In the heart of South India, Arunachalam Rajasekaran was born on 1 January 1978 in Tamil Nadu. Few could have predicted that this boy—later to be known as Swami Nithyananda, would one day claim to found his own country, trick global officials, and become the face of one of the most bizarre spiritual scams of the 21st century.
Nithyananda’s early life, as recounted by his own hand, is shrouded in myth. He claims to have experienced “divine enlightenment” at age 10 while meditating on Arunachala Hill. By 17, following his guru’s death, he left home to pursue a path as a spiritual teacher. He quickly gained a following across India and abroad, presenting himself as a yoga and meditation master fluent in English. By the early 2000s, Nithyananda had established a network of ashrams and meditation centers worldwide, with his headquarters in Bidadi, Karnataka.
But alongside his rise, the first cracks in his carefully curated image began to show.
Nithyananda’s empire was rocked by a series of scandals that would have ended most careers. In 2010, a video surfaced allegedly showing him in a compromising situation with a Tamil actress. Both parties denied its authenticity, but forensic analysis later confirmed the footage was genuine.
The video was just the tip of the iceberg. Over the years, Nithyananda was accused of sexual assault, rape, child abuse, and illegal confinement at his ashrams. Multiple women accused him of sexual crimes under the guise of “ritual purification.” Some claimed they were forced to sign non-disclosure agreements. In 2014, a 24-year-old devotee died at one of his ashrams; her mother accused the organization of torture and murder.
Despite mounting criminal cases, Nithyananda’s support base remained strong, with thousands continuing to flock to his events. His devotees, many from abroad, saw him as a Hindu revivalist persecuted by the Indian state. This narrative of religious victimhood became central to what would come next.
Authorities in India pursued Nithyananda for years, but he repeatedly evaded arrest. In 2018, with the legal net closing in, he vanished. Reports suggest he escaped India via Nepal, using a fake passport, and resurfaced somewhere in the Americas.
In December 2019, the world learned of a new “country”: the United States of Kailasa, or simply “Kailasa country.” Nithyananda announced he had bought an island near Ecuador, establishing a “sovereign Hindu nation” dedicated to reviving Sanatana Dharma—a move modeled after the Vatican for Catholics.
Kailasa country soon had all the trappings of statehood: a flag, constitution, passport, national anthem, currency (the “Kailashian Dollar”), and even a Reserve Bank. Its website promised free e-citizenship to persecuted Hindus worldwide and boasted of a digital university, a TV channel, and its own NGOs.
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But there was a problem: Kailasa had no land, no recognized borders, and no formal diplomatic status. Ecuadorian authorities denied granting asylum or territory to Nithyananda. Indian officials believed he was operating out of the United States, running a sophisticated online operation to attract donations and followers.
While the “country” existed only as a website and a network of social media accounts, the illusion was convincing enough to fool thousands. The promise of spiritual utopia and protection of Hindu interests made Kailasa country an attractive fantasy for some, and a lucrative scam for its architects.
Central to the success of the Kailasa scam was its exploitation of Hindu nationalist sentiment. Nithyananda, by now styling himself as the “Supreme Pontiff,” cleverly positioned Kailasa as the only true sanctuary for Hindus facing “global persecution.”
Through slick propaganda, social media campaigns, and digital outreach, Kailasa country’s message resonated with segments of the global Hindu diaspora. The website claimed over 12 million people applied for e-citizenship. NGOs were set up in the US, UK, and Asia to funnel donations—ostensibly for the cause of Hindu revival, but actually sustaining the operation and its fugitive leader.
The country’s digital infrastructure was formidable: professional websites, AI chatbots, and elaborate promotional materials gave Kailasa an air of legitimacy. Its passport, constitution, and currency—all downloadable—added to the illusion that Kailasa was a real nation.
Kailasa country’s most audacious feats involved deceiving international officials and organizations.
The United Nations Speech:
In February 2023, “Ambassador” Vijayapriya Nithyananda attended a UN committee meeting in Geneva, representing Kailasa as the world’s first Hindu nation. She appealed for recognition and claimed that Hindus were facing persecution in India. The presence of a Kailasa representative at the UN stunned observers and gave the scam unprecedented global visibility. Though the UN quickly clarified that anyone could sign up for such events, the images and video from Geneva were used by Kailasa to bolster its credibility.
