In the quiet reflections of the ancient rishis, emotions were not dismissed as fleeting whims. Nor were they pathologized as disorders. They were seen as expressions of deeper cosmic rhythms.
Shaped by the eternal dance of the three gunas: sattva, rajas, and tamas. These fundamental qualities, present in all of nature, reside within us too, shaping our thoughts, moods, and actions.
Sattva is clarity, light, and joy, the essence of balance. Rajas is movement, desire, and fire, it propels us but also agitates. Tamas is darkness, heaviness, and delusion, it binds us in confusion and inertia. These gunas never exist in isolation. Like threads woven into a cloth, they co-exist, though one may dominate the others at any moment.
In the vision of Sāṅkhya, Yoga, the gunas are the substance of prakṛti, the material world. And the puruṣa, the true Self, stands apart, silent, pure, untouched. Yet the puruṣa appears bound when it identifies with the play of the gunas. Liberation lies in becoming triguṇātīta, beyond the gunas, watching their dance without being entangled.
When sattva leads, the mind shines. Emotions arise but do not disturb. One sees clearly, feels deeply, but remains anchored. When rajas surges, restlessness takes hold — ambition, anger, longing, and the ache of unfulfilled desires stir the heart. And when tamas covers the mind, we feel dull, indifferent, lost in forgetfulness. These are not just moods; they are currents within consciousness.
The Bhagavad Gītā reveals the subtleties of emotional life. It teaches that sattva brings wisdom and happiness, rajas bring passion and suffering, and tamas brings ignorance and sorrow. From the smallest irritation to the deepest grief, emotions are manifestations of these ever, shifting energies.
Patañjali, in the Yoga Sūtras, describes emotions such as rāga (attachment) and dveṣa (aversion) as kleśas — obstacles on the path of yoga. Rāga arises from our longing to hold on to pleasure. Dveṣa arises from our desire to avoid pain. Together, they bind us to the wheel of emotional reactivity.
Desire becomes attachment. Attachment unmet becomes krodha — anger. Anger gives rise to hatred, and hatred clouds the intellect. As the Gītā teaches, this is the chain of bondage. It begins with the mind dwelling on sense, objects and ends in the loss of wisdom. Only the one who turns inward, who sees with clarity, can break this chain.
Bhaya, or fear, arises when we sense a threat to what we hold dear. It is not merely about survival; it is about our clinging to what we think we need to be whole. Udvega, anxiety, is the ripple that follows — a disturbance born of attachment and illusion.
The solution is not suppression but transformation. We allow the light of awareness to shine through by cultivating sattva. The mind becomes steady, like a lamp in a windless place. Emotions no longer toss us like waves — they pass, observed but not absorbed.
Raga, dveṣa, and moha — attachment, aversion, and delusion — are said to be the roots of all emotional bondage. Moha leads to mithyājñāna (false knowledge), vichikitsā (doubt), māna (pride), and pramāda (negligence). These distort our vision and make us forget who we are.
The rishis recognised that even our actions are shaped by deeper emotional patterns. In his commentary on the Nyāya Sūtras, Vātsyāyana speaks of desires like kāma (lust), matsara (jealousy), spṛhā (possessiveness), tṛṣṇā (will to live), and lobha (greed) as rooted in rāga. He lists krodha (anger), īrṣyā (envy), asūyā (jealousy), droha (malevolence), and amarṣa (resentment) as born of dveṣa.
Moha brings its own challenges: pride that exaggerates the self, errors of judgement, and the forgetfulness that clouds even the wise. Prashastapāda, interpreting the Vaiśeṣika Sūtras, names eight powerful desires that shape human conduct, from abhilāṣa (desire for food) to upādhā (deceit), from karuṇyā (compassion) to bhāva (hidden desires). In Buddhism, the three tṛṣṇās—for pleasure, for becoming, and for power—are seen as the root of suffering.
Even in Āyurveda, Caraka reminds us that the most basic human desires are for life, wealth, and the afterlife: prāṇaiṣaṇā, dhanaiṣaṇā, and paraloka-iṣaṇā. Health, both mental and physical, is the foundation of fulfilling these desires in a balanced way. Among all instincts, the fear of death, abhiniveśa, runs deep. It is an unconscious clinging to existence, the last veil before liberation.
Aṣṭāṅga Yoga, the eightfold path, gently unravels these knots. Through yama, niyama, āsana, prāṇāyāma, pratyāhāra, dhāraṇā, dhyāna, and samādhi, one learns not to escape emotions but to outgrow their grip.
Even sexuality, treated in modern times with shame or indulgence, was integrated into the spiritual fabric of life. It was honoured as one of the four puruṣārthas: kāma, alongside dharma, artha, and mokṣa. The gṛhastha āśrama, the householder stage, embraced it as a legitimate part of life when pursued with awareness and balance.
Vātsyāyana, in the Kāmasūtra, saw the art of love as a sacred science, not to enslave the soul but to refine its sensitivity. He spoke of learning, compatibility, and restraint as keys to emotional well-being. Even within passion, there must be presence. Even in pleasure, there must be wisdom.
To live well, to love fully, and to let go—this was the Vedic path. Not denial, not indulgence, but understanding. And in this understanding, emotion becomes not an obstacle but a guide.
Emotions do not bind us. Our clinging to them does. When the clinging ends, emotion flows as it should: felt fully, released gently, and held in the light of awareness. That is freedom. That is yoga. That is peace.
