The air of the lunar veterinary university was starkly different. There were no city horns, no temple bells, no school giggles echoing in hallways. Only the lowing of animals, the rhythmic shuffling of hooves, and the mechanical murmur of scientific instruments marked the days. Amid this unfamiliar music, Ishaan had been relocated, like a verse torn from a familiar poem and set into an alien stanza. Yet, the verse retained its rhyme, and in it, he tried to rediscover his meter.
The moonlit nights at the university were long and silent. Ishaan often found himself walking alone between the tall, whispering eucalyptus trees lining the campus boundary. In the silence, his inner symphony grew more profound. A strange peace had started dawning upon him—not the peace of having attained something, but the peace that comes after letting go. Myra’s face still floated through the gaps of the past like a musical note in a forgotten tune. Not vivid, not sharp, but soft like a memory of fragrance, or the shadow of a smile one saw in childhood.
At times, he’d sit on the lonely bench near the cattle shed, where even the moonlight barely reached. And there, he would sink into deep contemplations, eyes half closed, posture calm, breath aligned with the winds. The cows, buffaloes, even the silent dogs—his fellow spectators—seemed to watch him like disciples witnessing a sage’s trance. Myra had not left his heart entirely, but she had changed form. She was now like a mantra repeating within him, not to be desired, not to be reached, but to be understood and dissolved in.
Once, during a psychology seminar hosted for cross-disciplinary growth, a young lady professor presented a lecture on trauma and memory retention. She spoke of how unresolved relationships sometimes haunt the subconscious in the form of dreams, repeated emotional patterns, and contemplative echoes. Ishaan listened silently, nodding within, for he recognized himself in those very examples. His trauma was not one of violence or rejection. It was the trauma of a love that never happened fully, that remained partly born, like an infant never allowed to cry.
That evening, as the campus walked under stars, Ishaan stood still. The stars were clear, sharp, untouched by city dust. Looking up, he whispered something within—not words, not prayers, but a resonance. He felt Myra’s eyes again, not in longing, but in stillness. The memory did not sting anymore. It just rested in him like a lotus on a quiet lake.
One day, a senior professor, an old man with a background in Sanskrit literature and Ayurvedic animal science, saw Ishaan scribbling in his notebook under a neem tree. The professor walked up, sat beside him, and without asking what he was writing, said, “Do you know, Ishaan, the sages never considered detachment as ‘not feeling’? Detachment was the highest form of feeling—so intense that it couldn’t cling to just one body or name.”
Ishaan smiled faintly. “I think I’m beginning to understand that, sir.”
“Good. Then you must write. Write her story, write yours. Let the pain become poetry, and the love become light,” the professor said, placing a fatherly hand on his shoulder.
That very night, Ishaan began to write what would become the first draft of She Who Became My Guru. Not with the ambition of publishing. Not even to be read. But just to allow his inner world to be born outside. The first chapter he wrote was not their beginning, but their end. Their last silent meeting. How he had met her after his awakening, and how her eyes were still filled with hurt.
He wrote how, when their eyes had met, his mind had dipped into a profound silence, while hers still struggled in storms. She was not less evolved; she was just not finished with her journey. Perhaps her anger, that silent wrath expressed only through brows and gaze, was her final trial. And he could not interrupt it. To explain anything would have been violence. To give her a spiritual lecture would be like pulling open the cocoon of a butterfly yet to be born. And so he had walked away.
The book began to write itself. Page by page, like rain dripping from monsoon leaves. Ishaan poured out his contemplations, his dreams, his childhood laughter with her, and the mischief they never dared. He wrote about the quiz competition, about Anjali’s village bus rides, about Gagan’s quiet company, about the silly chit joke that flushed cheeks and paused time.
He even wrote of the time Myra had, in a moment of misunderstanding, suspected him, and then immediately softened into remorse—how that one scene had taught him about the frailty of perception. That what we see is not always what is, and what we feel can deceive what we know. And yet, in that very fragility, there was something divine. A reminder that love, like fire, must be handled delicately.
Months passed. The book grew, and so did Ishaan. He didn’t become a sage, nor a saint. But he did become silent. Not outwardly, but inwardly. Even in laughter, he carried a pause. Even in crowds, he felt the company of the unseen. He began to notice the depth in others’ eyes, the sadness behind jokes, the longing in the teacher’s voice when narrating stories of idealism.
Then came a spring morning.
A message from an old friend—a mutual acquaintance from school—shared the news. Myra was now married. Settled in a semi-urban township near Delhi. Two children. Teaching in a small school. Active on social media, but rarely posting personal things.
Ishaan smiled. It wasn’t jealousy, nor regret. Just a nod. Like two ships that sailed the same river once, now parting into different oceans. He closed his eyes and sent a silent blessing—not in her name, but to the universal soul she carried within.
That night, he lit a single diya in his room, not for ritual, but as symbolism. Then he wrote the last line of his book:
“And when her name faded from my lips, it found a home in my silence.”
He did not know whether she would ever read the book. Whether it would reach anyone. But the act of writing had already fulfilled its purpose.
From that moment, Ishaan no longer awaited anything. Not reunions, not recognitions. He just continued doing what he had always done—drifting with the flow. But now, his flow had no resistance, no turbulence. Only grace.
And in that grace, Myra still lived. Not as a woman. Not as a lover. But as the pulse of his spiritual journey.
She had indeed become his Guru.
Demystifying Kundalini 