Interview with Niran Jvalānanda Rājopādhyāya

In this post, we share an interaction with Niran Jvalānanda Rājopādhyāya, a Sarvāmnāya Tantra initiate and priest of the Taleju Bhavānī Temple of Pāṭan. He is also the spiritual head of the recently founded "Nepal Culture and Tantra Conservation Centre", which, much as Vimarsha Foundation, embodies an effort at preserving these traditions in their essence while adapting them to changing times. Here we discuss with him about his own lineage's understanding of Tantric practice and the Sarvāmnāya tradition.

Interviewer:What is the meaning of “Tantra”? An ancient tantric text, the Parākhya Tantra (II.83-87), defines Tantric practice the following way: "By the use of ritual gestures, diagrams, the mantras that are His limbs (mudrāmaṇḍalamantrāṅgaiḥ), by focusing the mind, concentration and yoga (dhāraṇādhyanayogataḥ) that Supreme, peaceful (śāntaḥ) Lord is worshipped by those who desire the fruits of supernatural powers and of liberation" (Translated by Goodall 2004). How would you explain the purposes of mudrā, maṇḍala and mantra? What makes them powerful and significant as means of spiritual practice?

Niran Jvalānanda Rājopādhyāya:

The term Tantra is a Sanskrit word formed from two parts: Tan and Tra.

Tan holds multiple meanings in Sanskrit. It can refer to the body, as seen in phrases like "Tan, Man, Dhan" (Body, Mind, Wealth). However, Tan also means "to stretch" or "to extend," like "tanoti", which means to expand. In the Ṛgveda, Tan is even used to describe threads spun on a wheel. From this perspective, the body, once born, doesn't expand through physical pulling; rather, it grows and develops naturally. This intrinsic growth requires only nourishment, not force, and embodies the natural process of being. Because this development is an inherent, automatic, and independent process rooted in nature's power, it's called Tantra.

The second part, Tra, originates from traan, signifying protection or preservation. Even though the body grows naturally, it requires care to prevent decay. This protection necessitates nourishment, rest, and exercise. For example, mindful breathing through Prāṇāyāma is crucial for optimal oxygen intake. The knowledge encompassing food, exercise, and Yoga—all are integrated into the Tantric system and practiced spiritually. Tantra brings together numerous methods and stages to foster spiritual growth. It's worth noting that the word Tantra itself often refers to a vast body of scriptures, with thousands of texts defining Tantra in their own unique ways. Historically, any significant spiritual or ancient literary work was simply called Tantra, such as the Kulārṇava Tantra.

While Tantra can be understood in a narrow sense, its meaning is profoundly broad. To realize one self as the Ātma is Adhyātma, meaning the fullness of the self. For that purpose, the Tantric system encompasses a wide array of practices including Prāṇāyāma, Dhyāna (meditation), Yoga, Nyāsa (ritual placement), Ṣaṭkarma (six purification acts), and Aṣṭāṅga Yoga which are all elements that are integral to Tantra. Through this, the body also becomes healthy. If the body isn’t healthy, spirituality cannot flourish. In today’s world, everything begins with a healthy body. That is why, to have a healthy body, we must rely on Tantra. That’s why the word Tan (body) is at the root of it.

Now, the title “Parākhya Tantra” itself explains it well. The term Parākhya is formed from para, meaning “beyond” or “far”, and akhya, refering to what is visible. So “Parākhya” refers to something beyond what we can see. Tantra, in this sense, helps us cultivate the ability to recognize and integrate this unseen reality. That’s what Parākhya Tantra is about. When we delve into explanation in this tantra, we come across three main elements: mudrā, maṇḍala, and mantra. These elements all belong in the spiritual realm and are deeply rooted in spirituality, for we do not use them in everyday situations; they’re reserved for spiritual practice.

