Author: demystifyingkundalini by Premyogi vajra- प्रेमयोगी वज्र-कृत कुण्डलिनी-रहस्योद्घाटन

I am as natural as air and water. I take in hand whatever is there to work hard and make a merry. I am fond of Yoga, Tantra, Music and Cinema. मैं हवा और पानी की तरह प्राकृतिक हूं। मैं कड़ी मेहनत करने और रंगरलियाँ मनाने के लिए जो कुछ भी काम देखता हूँ, उसे हाथ में ले लेता हूं। मुझे योग, तंत्र, संगीत और सिनेमा का शौक है।

Chapter 10: The Silent Requiem

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.

Chapter 9: The Silence That Spoke

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.

Chapter 8: The Kamandalu Moment and Classroom Tensions

A day of dull lessons and chalk dust was suddenly illumined by an innocent quip that would live in Ishaan’s memory for years. The moment came during a chemistry lab session, when he reached for an oddly shaped glassware item—a distillation flask, curved and elegant, with a handle-like projection. Myra, ever attuned to symbolism and irreverent wit, chuckled and said, “Is that Baba’s kamandalu?”

Ishaan froze, then smiled slowly. There was something in the way she said it—not mocking, not reverent, just playful and laced with strange familiarity. Her words lingered, reverberating far deeper than the tiled walls of the lab. The kamandalu—a yogi’s water pot—symbolized detachment and wisdom, a curious metaphor to come from the lips of a girl whose presence stirred in him everything but detachment.

Myra moved on with her task, unaware perhaps of the impression she had just left. But Ishaan, who lived life more inwardly than out, would carry that moment like a monk carries his kamandalu—not for the water it held, but for what it symbolized.

A week later, as if that quiet impression had lingered and grown roots, Ishaan found himself beneath the old peepal tree with Gagan. A gentle breeze stirred the dust around their feet. Gagan chuckled to himself, the memory still vivid.

“I still remember how Myra ran after you last week,” he said, grinning. “Screaming, ‘Baba Ishaan, give me your Kamandalu!’—just because you were holding that weird glass flask of yours.”

Ishaan smirked, eyes half-closed in amusement. “She thought I looked like a wandering monk with that in my hand.”

“Well, you kind of did,” Gagan teased. “But seriously… is there a reason sages always carry that pot? I mean, beyond the old-school thermos theory?”

Ishaan’s expression shifted from playful to thoughtful. “There is, Gagan. The Kamandalu is not just a water pot—it’s a symbol, a powerful one.”

Gagan tilted his head, intrigued.

“It represents the energy stored in the base chakras, especially the Muladhara,” Ishaan explained. “A sage who’s mastered his energies doesn’t waste them through scattered actions or emotions. Instead, he gathers them, conserves them—like water collected drop by drop into that pot.”

“So it’s like carrying their spiritual fuel?” Gagan asked.

“In a way, yes,” Ishaan nodded. “That’s why you’ll often see them sprinkle water from the Kamandalu when blessing or cursing someone. But the real act isn’t in the water—it’s symbolic of channeling a focused stream of their conserved energy through the senses, directed by intention. A fragment of power released with precision.”

Explaining it to Gagan reminded him of those lighter days with Myra—when even mockery felt like warmth, and words carried the comfort of being understood. But that lightness—the playful ease Ishaan felt in Myra’s company, where even mockery felt like warmth—never lasted too long in the shared atmosphere of adolescence, where friendships swayed like reed in uncertain wind. Tensions soon crept in like shadows under the door, subtle at first, then more pronounced.

Anjali, who had once smiled freely in the tuition circle they all shared, began withdrawing into silence. One day, her frustration erupted. “Why does Myra treat me like I’m invisible? Just because she’s from the city doesn’t mean she’s superior. We all travel distances—I come from even farther. Yet she behaves like she owns the place.”

Her words, whispered to Ishaan outside the tuition center as the sun dipped into orange and birds called each other home, left him troubled. He knew Myra wasn’t heartless, but neither was Anjali lying. There was indeed a certain aloofness Myra wore like perfume—present even when not overbearing.

Ishaan tried to console Anjali with neutrality. “Maybe it’s unintentional. Maybe she’s shy with girls.”

