it can? It allows for, or perhaps reestab-
lishes, a capacity for further connection, which is akin to the capacity for
movement in any direction. Such a capacity, which we could even call
“objective,” frees the individual for unencumbered, though still patterned

and rule-bound, imagining.
Such a cosmos, set in motion and driven forward from within, is also
held together from within. Sa{kalpa, in the sense of imaginative projec-
tion, may well be its primary motor and bonding agent. What sa{kalpa gen-
erates, however, is in general unlikely to be entirely new, though it may well
be singular. We will come back to this point. Also, sa{kalpa, like bhāvanā,
must have a history. Jumping ahead, we can foresee a moment when, with
the hypertrophy of the imagination as a personal and specifically human
faculty, the extreme organicity of the cosmos will be shattered, the homol-
ogy between human minds and the rest of existence attenuated and dis-
turbed. When that happens, the role of a Yoga of the imagination will also
have to be reconceived.
Let us return for a moment to sa{kalpa and its historical antecedents.
The word appears in several well-known passages from the Upanisads,
at times with the connotation of intentionality or a more general mode of
intellection, sometimes accompanied by very concrete internal images.
Chāndogya Upanisad 8.2.1–10 fills out the semantic range of the term. The
text has just told us that a person who has come to know (anuvidya) the self
and its true desires (satyān kāmān) will be able to move at will throughout all
worlds (7.1.6). How so? Such a person, “if he wants the world of the fathers,
by his sa{kalpa alone the fathers will arise, and the world of the fathers will
be his.” Similarly with the worlds of mothers, brothers, sisters, friends,
perfumes and garlands, food and drink, singing and instrumental music,
and women: by sa{kalpa alone, they will be his. Whatever object he desires,
sa{kalpa will produce it for him (verse 10). “Intention” fails, I think, to
capture the mental process at work here, as does “thought” in a general sense.
The point is that the self-possessed person conceives a definite image of
whatever he or she would like; by virtue of having come to know the inner
self—the vast space hidden in the heart (8.1.2)—this newly configured per-
son can achieve immediate access to that image and all that it contains,
proceeding as it does from out of that creative space. The mental image
allows an accelerated movement into the particular world constituted, or
so it would seem, by that very image. I don’t think we should hesitate to
translate sa{kalpa here as “imagination”; both the plasticity and the con-
crete vision implicit in acts of imagination are present, as is the sense of
radical freedom intimated above.
In classical Sanskrit and, even more strikingly, in the regional literatures,
a linguistic specification has taken place very much in harmony with the
116 More than Real
direction just outlined. We saw how Kādambarī, Bāna’s heroine, created

an “imaginary lover” (sa{kalpa-mayah kumārah) who is always with her, a
steady and dependable person far superior to any flesh-and-blood suitor.
When Nala, entirely invisible thanks to the gods’ magic, enters Damayantī’s
harem, he is hallucinating, seeing everywhere around him images of his
beloved, so palpable that to some extent they blind him to the flesh-and-
blood women before his eyes. These images are, Śriharsa tells us, vikal-
popahrta “conjured up by his mind.” How was Nala able to produce such
images, since he has never actually seen the woman in question? Well, he
might have seen her in some former life, or maybe it was because he saw
her painted portrait; perhaps it was just some magic trick (śāmbarī-śilpa)
of the Love God. When Śrīnātha, in the late fourteenth century, trans-
lates this passage into Telugu, he presents us with a slightly expanded list
of possibilities:
Maybe he had met her in the endless chain of lives he had lived through.
Maybe it was a repeated projection that came from staring at her ravishing
portrait painted on a board.
Maybe it was the creamy, delectable, indeed addictive description pre-
sented in words by the goose.
Maybe it was the Love God’s masterful art of conjuring that drives the
whole world astray.
Maybe he was possessed by his own many-faceted imagination.
Whatever the reason, he saw her image, soft as a flower, gleaming like a
flash of lightning when the rains begin, fi lling all space.
We are interested in the final item in the list: vividha-sa{kalpa-

kalpanâveśamunano, “possessed by his own many-faceted imagination.”
The imagination, sa{kalpa, is so powerful, so capable of producing vivid
and credible images, that it is assimilated to demonic possession, āveśa,
when the self is occupied by another will or persona or profoundly locked
into itself. Not by chance does this hypothesis come last; it is, we may as-
sume, by far the most likely explanation for what is going on in Nala’s
mind, and one the Telugu poet has himself added to the list he inherited
from his Sanskrit source, in conformance with the newly emergent late
medieval south Indian model of the mind.
Once we find ourselves in the charmed world of Nala and Damayantī,
we should not neglect the Malayalam version of the Naisadhīya by Mala-
ma{galam Kavi (sixteenth century?). The two lovers are, as usual, obsessed
with their imaginings of each other, so much so that they can’t fall asleep.
There’s a playful explanation of this not entirely unhappy state. Sleep, nidrā,
is a female noun in Sanskrit, hence she must be a woman or a goddess:
Sleep came to them over and over,
but each time she thought to herself,
“I’m not about to create an obstacle
to the intense joy they’re feeling
by making love in their imagination”—
so each time she went away,
as a tactful friend should.
This wise goddess won’t disturb the sa{kalpa-sa{gama, the lovemaking that

happens in the imagination, perhaps the most satisfying of all; sa{kalpa has
by now achieved a definite and delimited meaning, not quite synonymous
with medieval bhāvanā (a somewhat wider and more supple term), but clearly
referring to the same generative function of the mind.
5.2. Making a Goddess

We now need to revisit bhāvanā in a new set of pragmatic contexts, all
rooted in the south, reaching their most radical expression in the twelft h
to thirteenth century in fully crystallized Tantric meditational practices.
We have studied bhāvanā in the domains of grammar, logic, and, especially,
classical poetics; we saw how the poeticians, beginning with Bhatta Nāyaka,
extended the scope of the term (and the closely allied bhāvakatva, “genera-
tivity”) so that it eventually came to include full-fledged productions of
the imagination, whether unrolling in the minds of the characters onstage,
in the highly energized mental processes of the spectator-reader, or in some
intermediate and interactive space. But by the middle of the first millen-
nium AD, bhāvanā was also a common word for meditative or contempla-
tive practices; this is how we tend to find it in Buddhist sources, as we do
in a striking range of Hindu devotional and ritual texts, particularly in the
worship of the god Śiva and of the goddess who goes by many names, but
whom we will call here Tripura-sundarī, “Most Beautiful in the Triple Cos-
mos.” In general, we are talking about focused meditation with a strong
component of visualization; not by chance, such practices are also intimately
linked to the attempts to bring the deity into substantial forms of presence
or being, as the root bhāvayati—“to make be”—would suggest.
118 More than Real
Thus the early Tamil Śaiva poet Tiruñānacampantar (seventh century?)

says:
Oh you who live in Tĕlicceri, where the gods
come with flowers three times every day
to worship your golden anklets:
it is in your nature, it appears,
to stand here, to be imagined
as a Hunter chasing the boar
with the goddess beside you acting
the same part.
Pāvakam = bhāvaka, a visible form brought into being—perhaps by the god