Mudrā involves precise hand and finger movements, akin to acupressure, capable of influencing nerves and muscles. Each mudrā, like Dhyāna Mudrā, Śaṅkha Mudrā, Jñāna Mudrā, Vāyu Mudrā, Ākāśa Mudrā, and Agni Mudrā, possesses unique healing properties and affects specific bodily functions. Even seemingly simple actions like clapping hands while chanting “Phaṭ” are believed to enhance health. But what we often see are just simplified versions, for in deeper practice, mudrās are not random movements but part of a longer and more intentional process which are taught gradually and integrated into the practice of Nyāsa, in which specific body parts are touched during deity worship.

In any ritual, we start with worshipping Gaṇeśa. But even before that, we worship ourselves, through prayer and Nyāsa, which incorporates mudrā. During Gaṇeśa pūjā, even the act of offering water starting from feet to hands is a mudrā. Now imagine this: if we don’t perform Nyāsa or mudrās properly during deity or maṇḍala worship, we become incapable participants, impure people conducting sacred acts. That’s why we use Nyāsa and mudrā, to prepare and purify ourselves. Without this preparation, true connection with the deity is impossible. Once we do Nyāsa, the body becomes purified. Even in activities like eating and playing, if our system is not aligned, the body questions why: if someone eats while playing, what should the body prioritize? That disrupts the system. While digesting food, if you're also on your phone, the brain starts processing that input instead. The brain has to choose between responding to the food or responding to what is on the screen. That’s why, to channel energy properly, we must do Nyāsa and purify our system. That’s where it all begins. Furthermore, the precision is crucial, for improper Nyāsa during, for instance, Bagalāmukhī Pūjā, can be detrimental.

Maṇḍala is another key tool, which, treated as a living vessel, serves to capture cosmic energy, to generate positive energy and deepen spiritual focus during sādhanā. Also known as Yantras, which are sacred geometric designs incorporating numbers or diagrams arranged in specific orders, they symbolically represent universal structures and are essentially the visual forms of mantras. Each deity possesses a distinct yantra, which are ritually purified and adorned so as to invoke or invite the deity's energy — not their physical form — to reside within. Just as a guest is honored, the yantra is offered reverence and devotion throughout the ritual. At its conclusion, after offerings and prayers, the deity is respectfully requested to return to its divine abode, ensuring the practitioner's connection to cosmic power. This process reflects the ancient understanding that realms like Brahmāloka and Viṣṇuloka extend beyond our galaxies, from which energies, not physical beings, are invoked through spiritual conduits like temple pinnacles and settled onto precisely aligned yantras. Sincere engagement and deep reverence with both body and mind is paramount for the deity's pleasure and the prayer's efficacy. Even when making people happy, we should do so from the heart, not with a grim face; accordingly, in worship, joy and sincerity must come from within.

Mantras themselves are intricate linguistic elements, comprising potent sounds like hrīṃ, śrīṃ, vaṃ, and so on. The Sanskrit alphabet, with its 50 letters, each possessing masculine and feminine qualities, forms the basis upon which siddhas developed systematic methods for chanting specific mantras for particular deities. This comprehensive system is the very foundation of the mantra tradition.

Interviewer: How does kuṇḍalinī yoga relate to Tantric sādhanā?

Niran Jvalānanda Rājopādhyāya:

As I said earlier, before embarking on any spiritual work, self-purification is essential; without it, all efforts become tainted. While Kuṇḍalinī Yoga is an advanced practice, beginners must start with foundational physical exercises like postures, and mastering the eight energetic locks, including Sūrya Bandha and Mūla Bandha. One should never rush into Kundalini awakening, as premature attempts can lead to mental instability; indeed, it's said that approaching a place of Tantric power without adequate preparation can cause madness. Kuṇḍalinī is a high-potency energy that, without proper containment, can overwhelm the unprepared. The process is strictly step-by-step, involving eight levels of preparation that must be mastered before attempting Kundalini awakening. Lord Śiva himself spoke of two types of practitioners: those with "crows’ minds" (apakka deha, immature body) and those with "monkeys’ minds" (pakka deha, matured body). Only individuals with a purified and mature body can safely progress. Unprepared attempts at deep yoga can result in illness or mental instability, a phenomenon observed in the 1960s when Westerners, seeking spiritual experiences in Nepal, engaged in indiscriminate rituals without discipline and often ended up in asylums. Kuṇḍalinī demands immense care and awareness.

