Kṣepa is the projection of consciousness—through which possibility takes form; motion is the kinetic force of that projection—the gradual evolution of consciousness; saṅkhyāna is the self-regulation of this motion, where consciousness measures itself to give shape to perception; śabda is that inner expression which reflects as sound and meaning of consciousness; and jñāna is the synthesis of all these activities—the soul’s recognition of itself. Through the combination of these five kalanas, Kālī manifests as the inherent cosmic activity of consciousness—where creation and dissolution, manifestation and withdrawal, extroversion and introversion—all become the supreme dance of the same consciousness.
Thus Kālī is the center of Krama philosophy: she is the integrated form of śakti and consciousness, the heartbeat of time, who plays an unbroken symphony of self-revelation through all sequences. In her, reality becomes dynamic; in her, time becomes conscious; and in her, every moment transforms into the supreme dance of eternal presence.
When the word “Kālī” is used in the plural as “kālikā,” its significance expands from the singular divine form of Kālī to multiple layers of consciousness. The “kālikās” are not separate deities, but rather different levels of the supreme consciousness’s self-manifestation—symbols of consciousness revealing itself in various forms at specific levels of reality. Each kālikā is a field of manifestation of the supreme being—where infinite unity reflects itself within apparent multiplicity. But all these kālikās are never separated from their fundamental principle; they are all inner expressions of that one supreme efficacy, that self-impelled creative activity of consciousness, which develops itself in various forms from the intentional impulse within itself. Thus Kālī is never a static being, but rather a totality of active śakti—activity, contemplation, projection, liberation, withdrawal, calculation and knowledge within consciousness—all woven together as one supreme principle of action.
The Śaivāṣṭaka-kośa expresses this doctrine in a profound and concise statement—”Kālī devours the universe and creates it anew; therefore she is the supreme śakti.” This statement describes Kālī as that creative śakti who, on one hand, dissolves the world into herself, and on the other hand, creates anew from that very dissolution. Her creativity is not bound by any external law; though she creates order, she herself is not controlled by any order. Her action is free (svatantrā), spontaneous, and self-determined. Therefore it can be said—Kālī is the agent of kalana, she is the presiding deity of kalana-sovereignty—through whom the activity of consciousness manifests as the world.
Kṣepa, that is projection, is the first outward movement of Kālī-consciousness—through which supreme consciousness expands its inherent potential in the form of knower, known, and means of knowing. This kṣepa itself is the beginning of the world. Inconceivable consciousness, which is itself one, casts itself into the stream of perception, as if seeing its own reflection. Thus at one moment it is the knower, the next moment the known, and in the third moment the unity of both. In this self-projection itself arises time, because within each manifestation lies a stream of sequence and succession. Therefore kṣepa is that action of consciousness which disperses its own inconceivable unity into the stream of experience—entering into the dance of self-knowledge.
From this projection of consciousness arise jñāna and saṅkhyāna—two inseparable streams. Jñāna here does not mean factual knowledge; rather it is that self-reflective consciousness which knows and is known simultaneously. It is such an understanding where subject and object, knowing and the known, agent and action—all merge into one infinite unity. And saṅkhyāna is that determinative power of consciousness—which gives limited form to infinite possibility. Saṅkhyāna means counting, determining difference, establishing boundaries. Through these boundaries arises conception—”this is this” and “this is not that.” Within this domain of knowledge is formed—what philosophically is called apoha or vikalpa—that is, to understand any object, rejecting what it is not. Excluding the notion of agent from object, or excluding the sensation of object from agent—through this process consciousness makes the world meaningful. Reality then becomes apparently separate, but that separation is itself the manifestation of fundamental unity.
Kramapantha understands the evolution of consciousness not as a sudden “leap,” but as a continuous self-unfoldment—like a well-choreographed dance performance, where each movement, each gesture carries its own distinct note and significance. Each pulsation of this continuity is called “kālikā”—that is, each phase of consciousness’s self-manifestation. Sometimes they are counted as twelve, sometimes as sixteen; but whatever the number, the fundamental understanding remains the same—all kālikās are the continuous manifestation and withdrawal of one supreme consciousness.
The creative process of consciousness or the sequential stages of self-manifestation—how from one limitless, undivided unity gradually forms the world of multiplicity, forms, names and actions, this journey begins in “inconceivable unity”—this is that primordial state where consciousness has not yet manifested itself. Here Śiva-consciousness is supremely silent, undivided, limitless—like an ocean in stillness, in whose depths infinite possibility lies hidden, but no wave has yet risen. This very silence is the quiet radiance of Mahākālī—where the seed of creation rests silently in dormancy.
Then occurs “unmeṣa,” that is, the first awakening of consciousness. This is that moment when the silence of inconceivable unity begins to become aware of its own existence. As if light itself realizes, “I am.” This is the beginning of self-reflection—Śiva’s waveless consciousness now stirs as śakti. The first wave awakens in the great void; this is the subtlest pulse of creation.
