Parātrīṃśikā Vivaraṇa (Part 10): Parokṣatā, Turiya, and the Real Meaning of “Devī Said”

Ramana Maharhsi and Swami Lakshman joo: Two lineages of recognition

Ramana Maharshi cuts at the root. He does not spend much time rehabilitating the branches. He sees that the ego survives by movement, so he goes straight to the source of the mover: who am I? In that sense, it is surgical and immediate.

Abhinavagupta is doing something different. He is not less radical, but more architectonic. He does not only cut. He also re-orders the whole field through which error lives. Language, cognition, theology, grammar, ontology, manifestation, deity, power, memory, perception — he keeps showing that all of them, properly understood, point back to the same nondual center.

Ramana is like the direct incision.
Abhinava is like exposing every layer, vessel, and ligament so that nothing false can hide and later infect the wound again. That is exactly where Abhinava’s method has unique force. A person may repeat self-inquiry and still secretly carry crude dualisms:

• consciousness versus world
• Śiva versus Śakti
• transcendence versus manifestation
• direct versus indirect
• objectlessness mistaken for blankness
• language treated as outside truth

Abhinava keeps hunting those residues down. He does not let error survive in refined form.

Ramana is the royal road when the mind is ripe enough to obey.
Abhinavagupta is the great purification of the field, so that the mind cannot keep hiding in subtler confusions.

Not more true, not less true. Different genius.

And in fairness, even Ramana did sometimes do this second thing, just more sparingly. He could answer objections, dismantle half-truths, and expose confusion very precisely. But he did not build a vast intellectual mandala around it. Abhinava does.

Ramana cuts straight.
Abhinava prepares the whole surgery so the cut cannot be misunderstood.

That is why reading Abhinava can feel exhausting but also unusually stabilizing. He is not merely pointing to the summit. He is removing wrong roads.

That state is not remembered because it was not first known as an object

tām atītām avasthāṃ na smarati
prāgavedyatvāt

“One does not remember that past state, because it was not previously an object of knowledge.”

Abhinavagupta begins with a very exact point.

Ordinary memory usually works like this: first something is known as an object, then later it is remembered. But here he says that this past state is not remembered in that way, because it was not previously grasped as a vedya, an object of knowledge.

That matters because he is clarifying why the earlier analogy with sleep, babbling, and indirect recognition appeared at all. The issue is not simple forgetfulness. The issue is structural: memory in the usual sense depends on prior objectification.

So if a state was not first known as “this thing,” it cannot later be recalled in the normal object-memory mode.

This is already preparing the deeper distinction to come. In the supreme state, the problem is not that consciousness was absent. The problem is that there was no object standing over against it to be stored and later retrieved as memory.

That is why prāg-avedyatva is the key word here. Not previously known as object. That is very different from saying “not experienced at all.”

Sometimes after being deeply absorbed, one says, “I cannot remember it properly.” Often that does not mean nothing happened. It means the state was not lived in the ordinary subject-object format that memory handles easily.

So this line opens the whole passage cleanly: the state is not remembered in the usual way because it was not first available as an object among objects.

Yet that state can still be recognized through traces and reports

idānīṃ puruṣāntarakathitamāhātmyāt
ativilāpagānādikriyājanitagadgadikādidehavikriyāveśena vā
tadavasthāṃ camatkārāt pratipadyate

“Yet now one comes to recognize that state, either through the greatness of it as told by another person, or through the bodily traces produced by acts such as excessive lamenting, singing, and the like — broken voice and other bodily transformations — and through astonishment.”

Abhinavagupta now blocks a misunderstanding.

If the state is not remembered in the ordinary way, that does not mean it is sheer blankness. One may still come to recognize that something happened — but not through normal object-memory.

How? Through signs.

Sometimes through another person’s report. Sometimes through bodily traces left behind: broken voice, exhaustion, trembling, the after-effects of crying out, singing, or other intense states. One sees the marks and understands that one passed through something.

That is why he says camatkārāt pratipadyate — one comes to grasp it through a kind of struck recognition, an astonished apprehension. Not calm recollection of an object, but a startled realization from traces.

So the point is precise:

• no ordinary memory, because no prior objectification
• yet not total non-apprehension, because indirect recognition remains possible

This helps a lot with the earlier example about sleep and babbling. Abhinava is showing a form of recognition that is real, but secondary. One does not remember the state as an object; one infers or recognizes it from what remains.