Our Tantric ritual system is intrinsically linked with Kuṇḍalinī Yoga. We do not receive initiation (dīkṣā) without adhering to specific vows and practices, of which there are 7-8 stages within the dīkṣā itself; I have reached six of these, and for the remaining stages, I am currently engaged in self-study due to the absence of a direct teacher. To progress, some of us have initiated a small research-based group, exploring the correct path through study, correction, and collaboration. Before practicing Kuṇḍalinī Yoga, one must complete eight or twelve preparatory stages, fully understanding and mastering Prāṇāyāma techniques, including Bhastrika, Mūla Bandha, and Sūrya Bandha. Only then can one begin Kuṇḍalinī practice, which involves channeling the prāṇa-śakti upwards from the Mūlādhāra (root) cakra. Activating the Mūlādhāra is akin to energizing the foundational support of one's being, a process that requires the practitioner to sit in Vajrāsana posture. The guru's role is critical here; without learning and crossing the necessary energetic locks, progress is blocked.

In our pūjā tradition, we don't explicitly teach about cakra activation. Instead, we teach the performance of rituals, and practitioners experience activation and understanding organically as they delve deeper into the practice. From Mūlādhāra to Sahasrāra, even our pūjā processes reflect this journey, which is why we emphasize Nyāsa, Prāṇāyāma, and disciplined eating and conduct. These practices must be truly embodied, not just performed symbolically; such a foundation is indispensable for any spiritual progress.

Interviewer:As a priest, how do you understand that Tantric ritual relates to the depths and goals of sādhanā?

Niran Jvalānanda Rājopādhyāya:

Sādhanā is an inherently personal and independent spiritual journey focused on individual growth and self-realization. It’s about what I, for myself, must do; what actions I need to take, how I should live, how I must progress. In contrast, Karmakhaṇḍa involves invoking deities and performing rituals for the benefit of others, never for oneself. If a practitioner performs Karmakhaṇḍa for personal gain, it's considered invalid and bears no fruit, or may even have negative repercussions. The method of sādhanā is precise and must be followed diligently for self-realization, while Karmakhaṇḍa remains external, directed towards others' welfare or, in certain Ṣaṭkarma practices, their harm. Emotional turmoil, such as anger or desire, can distort one's mind, rendering any attempted sādhanā fruitless. Such negative energies should never be directed at others. Not everyone who claims knowledge of these practices truly understands or applies them correctly.

Nowadays we see people dressing up in black robes and red clothes, wearing skull garlands (muṇḍamālā), claiming to be yogis and tantrics. That is also part of the practice, yes; but these are just the outer display, not the core of the real practice. My father and grandfather were Tantric practitioners, as are many others in my family. They lived as householders, as ordinary people, eating simple meals and living simple lives. Even those who wore muṇḍamālā garlands didn’t do so publicly — they practiced it quietly, in private. Once you’ve truly stabilized yourself, once you’ve gained control over your own being, you do not need to claim it. You do not need to declare your energy or power.

That is exactly why Tantric practitioners operate under a strict code of conduct of never performing spiritual acts for their own personal gain, as well as to only offer guidance or knowledge when explicitly sought out, never unsolicited. This ethos is comparable to attending college: the primary goal is personal growth and understanding, not merely to acquire skills for monetary gain. While financial success might be a byproduct of self-improvement, it's never the core intention behind the pursuit of knowledge.

In sum, a sādhaka walks the path of liberation without transactional motives, helping others not for gain but purely from inner will. This contrasts sharply with a priest (pūjārī), who performs rituals as a duty, often for a fee or by appointment, serving the spiritual needs of others. While both may perform pūjā, the sādhaka's intent is inner-directed for self-realization, whereas the pūjārī's is external, helping others achieve peace or mokṣa. The intention, therefore, makes all the difference, as sādhakas do not seek material gain from their rituals, unlike pūjārīs who receive offerings.