Anjali stared at him with the bitterness of someone not truly consoled. “Or maybe you’re just defending her because you—”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. The sentence hung suspended like a spider’s silk—fragile, glistening, potentially dangerous.

In the days that followed, Myra seemed distant. Her eyes, usually pools of glimmering mischief, now looked elsewhere when Ishaan tried to catch her gaze. Perhaps she’d heard of Anjali’s outburst. Perhaps she had noticed his silence when he should’ve stood by her.

She didn’t say a word, but her silence spoke entire chapters.

Then came another quiz competition—this time partnered with an intelligent guy, Vinod—an inter-school event that turned the tide of Ishaan’s standing among his peers. He answered with precision, poise, and surprising humor. He wasn’t just the studious, quiet boy anymore; he was someone. A presence.

After their school bagged the second position, and as applause faded, a curious thing happened. A girl—not Myra, not Anjali—stepped forward, handed him a rose folded into a note, and said aloud for all to hear, “Would you accept me as your dharma sister?”

The crowd hushed. Someone giggled. Ishaan’s ears burned. His real cousin sister, Ranjana, who stood not far behind him, stiffened. She stepped forward, not unkindly, and said with gentle firmness, “Raksha Bandhan is sacred. Don’t turn it into theatre.”

The girl, embarrassed, retreated into anonymity. Ishaan smiled at Ranjana in silent thanks. He owed her more than this moment. It was she who had, with some difficulty and many requests, managed his school transfer months ago. From a chaotic institution in the city where he was lost in the crowd, to this quieter, more nurturing environment. It was here that he met Myra. It was here that his life had subtly pivoted.

Later that evening, when the moon rose pale behind the neem tree near his study window, Ishaan reflected on how much had shifted. He had grown. He had begun to matter—to others, but more importantly, to himself. And yet, all of this gain came laced with the ache of Myra’s unspoken discontent.

He longed to explain, to tell her that neutrality wasn’t betrayal, that fairness wasn’t coldness. But in the realm of unsaid things, silence reigns supreme.

In the classroom, the air had changed. A few classmates, sensing the triangle of tension, began to make sport of it. Whispered comments. Glances exchanged. Myra didn’t respond, nor did Ishaan, but the undercurrents grew stronger.

His intelligent quiz partner, Vinod—a clever tease—soon turned his charm toward Myra. Nothing crude; just lingering touches on her notebook, excessive praise for her handwriting, and jokes that always placed her at the center. Myra bore it with a mix of patience and discomfort, but her eyes, whenever Ishaan was around, seemed to ask: Will you not say something?

But Ishaan, ever the monk in the marketplace, remained composed. He had trained himself to observe without reacting, to internalize the churn and let it transmute.

Some started calling him a “dead lover”—a phrase both mocking and mystic. He didn’t mind. He preferred the still waters that ran deep to waves that crashed for show.

And yet, he noticed everything. The way Myra’s voice dipped when she was sad. The way she twirled her pen when thinking hard. The way her eyes followed him, even when turned away. He was still very much in the story, even if playing the part of the silent witness.

He knew their differences like he knew constellations in the night sky. She, short and swift like a sparrow; he, tall and steady like an old pine. Her voice sang like river currents; his came out like the hush between waves. She belonged to a family that navigated metro traffic and mall escalators. He had grown up beneath mango trees and between rice paddies. Their worlds had touched, yes, but could they ever blend?

Still, the pull remained. He began to believe it was not the kind that demanded union, but the kind that catalyzed growth. Like a moon that does not touch the sea but moves its tides regardless.

One day, as they packed away their practical files, Myra said softly, “You’ve changed.”

He met her gaze evenly. “Or maybe I’ve just arrived into myself.”

She looked at him with something between longing and regret. “You used to listen with your eyes. Now you listen like a saint.”

“I still hear you,” he said. “Only deeper.”

She didn’t reply. But she smiled. A smile that said: I believe you. But I don’t know what to do with it.

The months wore on. Exam fever replaced youthful drama. Anjali found new friends. Myra began taking more leaves. Ishaan, though still attentive, became more inward, more reflective. Their lives, like rivers once parallel, began curving in different directions.

