In the story of Nanda’s spiritual journey, we learn how the Buddha motivated him to remain in the monastic life by promising him the reward of 500 celestial maidens. This is often presented as a skillful means — a way to encourage a lustful young man to pursue spiritual training.

This story took place centuries before later religions began teaching similar heavenly rewards. However, the cultural context of ancient India was very different. Society at that time generally did not regard lust as something worthy of admiration or veneration.

Why was that so?

Nature itself is full of lustful behaviour, and ordinary laypeople already indulged in sensual pleasures. Because of this, lust was not considered special or spiritually elevated. In fact, when the Four Heavenly Kings — the lowest class of divine beings — visited the Buddha, they shared that spirits who opposed the Five Moral Precepts were ostracised.

In short, a person who could restrain lust and transcend sensual desire was regarded as holy and therefore worthy of honour and offerings. Such a person was called an Arhat — one completely freed from impurities and deserving of veneration. Why? Because freedom from craving was seen as a divine quality.

Unlike the Brahmins, who inherited religious status through caste and birth, the Buddha’s order belonged to the Śramaṇa movement. These were people who voluntarily pursued purity and spirituality outside the caste system. A person became worthy of honour not because of birth, but because he lived a life of renunciation, discipline, and spiritual practice.

This social context is important to understand.

From this perspective, Nanda’s motivation was considered shameful. Therefore, we see the Buddha immediately “conspiring” with the Sangha to humble and embarrass Nanda. Here was a man torn between lust and ego. As a Shakyan prince raised to value honour and bravery, personal dignity and family reputation were deeply important to him.

What we should notice is that the Buddha did not allow lust to take root in Nanda’s mind. He did not allow Nanda to cling permanently to the fantasy of gaining 500 celestial maidens.

In summary, the Śramaṇa order upon which the Buddha founded his dispensation did not celebrate lust or sensual desire. A person was considered spiritually noble only insofar as he transcended desire.

However, the opposite extreme also existed. Some ascetics pursued severe austerities in order to gain respect, veneration, and offerings. Certain sects advocated living like dogs, extreme fasting, sleeping on beds of nails, or going naked as demonstrations of holiness. Buddhism, by contrast, presented itself as a Middle Path.

So what was the fulcrum point of that Middle Path?

For monks and nuns, the answer is quite clear. The Vinaya contains hundreds of precepts, including celibacy. There is no ambiguity about this.

So where does Tantra — with all its sexual imagery — enter the picture?

In Tantra, we encounter a very different approach to Buddhism. Instead of shame and restraint, as seen in Nanda’s story, we find sacred art depicting spiritual couples in sexual union. Practitioners may even visualise these images during meditation. To an outsider, this can resemble meditating upon pornography.

At this point, we are faced with two possibilities: either we reject such traditions as heretical, or we interpret them as later skillful adaptations developed for a changing world.

By that later period, societies had evolved. Lust and sexuality were increasingly viewed as natural expressions of divine energy because they brought fertility, renewal, and repopulation after periods of war and calamity. Instead of condemning desire as ordinary and spiritually inferior, many cultures began celebrating fertility and procreation.

Trying to teach strict celibacy to such people would have been like trying to sell coal to a burning village.

During my first lesson on Tantra, my teacher shared a story about a king who openly told the Buddha that he wished to attain enlightenment — but only if he could do so without becoming celibate or renouncing worldly pleasures.

Again, we see a shift in social expectations.

During the Buddha’s time, becoming a monk was considered highly honourable. We even read about Shakyan noble families feeling social pressure to send at least one son into the Buddha’s monastic order. Spiritual life and monastic life were almost inseparable.

But in this later tantric story, we see a powerful king wanting spiritual attainment while still retaining the enjoyment of palace life and concubines.

This leads to an important question: Is Tantric Buddhism valid, or is it a corrupted form of Buddhism?

Historically, tantric teachings were secretive and restricted. Ordinary people were not supposed to discuss or access them freely. By modern standards, such secrecy can appear cult-like.