The Newark Sister-City Scam:
The city of Newark, New Jersey, unwittingly became part of the scam when officials signed a sister-city agreement with Kailasa in early 2023. The ceremony was attended by Newark’s mayor and city councillors, who believed they were engaging with a legitimate nation. Only after the event did city officials realize that Kailasa was a fake country. Newark swiftly rescinded the agreement, calling it an “oversight,” but not before Kailasa splashed photos of the event across its website and social media, touting it as international recognition.
The Paraguay and Bolivia Land Grabs:
Kailasa’s representatives also targeted South America. In 2023, a Memorandum of Understanding was signed with a Paraguayan official, who promised to help Kailasa gain recognition at the UN in exchange for “irrigation expertise.” When the ruse was discovered, the official was dismissed.
In 2024, Kailasa operatives traveled to Bolivia, where they tried to lease land from indigenous Amazonian tribes—offering $200,000 a year for territory three times the size of New Delhi. The lease, drafted in English, would have granted Kailasa “full sovereignty” for 1,000 years, including control over natural resources. Bolivian journalists exposed the plot, and the government invalidated the agreements, deporting 20 Kailasa-linked individuals. Once again, the scam had overreached.
At the heart of the “Kailasa country” project is a bizarre cult ideology. Nithyananda’s speeches are a blend of mystical pseudoscience, grandiose claims, and conspiracy theories. He has claimed to be both male and female due to a genetic mutation. He declared he could teach animals to speak Sanskrit and Tamil. He said he could create a “cosmic airport” for aliens and give third eyes to three billion people.
He told followers that cancer could be cured through his blessings, and that souls could be tracked with “Jeev-Atma GPS” to ensure reincarnated billionaires like Bill Gates would get their wealth back in their next life—for a fee.
Kailasa’s digital infrastructure, too, is rife with fantasy. The country claims to have a “Reserve Bank,” a “Kailashian Dollar” pegged to gold, and a government modeled after the Vatican’s Holy See. Its website boasts departments for commerce, treasury, and housing, all based on “Vedic principles.”
Yet in the real world, none of this exists. Kailasa is a virtual mirage crafted by a fugitive leader’s imagination and digital savvy.
The “Kailasa country” scam worked because it combined several powerful ingredients: religious fervor, a sense of victimhood, digital sophistication, and global gullibility.
Nithyananda leveraged Hindu nationalist sentiment to attract donations and followers, especially among the diaspora. He used legal loopholes—like registering NGOs in the US—to move money and create the appearance of legitimacy. He and his followers targeted vulnerable groups, politicians, and even global organizations with their message of Hindu revival and persecution.
The scam’s success reveals deep vulnerabilities in the international system: the ease with which fake organizations can gain access to events, the lack of due diligence among local politicians, and the power of digital media to manufacture credibility.
As of June 2025, Swami Nithyananda remains a fugitive. His exact whereabouts are unknown, and Indian authorities have been unable to secure his extradition or bring him to justice. His YouTube channel and social media accounts remain active, continuing to broadcast his sermons from undisclosed locations.
To his followers, he remains the “Supreme Pontiff” and “Divine Healer,” an incarnation of Hindu wisdom. To the wider world, he is a symbol of how digital technology, when combined with religious charisma and a globalized world, can fuel scams of unprecedented scale.
Kailasa country’s digital embassy, as some have joked, exists only in your spam folder. Its external affairs ministry is run through Photoshop. Its national anthem plays only on YouTube. Yet the scam has real victims: those who donated money in good faith, those who were manipulated by promises of spiritual salvation, and those who believed in the vision of a global Hindu sanctuary.
The story of Kailasa country is more than just a tale of one man’s ambition. It is a cautionary lesson for the international community, for governments, and for ordinary citizens.
First, it reveals the power of narrative and digital media to manufacture reality. Second, it demonstrates how religious and nationalist sentiment can be weaponized for personal gain. Third, it exposes gaps in international protocols that allow imposters to slip through the cracks.
As fake news, deepfakes, and digital scams become more common, the world must become more vigilant. Due diligence, transparency, and skepticism are more important than ever.
In the end, Kailasa country—Swami Nithyananda’s fake Hindu nation—may have existed only online, but its impact was felt across continents. Its story will serve as a warning for years to come.
