Tantra, the Five M’s, and the Truth 

If someone eats two pieces of fish, or someone eats four pieces of meat, does God instantly run away from them? The Divine is not so cheaply held, nor does the Supreme so readily let go. Just as politics has its fundamentalists, religion too has its fundamentalists — religious extremists who mistake ritual or rule for the essence. That is a very big truth; not everyone is able to say it. Many people merely adopt various guises and appearances to earn a living — nothing more. They have not found the truth, they have not found the trace of truth.

There are those who even question whether Vivekananda’s name is fit to be uttered; they say “Vivekananda was wrong.” They hold that we can deny everything, but we cannot deny the body. Tantra does not deny the material world. When we say “bali” (sacrifice) we mean the killing of animals, the slaughter; when we say “bali” we mean the cutting. One must accept that. “Mudra” is the offering taken with wine, the condiments and food eaten with drink. The practices of the Aghoris are so secret and so contrary to ordinary conduct that ordinary people ought not to know them. If I reveal them, I will fail; if I fail in such a path then the only reward I can expect is death. Too many words bring too many faults; think before you speak. With words there is fault; consider carefully.

In today’s conversation we have discussed various aspects of Tantra and the five-M practice. Please listen through to the end — you will feel rewarded.

A revered teacher says: I am well. Spiritual practice is going forward; people are being instructed. Because I hold a seat of authority, many people do come with spiritual questions, social questions, family questions — all kinds of questions they bring to the guru. Resolving those is our work, and it is going on. I will be asked many questions today, and I will answer them as precisely as I can. If doubts are removed, the doctrine itself is clarified. Doubts must be dispelled; question and answer will continue. Thank you.

First, one must ask: what is Tantra? The word Tantra is derived from roots that connote extension and support — “tan” meaning body or that which supports the body, that which saves the body. The science that saves this body is Tantra-vidya. We can deny many things, but we cannot deny the body. A devotee may say poetically, “A thorn pricks my foot; blood comes and I cry, but I say that there is no thorn, there is no body, there is no blood” — but is that honest? All of that is experienced; consciousness is involved in all. If one wants to measure a bell, one must account for its hollow, its breath, its resonance — the measurement that includes these is the bell’s true weight. Likewise, to reach a state beyond the body, we do not deny the body; we use the body as the foundation from which to go beyond. “Lift up this little body and hold it like the lamp before your temple.” A poet has said: we must carry the sense of the body to the state beyond the body — this spiritual voyage is what Tantra is.

Tantra does not deny the world of objects. It perceives the futility of materiality and turns perpetually toward the divine realm. That is the main aim of the tantric seeker’s practice: to sense the emptiness of objects and to become permanently oriented toward the divine.

Tantra has many branches. On the basis of certain divisions there are three kinds of Tantra: three krānta — Viṣṇukrānta, Aśokkrānta, and Rathkrānta. In Bengal, Bihar and Odisha these are generally Viṣṇukrānta traditions. There are sixty-four tantras prevalent among them. It is said that in all sixty-four tantras Sri Ramakrishna attained perfection in three and a half years; he demonstrated by his life that each tantric path can lead to truth. Likewise, in the Ratha-krānta and Aśokkrānta schools there are also many tantras. These are divisions by krānta.

If we divide Tantra by its modes of practice — its āchāra — there are seven āchāras. One of these is the Kaula-ācāra, which is considered supreme among the others. If we divide tantric technique by ritual, procedure, method and style, there are three kinds of conduct: Paśchācāra, Virācāra, and Divyācāra. Paśchācāra is the practice of householders and ordinary devotion: the Gītā’s instruction “patraṁ, puṣpaṁ, phalaṁ, toyam” — offer leaves, flowers, fruits, and water — is an example. These simple offerings are the most basic forms of devotion and are termed Paśchācāra worship. Those who, at home, worship the Lord with flowers, fruits, water — are they not within Tantra? In a sense, yes: all proper sadhana involves mantra, practice of the power (śakti), and the use of seeds (bīja). The introduction of seed-syllables (bīja) into worship marked a shift into tantric science. Thus every sadhana is essentially tantric: it is worship of power and practice of bīja mantras.