A simple human example: someone says, “I must have wept a lot last night,” because the throat is raw, the pillow is wet, the body is drained. The event is not held in crisp memory, but its reality is still recognized.

So this line prepares the distinction to come: indirectness can arise in more than one way. In some cases because object-knowledge failed; in the higher case for a deeper reason altogether.

This is not mere non-apprehension

nahi apratipattimātrameva etat

mattaḥ supto vā ahaṃ kila vilalāpa iti

“For this is not mere non-apprehension, as in the saying: ‘I, being drunk or asleep, babbled.’”

Now he says the point directly.

Abhinavagupta does not want us to mistake this for simple absence of awareness. It is not just apratipatti-mātra — sheer non-apprehension.

That is why he brings back the example: “I was drunk or asleep and babbled.” The example is useful, but only up to a point. It shows how one can later reclaim something not held in clear ordinary memory. But it must not mislead us into thinking the higher state is just like sleep, stupor, or drunken incoherence.

So he is tightening the analogy.

The earlier example was introduced to justify a grammatical and experiential move: something not clearly present to ordinary recollection can still be owned later as “I.” But now he warns that the comparison must not be flattened. The supreme state is not a blank lapse.

That matters because otherwise one could reduce the whole argument to: “Well, consciousness was absent to itself, and only later pieced things together.” Abhinava is saying no. The lack of ordinary memory does not prove lack of awareness.

So this short sentence performs a needed correction. The state is not remembered as an object, yes. It may be recognized indirectly, yes. But still, it is not merely a case of nothing being apprehended.

The real distinction is about to come: in ordinary compromised states, indirectness comes from failure to grasp a particular object; in the supreme state, indirectness has a wholly different basis.

In sleep, intoxication, and fainting, indirectness comes from failure to grasp a specific object

madasvapnamūrchādiṣu hi vedyaviśeṣānavagamāt parokṣatvam

“For in states such as intoxication, sleep, and fainting, indirectness is due to the non-apprehension of a specific object of knowledge.”

Now the distinction becomes clean.

In ordinary altered states — drunkenness, sleep, fainting — parokṣatā is present because a determinate object was not grasped. That is the issue: vedya-viśeṣa-anavagama. The person does not clearly know some particular thing.

So the indirectness there is tied to obscuration at the level of object-knowledge.

That matters because Abhinavagupta is narrowing the comparison with the higher state. Yes, both can be called parokṣa in some sense. But in these ordinary cases, the cause is dullness, confusion, or suspension of determinate cognition.

This is exactly why comparisons with deep sleep can be both illuminating and misleading. Ramana Maharshi very often used deep sleep as an example, because it shows something crucial: when ego, world, and mental activity disappear, being itself does not disappear. In that sense, deep sleep points toward the Self. But he did not mean that ordinary sleep is realization itself. The difference is that in sleep there is no clear recognition; the ego is absent, but ignorance is not consciously destroyed. Abhinavagupta is making a very similar distinction here, though in a different language.

So in sleep and related states, there is indirectness because the object is not clearly known. The structure is weakened by obscuration. That is why later one may only infer or dimly reclaim what happened.

This prepares the contrast with real precision. In compromised states, parokṣa comes from failure to grasp a particular object. In the supreme state, as Abhinava will say next, the case is different altogether: not dullness before an object, but the absence of object as such.

That is the crucial shift.

In the supreme state there is no object at all — only identity with the knower

parāvasthāyāṃ tu vedyaviśeṣasya abhāva eva

iti kevalam atra vedakatādātmyapratipattyā turyarūpatvāt

“But in the supreme state, there is simply the absence of any specific object of knowledge. Rather, here, because there is the recognition of identity with the knower, it has the nature of the Fourth.”

Now the real difference is stated.

In sleep, intoxication, fainting, and similar states, indirectness came from failure to grasp a particular object. Here, in the parā-avasthā, Abhinavagupta says something much stronger: it is not that an object was dimly missed. It is that there is no object there at all.

That is the first half.

But if we stop there, we would still misunderstand him. The absence of object here is not blankness. It is not unconscious collapse. Why? Because this state is marked by vedaka-tādātmya-pratipatti — recognition of identity with the knower. That is the decisive phrase.

So what remains is not a void of awareness, but awareness resting in its own self-identity, without anything standing over against it. That is why he calls it turyarūpa — of the nature of the Fourth.

