A Conversation About Buddhism
Author: Anup Poudyal
Publisher: The Middle Way Publications
Edition: Authorised Machine-Accessible Edition
Section: Chapter 23
Chapter Title: The Cultivation of the Faculties
Pāli Title: Indriya-Bhāvanā
Copyright: © 2026 Anup Poudyal. All rights reserved.

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CHAPTER TEXT

Chapter 23: The Cultivation of the Faculties Indriya-Bhāvanā

Author’s Note 23.1

Earlier in this book, it was noted that the Buddha structured the Dhamma in a way that naturally reveals who is ready to continue and who is not. This is not done through exclusion, but through honesty.

Despite the clarity with which the Dhamma lays out the path from suffering to nibbāna, there are stages where the mind begins to resist. Sometimes it happens when one hears that desire itself is part of the problem. Many turn away at that point, because they intuitively grasp what such a teaching implies. Those who continue beyond it, whether through faith, resolve, curiosity, discipline, or sometimes even pride, often encounter resistance again when confronted with the topic of this chapter.

Here, it becomes unmistakably clear that there is no release from suffering without addressing attraction to pleasant experience, aversion to unpleasant experience, and distraction or restlessness in neutral experience. At this stage, the work is no longer coarse. Practice moves into subtler territory, where subtle adjustments of resolve, mindfulness, and sensitivity matter more than effort alone. What once appeared as obvious restraint now reveals itself as a delicate training of attention and intention.

It is also at this point that confusion can quietly return and, if unnoticed, turn into doubt. I have encountered this many times myself. The inner dialogue often sounds like this: “If you are not meant to cling to pleasant sensations, resist unpleasant ones, or drift into boredom with neutral experience, then what exactly are you meant to do?” The last question is often the most troubling.

How are you meant not to become bored?

From an intellectual point of view, a life without pleasure, pain, or boredom can begin to look lifeless. When this is combined with the way nibbāna is sometimes described, as cessation or as the end of becoming—fear can easily enter. This mix of confusion and fear is not a sign that something has gone wrong. Recognising this resistance as part of the path, rather than as a personal failure, is itself an act of wisdom.

If you are still here, and your six senses continue to move automatically toward pleasure, aversion, or distraction, and you are unsure what to do in those moments, then you are exactly where you are meant to be.

In the previous chapter, we explored a way of standing back from experience, allowing sights, sounds, thoughts, and feelings to be met through the lens of impermanence, unsatisfactoriness, and not-self. When this clarity is present and stable, it naturally guides experience. But in ordinary life, attention is often drawn outward, and the mind becomes entangled before this clarity is established.

This chapter addresses how that tendency is trained. The Buddha describes the development of the faculties as a gradual discipline in how one relates to sense contact. The practice is learning how to remain present with sights, sounds, thoughts, and feelings without becoming entangled in them. One knows what is present, yet does not grasp at signs or details that give rise to attraction or aversion.

So the question becomes practical. When a sight, sound, or thought is known, how is it known in such a way that it does not lead to further entanglement?

Question 1

Let me begin outside a Buddhist frame for a moment. In Indian literary tradition, there are stories about the poet Surdas that dramatise the difficulty of mastering the senses, including a tale in which he is said to have blinded himself in an attempt to quieten at least one sense faculty. Whether this story is literal or symbolic is unclear, but it captures a very human intuition: the senses can feel overwhelming, even ungovernable.

The Buddha addresses this directly. He explains that developing the sense faculties does not mean suppressing perception itself; otherwise, the mere absence of sight or hearing would already count as sense restraint. Instead, true restraint concerns how experience is understood and responded to.

So my question is twofold.

First, what does the Buddha actually mean by developed sense fac-

ulties? It clearly does not refer to sharper eyesight, hearing, or taste in the ordinary sense, yet the discourses also speak at times of divine sight and divine hearing. How are we to understand this without confusion?

Second, how does the Buddha recommend we develop the sense faculties in a way that genuinely leads toward nibbāna? If it is not through suppression, avoidance, or dulling of experience, what is the precise training that transforms sense contact from a source of entanglement into a support for liberation?

