3.1.3. Mantras, Tantras and Deities

“Jesus said, ‘I shall give you what no eye has seen and what no ear has heard and what no hand has touched and what has never occurred to the human mind.’”
— Gospel of Thomas, Logion 17

As we venture further into Citrinitas, the terrain grows subtler, shimmering with forms that seem half-dream, half-embodied truth. In this chapter, I wish to share some reflections on mantras, tantras, and the deities of the subtle body. These teachings stand at the threshold where ordinary perception begins to fracture, offering glimpses into the hidden architecture of mind and reality—a delicate terrain where words prove fragile and experience itself becomes scripture.

There are many pathways that lead toward realisation, often gathered under the broad name of yoga—meaning union, or more precisely, the yoking of the mind. This implies a certain taming, binding, or steady guiding of our otherwise restless awareness.

The Buddha’s own counsel, found repeatedly in the suttas, is first to cultivate tranquility (samatha), stabilising the mind through calm, and then to apply insight (vipassanā) to see through delusion. Yet we are very different people than those of two and a half millennia ago. Modern seekers often arrive already laden with intellectual discernment—minds trained to dissect many questions long before setting foot on a cushion.

It is indeed possible to advance with only modest tranquility skills. One must at least taste jhāna, even if stabilisation remains elusive. This path of “bare insight” is not easier—if anything, it is equally rigorous, demanding an internal reasoning that dissects one’s assumptions about self and world until they dissolve. For now, however, I wish to remain with tranquility practice, which will carry us naturally into these stranger waters.

Tranquility fosters a luminous concentration called samādhi. I have come to see that “concentration” is somewhat misleading. It might suggest a strained effort, a furrowing of the brow, a tightening around the object. But we are not cultivating the meditator—we are cultivating the meditation itself. Effort lies not in tensing the mind, but in granting this practice mental exclusivity, allowing it to become the sole occupation of awareness.

To accomplish this, meditators employ various objects of focus—physical disks or elemental symbols known as kasina. These initial outer supports gradually give rise to an inner counterpart called the “learning sign,” which then refines into the “counterpart sign,” a vivid mental replica. With careful nurturing, these signs mature through increasingly subtle stages, allowing the practitioner to reach up to the fifth jhāna.

There are ten traditional kasinas:

• Five elemental: earth, water, fire, air, and space
• Five colour-based: blue, yellow, red, white, and bright light

For those intent on cultivating psychic powers, mastery of these kasina practices is essential, typically requiring facility in moving among jhānas and transitioning from one kasina to another. Yet caution is grave here: without the wisdom of an arahant, such powers can easily entangle one in fresh karmic entanglements. It may be wiser to wait until the work of liberation is secure.

Mantras serve a parallel function. They act as mental anchors, guiding the mind back again and again to a single point. Unlike kasinas, they primarily engage the verbal stream. A mantra may be as simple as repeating a single word—“Bodhi,” for instance—or it may involve elaborate passages from scripture, such as those found in the Śūraṅgama Sūtra. Sometimes it is less about words than about internal recitation: tracing the very structure of our being.

In reciting mantras or visualising kasinas, we repeatedly return awareness to one slim slice of subjective reality. For some, this is anatomical—charting channels (nāḍī), winds (prāṇa), and drops (bindu). For others, these same structures become adorned with divine names, transformed into living deities and their consorts.

Eventually, both mantra and kasina slip from mental grasp. They reveal themselves as mere appearances, dissolving into the clear light of mind. This occurs as the subtle winds that underlie speech grow still, drawing inward into the central channel. Normally, though arising from this core conduit, these winds scatter outward, carried by impulses that give rise to thoughts, words, and distractions. When they finally gather and settle, the gate to Dharmakāya—the mind of pure, unborn awareness—opens.

Yet here lies a paradox: one cannot approach Dharmakāya through desire. The very wish to attain it generates mental ripples that obscure the clear light. It emerges on its own, through either profound tranquility or heroic insight practice—both routes equally marvellous in their revelations.

One such tranquility method involves mapping the subtle body: the winds, channels, and drops. Winds animate the subtle anatomy and correlate with syllables that can stir or pacify them. Traditionally there are ten winds—five primary, five secondary—coursing through a vast web of channels converging at chakras, like wheels within the body. Bindus represent concentrated points where consciousness divides into subject and object, manifesting different states: waking, dreaming, deep sleep, or tantric union (whether with a real or imagined consort).

The astonishing premise is that this subtle architecture—the Vajra Body, diamond-like and indestructible—is fundamentally no different from the Buddha’s own body, speech, and mind. When purified, the channels express the Buddha Body, the winds give rise to Buddha Speech (not ordinary words but a luminous telepathy), and the bindus, when stabilised, reveal the fully awakened mind.

Tantra means continuum. It refers both to the seamless nature of reality—undivided, flowing—and to the array of techniques that cultivate and purify this subtle system. In truth, tantra is less a doctrine than an experiential unveiling of reality’s intrinsic unity.

I will explore this subtle body more thoroughly in the Dharma section to come. For now, consider these reflections a small taste—a flavour offered humbly by one who is far from mastery, sharing only glimpses of a terrain that is mostly passed from teacher to student, heart to heart.

Thus we glimpse how the simple acts of chanting a mantra, visualising an element, or contemplating a deity are far more than quaint rituals. They are skilful means to stabilise the mind, open the heart, and gently unveil the luminous continuum underlying all appearances. In time, even these forms dissolve, yielding to the clear light of a reality that was never separate.

This text is excerpted from the upcoming book Citrinitas: A Course in Modern Alchemy. The complete volume will include additional study guides, glossaries, and extended teachings. Learn more about the book here.