This is exactly where the comparison with deep sleep has to be handled carefully. Analogy with sleep is often invoked because it shows the disappearance of ego and world without the disappearance of being. But Abhinava helps us see the sharper distinction: the supreme state is not merely like sleep because objects are absent. It is higher because the absence of object is joined with identity in the knower, not with obscuration.

So the contrast is now exact:

• in sleep-like states, object is not grasped because of dullness or obscuration
• in the supreme state, there is no object because consciousness abides in itself

That is the whole difference.

So this line is one of the crucial knots. It protects the highest state from being confused either with ordinary cognition or with inert blankness. It is neither object-knowledge nor unconsciousness, but the self-standing identity of awareness with itself.

The indirectness is similar, but the difference is decisive

madādiṣu tu mohāveśaprādhānyāt
iti iyān viśeṣaḥ parokṣatā tu samānaiva

“But in states such as intoxication, delusive obscuration predominates. This is the difference; the indirectness itself is the same.”

Abhinavagupta now makes the balance precise.

He does not deny the similarity. In both cases there is parokṣatā — a kind of indirectness, a non-ordinary relation to what is being spoken of. So he is willing to preserve the comparison.

But the difference is decisive.

In intoxication, sleep, fainting, and similar states, mohāveśa-prādhānya dominates — immersion in obscuration, confusion, dulling. That is the governing feature. So although those states may resemble the higher one by lack of ordinary object-grasping, their actual texture is different.

The supreme state is not ruled by obscuration. It is indirect for another reason: because there is no object standing over against consciousness, and consciousness abides in identity with the knower.

That is why the analogy with sleep is both useful and dangerous. Useful, because it helps break the instinctive belief that consciousness always requires an object. Dangerous, because one can slide into thinking that liberation is just refined blankness. Abhinava cuts that off here.

So the structure is:

• same in the sense of indirectness
• different in the sense of what causes that indirectness

And that distinction matters a lot. Without it, every mystical teaching about transcendence can collapse into glorified unconsciousness.

So this short line performs real surgery. It allows comparison without confusion.

Every knower enters this very consciousness in every act

evaṃ sarva eva pramātā guruśiṣyādipade anyatra vā vyavahāre sthitaḥ

sarvakālameva yatkiṃcit kurvāṇaḥ enāmeva saṃvidam anupraviśya
sarvavyavahārabhājanaṃ bhavati

“Thus every knower, whether situated in the role of guru, disciple, or any other relation of practical life, at all times, while doing whatever he does, enters into this very consciousness and becomes fit for all activity.”

Now Abhinavagupta universalizes the point.

He does not leave this as a rare mystical exception. Every pramātṛ, every knower, in every role — guru, disciple, or any other worldly position — is always operating only by entering this very saṃvid.

That matters because it destroys the fantasy that ordinary life happens somewhere outside the supreme ground, while only special states touch it. No. All activity already depends on this entry into consciousness.

The phrase enām eva saṃvidam anupraviśya is the core. One “enters into this very consciousness.” Not occasionally, not only in meditation, but in every act. The whole field of vyavahāra is possible only on that basis.

So the point is not that the absolute is reached after leaving ordinary life behind. It is that ordinary life is already borrowing its very possibility from the absolute, whether recognized or not.

This is also why the earlier distinction about sleep and the supreme state matters so much. The issue is not whether consciousness is present. It is always present. The issue is whether it is recognized as itself, or only used as unnoticed support for activity.

A simple analogy may help. Every image on a screen appears only by the screen, though most of the time attention goes to the images, not the screen itself. In the same way, all relations and actions take place only by entry into consciousness, though usually consciousness is not recognized in its own right.

So Abhinava is tightening the argument toward recognition. Since every knower is already entering this consciousness in every act, the claim “Devī said” can be drawn back to its real center. The ground was never absent.

“Devī said” really means: I alone constantly reflect on all as non-different in the Parā-ground

ataḥ tāmeva vastuto vimṛśati devī uvāca iti
yāvad uktaṃ syāt ahameva satataṃ sarvam abhedena vimṛśāmi parābhūmau

“Therefore, in truth, it is that very consciousness that is being reflected upon when it is said, ‘Devī said.’ That is to say: ‘I alone constantly reflect on everything as non-different in the Parā-ground.’”

Now the whole argument lands.