Śiva himself, perhaps by the poet who is singing to him, perhaps by every
pilgrim to the Tĕlicceri temple. The particular form in question is that of
Śiva as the Kirāta hunter who revealed himself to Arjuna and entered into
a contest with this hero. The modern commentator glosses the term pāvakam
as “unreal” (mĕyallāmai), meaning, I suppose, an image that is generated by
the mind and presented to the eye, either inner or outer, in all its ravishing
tangibility. One can call up this image by worshiping at this shrine, among
others, and once the vision is in place, various emotional and transforma-
tive experiences inevitably follow: those who can sing the ten verses of this
poem, the poet says in his final verse, will come to exist inside the words,
surrounded by the whole assembly of gods (iruppavar cŏllile). As Norman
Cutler showed in a subtle and powerful study, such Tamil bhakti poems
regularly move the listener toward actual identification with the deity and
incorporation into the mythic or ritual scene that only appears, initially, to
be situated somewhere outside. In the present instance, the poem claims
to have generated an autonomous universe, with the god at its core, where
the listener or singer can find refuge. This universe exists in the sung words
themselves, as do the gods and the various visualized forms of Śiva and his
consort. But such a domain is not a datum, preexistent in some factual
mode; it is brought into being—bhāvita—by the act of singing and, we can
be certain, of imagining the deity who comes alive precisely through such
imaginative and poetic means. He seems to stand there, “to be imagined.”
He is susceptible to, and possibly even dependent upon, just such far-reaching
creative moves. One could also say that he is there only insofar as he is
imagined—a bold ontic assertion, not at all beyond the axiology of Tamil
bhakti works. Note the immense self-confidence of the poet, who knows
how effective his words and his music truly are.
The modern gloss is thus, in a way, misleading unless you know how to
read it against the pragmatics of Tamil Śaivism. Śiva assumed (in the past)
and assumes again (whenever one performs this meditation) the guise of a
tribal hunter. The guise in no way exhausts the existential richness of the
deity, but neither is it some adventitious and external accretion. Indeed,
it far surpasses in sheer ontic terms the entropic guises of the everyday
world—although, once again, we don’t really need to haggle over the precise
reality-quotient of such statements as Tevāram 2.3.1. It’s more than enough
if we recognize that the business of bringing the Hunter into being, bhāvaka,
is not an as-if, fictive endeavor but rather is grounded in what is seen as
empirical observation and experience (quite capable, incidentally, of being
reproduced under analogous laboratory conditions, though the Tamil poets
wouldn’t have put the matter in these terms). Where would we find such a
laboratory? We don’t have far to look. As Cutler has said, all the personae
and poetic voices that turn up in the Tamil bhakti corpus are essential
aspects of the poet’s self and thus of the selves of the devotees who iden-
tify with the poet and, through him or her, with the god waiting to be
imagined.
Thus it is very natural for Cuntaramūrttināyanār, another of the Tevāram
poets, a century or more after Tiruñānacampantar, to identify Śiva (at
Tiruvārūr) as “honey flowing through the minds of those who imagine
him” (pāvippār manatt’ ūrum at-tenai). Bhāvanā, the generative imagina-
tion, is where the god exists—a sweet, delicious existence, internal to the
practitioners, whose inner space must thus somehow be similarly structured
in each case. Can we say something more about this inner space? Many have
tried. One common way to talk about it, encountered in varying degrees in
all the Tamil bhakti poets, is as a fragmented, often conflictual zone where
the god hides himself, almost as if to taunt his tormented lover by the very
fact of inaccessibility. The language used to describe such states is one of
brittleness, heaviness, solidity: “I am,” says Mānikkavācakar, “a puppet made
of iron.” Given the human propensity for such states of being or aware-
ness, the role of the imagination becomes crucial; it is the mechanism most
readily available for deobjectifying, desolidifying the rough, opaque surfaces
of the self and allowing for renewed movement, a honeyed flow. But this
process is only one of several that occur normally, and repeatedly, within
120 More than Real
consciousness; each system, indeed each major poetic voice and each ritual-
meditative complex, has its own way of mapping and understanding the
possibilities for blockage, veiling, and release.
One of the most popular and widespread systems in the south is the
Tantric worship of the goddess Most Beautiful in the Triple Cosmos, the
focus of the beloved text known as the Wave of Beauty, Saundarya-laharī,
which we now assign to the twelft h or thirteenth century despite its tradi-
tional attribution to the philosopher Śa{karâcārya. The Wave of Beauty
was certainly composed in the south, and it even refers, it seems, to our
Tevāram poet Tiruñānacampantar (whom it calls a “Tamil boy,” dravida-
śiśu, verse 75). A later tradition claims that this Tamil boy composed the
text and inscribed it on Mount Kailāsa, where Śa{kara saw it and man-
aged to memorize the first forty-one verses even as the goddess herself,
concerned about her privacy, was trying to erase them. Within the medi-
eval tradition that has grown up around this text, verses 1–41 are seen as a
separate unit, the so-called Wave of Joy, Ānanda-laharī, while the remain-
ing verses, 42–100, or the combined text, are the Wave of Beauty proper.
The division makes sense. The first forty-one verses build up a mantric uni-
verse, condensed into the famous Śrī-cakra diagram or yantra, in which
the goddess dwells; here we find practical exercises in visualization and
the use of encoded mantras to bring her into an active presence, along with
descriptions of a Yogic physiology that is correlated to cosmological and
epistemic registers. If you follow the rules laid out here, albeit rather cryp-
tically, you can awaken the Kundalinī female principle coiled at the base of
the spine and, as a result, enter into ecstatic states of utter fullness and power.
The remaining segment of the text gives us a lyrical depiction of Tripura-
sundarī, inch by inch and limb by limb a blueprint for visualization. Many
people in south India recite the entire text each day in order to bring the
goddess alive in their heart or home.
The Wave of Beauty, rooted historically in the Tantric ritual and meta-
physical complex of the Śrī-vidyā, explicates with unusual clarity a classical
premodern south Indian theory of the pragmatic imagination. The method
it describes is bhāvanā, and the relevant verb is, again, bhāvayati, “to bring
into being.” It is hardly alone in highlighting these terms; we have, for exam-
ple, the Bhāvanā Upanisad, also focused on this goddess and her yantra,
with technical instructions for her worship and stage-by-stage meditation
given in detail by the great eighteenth-century commentator Bhāskara-rāya.
We cannot follow each step in the program of loving visualization these
works assume and in the immense corpus of commentary they have gen-
erated; instead, we will look closely at three important verses of the Wave
of Beauty, seen through the prism of a practical metapsychology of direct
relevance to our theme.
First, a verse (22) from the applied segment of the text:
bhavāni tvam dāse mayi vitara drstim sakarunām

iti stotum vāñchan kathayati bhavāni tvam iti yah/
tadaiva tvam tasmai diśasi nija-sāyujya-padavīm
mukunda-brahmendra-sphuta-makuta-nīrājita-padām//
I started to praise you in my song by saying,

“Goddess, I would be your
slave, look kindly at me”—
but no sooner did I say the words “Goddess, I would be you . . .”
—bhavāni tvam—
than you made me over as yourself.
I got what the great gods long for when they illumine your feet
with the light from their crowns.
I’ve tried to preserve the double entendre that lies at the heart of this verse.
In Sanskrit, bhavāni is a homonym meaning either “O Goddess, you . . .”—a
vocative—or a first-person imperative, from the root bhū—to be, to become.
So bhavāni tvam can mean “I must become you” or “I would become you.”
Adepts of the Śrī-vidyā do want to make themselves, quite literally, into the
goddess, so the first-person imperative is by no means an outlandish state-
ment in this context. Actually, though, what the speaker thought he wanted
to say was only “Goddess [in the vocative], look kindly at me.” But because
of the second, unconscious layer—homonymy in Sanskrit, at least in domains
such as this, is rarely accidental—the speaking “I” at once became, truly, a
“you.” The syllables worked automatically and immediately; no sooner
were they uttered than the speaker had truly turned into Tripura-sundarī.
Note that the speaker’s intention is quite irrelevant to the pragmatic result.
We will later see another example of this basic linguistic fact. Insofar as
intentionality of any kind is operating here, we would have to assume that
when the goddess hears the phrase in question, given her compassionate
nature, she enacts it along the lines of extreme existential transformation,
even if the poet meant something quite different by it. Another possibility
is that the unconscious homonymy expresses the poet’s deeper intention,
122 More than Real
beyond his surface consciousness, and explains his choice of that particu-
lar vocative.
Bhavāni is the first-person simplex imperative form corresponding to
the causative bhāvayāni, “I would make [myself ] X,” “I would imagine X.”
We can assume the wish nested within the overt vocative is an active one
and that it is accompanied—like all other first-person statements in this
text—by an ongoing process of strong internal imaging. So here, rather
like the Tevāram passage studied earlier but in the framework of a quite
different ritual and axiological orientation, we have another example of an
imaginative gesture classed as a linguistic act. We have to keep in mind
the fact that this root, √bhū, gives us bhāvanā: thus “Let me become,” ar-
ticulated clearly, or perhaps even silently in the mind, makes “becoming”
happen (always in a particular vector) when the supreme Subject of the
cosmos, the goddess who is, by definition, the prime cause of all existence,
assumes her active causal role in any given case or moment, perhaps in
response to an appeal, conscious or not, of one of her worshipers. Under
ideal conditions, the correct but unwitting connection of syllables will thus
suffice to produce the imagined result.
But we might also suggest, as the medieval commentator Rāmakavi comes
close to doing, that the Tantric goddess whom the text wants to material-
ize imagines the speaker as herself—very possibly in conjunction with his
own latent imagination of himself as her. Surely, some interactive move-
ment is taking place within a structured field of identities, with imagina-
tion as the engine for a very complex series of internal shifts. Try not to
think of this series as some “magical” force in the common, rather degraded
use of this quasi-analytic term. It is, rather, a patterned, nonrandom, highly
interactive, language-based negotiation that has the effect of deconstructing—
or, better, deobjectifying—the speaker/author and then refashioning him
(or her?) into a new, fully subjectified being. The goddess, though entirely
real, cannot be an object in the usual sense of the word.
The metaphysical end result is called sāyujya, literally “complete con-
nectedness.” One being has fused with another. The great gods, Visnu,
Brahmā, and Indra, seek this state by bowing, their crowns glowing, at the
feet of the goddess. The implication, however, is that the poet’s Freudian slip
is more effective, and certainly quicker to achieve its end, than such long-
standing acts of worship by these deities. You can rely upon language, which
is not given to caprice, more than you can on the gods. What we don’t know
yet, on the basis of this one verse, is what the flow of awareness between
the conjoined beings has by way of contents, apart from the mutual joyful
“quivering” that the Dindima mentions. We’ll get to this question shortly.
You might have some doubts about my way of reading the verse; in par-
ticular, the link to the imagination is not quite explicit there. So let us
move on to another verse from near the end of this same text, where this
problem is specifically addressed:
sva-dehotbhпtābhir grnibhir animâdyābhir abhito

