The pines stood still, like ancient witnesses, swaying gently in the cold morning breeze, as if whispering secrets only the mountains knew. Ishaan Sharma, with his satchel slung over one shoulder, walked silently towards the classroom, his shoes crunching faintly over fallen needles and pebbles. The calm rhythm of his new life in the cantonment-flavored school in Himachal Pradesh had begun to settle in like snow on a quiet ledge. It was peaceful—almost too peaceful. But somewhere in his heart, a strange anticipation pulsed. Something—or someone—was about to change everything.
The school, though civilian in name, bore the discipline of the army around it. A blend of civilian institutions nestled in an area that otherwise echoed with the boots of patrolling soldiers. Yet, even amidst such order, Ishaan had started finding his rhythm. The mess food had become more edible, the library more welcoming, and his bunked evenings beneath pine trees had started feeling like silent conversations with the cosmos. After the chaos of a city school he’d briefly tried—loud, impersonal, and utterly devoid of true learning—this haven amidst Himachal’s misted slopes felt like a calling answered.
That morning, he was early. His usual spot on the third bench near the window offered a perfect view of the hills beyond—hills that reminded him of his village, his parents, and the way the wind used to carry the scent of rain before it fell. He took a deep breath, as if drawing strength from that distant memory.
And then, like a quiet thunderclap in the midst of his silent sanctuary, **she walked in**.
Myra.
Her entrance wasn’t grand. There was no gust of wind, no celestial spotlight, no dramatic background music. Just a girl with curious eyes, hair tied in a lazy braid, and a smile that wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She walked into the room as if she belonged there—not in the arrogant way some do, but like a song finding its chorus.
She glanced around the room and, strangely, her eyes landed on Ishaan—as if drawn not by accident, but by some quiet gravity. He looked away instinctively, but the moment lingered, suspended like dew on a leaf just before it falls.
They didn’t speak that day.
The next day, she was back, this time seated two rows behind him. Ishaan, out of habit, listened more than he spoke. But Myra had a different rhythm altogether. During the short breaks between lectures, she would hum to herself or scribble in a notebook filled with doodles and notes. There was something oddly comforting in her presence, like the way certain dreams stay with you long after you’ve woken up.
Then came the announcement.
A regional quiz competition. The topic: Child Care and Family Planning.
That afternoon, Myra approached Ishaan as the class was dispersing.
“Hey… Ishaan, right?”
He turned. “Yes?”
“Would you have any good material to prepare for the quiz? I mean, I don’t want to go in blind.”
He paused, then nodded slowly. “Actually… I have a book. It’s from my uncle’s collection—he’s a medical practitioner. It covers family planning and child care quite thoroughly. Some diagrams too. I can bring it tomorrow.”
Her face lit up. “That would be perfect! Thanks!”
He gave it to her the next day, neatly wrapped in an old newspaper. Myra took it with a quiet smile, her fingers brushing against his. Something passed between them—silent, unformed.
The book was slightly clinical, rich with factual knowledge, diagrams, and medical insights. Ishaan had hesitated for a moment before deciding to hand it over. But since Myra had asked for it herself, a part of him felt unburdened—free from the guilt of handing a girl something so… straightforward. Perhaps even too straightforward.
She returned the book two or three days later. There was a lightness in her step, and yet, a shade of bashfulness touched her cheeks. She looked away while handing it back, but a faint happiness shimmered in her eyes.
“Very helpful,” she mumbled. “Thank you… and for being so… open.”
Ishaan simply nodded, heart quietly racing. A strange comfort had grown between them—born not of sweet nothings but of shared learning and silent honesty.
—
On the day of the quiz, rain clouds loomed like curious spectators. As they stood outside the assembly hall waiting for their turn, Myra turned to him and whispered, “Nervous?”
He shook his head. “No. With you, I’m calm.”
She laughed gently. “Good. Because I’m a nervous wreck. If I mess up, just smile at the judges. You have that mountain-boy innocence. It works.”
He smiled. “And if I mess up?”
She thought for a second. “Then I’ll cover up with my city-girl overconfidence. We’re balanced.”
The quiz was intense, yet their preparation showed. Ishaan’s factual clarity blended with Myra’s confident articulation. They handled complex questions on contraception methods, child nutrition, family welfare schemes, and infant care. A few spectator students later commented that Ishaan seemed emotionally stirred when Myra spoke—as if her voice awakened something deeper in him.
After that day, the invisible current between them deepened. They never talked directly and separately—only among classmates—but something had already begun taking root.
In shared glances, in accidental smiles, in the casual way Myra mentioned his name during group discussions, something beautiful stirred. Neither confessed, neither chased.
But the mountain breeze knew. So did the pines.
And perhaps, so did their souls.
—
She had unknowingly become his mirror, his muse, and perhaps even the flicker of something sacred. There was a mystic current beneath their connection, as though their souls had once circled each other in a different lifetime, now reunited in these hills.
And Ishaan, who once spoke only to mountains, had begun to speak with his heart.
What he didn’t know then was that Myra’s presence in his life wasn’t just to offer companionship or inspiration. She had come to awaken something far more profound. She would become the very spark that lit his path—not just through exams or classrooms, but through the winding, sacred journey of the self.
He didn’t know it yet.
But she would become his Guru.
And this—this was just the beginning.
Demystifying Kundalini 