Abhinavagupta has gone through temporal grammar, indirectness, sleep, obscuration, the absence of object, and the universality of consciousness — and now he states the real meaning plainly. “Devī said” does not finally mean that some separate divine speaker, standing at a distance, once produced an utterance. It means that consciousness itself, in its deepest form, is reflecting itself.

And the sentence he unfolds is explicit: ahameva — “I alone.”
That is the center.

Not “she over there,” not “that goddess in the past,” but the deepest I speaking from the Parā-bhūmi. And what is its mode of speaking? sarvam abhedena vimṛśāmi — “I reflect on everything non-differently.”

That matters because it takes the whole previous discussion of signifier and signified, of emerging idantā, of Parā-vāk, and gathers it back into living recognition. The utterance belongs to the one consciousness that holds all without fracture.

So “Devī said” is a concession to language, but not the final truth of the matter. Its real truth is first-person and nondual.

This is where your earlier remark about Abhinava doing a sophisticated form of self-inquiry becomes especially accurate. He lets language spread outward into third person, pastness, and indirectness — and then he pulls it back to aham.

So the line has real force. The scripture is not merely reporting divine speech. It is the one consciousness speaking from itself, as itself, and recognizing all in non-difference.

Otherwise, the clear unfolding in Paśyantī and Madhyamā would not be possible

anyathā paśyantīmadhyamābhūmigaṃ sphuṭam idaṃ prathanaṃ na syāt
tāvadeva uktaṃ bhavati devī uvāca iti

“Otherwise, this clear unfolding that belongs to the levels of Paśyantī and Madhyamā would not occur. That alone is what is meant by ‘Devī said.’”

Abhinavagupta now ties the whole argument back to the earlier doctrine of speech.

The point is simple but strong: if that constant nondual self-reflection on the Parā-ground were not already there, then the later unfolding into Paśyantī and Madhyamā could not happen at all. Their manifest spread depends on that deeper, continuous vimarśa.

That matters because the phrase “Devī said” might still sound like an isolated scriptural event — one utterance among others. Abhinava is saying no. It names the ever-present ground without which the differentiated stages of speech would never arise.

So the utterance is not an added episode. It is the very basis of manifestation.

The phrase sphuṭam idaṃ prathanaṃ is important here — “this clear unfolding,” “this explicit spreading out.” What becomes articulate in Paśyantī and Madhyamā is only possible because the undivided consciousness is already reflecting all within itself.

So this line seals the logic:

• Parā is the undivided ground
• Paśyantī and Madhyamā are its unfolding
• therefore “Devī said” names not an external speech-act, but the primal self-articulation from which that unfolding proceeds

That is why the argument had to return to aham. Without that first-person nondual center, the whole doctrine of the speech-levels would become mechanical and lifeless.

The same must be understood later when the text says “Bhairava said”

evam eva purastāt bhairava uvāca iti mantavyam |
tatrāpi hi svaparaśaktyavibhāgamayo bhairavātmaiva aham uvāca ity arthaḥ |

“In exactly the same way, later, when it says ‘Bhairava said,’ it should be understood thus. For there too the meaning is: ‘I, whose nature is Bhairava, made of the non-difference of my own and the other power, spoke.’”

Abhinavagupta refuses to let the whole insight remain limited to Devī uvāca.

He says: apply the same understanding when the text later says Bhairava uvāca.

That matters because otherwise the reader might unconsciously split the two. One might think: “When Devī speaks, perhaps this can be inwardly gathered into consciousness. But when Bhairava speaks, that must mean a separate divine male speaker.” Abhinava cuts that off in advance.

The same rule holds.

Just as “Devī said” was not ultimately about a distant third-person figure, so too “Bhairava said” must be recollected into the deeper aham. The real speaker is again the one consciousness.

And then comes the crucial phrase: svaparaśakty-avibhāga-mayaḥ. Bhairava is made of the non-difference of one’s own and the other power — more broadly, of the non-separation of powers that the divided mind would treat as distinct. So even the Bhairava-form is not some isolated theological individual. It is the one reality in the mode of indivisible power.

The same nondual correction is applied to both poles:

• Devī is not merely “she over there”
• Bhairava is not merely “he over there”

Both names are gathered back into the one self-speaking consciousness.

Abhinava is protecting the text from devotional naïveté without destroying its sacred force. The divine speakers remain divine, but their divinity is understood nondually. The final truth of both utterances is: aham uvāca — “I spoke.”