Along with this self-consciousness comes “kṣepa,” that is, the projection of self-manifestation. Consciousness turns itself outward, scattering its inherent śaktis into countless impressions or concepts. At this stage Mahāśakti begins to manifest herself—tattvas, forms, qualities, bhavas—all possibilities rise from the depths of the unconscious, but they are still unorganized.
When Mahāśakti (that is, the dynamic śakti of supreme consciousness) begins her manifestation, she awakens the possibilities of creation one by one, but at that stage they are still not “formed” or “determined”; they still remain in a kind of primordial potential state.
That is, just as an artist sitting down to paint first experiences only the feeling of colors and lines—the picture is not yet created, but all its elements are being born in the mind—similarly in the depths of consciousness tattvas (fundamental elements of existence), forms (possibilities of shape), qualities (characteristics of nature), bhavas (mental reactions of consciousness)—everything still remains only in a potential state.
This is such a level where creation has not yet organized itself, but all its seeds have awakened. Therefore it is said that Mahāśakti then begins to draw her inherent possibilities from the depths of the unconscious—as if the first light flashes in the great void, but that light has not yet taken form.
In this state consciousness knows that it is about to manifest—everything is ready to be born—but no specific form, name, or action has yet been formed. This is the moment of the awakening of infinite possibility, where creation is merely an “inner intuition”—an unformed but awakened possibility.
Then begins “saṅkhyāna,” that is, the arrangement, classification and relationship-establishment of these impressions. Consciousness now begins to organize its inner possibilities to form the world. At this stage are formed tattvas—the fundamental levels of existence, guṇas—the attributes of nature, and śaktis—the force-momentum through which everything operates. From this saṅkhyāna process arise names—conceptual identities, forms—visible shapes, and karma—the dynamics of cause-effect relationships.
That is, where unmeṣa was the awakening of self-consciousness, kṣepa was the projection of creation, and saṅkhyāna is the arrangement of that creation—where multiplicity becomes fully visible for the first time.
Thus consciousness emerges from its limitless unity, gives shape to its possibilities, and forms a living, meaningful, relationship-filled world. Within these stages lies a profound doctrine: the purpose of creation is not any division, but rather self-expansion in countless forms of itself—so that supreme unity can recognize itself in multiform, and finally return from that multiplicity to unity again.
The intermediate phase of consciousness—where it becomes completely absorbed in the play of its own creation, but within that absorption gradually loses its fundamental sense of unity. This can be called the stage of consciousness’s “self-expansion and self-forgetfulness.”
First, when name-form-action (that is, names of thought, visible forms and karma or function) become active, consciousness fully enters the world of creation. Now each experience seems separate—some beautiful, some ugly; some pleasant, some unpleasant. Consciousness is now absorbed in rasāsvāda—that is, experiencing joy, sorrow, good, evil, justice, injustice. This is the evaluative stage of consciousness, where it begins to judge its manifested world by various standards.
At this stage vimarśa becomes deeper. “Vimarśa” means self-reflection—consciousness is now observing its own activities, its own world. As it creates, it also experiences the reaction to that creation. This is like an inner vision, where consciousness gradually begins to understand—”This is my own līlā, my own play.”
But the more intense this līlā becomes—that is, the more intimate and attractive name, form, action become—the more consciousness forgets its real unity. It now becomes completely a “participant”; being a “witness” is lost. In this state arises āvaraṇa—ignorance’s fog settles over consciousness’s radiance.
Tantraśāstra explains two forms of this āvaraṇa—
Mala: This is the stain of the subtle “I” sense, which clouds consciousness’s transparent radiance. In this, humans think—”I am the doer, I am the experiencer, I am separate.”
Kañcuka: These are the coverings of limitation that fall over consciousness—such as kāla (time), deśa (space), niyati (causality), vidyā (limited knowledge), rāga (attachment) etc. These veils constrict consciousness’s infinitude.
Thus consciousness gradually begins to experience itself as a “limited being”—one who thinks “I am separate,” “I have happiness and sorrow,” “I was born, I will die,” “I can do, and again I cannot.”
But here itself a new process begins. Within this contraction arises separation-pain—that is, the suffering of disconnection from one’s source, and the thirst for seeking—that is, the desire to return to that source. When consciousness gains full experience of limitation, naturally from within it arise questions—”Who am I?”, “Where is the source of all this?”—this very questioning is the seed of return.
Joy, enjoyment, evaluation and bewilderment in consciousness’s journey are no defects; they are indispensable stages. Because, through this immersion consciousness recognizes its own limits, and from within the limits begins its search for the infinite. From here begins the process of return—which ultimately leads toward self-recognition, or pratyabhijñā.
The return phase of consciousness’s journey—that is, when consciousness, after a long līlā, returns to its source or true nature. This is a kind of inward flow, where all the outward movement of creation gradually dissolves into its own center.