nisevye nitye tvām aham iti sadā bhāvayati yah/
kim āścaryam tasya trinayana-samrddhim trnayato
mahā-samvartâgnir viracayati nīrājana-vidhim// (96)
Anyone who says: “You are me!” imagining you [the goddess]
into being, you who are eternal, worthy of worship,
in the midst of the light pouring from his own body,
disdains all of God’s riches, and no wonder:
the fire that burns the world at the end of time
is no more than a lamp waved to light up his face.
It isn’t as simple as it sounds. For this metamorphosis to happen, one has

to complete the rigorous process of visualization and mantric reconstitu-
tion of the goddess as spelled out in nearly one hundred previous verses of
the text. But at the end of the process, so we are promised, it is indeed pos-
sible to “imagine the goddess into being”—bhāvayati—in the form of one’s
own true self. If you reach this point—and notice that the choice is yours,
a voluntary act or series of acts, each step along the way requiring another
willing choice—you will not be tempted to reverse the direction and rei-
magine the goddess as the former, empirical “you.” That you is gone, re-
placed by a more compact, full, liquid, enhanced, and—if we are to be-
lieve the poet—incomparably delightful female self that must have been
there all along in some potential, latent dimension. There is nothing sub-
junctive about the change that takes place; rather, the dependent, contin-
gent self that began the process has truly changed from within, thereby
instigating a chain reaction without. It happens through bhāvanā, a disci-
plined imaginative progression. Once achieved, the reconstituted identity
is resistant to time and death, even to the destruction of the entire created
universe at doomsday. One no longer has to worry about such paltry things.
124 More than Real
Why not? Because the self has now filled up to the limit of imaginable
fullness, a totality equal to the plenitude that defines existence itself when
that definition follows the contours, and the rhythms, of the goddess
who is Most Beautiful. The totality—a specific embodiment, with discrete
features—never dies. I think that the immortal aspect of the fullness requires
an epistemic act, that is, indubitable knowledge that one has become this
goddess and can now speak and act only as her and through her.
Let me restate the elements I have mentioned. We have (1) an act or pro-
cess of imaging that is (2) highly patterned, determined, and probably irre-
versible, a process that (3) reflects a true but latent identity that is (4) made
manifest largely by linguistic means. Such images are what reality is about.
So (5) the end result is entirely real, just as the goddess is now fully real and
alive—but only (6) insofar as one imagines her as such, interactively. A mu-
tual determination works itself out in this manner. Stated negatively, and
extrapolating slightly on the basis of the textual evidence, the goddess is not
there until you imagine her to be there, and you will not become this god-
dess unless her imagination locks into yours.
Lest the conclusion we have arrived at appear too neat, too watertight,
impervious to further contemplation, we should look at one of the final
statements of this text (in the Vulgate), which adds another, critical element—
a somewhat skeptical one—to our story of radical self-reinvention.
samudbhūta-sthūla-stana-bharam uraś cāru-hasitam

katâkse kandarpah kusumita-kadamba-dyuti-vapuh/
harasya tvad-bhrāntim manasi janayām āsa madano
bhavatyā ye bhaktāh parinatir amīsām iyam ume// (102)
Full, heavy breasts,

flirtatious smile,
all of desire condensed into a glance
from the corner of the eye,
skin luminous as a flowering kadamba tree:
Those who serve you, Goddess,
ripen into this beguiling image
generated by Love
in God’s mind.
The medieval commentators (e.g., the Dindima-bhāsya once again) link

this verse directly to the former one. Imagination moves—actually grows,
develops, “ripens”—in a definite direction. The language of ripening is not

accidental. A seed, planted, nourished, watered, is free to grow—but only
into a certain tree. Bhāvanā directed at the goddess produces an identifi-
cation with or as that goddess—as the Dindima commentator remarks, it
is like the beetle that is so terrified of being stung by a bee that, through
constant anxiety about and concentration on this enemy, it actually be-
comes a bee (bhramara-kīta-nyāya). The mind shapes the physical body—
one’s own or another’s. Perhaps I should add that “ripening” in India is
always connected to notions of softening, melting, liquefying—the thera-
peutic response to terminal objectification. So once again, imagination,
harnessed here to a meditative program, is the most effective tool we have to
melt congealed surfaces, internal or external, and thus to mature, to surpass
our limits, to be free.
But the surprising, even shocking part of this process comes through in
the second half of the verse, one of the boldest statements I have seen about
the workings of the imagination. A person, male or female, can turn himself
or herself into a goddess. In itself, this result is quite unexceptional. Creative
meditation can produce it, if pursued in a disciplined, serious way. Proper
use of the mantras—that is, of language at its most powerful and compressed—
will also do it. The result is a normal part of the psycho-physical universe,
an achievement consequential for the practitioner but in no way exceeding
the cognitive map the culture has produced. We are, all of us, this goddess,
though we may have forgotten this identity. It’s conceivable, as in the case
of the pretty girl’s face and the moon, that each of us is the goddess in a quite
personal, even singular way. What may get lost in the far-reaching pattern-
ing of this meditative praxis, with its precise focus on the particular goddess
and the disciplined progression that makes one over into her, is the distinc-
tiveness and freshness of the individual result. The impulse itself is undoubt-
edly a personal one, and the transformation, however predictable, is no less
specific to the individual practitioner. And yet it is precisely this theme of
the individual processing of the imagination that is not worked through in
our Tantric text. Poet and goddess could be said freely to create each other;
their respective existence (vis-à-vis each other) is, it appears, the only prac-
tical constraint on the forms their far-reaching fusion will assume. So far
so good. However, the sixteenth-century south Indian sources will take
another, decisive step.
Let us, then, assume that some of us, many of us, have managed to turn
ourselves truly into the ravishing goddess described in the first half of the
126 More than Real
verse—with full breasts and that seductive glance from the corner of the eye.
The change demands attention—please note again this stable link between
imagination and attention—on the part of God (Hara-Śiva) himself, who
immediately falls in love (he is, says the commentator of the Ānanda-laharī-
tīkā, beside himself, helpless in his passion, kāma-vaśa). Imaginative self-
generation is irresistible. In the poet’s way of saying this, we, who have fully
ripened, become an image, or a beguiling, misleading idea—bhrānti—in
God’s mind. So now we have to imagine a world in which God is receptive
enough, pliant enough, impressionable enough to be overwhelmed by the
work of our persistent self-imaginings. This statement could possibly serve
as one definition of the Tantric “God.” One might say that God is the plas-
ticity of potential emergence into being that is continuously operated upon,
in defi nable ways, by imaginative process (ours, yours, mine, the poet’s,
His). God is thus a certain susceptibility to playful, imaginative entice-
ment. But the images he holds in his mind, while true experientially for us,
are actually classed as a kind of error or misperception; that is what bhrānti
means.
One of the commentators on this verse, Kaivalyâśrama, sees here the well-
known figure of bhrāntimat, “confused perception,” in which the listeners
outside the poem enjoy the spectacle of misperception on the part of an
actor within it. For example:
The cat licks at the white flood in its bowl.
The elephant sees it shattered by the branches of the trees
and reaches for it, certain that it’s delicious lotus-fiber.
My lover, after our loving, sees it lying on the bed
and tries to put it on like a nightgown.
The moon, drunk on its own brilliance,
drives the world mad.
If our verse falls into this class, the confusion belongs to God. That God
sees us as a goddess is, for us, the fi nal act of maturation, a necessary
outcome of the interdependence and mutual determination of the god-
dess and her worshipers: this, says Kaivalyâśrama, is the astonishing fruit
(phala-mahiman) of bhāvanā. But surely we must then conclude that God
sees what he sees as a consequence of the impingement of our imagination
upon his mind, and that in the present instance, utterly delightful as it is
said to be, he has made a mistake, as any Naiyāyika logician could have
pointed out to him. We cannot extricate ourselves from this rather awkward
conclusion by positing some sort of artificial hierarchy in being, let us say

