This is not a “self-help” book in disguise. It doesn’t do affirmations, doesn’t whisper platitudes, and absolutely refuses to sell enlightenment in ten easy steps. This is a book that looks you in the eye and says: ‘you don’t need to feel better; you need to see clearer’.
And then it proceeds to dismantle you internally—neatly assembled beliefs, borrowed ideas, borowed mysticism—and leaves you sitting on the floor with something far more dangerous: questions.
At its core, ‘Adhyatmikta’ is about ‘‘inner sovereignty’’. Not spirituality as lifestyle branding, but spirituality as confrontation.
Nandy writes as someone rooted deeply in ‘‘Tantric sadhana’’, yet rigorously conversant with the ‘‘Vedic’’, ‘‘Upanishadic’’, and ‘‘Gitaic’’ traditions.
What emerges is not synthesis for the sake of harmony, but a charged dialogue—sometimes affectionate, sometimes adversarial—between paths that all point inward but refuse to walk politely side by side.
The book opens with a demolition job. Modern spirituality, Nandy argues, has been declawed. It wants transcendence without terror, bliss without discipline, awakening without responsibility.
Against this soft-focus spirituality, he places the old, uncomfortable idea of ‘adhyatmikta’—that which concerns the ‘‘adhyatma’’, the innermost principle, the Self that is not ego, not mind, not even personality.
This is straight out of the Upanishads, where the Self is described not as comforting but as vertiginous: “नायमात्मा प्रवचनेन लभ्यो न मेधया न बहुना श्रुतेन” -- ‘This Self is not attained by discourse, nor by intellect, nor by much hearing’: ‘Katha Upanishad’
Nandy leans heavily on this refusal of easy access. You cannot think your way into realization. You cannot read your way into liberation. And—this stings a bit—you cannot outsource it to a guru without doing the work yourself.
What makes this book compelling is its ‘‘Tantric spine’’. Tantra here is not exoticized, eroticized, or reduced to shock value. Instead, it is presented as a brutally honest spiritual technology—one that does not reject the world, but also does not romanticize it.
Tantra accepts desire, fear, rage, longing, and death as legitimate materials of sadhana. This aligns with the famous Tantric maxim:
“यत्र विषं तत्र औषधम्” -- ‘Where there is poison, there is also medicine’
Nandy repeatedly returns to this idea: the very forces that bind us are the forces that can liberate us, if approached with awareness and discipline. This is a radical departure from the sanitised Vedanta-lite often peddled today, and yet—here’s the twist—it doesn’t contradict the Vedas at all.
In fact, the Rig Veda itself is far more ambivalent, mysterious, and non-linear than it is usually credited for being. Consider the Nasadiya Sukta:
“को अद्धा वेद क इह प्रवोचत्… अर्वाग्देवा अस्य विसर्जनेन” -- ‘Who truly knows? Who can here declare it? Even the gods came later’: ‘Rig Veda 10.129’
This cosmic uncertainty, this refusal to nail reality down into a neat doctrine, is something Nandy seems deeply aligned with. ‘Adhyatmikta’ resists conclusions. It circles, probes, retreats, and advances again. It’s less a staircase than a spiral.
The ‘‘Bhagavad Gita’’ looms large throughout the book, not as a text to be quoted reverentially, but as a battlefield manual for inner war. Nandy reads the Gita not as moral instruction but as existential strategy.
Krishna’s insistence on ‘karma yoga’—action without attachment—is framed not as ethical cleanliness, but as psychological necessity. One cannot withdraw from life without becoming spiritually anaemic. As Krishna says:
“न कर्मणामनारम्भान्नैष्कर्म्यं पुरुषोऽश्नुते” -- ‘Not by abstaining from action does one attain freedom from action’: ‘Gita 3.4’
This resonates strongly with Nandy’s critique of escapist spirituality. Retreats, renunciation aesthetics, and monk cosplay mean nothing if the inner compulsions remain untouched. The real renunciation is not of action, but of ‘avidya’—misrecognition of the Self.
One of the most striking aspects of ‘Adhyatmikta’ is its ‘‘psychological sharpness’’. Nandy is acutely aware of how the ego hijacks spiritual language. The “spiritual ego” becomes subtler, more insidious, harder to uproot.
