Parātrīṃśikā Vivaraṇa (Part 146): Sound, Meaning, and the Hidden Body of Mātṛkā

The image shows a vast colorful eruption emerging from a single subtle point below, like many currents unfolding from one hidden source. It fits this chunk because Abhinava is showing how the one inward sound-body of Mātṛkā can appear as many forms: clear syllables, indistinct cries, omens, bird-sounds, phonetic variants, and subtle articulations. The scattered white points and branching streams suggest the many differentiated forms of vāk, while the single source-point preserves the doctrine’s center: variation does not mean exile from the Mother of sound.

The previous chunk established that mantra is inward nāda, not merely external utterance. Clear syllables, pronunciation, rhythm, breath, and meaning all matter, but they are the door. The life of mantra lies in the inner sound-current. From there Abhinava concluded that even indistinct sound is still varṇātmā, letter-natured, just as a distant pot remains a pot; and therefore the teaching on knowing the cries of all beings becomes intelligible.

Now he turns directly to the mechanism behind that knowledge. The Yoga teaching speaks of saṃyama — the combined discipline of dhāraṇā, dhyāna, and samādhi — by which sound, meaning, and cognition are separated. But Abhinava refuses to leave this as a bare yogic siddhi. He asks: how could such separation ever culminate in knowing bird-cries unless those cries themselves were already within the field of letters, though indistinctly?

So the chunk continues the same argument with sharper technical precision. Bird-sounds, victory-and-defeat omens, ha, visarga, chest-born and throat-born articulations, jihvāmūlīya, upadhmānīya, nasal variants, and light articulations are all brought in to show one thing: variation of articulation does not necessarily create a sound outside Mātṛkā. The standard letter may appear in different places, with different effort, force, clarity, or bodily support; but if it signifies, if it functions in sound-meaning relation, it remains inside the living body of vāk.

Saṃyama can explain knowledge of bird-cries only if indistinct sound is letter-natured

yacca dhyānadhāraṇāsamādhisaṃyamena [tantayamekatra saṃyama iti saṃyamalakṣaṇam |] tatpravibhāgaparyantaparalābhaḥ sa kathamasphuṭavarṇarūpatvātirekivihagādikūjitajñānāya paryavasye

“And as for the further attainment that culminates in the separation of these through the saṃyama of dhyāna, dhāraṇā, and samādhi — the gloss explains that saṃyama is the triad of these applied to one object — how could that culminate in the knowledge of the cries of birds and the like, if those cries were something other than indistinct letter-forms?”

Abhinava now turns directly to the yogic mechanism behind sarvabhūtarutajñāna, the knowledge of the utterances of all beings. The Yoga tradition says this comes through saṃyama on the distinction between śabda, artha, and pratyaya — sound, meaning, and cognition. The gloss reminds us what saṃyama means: dhyāna, dhāraṇā, and samādhi applied together to one object.

But Abhinava presses the point. Even if a yogin separates sound, meaning, and cognition with extreme precision, how would that produce knowledge of bird-cries unless those cries already belonged to the field of varṇa? If bird-sounds were utterly outside the letter-body, then no amount of saṃyama on sound and meaning could disclose them as meaningful utterance. They would remain mere noise.

This is why the phrase asphuṭa-varṇa-rūpa is decisive. The cries of birds and other beings are not cleanly articulated like human Sanskrit letters. They are asphuṭa, indistinct, unclear, not fully manifest. But they are still varṇa-rūpa, letter-formed. Their letter-nature is veiled, displaced, or nonstandard, but not absent.

So Abhinava is not denying Patañjali’s teaching. He is giving it a deeper foundation. Saṃyama works because there is something to separate and know. The yogin can discern the meaning-current in bird-cries because those cries are already hidden movements of vāk, not sounds outside Mātṛkā. Without that, the siddhi would have no real basis.

Practically, this also protects the teaching from fantasy. The point is not that one imagines meanings into bird sounds. That would be projection. The point is that the yogin’s attention becomes subtle enough to penetrate an indistinct sound-form and discern the relation of sound, meaning, and cognition inside it. The cry is no longer heard as opaque noise; it is heard as a veiled articulation of the Mother of sound.