by subsuming Śiva within the wider or deeper principle of the goddess,
thus allowing him to err from time to time—for how could the concrete
image of Most Beautiful be an error? And to go in the opposite direction,
turning desire into a second-order disturbance within the mind of a tran-
scendent, mostly unruffled God, militates against the primary thrust of
the Wave of Beauty as a programmatic work. Neither possibility will do.
There must, then, be a universe in which God is confused on a matter of
utmost existential urgency, and a universe in which the mingled imagina-
tions of devotee and goddess constitute the highest imaginable soteriologi-
cal goal. Apparently we are speaking of a single, sometimes incongruous
universe.
In any case, the principle is worth restating: rigorous contemplation—a
Yoga of the imagination—acts directly upon the cosmos and at the same
time infiltrates the widest possible angle or vantage point on this cosmos.
God must be susceptible, perhaps infinitely susceptible, to our ways of imag-
ining him or her. His or her own imagination has no existence independent
of ours. There is room for mistakes. And though I used the adjective “indu-
bitable” just a few paragraphs back to characterize the knowledge that comes
with “engoddessing” oneself, it appears that a skeptical undercurrent may
survive in the framing of such knowledge. Here is one way to address the
contents of the conjoint quiver that concerns us.
5.3. Bhāvanā and Pūjā: How Meditation Works

This slightly skeptical conclusion takes us back, surprisingly, to the Advaita
world of severe philosophical nondualism, with its reluctance to grant full
reality-status to any imaginative projection of the mind. A strong yet per-
meable boundary divides the Advaita philosopher from the Tantric practi-
tioner. For Śa{kara—not for the author of the Wave of Beauty—knowledge
that counts, that is, the knowledge that the self (ātman) is identical with brah-
man, with metaphysical ultimacy, must be free from anything that smacks
of figurative language. The identification of ātman and brahman is a fact,
not a façon de parler. Śa{kara gives a series of negative examples—how not
to understand this crucial fact. It is not what is called sampad, a correspon-
dence or identification, apparently on the basis of some shared attribute,
between some internal and some external entity, such as we see in the Upa-
nisadic verse “The mind is infinite, and the All-Gods are infinite, and infinite
128 More than Real
are the worlds he [the Brahman priest] wins by this [mind].” Nor is meta-
physical truth a matter of pure projection (adhyāsa), as when one says, “Wor-
ship the mind as brahman”—an “as-if ” statement with pragmatic uses, not
to be taken literally. Nor can we take the identification as explaining or ratio-
nalizing some form of ritual activity (viśista-kriyā-yoga-nimitta), or as an
adjunct to such activity, as when the sacrificer’s wife purifies the butter of-
fering by looking at it. It is not as if one who deeply knows himself or herself
to be brahman had to purify the self, pure by definition, by seeing “it” in a
certain way. Were one to read the great statements of identity—tat tvam asi,
“You are that,” or “I am brahman”—as a kind of sampad, or any of the other
nonliteral, projective modes just mentioned, then, says Śa{kara, primary
linguistic operations (pada-samanvaya) would be vitiated. What is more,
the effective goal of such statements—that is, the dissolution of ignorance—
will no longer be achievable.
We should listen carefully to such pronouncements. When it comes
to truth embodied in words, backed up by Vedic authority, any attempt
to diminish, in any way, the full force of the utterance will endanger the
normal workings of language itself. Syntax, reference, primary semantic-
ity, pragmatics—all these will be impaired (pīdyeta) if we allow the slight-
est slippage from the identity equation X = Y, which actually means X = X.
Such statements are not props for meditation or window dressing for some
extraneous (ritual) act. You cannot explain them away, allegorize them, or
claim that, merely by being subject to articulation, they are only inadequate
expressions or approximations of something better conveyed by silence.
Taken as true statements, they are capable of doing a specific, necessary
kind of work. We have hit a point where the philosopher must take a stand
if he wants to preserve as meaningful any piece of his own rather wordy
commentaries, to say nothing of the acute, life-changing words of the Scrip-
tures, embedded and explicated in the former. Within language, there are
what might be termed sites of ultimacy, where truth resides; such sites
guarantee a minimal workable efficacy for Vedic speech, first of all, and
then, by extension, for speech in general.
Yet to say that these “great statements” (mahā-vākya) are literally true,
as implied above, is a little too simple. The whole post-Śa{kara tradition of
Advaita struggled with this problem. Sureśvara, supposedly Śa{kara’s di-
rect disciple, several times suggests that “You are that”—a statement that,
he says, cannot be true in ordinary ways—might have to be heard and
properly interpreted as laksanā, “indirect” or metaphoric modes of speech.
Such statements generate transformative experience not by direct denota-

tion, and not even at moments where the listener thinks he or she understands
them rationally, but by virtue of particular, context-dependent, usually
transient states of receptivity on the listener’s part—basically, a kind of atten-
tion. We’ll return to this point shortly. Moreover, even Śa{kara acknowl-
edges that sampad and other inner devices and modes of awareness
prevalent in Vedic texts, including modes we would call figurative or pro-
jective, have their uses. He recommends structured meditation as a path to
release, and he takes pains to ensure that such meditation is not seen as
inherent to the ritual activity with which the texts tend to associate it;
rather, it is an autonomous mental process conducive to the overriding
soteriological goal. He knows very well that one can create a fire altar, com-
plete with all its thousands of bricks, layers, fires, and ritual imple-
ments, entirely in the mind (manasā), as the Veda recommends. He cites
the Brāhmana passage about the 36,000 mental modes (mano-vrtti), one
for each day of a human life that lasts a hundred years, which are corre-
lated to the mind-generated bricks of the altar. Such meditative acts es-
tablish an efficacious mental connection to the ritual activity, and this
connection is, says Śa{kara, the result of sampad, a linkage wrought by and
in the mind. Imagination, to use our term, in the form of focused mental
acts of disciplined and precisely specified vision, has found a back-door
entrance to the Advaita system at its most exacting.
Thus even if God, for the Śa{kara Advaita, must be devoid of an imagi-
nation, those who want to realize their divine identity, not as an objectified
cognitive act but as a true experience, may well have need of precisely this
faculty, whatever one wants to call it. By the time we reach the devotional
and Tantric worlds sampled above, meditative visualization, suff used by
imaginative processes, has become a primary form of praxis (sādhana),
the key to nearly all other prescribed activities. Temple worship itself, the
main venue for Hindu metaphysical experimentation in the south, is com-
pletely structured around just such mental acts, codified in the rich litera-
ture of the Āgamas and Tantras. For a typical example, we can turn to
G. C. Tripathi’s detailed description of daily worship, pūjā, by the Brah-
min priest or arcaka at the famous temple of Jagannātha in Orissa:
The worshipper, first of all, dissolves his mundane body in meditation in

