Beyond Siddhi: Discernment as the Only Criterion

 

Siddhi is visible. Discernment is not

Where others end, Kaula begins.
This was the heart of my earlier reflection on the Bhūpura — the first gate of the Śrīcakra — not as mere cosmological imagery, but as a living map of initiation and transformation. (https://www.vira-chandra.com/2025/09/where-others-end-bhupura-as-first-gate.html) In that outer square, the world as we know it presses in on the senses and invites us to enter the fire of transformation itself — where siddhis arise, passions are magnified, and mastery is forged in the crucible of lived experience.

In that earlier post I described how the first wall shines white with the birth of power: a realm where capacities become felt, where will and charisma and that strange little hunger for sovereignty emerge directly from practice and presence. These experiences — aṇimā, laghimā, mahimā, and their companions — are not mere tricks but deep, early initiations into how consciousness begins to respond to itself. 

Yet power — even the appearance of power — is the very place where things go off the rails. It can feel like liberation. It can feel like arrival. And this is why the Bhūpura image is so sharp: its three walls are not stages to be consumed but ordeals to be understood from within.

This brings me to a recurring claim I’ve encountered in many tantric and yogic circles: that siddhis and jñāna — psychic capacities and liberated seeing — are equal fruits of the path, and that to be a true master one must embody both, or that siddhi is a proof of realization.

This claim is simple to state, but I want to hold it up to the light from within the tradition itself: not to negate siddhi, but to put it back where it belongs. My own view — expressed and embodied in my Bhūpura meditation — is that siddhi is diagnostic, not telic; it reveals that something has happened, but it does not settle the question of realization itself. Siddhis can be intoxicating, and they can trap the aspirant — or the teacher — in a palace outside the gate.

To clarify this position without dismissing experience, I will place it alongside the words of Abhinavagupta and Jayaratha — whose subtle distinctions cut deeper than any polemic. If we read them carefully, we find not only a hierarchy of what matters but a lived understanding of how power relates to discernment.

Abhinavagupta: Where Siddhi Stands — and Where It Does Not

If siddhis are to be spoken of honestly, they must be placed within the internal architecture of the path — not elevated by fascination, nor dismissed by moral anxiety. In the Trika–Kaula vision articulated by Abhinavagupta, siddhi is neither illusion nor proof. It is secondary, and deliberately so.

In Tantrāloka 13, Abhinava defines śakti not by display or attainment, but by function:

śāpānugrahakāryeṣu tathābhyāsena śaktatā (Tantrāloka 13.184) 

“Capacity (śakti) consists in the ability, cultivated through practice, to enact withdrawal and grace.

What is striking here is what is absent. There is no reference to marvels, powers, or extraordinary feats. Śakti is defined operationally — by its capacity to withhold and to bestow, to restrain and to release. This already shifts the center of gravity away from spectacle and toward discernment.

Jayaratha, Abhinava’s commentator, makes this explicit — and careful readers should notice that what follows is not poetic embellishment, but deliberate clarification meant to prevent misreading (Jayaratha’s Viveka on Tantrāloka 13.184):

śaktatety arthāt prādurbhūtavivekasya |

prarūḍhaviveko hi krīḍāprāyāsu siddhiṣu

anāsaṅgān mādhya­sthyaṃ avalambamānaḥ

paratattva eva viśrānto

yenāsau svayaṃ muktaḥ san parān api mocayet ||  

“By ‘capacity’ is meant the arising of discernment (viveka). For one whose discernment has fully matured, even while siddhis arise almost playfully, through non-attachment to them and by resting in neutrality, he abides only in the Supreme Reality. Thus, being himself liberated, he is able to liberate others.”

This passage is decisive. Siddhis are acknowledged — even expected — but they are described as krīḍāprāya, play-like, incidental to the real work. The mark of ripeness is not possession, but udāsīnatā — indifference. Not suppression, not denial, but a lack of fixation. Liberation is measured not by what appears, but by where one rests.

Abhinava himself seals this hierarchy without ambiguity:

teṣūdāsīnatāyāṃ tu mucyate mocayet parān ||
(Tantrāloka 13.185)  

“By indifference toward them, one is liberated — and liberates others.”