Paśchācāra represents the beginning. From there a seeker may advance to Virācāra. Virācāra is the difficult, heroic path of Tantra. What materials are used there? The five main substances: madya (wine), mamsa (meat), matsya (fish), mudra (currency or ritual food offerings), and maithuna (sexual union). Ordinary people think: “If I worship God, why do I need such things?” Naturally they react. Bengalis in particular — though some among them may have some understanding — often refuse to accept this. Their life-philosophy and food-habits have led them into a strict vegetarianism, sometimes a foolish vegetarianism. They do not dive into the depth of scriptures; they cling to a fashion, a tradition, an ignorance. Recently even in Bengal a group of new vegetarian extremists have arisen, worrying and arguing about meat and non-meat. But can the Divine be driven away if some person eats two pieces of fish or some meat? Does the Lord flee? No. The divine object is not so easily caught nor so easily abandoned.

Those who belittle Bengalis because they eat fish and meat — insulting them as if that were disgraceful — do not understand. “Mach-e bhat” (fish and rice) is the identity of Bengalis; it is part of their cultural womb. The scriptures do not, in fact, furnish any absolute prohibitions against eating fish or meat. One who eats a piece of fish does not thereby fall from the knowledge of God. Histories of great masters reveal that they accepted many paths. The late Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and other accomplished masters engaged in such practices; they did not say that the worshipper who partakes of meat is lost. The Master even accepted fish curry (shingi macher jhol) at times, because his digestion or constitution required certain foods. In festival gatherings, the Mother sometimes prepared food that included meat and when the Master partook, there was no sin.

People who condemn fish-eaters, or those who eat meat, cannot see what the Scriptures mean. They simply indulge in scolding and insult. But the truth is that there is no scriptural basis for saying that merely eating fish or meat separates someone from the Divine. Either an honest spiritual understanding is missing, or there is a zeal that has not become knowledge. When someone condemns another, they continue to brood over the condemnation for twenty-four hours; the eater spends ten minutes eating and is done. Which is the deeper bond: the eating or the clinging? The critic clings to the idea of condemnation for much longer — that is the real attachment.

Religion must not become kitchen-confined. If the essence of religion becomes reduced to recipes of the kitchen, then the spiritual goal will not be achieved. You mentioned the point about sacrifice: there is wide variety of opinion, and those who offer sacrifices are often criticized. “Bali” (sacrifice) is loved by many in the devotional hymns to the Mother. People insult and scold, but sacrificial rites have their own place in the scriptures. They are not merely wild practices: they have a philosophical and ritual justification in the Vedic tradition. Even in the Vedas there are recognized offerings of animals. The Aśvamedha and other large-scale Vedic ritual sacrifices sometimes involved sacrifice of animals and the offering of parts to the fire. In some historical Vedic rites — such as the Dasa-ashvamedha — ten horses were offered and different portions were given as offerings. In the great shrine at Puri during the autumn Navaratri, on the nights of Saptami, Ashtami and Navami, there are ceremonial offerings — in certain ritual contexts sacrificial acts continue to exist.

When people hear of sacrifices, they shout: “What, animal offerings?” Some cry out and create noise. One must understand the scriptures, not simply shout. Those people who cannot enter the depths of scripture are ignorant. They decorate themselves and climb on high seats but they do not enter into the sacred meaning. They have not become scripturally immersed; they possess only a parade of externalities. Our Sanātan Dharma is vast and tolerates diverse and even apparently contradictory positions. Nothing can be made absolutely exclusive. That very inclusiveness is the greatness of Hinduism — of the Sanātana tradition. Whoever cannot admit this openness shows narrowness of outlook. Bengal’s religiosity, its diet, its practices — some people try to fix and force them, to prove them wrong. They even ask whether Vivekananda’s name may be pronounced — what a monstrous absurdity! Such theological fundamentalism is dangerous not only to our country, but to the entire world.

