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| Kali Bhairava — the flame that devours corruption even when cloaked in robes of sanctity. |
There is a silence more terrible than blasphemy. It is the silence of lineage-holders when power devours the very current they once served.
Across traditions, we see it: those who wear the robes of saints while speaking with the tongues of asuras. Charismatic, brilliant, sometimes overflowing with genuine siddhi—yet inwardly rotting, hollowed by pride, untouched by love.
They speak of emptiness and compassion while mocking survivors of abuse. They preach karma and transcendence while aligning with warlords, colonizers, and tyrants. They call their cruelty "crazy wisdom" and their mockery "nonduality."
This is not spiritual paradox. It is desecration.
When the Teacher Becomes a Tyrant
In some spiritual circles, we have seen the rise of figures once regarded as true channels of insight—clever, culturally fluent, even radiant in past seasons. But over time, that flame becomes buried beneath layers of sarcasm, condescension, and spiritual gaslighting.
There are teachers who dismiss survivors of abuse with a smirk, calling their pain "attachments to the ego." Others mock the brokenhearted, brush off genocides, and cloak cruelty in philosophical rhetoric. They preach about emptiness while aligning with violence. They invoke karma to justify oppression. They twist nonduality into a license for inhumanity.
One prominent teacher even publicly defended the military regime responsible for genocide in Myanmar, claiming that the oppressed were "not innocent," and those who expressed outrage were simply caught in dualistic projections. The same figure has routinely downplayed or ridiculed serious allegations of abuse within his own tradition, presenting calls for accountability as childish misunderstandings of emptiness.
One of the most striking distortions emerges in the way bodhicitta itself is framed. In high-flown language, it is said that a bodhisattva remains unwavering because all notions of 'problem,' 'help,' and 'healing' are merely projections of the mind. That there is no real addict, no real suffering—only the mind's interpretation. From this view, the bodhisattva is confident and tireless, because failure, pain, and injustice are not ultimately real.
It sounds refined. It carries the scent of Prajñā. But look closer. This very doctrine is espoused by one who, time and again, has taken the side of the strong over the weak, of the aggressor over the victim. Who defended a regime complicit in genocide, suggesting the oppressed were merely 'not innocent.' Who speaks of emptiness, while aligning with those who create hell on Earth.
If suffering is projection, then the cries of a woman assaulted in a monastery are just mental fabrications. If war is only appearance, then missiles falling on apartment buildings in Kyiv are just projections of collective dualism. If oppression is illusion, then empathy becomes weakness, and detachment becomes a justification for apathy—or worse.
When tanks roll over innocence, they light incense and say, "Everything is as it should be."
This is not bodhicitta. It is asuric detachment masquerading as wisdom.
And the sangha—once the refuge of the seeker—says nothing. Or worse, bows deeper. For fear of being called impure, dualistic, or traumatized.
Where are the lions of speech who once roared to protect the Dharma?
Would the fierce saints of old have stood by while the Dharma was used to mock the wounded and shield the powerful?
No. They would have wept. Then spoken. Not from hatred, but from truth. Not to punish, but to cleanse.
The Saffron of Power
And in the yogic world, the same rot festers.
Figures cloaked in saffron — once the color of renunciation, of ash and fire — now thunder like generals. Where silence should guard the heart, there is shouting. Where tapasya once burned, there is surveillance.
One such political leader, a mahant of a revered Nath lineage, has dragged a seat of sādhanā into the mud of power. What was meant to be a cave of stillness has become a stage for rallies. What was once the hearth of inner fire is now a platform for state violence, communal hatred, and ideological control. Under the banner of “protecting Dharma,” minorities are hounded, dissenters silenced, and sacred authority weaponized to sanctify oppression.
The saffron that once wrapped ascetics who renounced everything now gleams beneath floodlights and television cameras. The vow of detachment is bartered for theatrics. Titles once soaked in tapas are wielded like swords.
This is not the legacy of Gorakhnath. Not the current of the siddhas who walked barefoot in graveyards and mountains. Not the blazing yoga of inner stillness, but a masquerade of conquest dressed in robes of sanctity.
And again, the elders — keepers of memory, guardians of the current — remain silent. Or worse, they bend low, lending their blessings to the very hands that strike.
The Fire Is Not the One Who Speaks
There is a dangerous confusion woven into the fabric of spiritual culture:
That eloquence means enlightenment.
That transmission means purity.
That charisma means realization.
That vāk-siddhi—the power to speak truths that electrify the soul—means the speaker is the truth.
But they are not the same.
A flute can carry divine music and still be cracked within.
A voice can summon thunder and still belong to one bound in shadow.
Some beings carry siddhi from past lives. Some speak with brilliance while their hearts rot with ambition. Some dazzle, and draw crowds, and radiate ancestral memory—yet inwardly fall, again and again, into manipulation and pride.
Why? Because Shakti flows where She wills.
She can flow through a cracked vessel. She can speak through a poisoned mouth. And She may not break that vessel—yet.
But when we confuse the current with the container, we become blind.
And when that blindness is institutionalized—lineages fall.
And here is the deeper paradox: Dharma itself attracts the greatest demons.
Not because it is weak, but because it is radiant. Because it offers the one thing power-mongers crave more than wealth: reverence.
No one falls at the feet of Bezos or Musk. They are feared, envied, debated—but not worshipped.
But place a man in robes, give him a mantra, let him quote the sages—and crowds will bow low, offering not just trust, but their souls.
And that is the asura’s true prize.
They do not want money. They want to sit where God sits.
And Dharma, being radiant and open, does not stop them. It lets them enter. And then, sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once—it burns them from within.
A Kaula Cry
As Kaulas, we do not speak from righteousness, but from heartbreak.
We have no monopoly over truth. We know that saints have wandered every path, and Shakti has danced through every faith. But we also know when the dance has been hijacked—when the current turns black with ambition, when the altar becomes a throne.
To wear the robes of sadhana and use them to shield violence is a sin deeper than disbelief. It is the inversion of the sacred.
We are not moralists. We bow even to paradox. We know that the Goddess hides Her grace in ash and bone as often as in mantra and fire. We know She may speak through the lips of madmen and wanderers.
But we also know the scent of rot.
And we must speak—not to accuse, but to witness. Not to destroy, but to keep the current clean.
Because Her voice does not always scream. Sometimes it chokes. Sometimes it flickers. Sometimes it says, in unbearable silence:
"I gave you this fire to warm the world. Why did you turn it into a weapon?"
Let it be known:
We stand not with the robe, but with the flame.
Not with the throne, but with the current.
Not with the performance of power, but with the sorrow that burns clean.
If She allows such desecration to go on, we still trust Her. Because She wastes nothing. Not even betrayal.
Even this rot is part of Her yāga. Even this collapse is preparation for truth. Even this pain is part of Her incomprehensible tenderness.
Let those who mock compassion in the name of Dharma know—
She sees.
And Her silence is not approval.
It is the inhalation before the fire.
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