Answer

First, when the Buddha speaks of developed sense faculties, he is not referring to sharper sensory acuity in the ordinary sense. It is not about seeing farther, hearing more clearly, or tasting more intensely. A person with excellent eyesight but a strong craving has undeveloped faculties in the Buddha’s sense. Conversely, a blind or deaf person may still have undeveloped faculties if the mind continues to react with desire, aversion, or confusion to whatever is experienced.

In the discourses, a faculty is said to be developed when it is governed by wisdom. The eye sees forms without the mind being pulled into longing or resistance. The ear hears sounds without mental elaboration. The mind knows thoughts without being carried away by them. Development here means balance, composure, and clarity at the point of contact. When the texts speak of divine sight or divine hearing, they are describing special abilities that may arise in deep concentration, but these are incidental. They are not the measure of liberation and are never presented as the goal of the development of the senses.

Second, the Buddha’s method for developing the faculties is neither suppression nor indulgence, but knowing and guarding. In the Indriyabhāvanā Sutta (Majjhima Nikāya 152) and related discourses, he describes a person who sees a form with the eye and does not grasp its signs or features. This means attention stays close to raw experience. It does not slide into stories, ownership, or craving. When mindfulness is present, contact occurs, and feeling occurs, but the chain does not automatically move into desire and appropriation. In this way, sense contact no longer conditions the formation of new saṅkhāra.

This training is practical and moment by moment. It involves recognising what is happening at the sense door, understanding its nature as conditioned and passing, and allowing the experience to complete itself without feeding it. Over time, this changes the relationship to sense contact entirely. What once led to entanglement becomes a place of steadiness. The senses continue to function fully, but they no longer dominate the mind.

In this way, the development of the faculties does not reduce life. It refines how life is met. Sense contact becomes a support for insight rather than a trigger for suffering, and this is precisely how it leads toward nibbāna.

Question 2

That was a general overview, but since this chapter aims for refinement and precision, let us move from the general to the precise, then to the microscop-

ic.

What stands out most to me in the mentioned sutta is its repeated

movement towards equanimity (upekkhā). The Buddha describes the training through a consistent pattern. Let us look at his actual words:

“And how, Ānanda, is there the supreme development of the faculties in the training of the Noble One? When a mendicant sees a sight with their eyes, in them arises what is agreeable, what is disagreeable, and what is both agreeable and disagreeable. They understand: ‘What is agreeable, what is disagreeable, and what is both agreeable and disagreeable have arisen in me. That’s conditioned, crude, and dependently originated. But this is peaceful and sublime, namely equanimity.’ Then the agreeable, the disagreeable, and the both agreeable and disagreeable that arose in them cease, and equanimity becomes stabilized.”

The Buddha then applies the same principle to sounds, smells, tastes, touch, and the activity of the mind. The repetition makes the direction of the training unmistakably clear. The reactions that arise through sensory experience are recognised as conditioned and crude, while equanimity is recognised as peaceful and sublime. Rather than being a passive neutrality, upekkhā is presented here as the more refined state towards which the training of the faculties develops.

So let us place the word upekkhā under the microscope. The range of contexts in which equanimity appears is noteworthy:

• In the Yoga Sūtras, it is recommended as an attitude toward

unwholesome or troubling behaviour.

- In the Brahmavihāras, it appears as the culmination of qualities meant to be extended universally.

- In the fourth jhāna, it becomes the defining tone, surpassing rapture, pleasure, and happiness.

- In the Buddha’s training of the sense faculties, it is repeatedly emphasised as the balanced, non-reactive way of meeting experience at the point of contact.

- Nibbāna itself is sometimes described in language that suggests a complete absence of agitation or disturbance, which may resemble the flavour of equanimity, though it is not identical.

Given this range, what exactly does upekkhā mean in the Buddha’s teaching? Is it one stable principle expressed in different depths, or does the word shift in meaning depending on the context?

More specifically, in this chapter, is equanimity best understood as

a feeling-state, a cultivated attitude, or as a functional non-reactivity at the point of sense contact and feeling? In other words, is the Buddha using upekkhā here as the precise mental balance that prevents feeling from immediately turning into craving, appropriation, and further saṅkhāra?