The truth is: if you cannot be liberal-minded, if you cannot enter the depth of doctrine, then do you possess a universal or comprehensive religious vision? If not, something is constricted. One must guide people in the right path. If you do not give clear guidance, nothing will be accomplished. When people say “meat makes dietary impurity, meat makes the food unfit for spiritual practice,” one must consider that proper food-purity is not only about the label “meat” or “no-meat.” If food were purified merely by giving milk in a bucket, then giving a whole bucket of milk would automatically render a person spiritually fit — but that is not how it works. Purity of food means suitability — for the body, for the season, for the place, for the mental disposition. A diet must not be opposed to one’s sadhana or bhajana. The scriptures advise avoiding certain foods because they disturb the mind; foods that cause mental restlessness make prolonged sadhana and focused worship difficult, and so the scriptures counsel their avoidance.

Yet there is no food that has an ironclad label, “If you eat this, the Divine will go away ten cubits.” Nor is there a food that will instantly bring the Divine to your doorstep. Everything depends on mindset, temperament, country, time, and circumstances. Before we move into the five-M practice, let me ask once again: we were speaking about the Virācāra path and its principal elements — the five substances. Because all five words start with the syllable “ma,” they are often abbreviated as the “Ma-kara.” “Madya” is wine: how can wine become an instrument of sadhana? Does it really become an item of worship? Scriptures say this: when a person drinks wine, they become intoxicated, and the first sign of intoxication is that whatever enters the head will be spoken — the drunkard’s mouth speaks what is in the heart. When the intoxication passes, the drunkard forgets what he has said. The classical play Abhijñānaśākuntalam relates how Dushyanta, under a curse, forgot Sakuntala. Similarly, the state of intoxication makes one speak incomprehensible things and when sobriety returns, those expressions are forgotten.

When the sadhaka (practitioner) drinks in the tantric context, initially he may speak of worldly matters; but with the right tantric process he is guided inward toward the Mother. In early stages the practitioner may speak of the Mother in a intoxicated way, but gradually that taste or taste-memory remains without the need for actual wine. The external stimulus is only a spark that awakens a deeper, permanent quality. This is the idea of “alipāna” — a ritualized entry into a concentrated state — whereby the guru may place the disciple into a state where he can sit for a hundred thousand japa and maintain his posture with little fatigue. The point is not to drink for the sake of drunkenness, but to utilize the excited state for mantra-absorption and concentration. The secret methods of Tantra provide subtle guidance — these are guru-taught mysteries, the ‘guhya-vidyā’, the secret knowledge; only a true guru gives such initiation.

There is a higher state than Virācāra: that is Divyācāra. I do not regard Divyācāra as simply another mode of conduct (ācāra); it is a state. When a person attains Divya state, ordinary boundaries of conduct dissolve. When a flood rises, what is road, what is forest, what is temple steps — everything flows as a single river; similarly, in the Divya state the distinctions vanish and all is a single current. In such Divyācāra the subtilized currents of the thousand-petaled lotus (sahasrara) begin to flow in unison; the sadhaka enters and partakes of that harmony. This experience is likened to the divine flood.

Now: Tantra itself has many divisions. If we look at Tantra by the aśakti (methodology), we find three major types of krānta (turns), as I said: Viṣṇukrānta, Aśokkrānta, and Rathakrānta. In Bengal, Bihar and Odisha the Viṣṇukrānta tradition is dominant, and within it sixty-four tantras are widely practiced. In those sixty-four, it is said, Sri Ramakrishna reached accomplishment in three-and-a-half years — he showed by his life that “each path of sadhana is true, and I realized multiple paths through my practice.”

If we go deeper into practices, in the aścara-division Tantra has seven āchāras; among them Kaula-ācāra is considered supreme. If we categorize tantric practices by their ritual style and approach, we find three āchāras: Paśchācāra, Virācāra, and Divyācāra — as noted. Paśchācāra is the simple, quotidian worship: leaves, flowers, fruits, water. Virācāra is the heroic path, involving the five Ms. Divyācāra is not a mere external style but a ceaseless state of being in which ritual boundaries break down.

Let us examine Virācāra’s five substances more closely.