Yet, he always remembered the kamandalu moment.

He never used that instrument again in the lab without thinking of her. Of the laughter, the intimacy, the lightness. That fleeting second of shared myth and meaning. And he realized that maybe love was never meant to last in the form that first births it.

Maybe it was meant to become something else—something subtler. Like a mantra whispered once but echoing for lifetimes.

And so Ishaan, now on the cusp of adulthood, carried Myra not in his arms, but in the hollows of his soul. Like a true ascetic—not one who renounces love, but one who transmutes it.

She who once teased him with a reference to sages and water pots had unknowingly given him both his metaphor and his mission.

She who became his Guru.

Chapter 7: The Year of Flowing Energy

A soft breeze brushed the dew-laced courtyard of Pine Crest School, gently stirring the silence of dawn. The events of that morning—the moment Myra had playfully reclined on the table and Ishaan had transmuted raw desire into pure presence—had not ended with the bell. They had marked the beginning of a silent revolution.

That morning had not merely passed—it had opened a gate.

In the weeks that followed, Ishaan noticed a strange phenomenon within himself. Every glimpse of Myra, every moment she leaned forward to whisper to Anjali or laughed over some silly joke, sent currents of energy rippling through his spine. It wasn’t desire in its old form anymore. It wasn’t restless or consuming. It was… flowing. Almost like music.

He began to call it The Year of Flowing Energy in his diary.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Gagan chuckled, nudging Ishaan with his elbow as they sat beneath the tall gulmohar tree during lunch.

“Not a ghost,” Ishaan said, his eyes still dreamy. “A goddess.”

Gagan rolled his eyes. “Oh no, not again. Is this about Myra?”

Ishaan smiled but didn’t answer.

“Bro,” Gagan said, biting into his sandwich, “I swear, one day you’ll see her and float up like Hanuman did when he heard the name of Ram.”

“Maybe that’s what love really is,” Ishaan whispered. “The way it makes you light.”

Gagan paused, genuinely curious now. “Okay, what’s happening with you? You’ve stopped talking like a schoolboy and started talking like Kabir. Did you hit your head somewhere or… meditate too much again?”

Ishaan grinned. “You won’t believe this… but sometimes when I look at her, I see Dada Guru’s face for a second. Not literally. It’s like… like Myra and he have merged inside me as symbols. One stands for love, the other for discipline. Both lead me back to the same stillness.”

Gagan stared, then gave a low whistle. “That’s some next-level stuff.”

What followed was a year unlike any Ishaan had ever known. It was as if the entire universe was conspiring to test the strength of this new awareness.

One morning, the biology teacher was supposed to explain human reproduction. Detailed diagrams were drawn on the blackboard, but by some strange twist of fate, Ishaan was absent that day.

“Lucky escape,” Gagan later joked. “They showed everything. I mean everything.”

But for Ishaan, it didn’t feel like coincidence. It felt like divine orchestration.

“If I had seen those images then,” Ishaan explained to Gagan later, “I think my mind would have cooled the fire too soon. You know how when you explain something too early, the mystery vanishes? This fire… it needed to burn a little longer.”

Gagan nodded thoughtfully. “You mean like Krishna and the gopis?”

Ishaan blinked. “What do you know about Krishna and the gopis?”

“Hey,” Gagan said, pretending to puff his chest, “I may be goofy, but I’m not ignorant. My nani used to tell me stories. Krishna dancing with all the gopis at once. Everyone thought it was sensual, but she said it was spiritual. Like divine love flowing everywhere.”

Ishaan’s eyes lit up. “Exactly! People think it’s about one man and many women. But it’s not about numbers. It’s about the capacity to hold many reflections of love, without breaking. Without lusting. That rasa… it’s a dance of the soul.”

Gagan slowly nodded. “So you think what you’re experiencing is… that?”

“Maybe a little slice of it,” Ishaan said. “This love, this attraction—it’s intense, yes. But it’s also sacred. Like the bhakti of Meera. Like Radha’s surrender.”

One evening, Ishaan sat alone in the school library, flipping through a book on Indian mysticism. The words blurred before his eyes as waves of energy rolled up his spine just at the thought of Myra walking down the corridor. He closed his eyes.

