On the first day of college, I walked into the classroom without many thoughts. In fact, there was nothing happening in my mind at all. No excitement, no nervous anticipation, no grand expectations. I sat on the first bench, mostly out of habit.
It was a small class, only twelve students. Already different from what one imagines when they think of college, and even more different from what people imagine when they hear you are studying yoga. Most people ask, sometimes politely and sometimes not, what exactly can one learn in yoga for three years.
Yes, this was a bachelor’s degree in yoga science.
I sat there, strangely detached from the rest of the room, my attention drawn to the large whiteboard in front of me. There was only one word written on it.
‘Dukha’. ‘Sorrow’.
My teacher said, The philosophy of yoga, as it turns out, begins with the assertion that the world itself is structured in a way that inevitably produces suffering. My immediate reaction was resistance. Internally, of course. I thought, how dramatic. How pessimistic. Surely this cannot be the whole truth.
There is so much happiness around us, the warmth of family, laughter with friends, the quiet beauty of nature, the simple pleasure of good food. To reduce existence to sorrow felt almost insulting.
But as my teacher continued to explain, my rebellious inner monologue slowly began to lose its confidence. He spoke calmly, without drama, as if stating something obvious. Pain, he said, is not always loud. It does not always announce itself. Sometimes it exists subtly, woven into the fabric of life itself.
The moment we become aware of death, a silent companion enters our lives. From that point onward, there is a knowing that never truly leaves us. Everyone you love, everything you cherish, everyone who feels permanent in your life will one day disappear.
And so will you.
That awareness plants the fear of separation deep within us. It may not dominate our thoughts, but it lingers quietly in the background, shaping our attachments, our anxieties, and our attempts to hold on. An indirect suffering, always present, even in moments of joy.
Then there are other pains like physical pain caused by a disease or injury. Or the pain of disappointment when our desires are unmet.
And just like that, without raising his voice or trying to convince anyone, my teacher had begun to dismantle my certainty.
The Three Kinds of Pain (Dukhatraya)
He said in yoga philosophy, pain is categorized into three types (Dukhatraya).
1. Ādhyātmika (Internal/Intrinsic):
Pain that arises from within. The body and the mind doing what they do best, getting sick, getting restless, getting angry, greedy, anxious, dramatic.
2. Ādhibhautika (External/Extrinsic):
Pain that comes from the outside world. Other people, other beings, accidents, disturbances, chaos that is not yours but somehow always finds its way to you.
3. Ādhidaivika (Supernatural/Divine):
Pain caused by forces entirely beyond human control. Natural calamities, sudden disasters, fate, karma, the universe having one of its moments.
So technically, yoga philosophy does not just acknowledge suffering, it categorizes it with impressive clarity.
Which means the next time your boss calls you after office hours, you may not be able to escape the pain, but at least you can identify exactly which category it belongs to.
Meeting the Mind
Over the years, I have observed that my mind often plays games with me. There are moments when my entire being seems to know one truth, yet my mind insists on arguing against it. And somehow, it always lasts longer. Eventually, I give in to the mind.
At times, it leads me into thoughts that leave me feeling ashamed. It makes me want things I do not even need.
My resources are less, but my wishlist, endless, courtesy of this mind.
Its tricks never seem to run out, and they are rarely kind. It can make me feel small and insignificant over the most ordinary situations. It pulls me into loops of thought, repeating the same narratives until they begin to feel real.
It fools me with familiarity and traps me in places so dark that I forget how easily I once lived in the light.
Why the Mind Becomes the Focus
And slowly, it began to make sense why, across so many yogic traditions, mastering the mind is seen as the ultimate goal. Not controlling life, not fixing circumstances, but understanding and disciplining this restless inner force.
According to Patanjali Yoga Sutras, yoga is defined as ‘chitta vritti nirodhah’, the control or restraint of the fluctuations of the mind (Chapter 1, verse 2). Not posture, not flexibility, not strength, but the mind itself.
Even Gautama Buddha began his inquiry by confronting pain and suffering directly. Before enlightenment came the honest recognition of dukha. In his search for the root of suffering, he too arrived at desire, born in the mind, as its primary cause. The mind wants, clings, resists, and in doing so, creates its own bondage.
The idea that everything is unsatisfactory, often summarized in Buddhist thought as ‘Sarvam Dukham Dukham’, is not meant to sound pessimistic. It is simply a clear-eyed observation of existence as it is. Nothing lasts, nothing fully satisfies, and the mind’s insistence that it should is where suffering quietly begins.
But can the mind be truly controlled?
Suppressing or Understanding the Mind
Another realization that unfolded over time was this, the mind cannot truly be controlled. The harder we try to suppress it, the more forcefully it pushes back. Suppression only gives the mind more power, often far more than our will can handle.
So then the question naturally arises, if we cannot control it, what can we do?
We can understand it. And half the battle is already won the moment understanding begins.
The yogic view explains that the mind is made of three gunas, sattva, rajas, and tamas. The harmonious, the restless, and the heavy. This alone explains why the mind is capable of clarity and kindness, but also of desire, confusion, and darkness. All of it belongs. None of it is abnormal.
Once this is understood, guilt and shame slowly lose their grip. Dark thoughts may still arise, but they do not demand a response. And when we stop feeding them with attention or resistance, they naturally pass. Thoughts survive on energy. Without it, they dissolve.
One of the most effective ways to do this is through the breath. Slowing the breath, and at times even gently holding it, creates a pause in the stream of thoughts. In that pause, the mind begins to soften, and the direction of thinking subtly changes.
Equally important is the environment we choose. The places we spend time in, and the people we surround ourselves with, deeply influence the quality of our thoughts. Peaceful spaces and supportive, inspiring people quietly train the mind without effort.
A balanced diet and a healthy lifestyle are not just about physical well-being. They act as armor. They strengthen us from within, making us more resilient in the face of a powerful and unpredictable mind.
At times, we may even need to outsmart the mind. To gently trick it by momentarily agreeing with it, only to choose the wiser action instead. Over time, this creates trust. The mind begins to cooperate rather than resist.
Perhaps the most important shift is learning to befriend the mind. When we stop fighting it and start working with it, the struggle slowly transforms into understanding.
Watching the Mind
At all times we should observe this mind. Consistency matters. Not force, not intensity, just a steady willingness to watch.
When we begin to observe, we see how marvelously the mind moves from one desire to another, like a monkey leaping from tree to tree, never pausing long enough to rest. And this, in itself, is meditation. Turning attention toward the mind rather than being dragged along by it.
We notice how it delivers a constant stream of thoughts, much like a child demanding attention. How one thought gives birth to the next. How the mind confidently declares that this scarf will somehow elevate our entire personality, or that a glass of wine will immediately uplift our spirits.
It is an interesting performance, this inner theatre. Watching our own mind at work can be surprisingly entertaining, often dramatic, occasionally ridiculous, and at times worthy of prestigious awards.
A Friendly Truce
Well, I haven’t controlled my mind yet. But I do feel that we are good friends, ones who occasionally stop speaking to each other and, at times, fight like dogs.
Still, I’d say it’s going pretty well so far!
🌷✨