Madya (wine). The tantric argument is that wine, in a ritualized and purified context, can be transformed into a sacred experience. Wine’s immediate effect is intoxication; the intoxicated mouth speaks whatever enters the heart. But when the intoxication fades, the drunkard forgets his words. In sadhana, the intention is to use that initial opening to awaken a condition of sustained devotion and absorption without dependence on the drink. The tantric text speaks of “alipāna” — a method that helps the aspirant sit for longer japa sessions than normal. If a teacher causes the disciple to enter a controlled, guru-guided state, the disciple can do far more practice than in ordinary circumstances. The objective is not to celebrate foreign liquors or debauchery; instead, the goal is to reach the divine ecstasy (divya-skhara) that, when drunk, leads to immortality: the “Amrita-kupa” within the body. When the tongue tastes that nectar of divinity, the practitioner becomes immortal — this is the aim of the Tantra.

Māṃsa (meat). Many people ask: can meat be offered to the deity? Can a devotee offer the goddess meat? The scriptures do speak of meat-offering methods and purification practices that make such offering possible. The tantric texts name several kinds of meat usages — in some contexts even the meat of certain animals is specified for particular rites. There are terms like “yashita mamsa,” “sarva-mamsa,” “mahā-mamsa” and so on. In the narration of Sri Ramakrishna it is recorded that he accepted meat; in one incident, a tantric Brahmin in Bairābī initiated the Master into practice and fed him a piece of meat directly. That does not mean the Master habitually sought meat; rather he demonstrated that every path of sadhana can be true and that the outer practices of one path do not invalidate others.

The essential point is not the external flesh: when we split the word “māṃsa” in a linguistic play, it becomes “ma + anśa” — and one can interpret “ma” as a negation and “anśa” as a part; thus the root idea hints at denial of partitive speech, or more symbolically the restraint of verbal indulgence. The doctrine emphasizes that the first symptom of inner Dharma is “the restraint of speech” — the more one truly advances, the less one remains talkative. When the lamp is being filled and the water sloshes, there is noise; when the vessel is perfectly full, there is silence. Similarly, as the seeker grows in fullness of being, the sound of speech subsides. The silence has a touch, a peace. The sadhaka’s silence is the sadhaka’s voice.

The point of meat-offering is that the practice purifies the substance so thoroughly that its grossness is transformed; the disciple moves away from gross attachment and the object no longer holds sway. The seeker’s mental taste changes: meat no longer attracts him. The aim is the mastery of appetite — to become free from clinging, greed, jealousy, lust. When one eats meat in ordinary senses it may be a biological act. When it functions in sadhana, it is a means to purify the mind.

Matsya (fish). Tantra instructs certain rites involving fish, with attention to species and classifications — larger fish sometimes indicated, smaller fish called inferior. There are designations like rui, katla, etc., and distinctions of upper, middle and lower categories. In some tantric devotions, fish is offered to the deity in a particular ceremonial manner. But beyond the outer, the inner meaning of matsya-sadhana is equality: the sadhaka must cultivate an equal vision for the great and the humble, for the rich and the poor, for the virtuous and the wicked. The tantric seeker must see the same divine principle in all persons and beings. Sri Ramakrishna manifested such equal vision — he blessed actors on stage and rescued humble devotees, treating all as manifestations of the same divine. He had no difference, he saw all as equal and loved them with the same heart. This equality is the victory of matsya-sadhana.

Mudra. Here the word mudra has layered senses: a set of foods and condiments taken with drinks, the ritual offerings and discoveries of taste; but also “mudra” as gesture — dance-mudra, worshipal gestures — and finally “mudra” as the dissolution of desire. There is a mnemonic etymology told: “modayati iti mudra” — modan meaning delight. What gives joy to the deity? There are two pathways: bodily gestures and food-offerings. Yet the essential mudra is inner delight, the flow into perpetual bliss — satchidananda. Mudra-sadhana is not simply eating eight fried grains together; it is dissolving desire and making the inner heart one with uninterrupted joy. The guru knows how to bring the disciple into this perennial stream of joy, the pramoda that rises spontaneously within.