If bird-cries are the same letters, their meaning can be known coherently

yadā tu ta eva varṇā varṇānāmeva paramārthato'rthatādātmyalakṣaṇaṃ vācakatvaṃ tadā yuktyā ta eva vihagādirutajñānam

“But when they are those very letters, and when the capacity of letters to signify is, in the highest sense, defined by identity with meaning, then the knowledge of the cries of birds and the like follows coherently by reasoning.”

Abhinava now gives the positive answer. The previous point asked: how could saṃyama lead to knowledge of bird-cries if those cries were something other than indistinct letter-forms? Now he says: when we understand that they are ta eva varṇāḥ — those very letters — then the teaching becomes coherent.

The key phrase is varṇānāmeva paramārthato’rtha-tādātmya-lakṣaṇaṃ vācakatvam. In the deepest sense, the signifying power of letters is not merely conventional labeling. A letter does not signify meaning only because people agreed to attach one sound to one object. At the highest level, vācakatva, the capacity to express, rests in artha-tādātmya — identity with meaning.

This is very Abhinavian. Sound and meaning are not two dead things externally glued together. Both arise within saṃvid, through vāk. The letter can reveal meaning because, at its root, sound and meaning belong to one consciousness-body. Their relation is not arbitrary at the deepest level, even if ordinary languages have conventional layers.

So when bird-cries and other non-human sounds are understood as asphuṭa-varṇa-rūpa, indistinct forms of letters, then vihagādi-ruta-jñāna — knowledge of the cries of birds and the like — becomes reasonable. The yogin is not inventing meaning. He is discerning a hidden sound-meaning identity that ordinary hearing misses.

This is the important practical distinction. Ordinary hearing catches noise. Sentimental imagination projects human meaning onto animals. Yogic discernment penetrates the varṇa hidden inside the cry and the artha fused with it. Because the sound is not outside Mātṛkā, and because the letter’s power to signify is rooted in identity with meaning, knowledge of bird-speech becomes possible in principle.

Even drum-sounds are meaningful because they indicate victory and defeat

bherīādiśabdā api hi arthavanta eva - jayājayasūcakatayopadeśāt vihagādirutavat

“Even sounds such as those of the bherī-drum are indeed meaningful, because they are taught as indicating victory and defeat, just like the cries of birds and other beings.”

Abhinava now broadens the argument beyond bird-cries. It is not only vihagādi-ruta, the cries of birds and other beings, that can carry meaning. Even bherī-ādi-śabda — sounds such as kettledrum sounds — are arthavantaḥ, meaning-bearing.

This fits the phrase jayājaya-sūcakatayā upadeśāt. Such sounds are taught as indicators of jaya and ajaya, victory and defeat. They do not signify like ordinary words in a sentence. Their meaning is omen-like, situational, and affective. A drumbeat can announce triumph, danger, advance, retreat, terror, or collapse. It is not “language” in the narrow grammatical sense, but it still communicates.

So Abhinava is dismantling a narrow idea of meaning. Meaning does not exist only where there is polished human speech. A bird’s cry may signify; a drum-sound may signify; a rough or indistinct sound may signify. The sound-meaning relation is wider than grammar’s most refined forms.

This strengthens the previous point about artha-tādātmya. If sound and meaning are rooted in one field of consciousness, then meaning can flash through many kinds of sound: clear word, mantra, cry, resonance, omen, drumbeat, subtle nāda. The yogin’s task is not to reduce all sound to dictionary language, but to discern how vāk is expressing meaning through each mode.

A modern cinematic example helps here. In The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, when the horns of the Rohirrim sound before their charge at Pelennor Fields, the sound is not merely decorative. It signifies before conceptual explanation: arrival, courage, reversal, possible victory. It gathers scattered beings into one force. This is close to what Abhinava means when he says that drum-sounds and similar sounds are meaningful because they indicate victory and defeat. Such sound is not “language” in the narrow grammatical sense, but it is not meaningless. It acts directly on perception, prāṇa, fear, and resolve. The horn is not background music. It is a decisive sound-event. Before words, before strategy, before explanation, sound enters the battlefield and changes the structure of perception. The Nazgûl’s attention shifts. Gondor hears hope. The Rohirrim become one body. Fear turns into charge.

