Meditation in the Gheranda Saṃhitā unfolds as the sixth limb of a seven-step journey, picking up right after pranayāma. First, the mind’s chatter gets sidelined: senses withdraw, posture is rock-steady, spine aligned, eyes gently closed. Then attention turns inward, like a camera zooming past thoughts, settling on a chosen focus—often the mystic syllable “OM,” the flicker of inner fire at the third eye, or the lotus at the heart.

Rather than prescribing a one-size-fits-all mantra, the text offers a smorgasbord of mental anchors: visualization of channels (nāḍīs) purified by earlier practices, contemplation of the sun-lit space behind the eyebrow, or seed-mantras that vibrate through the subtle body. Each option is a personal invitation to stillness.

Consistency is key—daily practice breeds that single-pointed steadiness, ekāgratā, which transforms the mind from a restless monkey into a calm observer. Pulling in prāṇa, the text says, is like drawing the tide inward; once energy stops dissipating through the senses, thoughts settle like sediment in clear water.

What really stands out is how practical it feels. There’s no lofty mysticism for mysticism’s sake—just step-by-step guidance on dissolving mental knots (granthis) through sustained attention. Modern mindfulness apps have nothing on this vintage handbook: the emphasis on posture, breath, and a chosen focal point all resonate with what’s trending today in digital meditation studios.

As the mind bathes in concentrated awareness, dhyāna naturally ripens into samādhi, that boundless zone where self-doubt and mental chatter fade into the background. There, beyond effort, the practitioner tastes a kind of timeless ease—proof that even centuries-old wisdom still holds its own in a world buzzing with notifications.