Maithuna (sexual union). At the surface level the word indicates sexual union; at the inner level it stands for union with the supreme: the union between Kundalini and Shiva, between the rising serpent-power and the thousand-petaled lotus. Kundalini rests coiled in the muladhara (root center), then awakens and ascends: it stirs at the lingam region, rises to svādhiṣṭhāna (the seat), proceeds to manipura at the navel, ascends to anahata at the heart, further to vishuddha at the throat, to ajna at the brow, and finally to sahasrara at the crown. The journey from muladhara to sahasrara is the path of sadhana. One must not suppose this is easy. A single chakra crossing to the next may take many births. Therefore claims that Kundalini can be awakened in fifteen days are false and dangerous. There are imposters and charlatans who make such claims to attract followers. True awakening is difficult and may take long and careful practice or the extraordinary grace of the guru.

There are rare cases where the guru’s blessing can cause a sudden awakening, like lighting a lamp that drives out darkness; what has accumulated over centuries can be lit in an instant by a particularly luminous grace. But such miracles are the exception, not the rule.

The panchamakaric (five-M) sadhana is a profoundly secret matter. The guru initiates the disciple and guides him step-by-step through pūjā procedures and cakra-rituals. There are chakarānushthān — circle-ceremonies — and Bairabi cakra-sadhana which are extremely secret; they ought not to be publicly disclosed because they are not beneficial for all. There are also specific mantras by which these substances are ritually purified; by these mantras the substances are transmuted and the disciple’s mind is gradually taken beyond the gross quality of the objects. The disciple works along with mantra, hymn, worship, prāṇāyāma, and yoga. In time the grossness of the thing fades, and the thing no longer binds the mind.

A woman’s body too, when used as a means by a sincere practitioner, can become a mere frame; the practitioner sees it as flesh and bone and loses all untoward attachment. When that fixation dissolves, even the greatest person standing before him will not arouse sensual interest. But if a practitioner brags that he has conquered physical attraction yet secretly cherishes it in his mind, nature will take revenge. Many tantric aspirants fall precisely because they deny their feelings superficially. For this reason Tantra insists on genuine inner purification: the inward, authentic purification is supreme. If the inner heart does not purify itself, no outward austerity will produce sattvic purity. That is the essential moral.

A sincere person may be fond of fish yet become a great saint; when he is served fish, if his mind is truly purified, he may feel no attraction and decline it willingly — or he may take it and know that the attachment has already been abandoned. This is mastery; it is not mere abstinence. The tantra path is a way of transforming and dissolving drives. There are two ways to renounce a craving: one, suppressive avoidance — simply refusing the object and never going near it — and the other, transformation by satiation until disgust arises and desire evaporates. Tantra emphasizes inner transformation: the will must dissipate desire truly from within. The classic example: one who loves rasgulla (a Bengali sweet) might move away from all shops and never take its name; but that is just external renunciation. The true renunciation is when one eats rasgulla to the point of sickening disgust and no longer desires it. Tantra aims at this deeper dispassion, the aruchi (loss of appetite) that arises from inner purification.

We might recall Shankaracharya’s example: monks are told extreme hardships, as when asked to view corpses and remain unfazed. Such austerities are not widely feasible in an age like ours, so Tantra is a pragmatic science for Kali-yuga, a wide-ranging technique that teaches how, in this era, one can try to cultivate inward dispassion.

A rhetorical tantric example tells: a fish is about to swallow a worm and becomes so enraptured by the worm that it fails to notice the thorn that pierces it; the creature’s greed destroys it. Likewise, humans become so absorbed by small attractions that they miss the greater truth. One must remember the weight of life and limited time: I have reached fifty years — my allotted span is counting down. We seldom reflect on such things. Instead, we keep collecting and enjoying and accruing wants. If people were mindful of passing years they might be less celebratory and more reflective. The tradition says these matters to alert seekers: the Tantric path is about sadhana to settle the account with existence.

When the guru is old, or when the guru is physically absent, who assists the disciple in these secret and difficult practices? Tantra recognizes the role of the uttara-sādhaka — the assistant practitioner. The uttara-sādhaka is chosen by the guru and knows how to instruct a disciple in potential pitfalls and how to steer them. The uttara-sādhaka’s role is crucial; without a competent assistant, rigorous tantric practice is perilous. When a great tantric sadhana is performed, the uttara-sādhaka must be present. If the guru cannot perform himself, he appoints an assistant who is qualified through lineage and realizations to guide disciples in those rites.