order to create a new, ritualistically pure, divine body which is endowed
with the character and the nature of the deity herself. Thus assuming the
130 More than Real
nature of the deity, the worshipper meditates upon the Mantra of the de-
ity with which he can realize the deity in his heart.
This process involves imagining one’s body as a yantra diagram housing

the goddess, then mentally extracting her brilliance (tejas) from one’s heart
by means of the breath (prāna) and implanting that brilliance in the exter-
nal image to be worshiped. Such an “external sacrifice” (bahir-yāga) is fol-
lowed by rites of mentally welcoming the enlivened image as an honored
guest who must be greeted, seated, bathed, clothed, fed, and so on. Some
of these rites are enacted upon the visible, concrete image; others remain
within the supple confines of the mind and the subtle, abstract images it
generates. Verses uttered during acts of external worship explicitly pro-
claim the “as-if ” nature of the concretized deity who, the worshiper says,
properly exists within awareness alone, the ritual attention to the visible
image being no more than a pragmatic convention (loka-pravrtti-mātra).
This point is interesting: if one has to decide which is more real, the inter-
nal thought-image or the tangible, external object, there is no doubt what-
soever that the former will come out ahead.
Every stage in the lengthy process is accompanied by precise acts of mind
that utterly transform the worshiper’s body and link it, in turn, to the vari-
ous building blocks of the cosmos, including, above all, the subtle sounds
(mātrkās) that precede and inform audible syllables and thus generate all
of language, itself a divine medium. It is as if the very being or self of the
practitioner had become a resonant, musical, mantric instrument, as such
identical to the no less resonant deity. Transitions between inner and outer
domains are regular and frequent: at the height of the transfiguration,
there is a quadripartite bhāvanā meditation in which the meditator uses
his breath to bring the glowing goddess onto his fingertips and then touches
his own body, in the process of self-divinization, with this fiery presence.
The mātrka syllables are then applied to the icon, which eventually opens
up to receive the full, living being of the goddess via flowers transferred
from the forehead of the meditator—like a lamp lit from another lamp
(dīpād dīpântaram yathā). Mental production of fully autonomous worlds,
peopled by various divine beings, proceeds apace until the godly glow is
transferred back from the live image to the priest’s heart, from which it origi-
nally emerged (this is udvāsana, “retraction”). If we find this continuous
interweaving of outer and inner worlds somewhat baffling—and by now
we may well be wondering if we are using the terms correctly or meaning-
fully, given the mind-based locus for the pūjā as a totality—then what will
we make of such acts as the preliminary bathing of the gods’ images not in
water but, in the form of their reflections, in a space internal to mirrors set
up before them?
It is critical to understand that none of these activities transpiring within
awareness, with its external correlates, is “symbolic” in any of the senses of
the word familiar to us. I would be prepared to argue that symbolism as
such is relatively rare in South Asia, and I recommend avoiding the word
altogether for contexts such as those discussed here. When the practitio-
ner burns up the black Pāpa-purusa, the “man of sin,” lurking in the lower
left part of his belly, first drying him up with the mantra of wind and then
igniting him with the mantra of fire, a part of the psychophysical self is
truly destroyed. This part will have to be burnt again tomorrow, as it was
yesterday, given the entropic processes inherent to existence and, no less
crucially, to normal mentation. But if the deity is to take up residence in
one’s body, transformed into a suitable receptacle for him or her, then the
mind—the finest tool available for this purpose—will have to be harnessed
to the business of generation, bhāvanā, just as bhāvanā is prescribed for
the height of the advanced sexual ritual that Abhinavagupta outlines in
his Tantrâloka. God, that is, exists for us, in us, or as us if we bring him
or her to be through acts of guided and controlled awareness, including
concrete imaging informed by mantric syllables and their specific ener-
getic contents and trajectories.
Is such imaging akin to the imaginative acts we have studied in other
contexts? Yes, insofar as we are dealing with vivid internal perceptions
crystallized as mental images amenable to definition in words, and also
insofar as the bhāvanā-production at work in pūjā presents us with very
powerful, and by now familiar, reality-claims. However, this pragmatic,
ritual bhāvanā is distinctive in certain aspects. Let us begin by attempting
to distinguish it from other forms we have seen. First, it is not a product of
visionary poetic inspiration, pratibhā, such as we see operating in works of
belles lettres. That is, Yogic bhāvanā is not an expression of open-ended
inventiveness within a highly structured field, a creative exploration of un-
foreseen relations among objects or images or ideas normally kept apart.
Such explorations are for poets. But neither does it fit the Mīmāmsā para-
digm of language as a set of injunctions, a domain of teleological imperatives.
Nor is it really capable of being classed as the removal of veils and mental
obstacles to true perception, with the consequent release of liquid rasa, as
132 More than Real
in Abhinavagupta’s poetics, although it is certainly possible to establish

linkages between the latter and the intricate meditations of the Puri priests.
Most important, the various stages in the ritual enacted each day by these
priests do not constitute a descriptive progression of any kind—they are more
a series of embodiments and interlacings of personae—and at the same
time, the identity statements that underlie them are not simple denotative
truths. They have a poetic quality infused with imaginative projection,
with the truth-claims proper to such work, very much as we saw with the
verses from the Wave of Beauty. Yogic bhāvanā is also not a good example
of the Nāgârjunan vision of reality in its entirety as a web of crisscrossing
imaginations, nor does it suit the metaphysics of the Yoga-vāsistha, exam-
ined above. The deity so elaborately constructed out of the worshipers’
awareness is far too alive and concrete to be in any sense illusory, dream-like,
or only tenuously existent, even if the tangible image in which he or she
resides is demoted, verbally at any rate, to a lesser form of active being.
All these negatives lead me to suggest that bhāvanā of the type we are
discussing must have its own distinctive truth-value, one quite resistant to
the standard criteria of proof and validity. In this sense, it does share a
common epistemic foundation with the poeticians’ understanding of po-
etry as true in its own terms, indeed unfalsifiable, given the special status
of the “twist” in language, vakrokti, that is everywhere in evidence. Can
we, however, characterize Yogic bhāvanā and its linguistic components in
more positive terms? I think we can. First of all, it is encoded, in more than
one sense. It operates through a system of mantric speech of profound
semiotic complexity, though capable of being deciphered. The mantras
quite literally generate the deity—bhāvanā at work. But there is another
layer or order of sonar activity governing the process of generation, one
derived from the science of syllabic combinations: both in Kashmir and in
south India, sounds are, at base, not neutral, random, or arbitrary vibra-
tions. They are effectual building blocks of transformative experience, ca-
pable of blessing, reviving the dead, killing an enemy, making someone
fall in or out of love, and a host of other useful projects. Above all, cor-
rectly combined in rule-bound sequences, they can produce a goddess and
a penumbra of auspicious energies surrounding her. Second, this kind of
bhāvanā is fully controlled, concentrated, and precise, with an end result
that is always specifically contoured and known. It requires training and
concentration, though it makes use of the mathematical and musical re-
sources of mantric language, which can work without the intervention of

conscious intention. Third, it transpires within a consciousness seeking to
discover something, or someone, axiomatically preexisting within itself;
the fire transferred from the worshiper’s heart to the icon of the deity was
always there in the heart, though it has to be fanned into flame by the
mind. In any case, the process of creation moves, somewhat oddly, toward
producing what is already existent, though hitherto inactive or unknown.
This process is not one of creation ex nihilo, any more than is any other
form of imaginative praxis we have discussed.
But in what shape do these latent entities exist in the mind? We might
posit that there are always, so to speak, lumps of awareness congealing
somewhere out of sight, emerging and melting away in the multitextured
space of free-floating attention. These lumps can be retrieved and refined.
The general principle involved is twofold, ubiquitous in ritual domains as
well as in Indian models of the mind: the subtle and invisible always gen-
erates (devolves into) the crude and the visible, and what is initially exter-
nalized or objectified in imperfect form can, indeed must, be reworked
through mental, mantric, and/or ritual processes to become whole (sam-
skrta) and ser viceable. On one level, the two component vectors of this
principle might seem to be at odds with each other, one mapping the di-
rection of devolution, the other working upon its unhappy products. But
seen in a wider perspective, these are two complementary movements of a
single continuous process of mind-driven acts of working upon any given
reality, fashioning and refashioning it with the available tools of concen-
trated thought, word, and inner image.
Again and again the texts speak of mind (manas—usually not bud-
dhi), though they mean something like “awareness.” The goddess grows
out of a practiced, trained awareness—her proper matrix—that is subject
to the internal movements of the mind as a finely honed instrument.
When it works at its best capacity, the mind acts, it seems, as a kind of
mirror, the kind in which you can wash reflections of the gods’ images or
generate more such images out of an unstructured depth. Mirroring,
then, in a mind striving to bring life and breath to a deity who lives there,
is primarily a mode of receptivity and sensitivity. In effect, the practitio-
ner sensitizes himself to the potential existence within himself of a deity
who can be projected outward into the world in interactive process. As
this happens—as the lump of awareness assumes far more tangible and
134 More than Real
refi ned features—we could say that image becomes imagination, a cre-
ative, efficacious faculty of the focused mind impinging directly on the
world of experience.
5.4. Summary: Attributes of Meditative Imagination,