There is no balancing act here. No claim that siddhi and discernment are equal fruits. Siddhis may arise; they do not define the state. Viveka — clear seeing — is the axis. Without it, power intoxicates. With it, power becomes irrelevant.

In this light, siddhi is not rejected — it is relativized. It confirms that practice has begun to work, but it does not settle the question of realization. To mistake it for proof is to stop at the first wall and call the gate crossed.

Abhinavagupta on the Guru: Knowledge Above Power

The same clarity that orders siddhi beneath viveka also governs Abhinavagupta’s teaching on the choice of guru. Here again, the tradition refuses spectacle and insists on orientation.

In Tantrāloka 13, Abhinava addresses a seeker who desires bhoga, mokṣa, and vijñāna — enjoyment, liberation, and knowledge — and begins with an ideal that is immediately qualified:

yastu bhogaṃ ca mokṣaṃ ca vāñched vijñānameva ca |
svabhyastajñāninaṃ yogasiddhaṃ sa gurumāśrayet ||
“One who desires enjoyment, liberation, and knowledge should take refuge in a yogasiddha who is also a knower with cultivated understanding.”  (Tantrāloka 13.338)   

This is not a celebration of power. Jayaratha is careful to note that yogasiddha here does not mean a mere holder of attainments. Such a one is assumed to possess svabhyasta-jñāna — knowledge that has been practiced, digested, and integrated. Siddhi alone is never sufficient.

But Abhinava immediately moves to the more common — and more revealing — situation: what if such a guru is not available?

His answer is unambiguous:

tadabhāve tu vijñānamokṣayor jñāninaṃ śrayet |  

“In the absence of such a one, one should take refuge in a knower, for the sake of knowledge and liberation.”

Power yields priority to understanding. If forced to choose, Abhinava does not hesitate.

Even when addressing the seeker whose aim is bhoga, the tone remains precise and limited:

bhuktyaṃśe yoginaṃ yastatphalaṃ dātuṃ bhavet kṣamaḥ ||

(Tantrāloka 13.339)

“For the aspect of enjoyment, one may rely on a yogin capable of granting that result.”

Jayaratha adds the crucial restriction: such reliance is functional and partial, not existential. The yogin who grants fruits stands in an intermediate and limited position. He is not the axis of liberation.

Abhinava then draws the line clearly:

phaladānākṣame yoginy upāyaikopadeśini |

varaṃ jñānī yo’bhyupāyaṃ diśed api ca mocayet ||

(Tantrāloka 13.340)

“If a yogin is incapable of granting results and merely teaches methods,

it is better to choose a knower who teaches the means and liberates.”

This is not subtle. A yogin without fruit is dispensable. A knower who can orient the path is not.

The final blow to hierarchy comes next. Anticipating the objection — what if no single knower is complete? — Abhinava answers with a statement that quietly dismantles guru absolutism:

jñānī na pūrṇa evaiko yadi hy aṃśāṃśikākramāt |

jñānāny ādāya vijñānaṃ kurvītākhaṇḍamaṇḍalam ||

(Tantrāloka 13.341)

“If a single knower is not complete,

one should take fragments of knowledge step by step

and form an unbroken whole of understanding.”

 

Jayaratha makes the implication explicit: one may take many gurus, without fault, to complete one’s own awareness. There is no injunction to surrender sovereignty to a single figure. Completion is internal.

Abhinava closes this section with restraint, not promise:

dhanyastu pūrṇavijñānaṃ jñānārthī labhate gurum ||

(Tantrāloka 13.342)

“Blessed indeed is the seeker of knowledge who attains a guru of complete realization.”

Such a guru exists — but is rare, not guaranteed, and never self-advertised.

Here again, the hierarchy is consistent:

• Siddhi does not authorize.

• Charisma does not crown.

• Knowledge orients.

• Discernment liberates.

What liberates is not the power one displays, but the clarity one transmits — and even that, Abhinava insists, must ultimately be assembled within oneself.

