It was the summer of slow endings—the kind where petals fall not with a breeze, but with time itself stretching like a languid yawn. The school corridors had started to feel strangely hollow, though still alive with young laughter and occasional mischief. Yet for Ishaan, something had shifted. A deeper silence had nestled within him—a silence not born of absence, but of arrival. Something had arrived within him, and that something was peace.
Myra, on the other hand, seemed to have grown sharper in her expressions. Her face was now a canvas of contradictions. Where once there had been a gentle mischief and honeyed glances, there now remained a flicker of questions—unasked, unanswered, and perhaps even unanswerable. Their meetings had become few and far between, but when they happened, they carried the density of a thousand untold dialogues.
Once, in a fleeting encounter at a local temple fair, their eyes met again—those familiar eyes that had once dreamed in harmony. Myra’s face hardened momentarily. Her brows knit together, not out of fury, but as if trying to read something that had faded from the surface of a long-weathered book. She did not speak. Neither did Ishaan. The moment passed like a cloud covering and uncovering the sun in the span of a heartbeat.
But within that silence, Ishaan saw the pain. Not hers alone, but a collective pain—the kind birthed by beautiful things that time had quietly unraveled. Her eyes whispered accusations that her lips didn’t voice, as though she wanted to ask him why he had let go of something so pure, and why he now looked at her with the stillness of a monk instead of the yearning of a lover.
He did not blame her for the suspicion she had once flung through her expressive silence—the suspicion of being molested, hurt, or betrayed. That moment, long past, had stung him deeply. Not because of guilt, for he knew he had done nothing wrong, but because it fractured something sacred: trust. And yet, she had recoiled the dagger of suspicion almost as soon as she had drawn it, her eyes softening with a remorse he could never unsee.
He remembered that strange moment vividly, as though it had occurred only yesterday. She had said nothing explicitly, but her body had momentarily stiffened, her posture withdrawn, eyes flashing with an ancestral warning. A moment later, guilt overtook her face like an eclipse, and she looked at him with the mercy of a goddess who had erred. That duality—of being feared and forgiven in a single breath—had struck him like lightning cleaving an ancient tree.
Yet even then, Ishaan had not spoken. Silence had become his language. He had begun to understand the essence of Krishna, who dances with love, yet never clings; who smiles from within a distance, never forcing nearness. Like Krishna, Ishaan had become adept at appearing involved, while internally dwelling on the mountaintop of contemplation. His was no longer the love of the world—it was the love of the soul seeking the Self.
And Myra—she had once been his mirror to the world. Her laughter had reminded him of the first rains, her encouragement had pushed him toward knowledge, and her rebukes had awakened him more than any scripture. In every sense, she had played the role of a living guru, unknowingly shaping the currents of his inner evolution.
He recalled those early school days when Biology madam would praise him in class. Myra, sitting amidst her friends, would beam with pride, her smile wider than her words. “He deserves it,” she’d say, loud enough for others to hear, as if endorsing his genius before the world. Her faith in his capabilities had fueled a fire in Ishaan to strive not for marks alone but for meaning.
Her guidance hadn’t always been sweet. Sometimes, she’d drop a heavy truth masked as jest: “People waste time in illusions. Build a career if you really want to be taken seriously.” She had said it once in front of the entire class, her voice dipped in a mix of sarcasm and concern. For Ishaan, that sentence became a mantra—not for the rat race, but for the cultivation of purpose. That day, she wasn’t a girl with doe-eyes and mischief; she was a sage disguised in a school uniform.
But Ishaan’s contemplations had not only been about her. They were deep-rooted, extending far into his childhood. He had once shared a bond of great friendship with Govind, a cousin brother who had lived in their home. That boy had been a firecracker of energy—naughty, hard-working, curious. When he moved away, Ishaan’s heart had ached silently. Strangely, when Myra entered his life, he found her carrying shades of that boy. Her liveliness, her spark, her subtle rebellion—it was like the soul of his cousin had returned in a new form, a feminine avatar. The continuity of contemplation simply changed its object.
In all these emotional symphonies, Ishaan had restrained himself. Even as others joked, teased, or poked fun about his feelings, he never openly confessed, never proposed. He used to think he would wait until he became ‘something’—stable, independent, worthy. Sometimes, he believed his restraint was noble. Other times, it felt like cowardice. But the truth lay somewhere in between: he was torn in a subconscious tug-of-war. The soul whispered wait; the world shouted act. He obeyed the whisper.
Eventually, life carried him forward. Degrees were earned, careers built, and responsibilities accepted. He even entered the domestic stage of life through an arranged marriage. But none of it dulled his inner longing for a spiritual completeness. For Ishaan, real success meant awakening the Kundalini, attaining that which even desire cannot dream of. And when it happened, years later, in the silent solitude of his meditation, he knew he had arrived—not at a destination, but at a beginning.
In that state of self-realisation, everything dropped away—lust, fear, ego, ambition. The memories of Myra were no longer tinged with yearning or sorrow. They became sacred—a part of the scripture of his life. He saw her not as a lost love but as an embodied lesson. Their story, however incomplete in form, had been complete in essence.
Fate brought them together one last time, in a quiet by-chance meeting on a street shaded with gulmohar trees. She looked at him, brows slightly drawn, lips unspeaking. Her face bore a shadow of annoyance, maybe even pain, but no words came. Ishaan didn’t explain, didn’t justify, didn’t apologize. Not because he didn’t care—but because he cared enough not to interfere with her journey.
He knew: awakening could not be gifted or taught—it had to rise like a phoenix from one’s own ashes. And if her path held such a moment, it would arrive at its own pace. His role was over. He had fulfilled his dharma not as a lover, but as a witness.
And so, he let go—completely. No clinging to possibilities, no replays of what could have been. Life had chosen its tide. She drifted on her course; he on his. But the ocean remained one.
Soon after, Ishaan was selected to a far-off lunar university for advanced studies—a place as surreal and distant as his own mind had become. He accepted the offer not as an escape, but as an unfolding. Just as rivers don’t resist their flow, he surrendered. Little did he know that, after reexperiencing life on Earth, he would once again travel to the moon in the future—not as a student this time, but as a researcher. And with that, a new chapter in his cosmic journey would begin. In fact, like attracts like; it’s the law of attraction.
He didn’t write to Myra. Didn’t search her on social media. Didn’t leave breadcrumbs for her to follow. Because when love transforms into spiritual fire, it no longer demands union—it simply illuminates.
And somewhere, perhaps in another corner of the world, Myra stood still with unanswered questions. But someday, when silence will descend on her like dusk on a restless lake, she might feel the same truth—not in words, not in visions, but in a sudden stillness.
In that stillness, Ishaan will be there—not as a memory, but as a vibration.
Not as the one she loved, But as the one who became.
Demystifying Kundalini 