with a Note on Attention
By the time of the great southern Vaisnava phi losopher Vedânta Deśika
(1268–1368), the Yogic devotional praxis of bhāvanā, along the lines we
have traced, had become routine, a prevalent, recognized, and regularized
way of making contact with a deity and, at the same time, of effecting change
in the self. Consider the following verse from this poet’s Hamsa-sandeśa,
in which Rāma sends a goose as a messenger to his wife, Sītā, imprisoned
helplessly in Rāvana’s capital in La{kā. How will the goose recognize Sītā
when he sees her? Rāma gives him detailed instructions, which include the
following:
ceto-vrttim śamayati bahih sārvabhaume nirodhe

mayy ekasmin pranihita-dhiyam mānmathenâgamena/
abhyasyantīm an-itara-juso bhāvanāyāh prakarsāt
svântenântar-vilaya-mrdunā nirvikalpam samādhim//
And I’m sure she’s practising Yoga—

calming the mind by blocking everything external,
focusing her awareness entirely on one thing:
me. The text she follows
is the Scripture of Love. In the vast power
of her imagination, which has no other
object, her heart melting,
she’s dissolving into
the deepest place.
With not much else to do, Sītā must—this is Rāma’s logical deduction—be
keeping herself busy in Yogic exercises of a meditative nature, and the ob-
vious object of her meditation/visualization can only be her absent and
beloved husband himself (that is, for Vedânta Deśika, God, the natural fo-
cus of Yogic contemplation). Her meditation, as is only right, follows scrip-
tural authority—the Scripture of Love. No random, floating consciousness
here. The technique involved, as we should expect, is bhāvanā—imagination,
with all its vast power (prakarsa). Note the expression “focusing her aware-
ness” (pranihita-dhī), which we will meet again in a moment. By this fo-
cusing, a form of attentiveness, in the context of imaginative creation or
generation of the visualized object, Sītā, like any good practitioner, has
“dissolved” into the “deepest place” (nirvikalpa-samādhi), an internal state
in which all normal mentation is suspended. Such is bhāvanā of the stan-
dard Yogic variety: image-bound, transformative, attentive, patterned, and
pragmatic.
Very similar is a passage from this same poet’s famous Century on Com-
passion (Dayā-śataka), in which compassion is pictured as a living god-
dess, consort of Lord Visnu-Ve{kateśvara at the great pilgrimage site of
Tirupati (Bull Hill):
pranihita-dhiyām tvat-samprkte vrsâdri-śikhāmanau

prasrmara-sudhā-dhārâkārā prasīdati bhāvanā/
drdham iti daye dattâsvâdam vimukti-valāhakam
nibhrta-garuto nidhyāyanti sthirâśaya-cātakāh//
When we fi x our mind on that Jewel

of Bull Hill, set in you, Compassion,
a certain vision becomes clear, limpid
as a steady stream. We’re like the birds
who live on raindrops, not moving
a feather, our whole being turned toward
the cloud that surely tastes
of release.
The vision in question is again bhāvanā, an imaging that, by the steady fix-
ing of the mind (again pranihita-dhī) has become effective imagining, a
mode of Yoga that is single-minded and compelling, like the state of those
cātaka birds that are nourished only by raindrops and wait, their whole be-
ing thirsting and anxious, for the rain cloud. We need to think for a moment
about the poet’s characterization of this bhāvanā as “clear, limpid as a steady
stream.” The normative bhāvanā of these high medieval southern texts is
precise in its chosen object and, as a result, limpid and serene. The verb here
is prasīdati, literally, “to settle,” as when mud or other impurities settle to
the bottom of a pool or river, leaving the water perfectly clear. Such trans-
parent, lucid states, when applied to the mind, always have an added reso-
nance of gentle gracefulness, prasāda, a primary attribute of god.
136 More than Real
Bhāvanā, in this case, is not an active production or generation of the

deity so much as a clairvoyant, clearly focused, and peaceful image of him
or her as filling the inner space or the inner eye. The interactive and mutual
aspect of bhāvanā that we saw in the Wave of Beauty is muted now; the
decisive qualities are clarity and steadiness, the total engagement of one’s
psychophysical being with the object of meditation. In a way, this vision-
ary moment is bhāvanā by default, with little left of the creative impetus
we have seen elsewhere, although overtones of scientific control, technical
knowledge, and metaphysical mirroring, in the sense just described, remain
present. Such bhāvanā does still have a “vast power”—especially when it
comes to changing the parameters of one’s internal epistemic apparatus—
and, once again, a truth-claim that must be sui generis, different from any
other claims, whether empirical, logical, or experiential.
All of the features just mentioned, including the new element of spec-
tacular clarity and precision, will recur in the more elaborate theories of
imagination from sixteenth-century south India, to which we are about to
turn. Let me state the historical linkage more simply, adumbrating what
lies ahead. Yogic, meditative bhāvanā is a necessary precursor to the indi-
vidualized forms of the imaginative faculty that, together with other men-
tal functions, make up the new metapsychological matrix of late medieval
Telugu, Tamil, and Malayalam sources. The bhāvanā of the grammarians,
the logicians, and the poeticians, though also feeding into this matrix, will
not suffice to make sense of the later developments; we will need the per-
sonal, strongly transformative aspect of the Yoga of the imagination, and
something of the intersubjective quality that we saw in texts such as the
Wave of Bliss, to understand the nature of the conceptual evolution that
took place. And there is one more important piece of the puzzle.
Let us stay another moment with Vedânta Deśika. You will remember
the goddess Compassion at Tirupati. Her relations with the god on the
mountain, Ve{kateśvara, are manifold and often conflictual; she is, on the
one hand, his deepest, most characteristic self—God in his innermost
being—but on the other hand, she often has to fight for space and for at-
tention from him. Look at verse 27:
ati-la{ghita-śāsanesv abhīksnam
vrsa-śailâdhipatir vijrmbhitosmā/
punar eva daye ksamā-nidānaih
bhavatīm ādriyate bhavaty-adhīnaih//
Time and again we break the rules

and the God of Bull Hill boils with rage.
But then you marshal the reasons
for having patience, Compassion,
and make him mindful, once more,
of you.
The god on the mountain is capable of violent, fiery rage, which is particu-
larly in evidence when human beings let him down, as is often the case. At
such moments Compassion, an active, female component of his nature,
rushes in to cool him down (literally). This alternation in state is standard
and recurrent. What is striking, however, is that the poet classes it as a
struggle between inattention and attentiveness or mindfulness. The god is
often inattentive, not only in phases of anger but also when he is lost in the
deeper, stony recesses of his consciousness. Compassion, by way of con-
trast, is effortlessly and continuously attentive, and as such, she forces the
god to pay attention to her (that is, his) generous and forgiving impulses.
She makes him mindful, not in the familiar Buddhist sense of the term as
a kind of insightful awareness but in a simpler, straightforward mode of
paying attention, allowing the mind to focus or refocus—ādara (appear-
ing in this verse as the verb ādriyate).
We have encountered ādara as a major factor in the logicians’ model of
the mind, a subcategory of bhāvanā linked to the particular freshness of
perception or the ability to see something new—a certain kind of atten-
tiveness. By now we have seen repeated instances of this link between
bhāvanā and ādara (or, moving away from the strict Nyāya model, be-
tween imagination and attention). There is thus nothing very surprising
about the conjunction of the two notions in Vedânta Deśika’s text: bhāvanā
is the “clear, limpid” vision that the pilgrim-practitioner cultivates, ādara
the response he or she hopes for from the deity in either or both divine
personae, male and female. When ādara seems to be lacking, the poet
complains in his own voice, simultaneously allowing himself to boast of
his attainments and express his desperation:
prāye daye tvad-anubhāva-mahâmbu-rāśau

prācetasa-prabhrtayo ‘pi param tata-sthāh/
tatrâvatīrnam atala-sprśam āplutam mām
padmā-pateh prahasanocitam ādriyethāh//
138 More than Real
Take all those classical poets—from Vālmīki on.