There is also the significant role of the Vairava sect and the Vairavi (female counterpart) — in practicable tantric circles these are essential. The Virācāra dimension involves Vairavas (male tantric adepts) and Vairavis (female adepts) who conduct paired sadhana. But understand: this is not sexual license; it is sublime and ordered sadhana. Those women who participate in such practices must be properly consecrated; they must have the power of initiation (avbhishikta), be worthy through intense inner purity, and enter the ritual with the correct qualification. The woman who enters cannot be merely nominal; she must be internally purified and prepared. The same holds for the man.

The guru selects and authorizes the Vairava and the Vairavi; without the guru’s sanction such rites are improper. The Vairavi’s conduct — her sign and capacity — are determined by the guru and he must be present to direct the rite. Those who reach the level of guru, through long practice and many births of discipline, may ordain adepts and authorize these practices. This secrecy and strictness are necessary because the rites are heavy and their misuse brings damage — not benefit. Entering such practices without capacity brings ruin. If one enters with the selfish motive of success, and if he fails, then his only reward might be death. That is the stark caution given. If one succeeds via true sadhana, then the prize is a profound spiritual vision; mothers’ sight — the Mother’s darshan — will be granted. Sadhana leads to sambhavi attainment; without sadhana, the spiritual fruit never arrives.

Before the Mother’s face is revealed to the aspirant, a sequence of auxiliary encounters may occur — the yoginīs. Yoginīs are not mere ghosts or spirits; they are beings of function and power, and in the Tantric cosmology serve as intermediaries who connect the aspirant to the supreme. The yoginīs are often manifest in groups: in Kālī sadhana fifteen yoginīs are recited; in Durga-tattva there are sixty-four yoginīs; in Lalitā worship, one encounters 108 yoginīs. They are part of a graded, hierarchical scheme. The yoginīs bind the aspirant to the supreme power: they test the sadhaka, frighten, entice, or present obstacles as a test. Many stories describe how a sadhaka, unprepared, falls into temptation when a yoginī appears in a tempting guise and leads him astray. But a wise sadhaka, oriented by guru’s instruction, will not fall; he will not be diverted by yoginī manifestations.

Sometimes the yoginī will appear as mother and grant illusionary boons, and the sadhaka, failing the test, may ask for worldly favors and be trapped. If the aspirant is steadfast, he will deny the worldly offers and insist instead on the spiritual boon. The yoginīs are not lower demons; they are powers that test and eventually bring the seeker to the Mother if the seeker is worthy.

To illustrate the potency of such shrines and places of power, consider the temple of the sixty-four yoginīs at Hirapur. Legend tells that the queen Heradevi (Hirabāi) of that region practiced tantric rites; she was a Vairavī, and her husband allowed her secret worship. The queen’s guru and an old group of tantric practitioners performed rites in a thatched enclosure; when gossip began in the palace and people asked, the king followed and found them engaged in sadhana. The king commissioned a temple; the central deity became Durga and around her sixty-four yoginīs were carved. The temple is roofless, open to sky — and when viewed from above the plan forms a design reminiscent of a Śiva-linga in the center with surrounding circles. The rooflessness has meaning: tantric practice is a form of natural worship; it seeks intimate communion with nature’s elements — the sunlight, the rain, the wind, the leaves, the sounds — because the true tantric sadhana is immersion into the natural forces. In such a roofless temple, one feels a singular aura: rain may fall on the lit lamp, darkness and light mingle, and a certain primal feeling arises that is unlike other temple experiences. Pilgrims say that visiting there gives a unique emotion that cannot be had elsewhere. The site was once deep in forest and the image of the queen chanting in the middle of the wood is a moving image — it sends a chill through the heart. That is why each year certain adepts still go and perform sadhana there; the place’s ambience has power.

Anecdotes are many: once the queen’s guru ordered certain secret rites and the rāja built the temple. The central cot where earlier Chandi recitations were performed is now preserved and not given to everyone to tread upon — so that the gravity of the place is not disturbed. In modern times the Archaeological Survey of India takes care of such places and certain restrictions have been applied to maintain sanctity. Yet the inner sense remains.