In traditional Brahmin families, particularly among Rājopādhyāyas, pūjā is a hereditary vocation, like any other craft. However, self-purification is paramount before worshipping any deity; internal purity is the essential prerequisite for invoking divine presence. Accordingly, growing up and being trained in my family tradition, I received my sacred thread ceremony (vratabandha) at age 15, which is Vedic — not Tantric ritual. My initiation involved the Gāyatrī mantra being whispered into my right ear. The understanding is that once received, the mantra should never be spoken aloud again; it's to be chanted inwardly, in silence. Following this, I was required to complete 125,000 repetitions. I not only met this count but exceeded it, continuing the practice for over a decade. While some might not delve deeply into such practices, for me, it evolved into a profound commitment over time. Subsequently, we also engage in a large round of repetitions of the Śrī Rudram, which we do either in Paśupatināth Temple or in Kumbheśvara Temple.

This ritual once involved a three-month retreat, isolating the initiate for daily homa (fire rituals). While my own process was condensed into a few days, it’s rooted in this ancient tradition. This stage is conventionally called brahmacharya. Although sending children to gurukulas was once common, that practice is now fading, and families often perform these rituals at home. In our Rājopādhyāya lineage, we follow both Vedic and Tantric paths, with our rituals primarily rooted in the Yajurveda. While the Sāmaveda may feature in certain select rites, the Yajurveda remains central to our practices.

In this way, from 15 to 25 years old, I learned Vedic recitations. I was 24 when my father decided it was time for my Tantric initiation (dīkṣā). I was in college at the time. The whole process took three days instead of seven, and it took place right before Śivarātri. In that context, we receive a Rudrakṣa or Tulsi japamālā, sometimes even crystal, according to the suitability of the individual, which sometimes is tested by intuition or even dreams. Some receive this Tantric initiation much earlier — at 7 or 8 years old, depending on one’s maturity. There are separate gurus — Vedic and Tantric. Only someone who has taken Tantric dīkṣā can guide you in Tantric practice. Usually, it is preferable to receive initiation from within the family, if not possible, then from another qualified elder. But it is advised not to have your father as your guru, but as there are fewer gurus these days sons also receive dīkṣā from their father.

The next Śivarātri after my initiation, my father fell ill, and I had to take on the responsibilities of worship of Taleju. For the first ten years, I just performed the rituals without understanding their depth. Then one day, a researcher studying cultural rituals visited our temple and asked me many questions. That encounter sparked my curiosity. I began reading — my first book was about the history of Nepal. Eventually, I collected over 800 books, including foreign archives. I realized deep learning was necessary to preserve these traditions.

Today these traditions are on the verge of extinction. You cannot force people into it. Those without true interest shouldn’t be initiated. Previously, these systems existed within a family system (kula), as the Āgamas were passed down in specific families.  Now, the practice is mostly academic — it’s read but not lived. Even if we want to learn, it's difficult to follow the traditional system fully. But if someone has genuine interest, there are methods to initiate even those without sacred thread (janai) or formal training. Some have Tantric knowledge but not Vedic, and vice versa. We must adapt without losing essence — combining ritual, discipline, and learning.

Interviewer: Taleju Bhavānī is considered to be the central goddess of the Tantric royal worship of the kingdoms of the Kathmandu Valley. As her priest, would you tell us some about her?

Niran Jvalānanda Rājopādhyāya:

Let me briefly touch upon the history of Taleju. The concept of Taleju didn't exist in early Kathmandu, neither during the Licchavi period nor the early Malla period. At that time, deities like Rājarājeśvarī, Jhaṅkeśvarī, Tripurasundarī, and Manmāneśvarī were worshipped. Some even believe Rājarājeśvarī and Tripurasundarī are the same deity, just worshipped under different names and contexts. It's believed that Taleju was introduced to the Kathmandu Valley in the XIII^th century during King Harisiṁhadeva’s reign, with the dynasty adopting her as their personal Iṣṭadevī. There's a story rooted in a conversation between Śiva and Śakti, where Mahādeva instructed Indra to worship a divine yantra through specific rituals. Indra performed this worship, but after being defeated by Meghanāda (Rāvaṇa's son) in battle, Meghanāda took the yantra and installed it in Lanka, building a temple and worshipping her as his Iṣṭadevī, which earned him the name Indrajit. Later, after winning the war, Rāma, recognizing the yantra as belonging to the goddess he worshipped and, being a devotee of Śiva and Śakti, took the Taleju yantra with him, installing it in various locations like Gujarat and Goa during his return journey to Ayodhyā. Unfortunately, after the Portuguese invasion of Goa, many traditions were destroyed, and worship diminished, though the deity known as Ciñcinamāyī in Goa might trace back to this Taleju tradition.