One is no longer proud of wealth or status, but of detachment, insight, lineage. This is where his Tantric grounding shows real teeth.
Tantra, after all, is suspicious of purity narratives. It knows how easily they curdle into hypocrisy.
This suspicion finds a strange echo in Shakespeare, who—unexpectedly—fits into this conversation with eerie precision. When Hamlet says, “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy’,” he is gesturing toward the same epistemic humility that the Upanishads insist upon. Knowledge, whether philosophical or spiritual, is always partial.
To mistake the map for the territory is the oldest human error.
Nandy’s prose, while largely non-literary, carries moments of sharp, almost aphoristic clarity. He does not indulge in poetic excess, but when the hammer falls, it falls cleanly.
His engagement with ‘‘Shakti’’ is particularly notable. Shakti here is not a metaphor, not empowerment jargon, but a living, destabilising force. In classical Tantra, Shakti is both creative and destructive, nourishing and terrifying.
The Devi Mahatmya’s vision of the Goddess—slaying demons while laughing—hovers in the background, reminding us that spiritual power is not always gentle.
This connects beautifully with the Gita’s Vishvarupa episode, where Arjuna beholds Krishna’s cosmic form: “कालोऽस्मि लोकक्षयकृत् प्रवृद्धः” -- ‘I am Time, the destroyer of worlds’: ‘Gita 11.32’
Nandy understands that any authentic spirituality must come to terms with this aspect of the divine—not just as love, but as annihilation. Growth involves death. Transformation involves loss.
There is no spiritual evolution without the dissolution of cherished self-images.
What makes ‘Adhyatmikta’ particularly relevant today is its refusal to separate spirituality from ‘‘power’’. Nandy does not shy away from discussing lineage, authority, initiation, and discipline—topics often avoided in favour of vague universalism.
Tantra, historically, has always been embedded in structures of transmission. Knowledge is not merely information; it is ‘earned’, ‘tested’, ‘guarded’. This is uncomfortable for modern sensibilities that equate access with entitlement.
But as the Mundaka Upanishad reminds us: “परीक्ष्य लोकान् कर्मचितान् ब्राह्मणो निर्वेदमायात्” -- ‘Having examined the worlds gained by action, the wise one develops dispassion’
Dispassion here is not boredom, but clarity—a recognition of limits.
If there is a quiet polemic running through the book, it is against ‘‘spiritual consumerism’’. Workshops, certifications, influencer-gurus, algorithm-friendly enlightenment—Nandy wants none of it.
Spirituality, he insists, is not scalable. It does not care about reach or relatability. It cares about readiness. This might sound elitist to some, but the Vedic tradition has never pretended otherwise.
Even the Gayatri Mantra is framed as an invocation requiring ‘adhikara’—eligibility, preparation, seriousness.
Shakespeare again offers an accidental parallel. In ‘King Lear’, suffering strips Lear of his illusions of power and identity until he is reduced to something raw and human. “‘I am a man more sinn’d against than sinning’,” he says, standing in the storm.
That storm is not unlike the inner turbulence Tantra deliberately invokes—not to break the seeker, but to burn away false coverings.
By the time one reaches the latter portions of ‘Adhyatmikta’, it becomes clear that this is not a book meant to be “finished.” It is meant to be wrestled with, resisted, returned to. It will irritate readers looking for reassurance.
It will unsettle those accustomed to neat metaphysics. But for readers willing to sit with discomfort, it offers something rare: ‘‘spiritual seriousness without sentimentality’’.
Nandy does not promise liberation. He does not guarantee peace. What he offers is orientation—a compass rather than a destination. In that sense, ‘Adhyatmikta’ feels deeply faithful to the spirit of the Upanishads, which end not with answers but with silence.
Or as the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad says: “नेति नेति” -- ‘Not this, not this’
And maybe that’s the real flex of this book. In a world addicted to certainty, ‘Adhyatmikta’ dares to remain unresolved. It reminds us that spirituality is not about becoming special, serene, or superior—but about becoming ‘‘true’’, even when truth is inconvenient.
Read this book slowly. Argue with it. Disagree loudly. But don’t domesticate it. Because like all real spiritual texts, it doesn’t exist to comfort you.
It exists to change the terms of the conversation.
And yeah—low-key—it succeeds.
Most recommended.