Ramana Maharshi: When Power Falls Silent

If Abhinavagupta clarifies the place of siddhi through hierarchy and discernment, Ramana Maharshi approaches the same territory from the opposite direction — by withdrawing all interest from it.

He does not argue against siddhis.
He simply does not stand where they matter.

When asked directly about occult powers, Ramana consistently returns to a single axis: what belongs to the mind cannot testify to the Self.

“The occult powers (siddhis) are therefore only in the mind.
They are not natural to the Self.
That which is not natural, but acquired, cannot be permanent, and is not worth striving for.”
(Talks with Ramana Maharshi)

This is not an ethical judgment. It is an ontological one.
What is acquired arises in time; what arises in time will pass. The Self, being prior to time, cannot be verified by anything that appears within it.

Ramana often reduced even the most dazzling siddhis to a simple analogy:

“Telepathy or radio enables one to see and hear from afar…
Whether one hears nearer or farther makes no difference.
They are all the same — functions of the mind.”
(Talks with Ramana Maharshi)

Here, extraordinary perception is flattened back into extension, not realization. Seeing farther is still seeing. Hearing subtler is still hearing. None of it crosses the decisive threshold.

When pressed on what, then, should be considered real siddhi, Ramana answered without ambiguity:

“Which is the real power?
Is it to increase prosperity or bring about peace?
That which results in peace is the highest perfection (siddhi).”
(Talks with Ramana Maharshi)

This statement quietly overturns the entire economy of spiritual power. Siddhi is no longer something that adds to the person. It is what remains when the person no longer demands addition.

Ramana was also keenly aware of the psychological intoxication that siddhis invite. He did not romanticize the desire for power; he diagnosed it:

“The desire for siddhis is an obstacle.
The one who wants to show powers wants appreciation.
Where appreciation is sought, peace is lost.”
(Talks with Ramana Maharshi)

Here again, the problem is not the appearance of unusual capacities, but the movement of self-validation that accompanies them. Power becomes proof only when something inside still needs to be proven.

At times, Ramana acknowledged that siddhis may indeed arise around realization — but he drew a line that echoes Abhinavagupta with uncanny precision:

“Self-realization may or may not be accompanied by siddhis.
If one had sought them earlier, they may come.
If one sought only the Self, they may not.
In either case, the realized one is not deluded by them.”
(Talks with Ramana Maharshi)

The criterion is the same: indifference. Not suppression. Not display. Simply non-interest.

In Ramana’s presence, siddhi loses its glamour not because it is false, but because it is irrelevant. What matters is not what consciousness can do, but where it rests.

This is why Ramana could say — without drama, without hierarchy, without lineage —

“Abidance in the Self is the only miracle.”
(Sat Darshana Bhasya and Talks with Maharshi)

Nothing else needs to be denied.
Nothing else needs to be crowned.

After the Gate

Power appears.
Power fades.

Discernment remains — or it does not.

The traditions examined here do not deny siddhi, nor do they fear it. They simply refuse to kneel before it. What appears along the path is taken as a sign of movement, not as a crown. What dazzles is allowed to pass. What intoxicates is not trusted.

Abhinavagupta placed siddhi beneath viveka without apology. Jayaratha made sure no one could mistake play for realization. Ramana went further still, letting power fall away by silence alone.

None of them offered consolation to the ego. None promised recognition. None built a throne where a mirror would suffice.

Dhumāvatī stands here — not as doctrine, not as consolation, not as reward. She appears when all ornaments have been stripped away, when even clarity is no longer claimed as “mine.” Where siddhi has lost its shine, where knowledge no longer seeks confirmation, where the last impulse to prove has burned itself out.

What remains is not mastery.
It is not authority.
It is not transmission in the conventional sense.

It is a quiet refusal to add anything further.

Those who need power will continue to seek it.
Those who need proof will continue to collect it.
Those who need teachers will continue to enthrone them.

But for one who has crossed the gate — or failed to cross and stopped pretending — even liberation ceases to be an achievement.

The widow does not bless.
She does not withhold.
She does not testify.

She leaves you exactly where you are —
with nothing left to display,
nothing left to defend,
and no one left to convince.

That is the last gate.