This brings us to Divyācāra again. Divyācāra is the highest aim of the tantric practitioner; it is not simply another ācāra, but a state in which all ritual boundaries dissolve and worldly existence becomes honey-sweet. The verses of the Vedic rishis sing of ‘madhubātārityate’ — sweetness flows everywhere — and even worldly dust becomes honey. When a sadhaka reaches this condition, his entire being is peace and sweetness. He walks, talks, exists with peace, love, and compassion. The tantric adept may appear outwardly to transgress certain norms, but the aim is to go beyond customs in order to attain the infinite. People fear what is different; but the tantric’s actions arise from an inner necessity, from an impulse to transcend the ordinary and to touch the deathless.

A true sadhu offers love, not commerce; he gives peace, not barter. A genuine man of God does not relate to his devotees by trade, but by love. When devotees come and remain weeping at his feet, when strangers leave with an overwhelming sense of attachment and love for the guru — such is the sign of a genuine teacher. The guru’s greatness is not a turban or a position; greatness emerges from the heart. Where there is no heart, pomp and robe do not make a great being.

Remember the story where a devotee couple was so attached that the household mother was anguished over a humble towel left behind — but the great guru ran to return the towel to them, and the joy of that small kindness revealed the guru’s heart and compassion. Such acts demonstrate that greatness is compassionate responsiveness, not mere rank. True saints demonstrate such love: they have no room for petty pride.

The tantric must cultivate equality of vision (samatā). Without samatā the sadhaka’s vision is flawed. If a guru sits in a fine seat and abuses people, criticizing others and playing petty games, his samatā has not come. Engage with a proper satguru and you gain inner uplift; with the wrong company you degrade. Therefore choose a proper guru.

At times a devotee comes for ten minutes and leaves with a lifetime memory. The true guru’s love makes him unforgettable. Even creatures perceive their presence: in one story a guru house in Joyrambati had stray cats who were mistreated, and the guru requested a small portion of rice be set aside for them. From that day the guru no longer disliked those cats. Such compassionate heart reveals supreme power. A man cannot become great merely by wearing saffron and a turban; greatness emerges from the depth of heart. That heart-centered greatness inspires devotion.

Now we return to the specifics of the five-M practices: we have already touched on Madya, Māṃsa and Matsya. Next is Mudra — the ritual condiments and the gestures. The mudra may be prepared by mixing eight fried grains and offering them in a single mouthful. The disciple chews them, letting desire be consumed. The aim of mudra-sadhana is to dissolve desire. “Mudra” also means the dance-gesture that evokes delight; mudra in worship is the outward form that points inward. Another sense of mudra is to partake in the constant stream of joy — to be suffused with satchidananda. When the disciple attains that, the guru guides him into a perennial flow of inner delight. This, then, is the proper mudra-sadhana.

Finally, the fifth is Maithuna. The core of maitruna theory is union with the One who sits at sahasrara. Who performs the union? Kundalini. Where is Kundalini located? In the muladhara — the root chakra in the perineum. From there, when awakened through method, she ascends to svadhisthana at the sexual-root, then to manipura at the navel, to anahata at the heart, to vishuddha at the throat, to ajna at the brow, and finally to sahasrara. The ascent from muladhara to sahasrara is the path of sadhana. I say these things plainly: the path is extremely hard. Many people talk about rapid awakenings, but they are lying. If in a single life all could be accomplished in fifteen days, all would be awakened; but the reality is that it takes lifetimes. There are charlatans who cannot even speak sensibly who pose as teachers of kundalini awakening: they garb themselves in red or black and put on show and gather followers. That is nonsense. Awakening is not a party trick. It requires inner capacity. Yet if the guru’s grace occurs, a metamorphosis can sometimes happen instantly. A dark room for a thousand years can be lit in a moment if the proper spark is provided. But such fireworks are rare; for most aspirants gradual purification is necessary.

The panchamakaric sadhana is guided in a guru-disciple succession. The sadhana is so confidential that it should not be openly published. There are specific mantras that purify the substances of the five Ms, and those must be administered according to the disciple’s qualifications. The disciple engages in mantra, stava (praise), pūjā, prāṇāyāma, yoga and related practices; through these the grossness of the outer substances is sublimated and the practitioner progresses inward.