How should we understand equanimity in this particular discourse so that its role is clear, technically accurate, and directly applicable to practice?

Answer

The word equanimity looks simple, but in the Buddha’s teaching, it is doing very precise work. Let me answer this in a way that keeps it practical and grounded in the discourses, while also clarifying why the same word appears across such a wide range of contexts.

Here, the Pāli word being used is upekkhā. At its core, upekkhā does not mean indifference, emotional flatness, or disengagement. It means balance, non-reactivity, and not being pulled off centre by what is happening.

In the context of developing the sense faculties, upekkhā is therefore more than simply remaining neutral towards experience. The practitioner recognises the reactions arising through contact as conditioned and dependently originated, while recognising equanimity as peaceful and sublime. With repeated training, the pull towards what is agreeable and the resistance

towards what is disagreeable can subside more readily, allowing equanimity to become increasingly stable.

In practical terms, this means that when something agreeable arises, we learn to recognise the attraction without automatically following it. When something disagreeable arises, we recognise the resistance without automatically pushing the experience away. When experience does not strongly pull us in either direction, we remain attentive rather than drifting into dullness or distraction.

Upekkhā therefore does not mean indifference or emotional numbness. It is the growing capacity to experience what arises without being governed by attraction and aversion. This is particularly important at the level of the senses, because it is here that a simple experience can begin gathering momentum towards craving and appropriation. The training develops the balance needed to recognise that movement before it carries the mind away.

So why does the same word appear in so many places? The core meaning stays the same, but its level of refinement changes depending on the context, just as ‘stillness’ in daily life is not the same as stillness in deep samādhi. You are noticing something important. Upekkhā appears in very different teachings, yet it performs the same structural role each time. Let us clarify the range without confusion.

- In the Brahmavihāras, equanimity means an unshakeable goodwill that does not collapse into preference, resentment, or partiality. It is the stability that allows kindness to remain even when conditions change.

- In the fourth jhāna, equanimity is the refinement of attention once excitement, pleasure, and emotional movement have settled. It is clarity without agitation.

- In the discourse on sense restraint, equanimity is functional balance at the point of contact. It is what prevents sense experience from turning into craving.

- In descriptions near nibbāna, equanimity points to the complete absence of reactivity, not a dull state, but perfect composure.

So the word is not vague. The function is consistent. What changes is the level

of refinement. As stated before, equanimity does not mean:

- Being emotionally cold

- Forcing neutrality

- Numbing sensation

- Pretending not to care

It is not something you ‘do’ to experience. It is how experience is allowed to pass without distortion.

So why does this lead toward nibbāna? Sense restraint works because it cuts off craving before it becomes an urge. This is why it is placed so late

in the path and why it feels so subtle and difficult. At this stage, liberation does not come from dramatic insight. It comes from not feeding the process. Equanimity is the point where the machinery of suffering simply has nothing to grab onto.

That is why the Buddha did not teach this as suppression, withdrawal, or avoidance. He taught it as the maturity of the senses. And that is exactly how this teaching leads toward nibbāna.

Question 3

That clarifies a great deal for me, but I’m facing a real difficulty in practice right now, and it has two parts. I’m facing a real difficulty in practice right now, and it has two parts. First, the way we’ve been speaking throughout this book- calm, spacious, non-reactive- can sometimes give the impression that practice is mostly passive. Especially in this chapter, the language of equanimity might sound like we are meant to endure anything simply. But clearly, that is not the teaching. If someone pokes you with a stick, you are not meant just to sit there and ‘be equanimous.’

So what about the grey areas? Feeling too hot, too cold, uncomfortable, restless, or physically strained, where is the line between wisely adjusting conditions and mindlessly reacting? When is movement an expression of wisdom, and when is it simply craving for relief?

On the other extreme, I also see people who cannot sit still for even

a few seconds or stay quiet for a few minutes, constantly shifting, fidgeting, talking compulsively, or reaching for stimulation. That seems just as unhelpful as passive endurance. So what does the Buddha actually teach? Does he offer clear guidance on when to endure and when to act?