The Śikṣāsūtrakāra’s statements become meaningful under this view

tadabhiprāyeṇaiva śikṣāsūtrakārasūtrāṇi havisarjanīyāvurasyāvekeṣāṃ

“It is precisely with this intention that the aphorisms of the author of the Śikṣāsūtras — such as ‘ha and visarga are chest-born according to some’ — become meaningful.”

Abhinava now turns from birds and drum-sounds to the technical statements of the Śikṣāsūtrakāra, the author of phonetic aphorisms. This is not a random appeal to grammar. He is saying that certain phonetic statements only make sense if we accept his broader view: the same sound may appear through different places, degrees of clarity, force, and articulation while still remaining within the body of Mātṛkā.

The phrase tadabhiprāyeṇaiva is important — “with this very intention.” The intention is the argument just established: sound can be meaningful and letter-natured even when its manifestation differs from the standard, polished form. Bird-cries, drum-sounds, and other nonstandard sounds were not side curiosities. They prepared the ground for understanding why the phonetic tradition itself can speak flexibly about the place of certain sounds.

The example is havisarjanīyāv urasyāv ekeṣām — “ha and visarga are chest-born according to some.” Normally, one might assign ha and visarga to specific standard places of articulation. But the Śikṣā tradition preserves alternative accounts, where their emergence is connected with the chest. That would be hard to explain if every sound had only one rigid external place. It becomes intelligible if sound is understood as a living current shaped by prāṇa, force, support, and bodily resonance.

So the point continues Abhinava’s larger doctrine. Variation in articulation does not automatically create a new sound outside the letter-body. It may reveal another mode of the same sound-current. The grammar of sound itself becomes meaningful only when seen inside the deeper vāg-doctrine: letters are not dead units fixed to one place forever, but powers of sound that may flash through different supports while retaining their identity.

Ha joined with nasal and semivowel sounds is chest-born, but otherwise throat-born

yaduktam

hakāraṃ pañcamairyuktamantaḥsthābhiśca saṃyutam |
urasyaṃ taṃ vijānīyāt kaṇṭhyamāhurasaṃyutam ||

ityādi

“As it is said:

‘One should know ha, when joined with the fifth-class letters and connected with the semivowels, as chest-born;
when not so connected, they call it throat-born.’

And so on.”

Abhinava now gives the actual phonetic support behind the previous statement. The hakāra, the sound ha, is not treated as having only one rigid place in all conditions. When joined with the pañcama letters — the fifth letters of the consonant groups, namely the nasals — and with the antaḥsthā, the semivowels such as ya, ra, la, va, it is said to be urasya, chest-born. When not so connected, it is kaṇṭhya, throat-born.

This is exactly why Abhinava brought in the broader doctrine of sound’s flexibility. The same sound may shift its felt place of emergence according to combination, force, resonance, and phonetic context. Ha remains ha, but its bodily support changes. It may be more throat-based in one condition and more chest-resonant in another.

The point is not merely grammatical classification. It supports the whole argument about Mātṛkā. If even a standard Sanskrit sound like ha can be described differently depending on its relation to other sounds, then it is too crude to say that every letter is imprisoned in one fixed anatomical place. Sound is living, relational, prāṇic.

This also helps explain the earlier examples. Bird-cries, drum-sounds, and indistinct utterances are not outside vāk simply because their place or clarity differs from the human norm. Even within refined phonetics, sound already shows variation. The letter keeps its identity while changing its mode of embodiment.

Ha and visarga may be chest-based when born from below the throat

tathā

kaṇṭhoktahavisargāṇāṃ svairbhāgaiḥ sthānamiṣyate |
havisargāvuraḥsthau hi kaṇṭhādhobhāgajau matau ||

iti

“Likewise:

‘For ha and visarga, though spoken of as throat-born, their place is accepted according to their own parts;
for ha and visarga are held to be chest-based when they arise from the region below the throat.’”

Abhinava now gives a second phonetic support. Ha and visarga may be generally classed as kaṇṭha-sounds, throat-born sounds. But the cited teaching says their sthāna, their place, is to be understood according to their specific parts or conditions — svair bhāgaiḥ. Their mode of emergence can shift.