They came all the way up
to a vast ocean of experience,
the experience that is you,
but they never even dipped their toes.
Compassion: shouldn’t you pay me
some attention? I jumped in,
I can’t touch bottom,
I’m drowning, and God
sits there smiling.
Even Compassion has her lapses. Ironically, perhaps, they are unforgivable
to the poet who plunged, without thinking of the consequences, into the
ocean of forgiveness and gentleness that is anyone’s experience of this god-
dess. He’s taken the risk; God, in his male guise, seems to mock him, or to
be indifferent; and Compassion has lost her concentration, her ādara.
When she is inattentive, survival itself may be jeopardized.
But even verses such as this one, though dialogic in tone and structure,
mostly bear witness to ongoing internal psychodramas. The attention that is
lacking is an intimate quality of the speaker who, like the god himself, has
Compassion as a profound, central, and active piece of his self—a piece not
always accessible. Just as visualization is a practical option for the medita-
tor, so attentiveness is a possible and, indeed, highly recommended mode of
choice. As in Nyāya epistemology, these two faculties go hand in hand,
complementing each other. In very general terms, one sees in the mind’s eye
what one attends to, and one attends to what captivates the inner or outer
eye. But the two terms are by no means synonymous. Thus a comprehen-
sive theory of bhāvanā in its imaginative aspect will require a certain atten-
tion to attentiveness in its relevant forms. A systematic study of attention in
classical Indian sources has never been attempted; here we can only outline
a few characteristic usages in the context of our particular concerns.
Sanskrit has many words, subtly differentiated, for attention: śraddhā,
ādara, āsthā, kutūhala, avadhāna, upâsīnatā, and īksana, among others.
Probably the most common term—also in the south Indian vernaculars—
is śraddhā, very often translated, in both Hindu and Buddhist contexts, as
“faith.” Minoru Hara, in an exhaustive study of the Sanskrit evidence,
concluded that “śraddhā expresses a state of mind or activity directed toward
impersonal objects” and that “the nature of śraddhā is more intellectual
than emotional.” One way to make sense of this conclusion is to stress

the context of attentiveness: śraddhā is a mental function that tends to
involve focusing and seeing clearly, which is to say, paying attention.
“Faith” or “belief ” may well be secondary developments from this pri-
mary meaning. Thus when the Bhagavad-gītā tells us that “the person
endowed with śraddhā achieves wisdom” (śraddhāvāml labhate jñānam,
4.39), I would be tempted to translate: “Whoever is attentive becomes
wise.” Similarly, in Bhagavad-gītā 17.3: yo yac-chraddhah sa eva sah, “You
are what you pay attention to.” Here is a bold insight into the workings of
the mind and the nature of the self, an insight we can easily link to the
related mental function of bringing something into being, bhāvanā. We
have, in fact, already seen this linkage to be operative, in various ways, in
the Yoga of imagination.
In general, without attempting at this point a fine-grained analysis of
the different kinds of attention implied by the various terms just men-
tioned, we can broadly distinguish in our sources two kinds of attentive-
ness relevant to the mental processes of imagining. One is really a kind of
absorption or intense concentration, akin in many ways to the orthodox
Kashmiri theory of aesthetic fascination; the other is a receptive, cogni-
tively engaged, less focused mode of attention, not far removed from what
we might call “noticing” or “taking notice,” but with a special twist or
charge to it capable of effecting real change in the attentive observer or in
the objects he or she observes. Each of these two kinds of attention has its
correlated antithesis: acute metaphysical distraction (our normal state) for
the first, and a less dramatic but perhaps no less consequential failure to
attend for the second. Let me illustrate.
Bhāravi, in the sixth century, gives us a splendid vignette of absorption
(as noticed by Arjuna as he is walking through fields and forest on his way
to the Himalaya):
krtâvadhānam jita-barhina-dhvanau surakta-gopī-jana-gīta-nihsvane/
idam jighatsām apahāya bhūyasīm na sasyam abhyeti
mrgī-kadambakam// 
A herd of deer, absorbed in the sweet songs

of girls herding their cows—
sweeter by far than the peacock’s call—
lost all interest in eating and stayed away
from the ripening crop.
140 More than Real
“Absorbed” (krtâvadhānam) is glossed by Mallinātha as ekâgra-cittam—a

term familiar from descriptions of Yogic concentration. The deer are fo-
cused, “one-pointed” (in the current calque on the Sanskrit), oblivious of
their surroundings and of bodily hunger. Aesthetic production, as we
know—and as the poeticians insisted—regularly generates this state of
charmed self-forgetfulness, which seems, on the whole, to be somewhat
passive, not an active paying attention but a filling up of the mind with
whatever has charmed it into absorption. Such intense concentration can
also take lesser, somewhat diluted forms capable of impacting upon other
modes of attentiveness. Consider the following verse by Bhatti, Bhāravi’s
near contemporary:
dattâvadhānam madhu-lehi-gītau praśānta-cestam harinam jighāmsuh/

ākarnayann utsuka-hamsa-nādān laksye samādhim na dadhe mrgāvit// 
He was intending to kill a deer that was

utterly still, absorbed
in the music of the bees,
but the calls of the homesick geese
distracted the hunter, and he failed to focus
on his target.
Once again, there is absorption—the deer riveted by the melodic hum-

ming of the bees—but we also see how attention wanes or is disturbed; the
hunter, perhaps identifying with the geese, perhaps lonesome for his own
distant beloved, cannot focus his aim (samādhi—that bringing together of
all psychic capacities that Yoga sees as the final goal of meditative praxis).
The contrast emerges out of a rather charming similarity: as Oliver Fallon
says, “There is a neat parallel here between the innocent and unsuspecting
deer absorbed in the beauties of nature listening to the bee and the cruel
hunter hearing the geese and becoming similarly harmless.” Distraction
can thus, in itself, be a form of attention. Both this verse and Bhāravi’s
clearly share the vocabulary as well as the conceptual template of intensi-
fied, highly focused Yogic praxis; in this sense, the mode of total absorp-
tion they evoke has much in common with bhāvanā in its meditative form,
not only in classical Yoga but also in Tantric ritual, as we have seen, and in
Buddhism. One can certainly be absorbed in the mutual imaginative cre-
ation of, say, goddess and self, along the complex and highly disciplined
lines we have sketched above; and it is also eminently possible to be wholly
absorbed in the contemplation of the ravishing goddess in all her parts