If the disciple has no aptitude or if he fails — if he is impotent in practice — then his only likely reward may be death. This is not meant to frighten novices but to clarify the seriousness. If one succeeds, the reward may be the vision of the Mother. That is the essence: sadhana is the only way to attain the siddha object; without sadhana there is no attainment.

Before the Mother’s vision appears, the sadhaka may meet yoginīs; the yoginīs assist in bringing the sadhaka into union. Yoginīs are not mere ghosts or demons: they are powers that can reshape the aspirant’s inner life, sometimes by terrifying tests, sometimes by the offering of illusions. If the sadhaka becomes deviated, the yoginī may lead him into indulgence. When she appears as mother, the aspirant may falsely believe his true mother has appeared and ask for worldly gains. If the aspirant falls for that, he fails. If he resists and gives only his heart to the yoginī — demanding spiritual gifts — then he passes the trial and the yoginī gives a spiritual boon. Thus yoginīs are not malevolent but functional; their presence either tests or reveals.

As said earlier: 15 yoginīs are mentioned in Kali-Durga sadhana; 64 yoginīs in Durga-tattva; 108 in Lalita practice. There is a graded hierarchy. Their task is to connect the sadhaka with the Mother and to test his worth. The yoginīs’ appearance is not theatrical, as if the exact mantric forms will physically show up in full literalitude; rather their force is psycho-spiritual and must be experienced by the sadhaka.

There is a famous temple of the 64 yoginīs in Hirapur and the story is told of Queen Hiradevi who practiced there. The queen demanded nightly sadhana, her husband allowed it, and she performed severe sadhana under a guru. Later, when the king discovered the place, he had a temple built — the central deity being the Mother and around her the 64 yoginīs carved. The temple is open to the sky: there is no roof because the sadhana is intended to be natural — sunlight, rain and wind participate. When a pilgrim visits at a particular season and the lamp is lit in mid-rain, the spectacle is moving to the heart: to think of the queen in the forest at midnight chanting fervently sends a chill into one’s bones. The great guru used to go there annually and conduct certain rites with his close disciples; each finds the ambiance unique.

The temple’s floor was once used for Chandi recitation and great sadhana; at some point the government’s custodianship made access more regulated, and pilgrims now must respect restrictions. Yet the inner sanctity remains and those who go still feel the place’s special power.

Returning to Divyācāra: what is Divyācāra? It is the final, supreme aim — the state in which the world becomes sweet like honey. The Vedic utterance “madhuvatirityate” tells of sweetness spreading everywhere. The sadhaka takes the world’s dust and transforms it into honey: he has peace at heart, resides in peace, and leaves the world in a peaceful state. To live in peace and to bring peace is the sadhaka’s aim.

Thus the tantric practitioner is a lover of compassion and of welfare; occasionally his conduct may seem odd or gross to the uninitiated because the tantric sometimes intentionally breaks social custom in order to reach the limitless. Yet the aim is love, and love does not calculate — love is selfless. Those who have renounced for love’s sake have left the home out of love for the divine; genuine sadhus do not keep accounts. The lack of true realized persons in our day is sorrowful; many are caught in factionalism and show. This is the heart of matsya-sadhana and the other disciplines.

Finally: Tantra is the path of death — in the sense that the Tantric welcomes death’s reality and embraces the impermanence that everyone else denies. Those who avoid death do not partake of what Tantra seeks. Tantrics are death-devotees; by embracing the ever-present death they taste immortality in the midst of mortality. This attempt culminates in peace. That is the role of the tantric: to be a hero on the death-laden earth, to taste immortality amidst mortality, and to cause peace to germinate.

Divyācāra is not a mere set of rites: it means blessing, it means peace. When my existence, my mind, my speech and conduct become peaceful for the world, when the message of peace spreads, then the labels of Paśchācāra, Virācāra fall away and only the identity of Divyācāra remains. There is the eternal tie with the Divine.

Thus ends this exposition. May these words open the mind of sincere readers and seekers. May prudence and discretion guide those who would undertake tantric practices; may seekers study with proper gurus and enter into the ancient practices with reverence and caution. Blessings.