Eventually, the yantra was brought from Simraṅgāḍh to Bhaktapur by Nanyadeva's descendants. Due to the threat of Muslim invasions, the lineage shifted, and Taleju was formally established in Bhaktapur around 701 years ago, in Nepal Sambat 444. Later, political shifts led to the Taleju tradition also spreading to Pāṭan. My own ancestor, Viśvanāth Upādhyāya, was appointed as the chief priest (pujārī) of the Taleju temple of Pāṭan by its founding king, Siddhinarasiṁha Malla, and this lineage has continued through generations. Even though I initially doubted my own worthiness, I performed the pūjā, feeling guided by the deity herself. Everything truly happens when it is meant to; there is a kind of divine orchestration where things align perfectly. Even people initially disinclined toward religion often find themselves working in spiritual fields, transformed by Taleju's blessing.

Now, who is Taleju? The lineage records, or Baṃśāvalī, note the Taleju tradition's connection to the Śrī Yantra, tying it to the worship of feminine energies like Tripurasundarī and Siddhilakṣmī. But the Śrī Yantra is interpreted differently by various groups. Different sects and temples interpret and install the yantra in unique ways. Some even incorporate Kṛṣṇa into the same tradition, creating complex layers of symbolism that can be challenging to decipher. Likewise, different people equate Taleju with various goddesses: some identify her with Siddhilakṣmī, others with Tripurasundarī, and some believe she is Ugracaṇḍī. It truly varies, and it's not our place to rigidly define it. Taleju is considered highly esoteric. It's like eating in private: when you eat alone, it nourishes you, but if someone watches with envy, it can drain your energy. Similarly, divine powers, or siddhis, must be kept secret. If revealed or boasted about, they lose their potency — just as people say a child falls ill from the evil eye if they appear too happy or healthy. Spiritual attainments must always be protected. Mahādeva himself instructs Pārvatī that spiritual knowledge, like the female body, must be protected and not openly exposed. This is why the Taleju tradition has remained so esoteric.

We no longer possess the full dīkṣā of Taleju ourselves, as the highest dīkṣā is no longer received or transmitted; only the Malla kings historically received it, and no one has since. This highest dīkṣā was not passed on to the Śāha dynasty, and even King Birendra, despite his interest in Tantra, never formally received that dīkṣā. The Śāha kings embraced that path only partially, not as fully as the Mallas did, and the Kathmandu tradition remains deeply rooted in the Malla era. Subsequently, even the Kumārī tradition and other festivals became more formal displays, lacking deep spiritual integration, and further changes occurred after the Rāṇa period.

However, the knowledge hasn't vanished and the rituals still endure. To illustrate: when the occurrence of a death in a household necessitates purification, the married daughter, as an outsider, must perform the rituals. Once the impurity is lifted, the family can resume worship. Likewise, we continue doing the rituals corresponding to the full dīkṣā, just as the married daughter would, but the royal level of its worship no longer takes place. Full dīkṣā was meant for kings — for the protection of the nation. That dīkṣā gave kings enormous spiritual power. Today, even if someone receives it, he wouldn’t have the platform to carry its responsibilities. So what we’re doing now is preserving the system — not actively practicing its full power.

Interviewer:In the 1980s and 1990s, the late Rājanaka Dr. Mark Dyczkowski researched extensively on the tradition of the Goddess Kubjikā here in Kathmandu Valley, guided by your great uncle Kedar Rāj Rājopādhyaya from Bhaktapur. Thanks to his writings, this deep and powerful tradition has since been made known to the world again. What role does this goddess play in your own lineage?