ensconced in the no less radiant mandala cosmos that enfolds her. This is
one major form of attention, in which imaginative bhāvanā can play a
part; such absorbed attention can even provide the necessary condition for
the successful working of the imagination, although we should bear in mind
that the forms of Tantric bhāvanā we have studied above require disci-
plined cognitive efforts alongside or within the attentive immersion or fo-
cusing that the sources label avadhāna or ekâgratā, among other terms.
Such “one-pointed” absorption is actually the enemy of the second ma-
jor mode of effective attention. I am not speaking of the common, prag-
matic sense of paying attention in a task-oriented, nonintrospective, and
selective manner, as when we focus our attention on X at the expense of
other mental contents, with the host of integrative, second-order processes
that modern cognitive psychologists have linked to such acts. Illustrations
of these everyday forms of attentiveness naturally abound in our sources,
and there is little to be gained from exploring them here. (Examples of
clearly differentiated modes of inattention are another matter.) Far closer
to our primary theme is a relatively unfocused, even floating, receptive at-
tentiveness, neither inward- nor outward-directed, perhaps analogous on
one level to the default awareness of a south Indian deity. Such states are
conducive to sudden moments of unpredictable insight or “realization.”
Both trivial and highly consequential perceptions or understandings may
emerge from this form of receptive consciousness, particularly favored by
Advaita philosophers such as Sureśvara: thus a person might hear a meta-
physical statement such as tat tvam asi, “You are [like] that,” many times
over, might even rehearse the phrase to himself or herself for weeks or
months or years, might focus his or her mind on it in the absorptive man-
ner described above—all to no effect whatsoever; but then there comes a
moment, no doubt contextually determined, dependent upon all sorts of fac-
tors (one’s physical state, one’s mood, one’s relation to the speaker or the
text, the time of day or night or the season of the year, the activation of buried
memories from the present or from a former birth, and so on), when the
words are suddenly, nonvolitionally heard or recognized as true and instantly
change the person’s life. Even ghouls and demons are capable of such trans-
porting moments (piśācakavat). The great Telugu poet Krsna-deva-rāya
offers an especially trenchant and moving example, one among many.
One suddenly, quite accidentally, pays attention to something perhaps
already quite familiar but never properly attended to. Absorption precludes
142 More than Real
such attentiveness, which always has a personal, cognitive component.

There is no question of self-loss or self-forgetting, though it is, of course, pos-
sible that chance perceptions can be powerful enough to block out other
thoughts or feelings at least temporarily, as in the case of Bhatti’s hunter,
who, entranced by the lugubrious calls of the geese, seems to become aware
of his own deep loneliness. There may even be moments when the two kinds
of attention we have articulated in a contrastive manner might converge—
when sudden insight triggers absorption, or when absorption acquires the
light, free-floating quality of receptive awareness. In general, however,
both the experiential texture of attention and its relations with other men-
tal processes differ strikingly in these two modes.
It is the latter aspect that matters to us here. If absorption is linked to
meditative bhāvanā, receptive attention—possibly the more widespread
and generative of the two varieties—connects to effective imaginative praxis
in a range of intrinsic and causal ways. For example, in a Bhartrharian lin-
guistic metaphysics, the ordinary operations of speech—above all, the tran-
sition from a level of pure sound to intelligible, meaningful words and
sentences (artha)—transpires in the receptive, unfocused mind governed
by the potentiality he calls bhāvanā. In the latter case, attention to meaning
plays a part in the continuous process of objectification; more generally,
attention is often a defining, objectifying move, as we have seen. By paying
attention, we shape, even create, the object of that attention. But the atten-
tiveness that comes out of unfocused receptivity, a kind of baseline aliveness,
is much more likely to deobjectify a congested or frozen state, whether inter-
nal (mental) or external, as in Sureśvara’s example quoted above. Such atten-
tiveness, that is, readily issues into imaginative and playful perception that
restores movement to insentient, existentially heavy objects ( jada). Atten-
tion and imagination, in this context, are still far from identical, but they
assist each other in a single teleology of perception. The Indian theorists
who addressed this point are close to White’s careful statement, from an-
other vantage point entirely, in which the particular form of attentiveness
that produces “realization” is contrasted with the imaginative act of “see-
ing as” in terms of limits and constraints: “There will be external criteria
as to what something has been realized to be but no limits except imagina-
tion to what something may be seen as.” In our sources, too, imagination
has the wider scope and a more fundamental power, but attentiveness (ādara),
as the logicians argued, has its own creative potential, which has to be classed
with bhāvanā.
The Yoga of the imagination addresses therapeutically our normative

lack of focus, our continuous distraction and the consequent siphoning off
of our deeper powers. Nothing more need be said here about the latter
empirical observation, elevated to an axiom in most of the Hindu systems.
Inattention of a more specific type, however, deserves at least one or two
examples. Consider the following verse by Kālidāsa, describing King
Dilīpa, who has taken a vow to follow and watch over a certain cow as she
wanders through the wilderness:
sā duspradharsā manasâpi himsrair ity adri-śobhā-prahiteksanena/
alaksitâbhyutpatano nrpena prasahya simhah kila tām cakarsa// 
He was certain that no wild beast would have the temerity

to assault her, so his attention wandered
to the mountain landscape, and thus he failed
to notice when a lion suddenly
pounced and dragged her off.
The king, like the hunter we met earlier, is entranced or distracted by

something in the external setting; his attention (īksana) wanders, and he is
thus inattentive to the critical moment of action. He is in a state precisely
opposite to the positive one in which unexpected perception or insight
may strike. Absorption is, again, the false friend of attention. Like our reli-
able, indeed foundational state of distraction, such moments of milder in-
attention are a matter of constant, everyday experience. Śrīharsa describes
them as a kind of sleepiness, an-avabodha-nidrā: Damayantī tells the goose
messenger to Nala to pay attention to the latter’s mental state and to hold
back on delivering her message if Nala is preoccupied with other matters—
since the “sleepiness that precludes lucid understanding” often takes the
form of contempt. Inattention, in short, is a soporific loss of awareness—
the very awareness that a fully alive person would do well to cultivate in
order to be receptive to those unpredictable moments of life-changing in-
sight. As we will see, attentiveness of this order fits easily into the new models
of mind and, above all, of the imagination that begin to crystallize in the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in the far south.

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5

Toward a Yoga of the Imagination

5.1. Three Non-Boys

Somewhere or other, in a city that was totally nonexistent—a wide and

Is this a nursery tale, of a type known in many literatures? A bedtime

Before we rush to characterize this passage, or indeed the whole of the

Tender, luminous, soft to the touch, very expansive, continuous, always

Such rock-like awareness has, among other properties, a propensity to

defined, ab initio, as the imagination in action, even if the base state of

“objective,” frees the individual for unencumbered, though still patterned

direction just outlined. We saw how Kādambarī, Bāna’s heroine, created

We are interested in the final item in the list: vividha-sa{kalpa-

This wise goddess won’t disturb the sa{kalpa-sa{gama, the lovemaking that

5.2. Making a Goddess

Thus the early Tamil Śaiva poet Tiruñānacampantar (seventh century?)

Pāvakam = bhāvaka, a visible form brought into being—perhaps by the god

bhavāni tvam dāse mayi vitara drstim sakarunām

I started to praise you in my song by saying,

sva-dehotbhпtābhir grnibhir animâdyābhir abhito

It isn’t as simple as it sounds. For this metamorphosis to happen, one has

samudbhūta-sthūla-stana-bharam uraś cāru-hasitam

Full, heavy breasts,

The medieval commentators (e.g., the Dindima-bhāsya once again) link

develops, “ripens”—in a definite direction. The language of ripening is not

conclusion by positing some sort of artificial hierarchy in being, let us say

5.3. Bhāvanā and Pūjā: How Meditation Works

Such statements generate transformative experience not by direct denota-

The worshipper, first of all, dissolves his mundane body in meditation in

This process involves imagining one’s body as a yantra diagram housing

in Abhinavagupta’s poetics, although it is certainly possible to establish

sources of mantric language, which can work without the intervention of

5.4. Summary: Attributes of Meditative Imagination,

ceto-vrttim śamayati bahih sārvabhaume nirodhe

And I’m sure she’s practising Yoga—

pranihita-dhiyām tvat-samprkte vrsâdri-śikhāmanau

When we fi x our mind on that Jewel

Bhāvanā, in this case, is not an active production or generation of the

Time and again we break the rules

prāye daye tvad-anubhāva-mahâmbu-rāśau

Take all those classical poets—from Vālmīki on.

than emotional.” One way to make sense of this conclusion is to stress

A herd of deer, absorbed in the sweet songs

“Absorbed” (krtâvadhānam) is glossed by Mallinātha as ekâgra-cittam—a

dattâvadhānam madhu-lehi-gītau praśānta-cestam harinam jighāmsuh/

He was intending to kill a deer that was

Once again, there is absorption—the deer riveted by the melodic hum-

absorbed in the contemplation of the ravishing goddess in all her parts

such attentiveness, which always has a personal, cognitive component.

The Yoga of the imagination addresses therapeutically our normative

He was certain that no wild beast would have the temerity

The king, like the hunter we met earlier, is entranced or distracted by

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