When ha and visarga arise from kaṇṭhādho-bhāga, the region below the throat, they are considered uraḥstha, chest-based. This continues the same point: a sound’s identity is not destroyed because its bodily support or felt place varies. The same sound can have a throat-mode and a chest-mode.

This is especially fitting for ha and visarga, because both are breath-heavy, open, and close to the life of prāṇa. They are not hard consonantal impacts like a sharply struck ka or ṭa. They are exhaled, released, resonant. So it is natural that their location may be felt not only at the throat but also deeper, in the chest-breath.

For Abhinava, this is not a dry phonetic footnote. It supports the larger doctrine of vāk. If even refined phonetic tradition allows such variation in the place of standard sounds, then nonstandard, indistinct, or differently embodied sounds cannot be dismissed merely because they do not follow one rigid human articulation scheme. The letter remains itself while moving through different depths of prāṇa.

Other phonetic statements become meaningful only under this view

radanamūlamekeṣām ityādīni vācakībhavanti na tu aparathā kathaṃ cidapi

“Statements such as ‘for some, it is at the root of the teeth’ become meaningful only in this way, and not otherwise in any manner.”

Abhinava now generalizes the point. The phonetic tradition contains statements like radanamūlam ekeṣām — “for some, the place is the root of the teeth.” Such statements would look inconsistent if we demanded that every sound must have one fixed, rigid, universally identical place of articulation.

But under Abhinava’s view they become vācakībhavanti — they become meaningful, intelligible, able to signify something real. Why? Because sound is not a dead unit nailed to one bodily point. It is a living varṇa that may manifest differently according to prāṇa, force, resonance, combination, and the structure of the speaker.

So the earlier examples now gain technical confirmation. Ha may be throat-born or chest-born depending on its condition. Visarga may also shift according to its source and support. Some sounds may be linked by certain teachers to the root of the teeth. These are not contradictions if we understand that a letter has a stable identity while its embodied emergence can vary.

The sharp phrase na tu aparathā kathaṃ cid api matters: “not otherwise in any way.” Without this doctrine, the phonetic statements become scattered anomalies. With it, they form part of one coherent vision: vāk keeps identity through variation. The place changes, the effort changes, the resonance changes, but the sound remains inside the one body of Mātṛkā.

Slight variation leads some to distinguish jihvāmūlīya and upadhmānīya from visarga

ata eva kiṃcidvaicitryamālambyānyatvam anyatvaṃ cāśaṅkamānaiḥ visarjanīyājjihvāmūlīyopadhmānīyau

“Therefore, relying on some slight variation and suspecting difference and otherness, some distinguish jihvāmūlīya and upadhmānīya from visarga.”

Abhinava now turns to another technical example. Because certain sounds show kiṃcid-vaicitrya, a slight variation, some grammarians or phonetic analysts suspect anyatva, difference or otherness. On that basis they distinguish jihvāmūlīya and upadhmānīya from visarjanīya, visarga.

The point is not that such distinctions are useless. In phonetic practice, they matter. Jihvāmūlīya is the special visarga-like sound before gutturals such as ka and kha, produced near the root of the tongue. Upadhmānīya is the special visarga-like sound before labials such as pa and pha, with a puffing/labial quality. They are real phonetic variants.

But Abhinava is warning against turning slight variation into absolute otherness. These sounds may differ in place, effort, and phonetic color, but that does not necessarily make them sounds outside the same deeper varṇa-field. The variation is real as articulation; it is not proof of metaphysical separation from Mātṛkā.

This continues the whole argument. The same sound-current may shift through different places, supports, prāṇic pressures, and bodily configurations. A small difference of emergence can justify a technical distinction, but not a rupture in the sound-body. Vāk allows precision without fragmentation.

So the target is not grammar itself, but over-reading grammar. Abhinava can accept phonetic nuance — indeed, he depends on it — while refusing to let nuance become a doctrine of exile. Jihvāmūlīya and upadhmānīya may be distinguished from visarga for practical articulation, but they are not alien sounds outside the Mother of letters.

Five nasalized variants are distinguished from the anunāsikas

anunāsikebhyaḥ pañcayamān [ṅuṃ ñuṃ ṇuṃ nuṃ mumityevaṃrūpān |]

“They also distinguish five yamā-like nasalized forms from the anunāsikas — the gloss gives them as forms such as ṅuṃ, ñuṃ, ṇuṃ, nuṃ, muṃ.”

