There are moments when our eyes are open, yet we do not truly see. The world presents itself before us: forms, sounds, textures. But what do we really perceive? Do we see the mango as it is, or do we see the memory of its taste, the label of its name, the sweetness of our longing?
In the quiet folds of such questions lies the subtle depth of Vedic inquiry. For the rishis of ancient Bhārata, perception was not merely a transaction between the senses and the world. It was a sacred unfolding of consciousness, where the seer, the seen, and the seeing are threads of one eternal fabric.
They did not stop at observing the senses, but journeyed within, asking not just what is seen but who the seer is. Their answers, passed down through the Upaniṣads, through the wisdom of Sāṅkhya, Nyāya, Mīmāṃsā, Jaina, and Bauddha darśanas, offer us a vision that is both intricate and deeply human. It rests on experience, not abstraction.
Perception, or pratyakṣa, was understood as a luminous flow between indriya (sense organ), manas (mind), buddhi (intellect), and Ātman, the silent witness. It is not the eye that sees, the ear that hears, but the Self that illuminates all knowing. The senses are instruments. The mind coordinates. Buddhi judges. Ahaṃkāra claims ownership. Yet behind all this play, the Puruṣa remains still, aware, and untouched.
In the Sāṅkhya system, perception is shaped by eleven instruments: five jñānendriyas (organs of knowledge), five karmendriyas (organs of action), and manas, the internal coordinator. This inner organ does not merely collect data. It interprets, categorises, and constructs. And yet, it does so in the presence of something greater, something unchanging.
The Nyāya and Mīmāṃsā schools speak of perception as a triadic interaction between the external object, the sense faculty, and the Ātman. They make one crucial point. Cognition cannot arise without the touch of manas, for the mind alone bridges the sense organ with the perceiving Self. Without it, even if the eyes are open, one sees nothing.
In the Buddhist tradition, perception is understood through the sixfold consciousness. Each sense faculty gives rise to its own awareness: eye consciousness, ear consciousness, and so on. These come together through contact (sparśa), followed by feeling, recognition, and mental formation. The process is active, not passive. Perception, in this view, is a conditioned arising, shaped by saṃskāras, coloured by memory, moving ever onward.
The Jaina thinkers, in their clarity, divided each sense into dravya-indriya, the physical organ, and bhāva-indriya, its inner potency. Perception begins with darśana, a general awareness. It then passes through avagraha, īhā, and avāya, until it reaches dhāraṇā, the holding and preservation of knowledge in consciousness. What begins as sensation becomes wisdom only through inner refinement.
Across these schools, we find a shared vision. Perception is layered. It is not a sudden illumination but a movement, a deepening. At first comes nirvikalpa pratyakṣa, raw and unfiltered awareness. The eyes rest on a form, but no name arises. There is no division, no thought. It is seen in its purest form. Then comes savikalpa pratyakṣa. The mind awakens, names the form, recognises the object, and draws meaning from past experience. What was formless becomes mango, memory, sweetness.
And yet, beneath all of this rests a deeper truth: the presence of the one who sees, silently witnessing beneath all layers of the mind.? In Sāṅkhya, it is Puruṣa, the eternal, unchanging seer. In Vedānta, it is Ātman, the Self, which is never the doer, never the enjoyer, but the witness. This witness does not act. Yet, without it, nothing can be known.
And so the sages remind us. To perceive is not only to receive but to reveal. To see the world is to see the self reflected. Our experiences are not neutral. They are shaped by saṃskāras, previous impressions, and latent tendencies. What we think we see is already coloured by how we have seen before.
The ancients taught that to purify perception is to purify the mind. To truly see, one must calm the vṛttis of chitta, withdraw the indriyas from distraction, and rest the manas in stillness. Only then does perception become pratyakṣa in its truest sense. It becomes direct, luminous, and free from distortion.
Perception is not a gateway to the world alone. It is the doorway through which the Self beholds its own nature. It is where the visible meets the invisible. It is where the many dissolve into the One. In every moment of seeing, there is a chance to awaken. Not just to the object but to the observer.
The objects of perception rise and fall, yet the seer remains unchanged. When the mind rests in stillness and clarity dawns, the seer recognises its own true nature — eternal, limitless, and luminous in its own light.