Second, this question came up for me in meditation just this morning. I was practising inside a tent, and after about 45 minutes, it became very hot. Sweat started pouring down my body. In the final 15 minutes, my mind went through a whole journey: discomfort... irritation... doubt about the Dhamma... and eventually a full revolt against the whole teaching. The inner

monologue sounded like:

‘This Dhamma is only for overly passive people. It can’t apply to a

modern life. This just feels like surrendering to suffering.’ Eventually, I recognised this spiral for what it was: reactivity arising under pressure.

So Here Is My Question.

How do we practise without falling into either extreme, rigid suppression or passive resignation? And how does Dhamma-guided wisdom decide when to adjust conditions and when to stay with discomfort?

Answer

Experiences like this are common in Buddhist training, as the path is not passive. Equanimity does not mean enduring everything unquestioningly, and sense restraint does not mean suppression. What the Buddha is training is discernment: knowing precisely when to remain with an experience and when to adjust conditions wisely.

In the discourses, this is often clarified through the distinction between two kinds of pain. There is unavoidable discomfort that comes with having a body, such as heat, cold, hunger, fatigue, illness, ageing, and injury. Then there is the suffering added by reaction, craving, aversion, restlessness, and appropriation. In the Sallatha Sutta, the Buddha describes this as the difference between being struck by one arrow and then a second. The first arrow is the painful bodily feeling itself. The second arrow is the mental agitation that arises when the mind resists, complains, fears, or takes the discomfort personally.

This is where equanimity becomes precise rather than vague. Equanimity means the capacity to stay balanced at the point of contact, so that sensation is fully known, but it is not converted into mental struggle. The training is to recognise the heat, the ache, the pressure, the irritation, and

to see clearly how the mind immediately begins to construct a second layer. That second layer is where saṅkhāra becomes active. The mind begins to build interpretation, story, and self-view: ‘This should not be happening,’ ‘Something is wrong,’ ‘This practice is pointless,’ ‘I cannot bear this.’ These are not just thoughts; they are constructing movements. They are saṅkhāra in action, and when they are appropriated, they become fuel for the entire chain of suffering.

In your tent example, the practice was working exactly as it should. The heat revealed how quickly discomfort can condition irritation, doubt,

and aversion. What you witnessed was not a failure of Dhamma, but the ordinary unfolding of dependent processes under increased pressure. The important question is not whether discomfort arose. It is whether the mind stayed clear enough to learn from it.

The Buddha’s middle way is not to endure everything until collapse, nor to adjust everything until comfort becomes indulgence. The guidance

is practical. If the conditions are mild enough that mindfulness can remain bright, then staying with discomfort becomes a training in non-reactivity. But when the conditions cross into a level where mindfulness collapses into agitation, aversion, or obsessive thinking, then adjusting the posture or environment can be the wiser choice, not as escape, but as skilful support for clarity.

The Buddha’s own framing of the middle way is that one should avoid both extremes of sensual indulgence and self-mortification. This principle applies directly here. Too much comfort leads to dullness and complacency. Too much hardship leads to resentment and mental rebellion. The practice is not to choose suffering or pleasure, but to choose the conditions that support steady attention and insight.

A Helpful Way to Phrase the Training Is This:

- First, know clearly what is happening at the sense door and in the body.

- Second, notice whether the mind is beginning to appropriate the discomfort or pleasure into identity and story.

If the mind remains stable, remaining with the experience is often the correct training. But if clear seeing has given way to compulsive resistance, agitation, or collapse, a small adjustment may be the most skilful response. Adjusting is not automatically reaction, nor is enduring automatically wisdom. Sometimes adjusting is wisdom; sometimes enduring is stubbornness.

This is also why sense restraint is not suppression. The Buddha does not teach us to numb sensation or pretend not to feel, but to stop feeding the process. Contact and feeling still occur, but craving and appropriation need not follow. The restraint lies in refusing to add fuel.

So the line between enduring and acting is determined by whether the mind remains clear or is overtaken by reactive saṅkhāra. With clarity, discomfort becomes an object of insight. When clarity is lost, it becomes a trigger for proliferation. At that point, the wisest response may be to restore the conditions for clear seeing.