Abhinava continues the same technical line. Just as some distinguish jihvāmūlīya and upadhmānīya from visarga because of slight variation, so too they distinguish these five special nasalized forms from the ordinary anunāsika sounds.

The gloss gives the forms: ṅuṃ, ñuṃ, ṇuṃ, nuṃ, muṃ. These correspond to the nasal fields of the five consonant groups — guttural, palatal, cerebral, dental, and labial. Again, the point is not to deny phonetic difference. These forms do sound and function differently in precise recitation.

But the pressure of Abhinava’s argument remains the same: technical distinction is not metaphysical separation. A sound may shift through nasalization, place, resonance, and effort; it may become more specialized, more subtle, more context-bound. Yet this does not place it outside Mātṛkā.

So the doctrine preserves both sides. Grammar needs distinctions, otherwise recitation collapses into blur. But Tantra refuses to let those distinctions harden into exile. The nasal variants are real as phonetic refinements, but they remain within the living body of vāk. Precision is accepted; fragmentation is not.

Lightly articulated variants are distinguished from certain standard letters

ḍakāraḍhakārayaralavakṣakārebhyaḥ tāneva laghuprayatnatarān [yasyoccāraṇe jihvāgropāgramadhyamūlānāṃ śaithilyaṃ jāyate sa laghuprayatnataraḥ iti |]

“They also distinguish those very sounds, when produced with a lighter effort, from ḍa, ḍha, ya, ra, la, va, and kṣa. The gloss explains: that sound is called ‘lighter in effort’ whose pronunciation involves a relaxation of the tip, front, middle, and root of the tongue.”

Abhinava continues listing cases where slight phonetic variation leads some to posit separate sounds. Here the issue is laghuprayatnatara, a more lightly produced articulation. The sound is not completely different; it is tāneva — those very sounds — but produced with softer effort, less tension, less firm contact of the tongue.

The gloss makes this bodily: in such pronunciation there is śaithilya, relaxation, of the tongue’s parts — jihvāgra, the tip; upāgra, the area near the tip; madhya, the middle; and mūla, the root. So the difference is real at the level of articulatory effort. A sound can become lighter, looser, less forcefully shaped, and therefore appear as a special variant.

But again, Abhinava’s larger point is not to deny this technical precision. He is saying that such distinctions arise from kiṃcidvaicitrya, slight variation. They are useful for phonetics and recitation, but they should not be inflated into absolute otherness. A lighter articulation is still a mode within the sound-body, not a sound exiled from Mātṛkā.

Visarga may appear as jihvāmūlīya or upadhmānīya; nasals may appear as special yamā forms; certain sounds may appear with lighter effort. The phonetic field is full of nuance. But the nuance proves Abhinava’s point rather than refuting it: vāk is flexible, subtle, and alive. The one body of sound can bend, relax, shift, and differentiate without ceasing to be one.

By treating these variants as distinct, sixty-four letters are taught

bhedenābhimanya catuḥṣaṣṭirvarṇā uktāḥ

“By regarding them as distinct, sixty-four letters are taught.”

Abhinava now gives the result of the preceding technical distinctions. When jihvāmūlīya, upadhmānīya, the five nasalized forms, and the lighter-effort variants are treated as separate from the standard letters, the alphabet can be expanded into catuḥṣaṣṭi varṇāḥ — sixty-four letters.

This completes the phonetic argument cleanly. The variations are not imaginary. Traditions really can count them as distinct letters. Abhinava is not rejecting phonetic precision or denying that such distinctions have value. He is showing why they can be counted without breaking the deeper unity of Mātṛkā.

The important phrase is bhedenābhimanya — “regarding them through difference.” Difference is being accepted at the level of articulation, classification, and practice. But the whole argument has shown that this difference should not be absolutized. The variants may be counted separately, yet they still belong inside the one sound-body.

So the chunk closes with a balanced view: grammar may expand the alphabet through subtle distinctions, but Tantra sees those distinctions as movements within one vāk, not as sounds outside the Mother. Precision remains; fragmentation is refused.