This is why knowledge of the Pali Canon is important. Without a doctrinal foundation, it becomes difficult to determine whether one is truly practicing Buddhism or merely engaging in ritualism and mysticism.

From this perspective, tantric methods may be understood as skillful means — provided they do not contradict the Four Noble Truths. The ultimate goal must still be Nirvana, which means the ending of greed, hatred, and ignorance.

If a teacher does not eventually guide students toward the reduction of greed, hatred, and delusion, then something has gone wrong.

Here lies the next difficulty.

In Nanda’s story, the Buddha was able to shatter Nanda’s lustful attachment relatively quickly. But tantric teachers may not have that luxury. A teacher may initially work with a student’s desires — wealth, attractiveness, power, fame, protection, or worldly success. Tantric Buddhism contains many rituals aimed at fulfilling various desires, even rituals associated with overcoming enemies.

But that is only phase one.

Phase two is far more important: eventually dismantling the very desires that brought the student to the path in the first place — just as the Buddha eventually dismantled Nanda’s attachment.

The problem today is that many people never stay long enough for phase two to occur. As a result, modern Tantra can easily become reduced to a kind of spiritual consumerism or shamanic experience, where one visits a lama merely to fulfil worldly desires.

However, if one remains long enough with a qualified teacher, one may eventually discover that authentic Vajrayana still contains the original intention of the Dharma hidden within its structure. Over time, the practitioner is gradually guided back toward renunciation, discipline, and purity.

In my own youthful clubbing days, I was deeply attracted to tantric imagery, wrathful deities, and the promise of power and intensity. Yet buried within the ritual complexity of Vajrayana were constant messages about purity and transformation — almost like bitter medicine coated with candy.

Even so, traditional Chinese Mahayana Buddhism has long maintained warnings about Tantra — warnings we hear less often today because modern religious culture prefers to “play nice.” During the 1980s, there were still strong cautions against becoming obsessed with the outer appearance of Tantra while neglecting its spiritual purpose.

I believe those warnings remain important.

Returning to the earlier story about spirits opposing the Dharma, the Four Heavenly Kings informed the Buddha that certain beings actively attempted to mislead practitioners away from the path.

In esoteric Buddhism, there are also many stories of practitioners receiving visions, dreams, revelations, or instructions from spiritual beings. Some practitioners may experience subtle impressions or inner messages during meditation themselves. Without proper grounding in Dharma, it is easy to become confused.

The baseline must always be the precepts.

According to the Pali Canon, only fallen devas or corrupted spirits celebrate intoxicants such as wine and liquor. People are often drawn to such beings because they appear to grant wishes quickly and effectively, regardless of moral consequences. This creates the illusion that they are powerful and compassionate.

So one buys expensive alcohol as offerings to these entities. Then what happens afterward? Do we throw the alcohol away? Use it for cooking? Drink it ourselves because “a little wine is healthy”?

This is how the basic precepts slowly erode.

Then another difficult question arises: are you truly worshipping a Buddhist deity, or something else entirely?

From the perspective of early Buddhist iconography, many wrathful forms would likely have been classified as yakṣas or powerful spirits. If the Buddha originally subdued such beings, why are practitioners now venerating them? Where exactly is the fulcrum point?

I am not saying that all wrathful imagery is evil. The important issue lies within the practitioner’s own mind.

We must honestly ask ourselves: do we view these protectors as aids toward enlightenment, or merely as spiritual bodyguards who protect our worldly interests? Are we truly practicing to reduce greed, hatred, and ignorance?

If those defilements are already diminishing, why do we remain psychologically dependent on bargaining with supernatural beings for favours?

And if these protectors are genuinely enlightened manifestations, would they not rejoice when we finally outgrow our attachment to offerings, transactions, and worldly desires?

So the real question is this:

Are we still trapped in part one of Nanda’s story, or have we slowly begun moving toward part two?

That is what a sincere practitioner should ultimately be concerned about.

May all be well and happy.