The Third Limb First: Inclusivity and the Reordering of the Yogic Path
Rishabhanatha sitting in two stages of meditation, c. 1680 - San Diego Museum of Art
In the misty past of early Indian metaphysics, the path of yoga was laid down like a sacred stone staircase—one must climb it one step at a time, ascending limb by limb. Ethics came first: vows of restraint and observance, yama and niyama, formed the threshold to any deeper spiritual work. Only then, in the quiet, disciplined hush of moral purification, would one be invited to take a seat—āsana—and begin the inward turn.
This was the model proposed by the enigmatic figure of Patañjali, whose Yoga Sūtras, compiled sometime between the 2nd century BCE and the 4th century CE, offered a spare yet profound roadmap of inner transformation. The system is as elegant as it is uncompromising: eight limbs (aṣṭāṅga), sequential and sacred, each a rung toward samādhi, the absorption of consciousness into the infinite. For Patañjali, the body was not the starting point—it was the quiet support beneath a mind already disciplined by ethical observances.
Yoga had been a system within the dualism of Sāṃkhya, a theoretical darśan (school of philosophy) which mostly lacked a formalised practical discipline to achieve it’s goal of “Kaivalya”— absorbtion into the universal conciousness. Patanjali practically outlined how to achieve “Kaivalya” through a systematic eight-fold path to liberation, giving it philosophical independence and formal recognition.
A millennium later, in a very different India—one of Tantric (a spiritual tradition that uses ritual, mantra, and the body to realise the divine within all aspects of existence) currents and folk lineages, of Nāth yogis in caves and courtyards—a new voice emerged. A voice less focused on moral gatekeeping and more in direct access. This was Svātmārāma, author of the Haṭha Yoga Pradīpikā (15th c.), who quietly, yet radically, reordered the path. Without rejecting Patañjali, he offered an alternative: begin with the third limb.
Āsana as the First Step: An evolution
Where Patañjali was austere and elliptical, Svātmārāma was earthy and practical. He nods to yama and niyama in passing—listing them briefly (HYP 1.18), like ancestral obligations fulfilled—but then turns at once to posture, the domain of the body:
“Āsanaṃ śrīmatā proktaṃ cittavikṣepanāśanam” (HYP 1.17)
“Posture, say the wise, is that which removes disturbances of the mind.”
This single verse is a revolution. For it allows the seeker to begin where they are—in a body, with breath—rather than where they are not: already morally purified. It says, in effect, you need not become holy to begin practice; perhaps it is practice that will make you whole.
Patañjali’s āsana is defined as:
“Sthira sukham āsanam” (YS 2.46)
“Posture should be steady and comfortable.”
But it is a means to an end: to still the body for meditation, and only after one's life has been reshaped by restraint and observance. Svātmārāma, by contrast, makes it a beginning. In doing so, he opens yoga to householders, artisans, travellers, and women—to anyone whose first gateway into silence may not be scripture or renunciation, but the aching knee, the restless spine, the unsteady breath.
This is not a rejection of ethics. It is a recalibration. By trusting the body as teacher, Svātmārāma allows that ethical clarity may be an outcome of sincere practice, not merely its prerequisite. Over time, those who begin with posture often find themselves softening toward non-violence, telling the truth more easily, renouncing excess. The first two limbs are not discarded—they are discovered along the way.
Breath and Inwardness: Prāṇāyāma and Pratyāhāra
Following āsana comes the breath: prāṇāyāma, the fourth limb in both classical and Haṭha traditions. In Patañjali’s terms:
“Tasmin sati śvāsa-praśvāsayoḥ gati-vicchedaḥ prāṇāyāmaḥ” (YS 2.49)
“Once posture is steady, breath control follows: the cessation of inhalation and exhalation.”
For Svātmārāma, breath is more than a support—it is the very axis of transformation:
“Yāvaddhārayate vāyuṃ tāvajjīvati dehī” (HYP 2.2)
“So long as breath is retained, the body lives.”
Through breathwork, the practitioner stills the nervous system, purifies subtle channels (nāḍīs), and begins the inward withdrawal of the senses known as pratyāhāra. While Svātmārāma does not dwell on this limb explicitly, his techniques naturally lead there: the gaze is fixed inward, the breath becomes soundless, the world begins to recede.
Concentration and Meditation: Dhāraṇā and Dhyāna
As distractions fall away, concentration arises. This is dhāraṇā:
“Deśa-bandhaḥ cittasya dhāraṇā” (YS 3.1)
“Concentration is the binding of the mind to one point.”
Haṭha yogis approached this not through philosophical abstraction, but through embodied techniques: trāṭaka (fixed gazing), breath retentions, and mantra repetition. These give rise to dhyāna, or meditation:
“Tatra pratyayaikatānatā dhyānam” (YS 3.2)
“Meditation is the uninterrupted flow of awareness toward one object.”
Svātmārāma’s take is luminous:
“Rajas tamaś ca sattvena jyotiṣā saha līyate…” (HYP 4.45)
“Agitation and dullness dissolve into clarity and light. The yogi is untouched by virtue or vice.”
Here, again, we see a reversal: ethics no longer guard the gates—they bloom along the path. Meditation does not require moral purity to begin; rather, it evokes it as a natural fragrance of stillness.
Nāda and Laya: Listening to Silence
Haṭha Yoga goes deeper still. It introduces nāda anusandhāna—the practice of meditating on the inner sound, the subtle hum beneath thought:
“Nādaṃ saṅkīrtayannādau nādaṃ cintayate tataḥ…” (HYP 4.101)
As the practitioner tunes to this subtle current, all grasping ceases. What follows is laya—dissolution. Svātmārāma writes:
“Yathā lagati kāntāyāṃ manasā saha cetanā…” (HYP 4.39)
“As consciousness merges with the beloved, so does the mind dissolve into sound.”
This is not silence as emptiness, but silence as absorption—the self melting into the practice itself.
Samādhi: The Final Merging
And then, at the path’s end—or perhaps its beginning, depending on where you start—comes samādhi. For Patañjali:
“Tadeva arthamātra-nirbhāsaṃ svarūpa-śūnyam iva samādhiḥ” (YS 3.3)
“Samādhi is when only the object shines forth, and the self appears absent.”
And for Svātmārāma:
“Tasya rājayogaṃ vadanti tattvajñānaṃ samādhiḥ parā |
yatraiva cetanā līyate paraṃ jyotir anuttamam” (HYP 4.5)
This is the “supreme absorption,” where the mind merges into light. No longer a striving, but a dissolution into what always was.
Conclusion: An Open Gate, A Living Path
In quietly placing the third limb first, Svātmārāma widened yoga’s threshold. He did not dilute its aims; he simply trusted that those aims could be reached through the body, not just the will. In his hands, yoga became inclusive—not because it asked less, but because it invited more. The mat, the breath, the inner sound—these became tools not just for transformation, but for arrival.
Today, many who come to yoga through āsana find that something in them begins to shift. They become more patient, more honest, less reactive. Without being told to follow yama or niyama, they begin to live them. In this way, ethics become a fruit of experience, not a condition for entry.
The path of yoga, it turns out, is not one road but many—sometimes straight, sometimes spiralled. Whether you begin with discipline or with downward dog, it leads inward. And there, past the limbs and lists, the self waits to be remembered.
Citations:
Patañjali – Yoga Sūtras
Svātmārāma – Haṭha Yoga Pradīpikā