Niran Jvalānanda Rājopādhyāya:

Our own family lineage primarily follows the Kubjikā Tantra. But I once spoke with an exceptionally scholarly individual from our lineage and I asked him: given that scholars like Mark Dyczkowski had published numerous volumes on Kubjikā Tantra, I wondered why there wasn't a dedicated shrine for her in Kathmandu? To my surprise, he didn't know. No one I asked — not even members of our own lineage or initiated community — had any idea. I've been deeply involved with Taleju for the past 25 to 36 years, yet that particular shrine remained elusive to me. I persisted in my search.

Eventually, the path revealed itself, almost as if guided by an unseen force. This is how ancient, secret traditions have been preserved for millennia. Many inquired about it, even from within our own tradition, but I maintained secrecy. Without safeguarding its confidential aspects, a tradition loses its sanctity and becomes ineffective. It demands strict adherence to secrecy; otherwise, it is easily corrupted. People mistakenly believe that simply exposing knowledge helps, but it often ruins its essence. It's like admiring a beautiful, seemingly full bag from the outside, only to find it empty when opened improperly. This is precisely what's happening today; we continue the tradition, but only about 20% of its original form remains. The other 80% have to be learned through inquiry.

The Kubjikā Tantra is merely one facet of the Sarvāmnāya Tantra tradition. Engaging with just that one part means we are accessing only 20% of it, only one single facet of it. To access the remainder, proper study and training are indispensable. Simply saying "give me dīkṣā" or "I'll give you dīkṣā" is insufficient; that's not how it works. One must undertake vows of secrecy before the deity prior to proceeding, and then the mantra is bestowed as dīkṣā. We do not casually impart it as is common today. Besides, merely hearing a single mantra isn't enough for true dīkṣā; it's just an entry ticket, a minimal level of access. Full dīkṣā requires lenghty training, and once we reach the fifth level of initiation, we receive the Sarvāmnāya Tantra, which permits the worship of all forms of deities.

Interviewer: What is Sarvāmnāya Tantra?

Niran Jvalānanda Rājopādhyāya:

The word Āmnāya means “direction” or “path.” In Tantra, there are five main Āmnāyas — East, West, North, South, and Upward (Zenith). Each represents a distinct spiritual path. Here in the Kathmandu Valley, we Rājopādhyāyas primarily follow the Western path — the Paścimāmnāya of the goddess Kubjikā. The Malla kings followed the Northern path — Uttarāmnāya. The Southern path, Dakṣiṇāmnāya, includes Dakṣiṇa Kālī. The Eastern path, Pūrvāmnāya, aligns with traditions like Kaśmiri Śaivism. Then there’s Ūrdhvāmnāya, the upward path related to Tripurasundarī, and the lower path, the Adharāmnāya, which is more hidden, related to Buddhism. Sarvāmnāya is when you integrate all these paths into one complete practice.

In our own family system, up until the fourth stage of initiation we stick to the Paścimāmnāya. By the fifth stage of initiation you become eligible to practice rituals from all five Āmnāyas. After that, one can also perform the worship of the Daśamahāvidyā and one also gains the authority to give dīkṣā to others. You are then free to worship any deity. The tradition becomes open. That is what we call Sarvāmnāya. But that also means you must be truly prepared, which means you must study to understand the tradition. Personally, I have studied mostly the Paścimāmnāya, but I have also studied Dakṣiṇāmnāya and Ūrdhvāmnāya. Now I am currently studying Adharāmnāya. Regarding Pūrva and Uttara I am not that aware.

Scripturally speaking, Macchendranātha’s foundational works on Kaulism explain everything we need – why we do rituals, how we do them. In these, he teaches the union of Śiva and Śakti as Akula and Kula. Śiva is called Akula, pure awareness not related to any Kula or lineage of embodied practices, but Śakti has Kula, which incorporates prāṇāyāma, dhyāna, kuṇḍalinī, everything related to śakti-sādhanā. Additionally, the Kulārṇava Tantra is central to the Kathmandu Valley's Tantric tradition. It’s like a spiritual calendar — it gives structure to our practice.

Bishnu Jwalananda Rajopadhyaya, Niran's Tantric Guru