There she was.

Not as a physical form, but as light. Flowing, glowing, transforming.

The image faded, and in its place appeared his Dada Guru, seated in lotus pose, smiling faintly.

Then both forms melted into a single golden sphere.

He sat frozen for a long time, unsure if he had meditated or dreamt.

The mysticism deepened when he began waking up at odd hours of the night, his spine alive with sensations. It was not sexual. It was something subtler. Like someone pouring soft golden threads through the back of his head. He once described it to Gagan as “dreaming through the spine.”

“Dude, you need to sleep more,” Gagan joked.

“No,” Ishaan replied, eyes shining, “I need to wake up even more.”

They laughed, but Ishaan was serious. There was something inside him transforming quietly, like a seed growing underground.

A curious incident happened near the school pond.

He and Myra had gone to fetch a lost volleyball. They were alone. The sun dappled through the trees. As she leaned over to grab the ball, her fingers brushed his.

For a fraction of a second, everything froze.

No bird chirped.

No wind blew.

And then, in that stillness, a rush of energy shot up Ishaan’s spine like a flame.

Not the restlessness of old desire, but a roar of divine sweetness.

He looked at her, breathless.

She smiled and said, “Are you okay?”

“I think I just met God,” he replied softly.

Myra laughed, but her cheeks flushed slightly. Perhaps she felt it too.

That year, Ishaan discovered a secret about energy. That it doesn’t obey our logic. It flows where it finds love, meaning, and mystery.

His Dada Guru’s teachings echoed within him more powerfully now: Kama, when not chased, becomes Prema. Prema, when not possessed, becomes Bhakti. Bhakti, when surrendered, becomes Mukti.

Each time he remembered Myra, he did not try to push her away. He let the fire of attraction rise, then guide it upwards.

His focus shifted to his Ajna chakra during meditations. Often, tears rolled down his cheeks without any clear reason. Bliss had begun dripping through the cracks of his teenage restlessness.

One evening, during a thunderstorm, Ishaan wrote in his diary:

“I no longer want to touch her skin. I want to touch her light.”

“I no longer wish she loved me back. I wish she finds that same river flowing inside her that now carries me.”

“This love… it doesn’t want to possess. It wants to merge.”

He paused.

Then added:

“Maybe she has already become my guru.”

The monsoon passed. So did the year.

But the energy stayed.

What had begun as a spark without words had turned into a river without banks. And Ishaan Sharma, the boy once afraid of his own desires, was now sailing its waters like a mystic in love.

Still unsure where it would take him.

But finally, fully, unafraid.

Chapter 6: The Early Morning Encounter

The bell for the next day had not yet rung, but Ishaan Sharma was already standing in the quiet corridor of Pine Crest School. The sun hadn’t fully risen, yet a golden hue tinged the edges of the sky, giving the old colonial-style building a dreamlike glow. He could hear the soft rustle of leaves and the far-off chirping of birds just awakening from sleep.

His steps had been guided not just by habit but by an inner pull, an invisible thread pulling him toward something significant. The events of yesterday—Myra’s unspoken gaze, the heat in his chest, the almost-touch, and the moment where silence had been louder than sound—still simmered inside him like warm embers beneath ash.

He wasn’t sure what awaited today, but he sensed something beyond the ordinary.

The classroom door creaked slightly as he pushed it open. To his surprise, Myra was already there—curled up playfully on top of the long wooden table near the window, her head resting near where he usually sat. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her hair flowed freely, catching the early rays like a waterfall of light.

“Beat you to it,” she whispered, grinning like a child who’d stolen a piece of cake before dinner.

Ishaan raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued. “Do you always lie on tables this early in the morning, or is today special?”

She giggled softly. “Maybe I felt like being art before the day began.”

He chuckled, his laughter echoing gently in the empty room. “You do have a strange definition of art.”

“But beautiful, right?” she asked, stretching lazily, her head now just inches from his arm.

The proximity. The innocence. And yet, a teasing sensuality danced between them. Ishaan felt it like a pulse, a current beginning from somewhere deep in his being—an instinct as ancient as life itself.

A rush of energy, unmistakable in its nature, surged upward—first coiling at the base of his spine like a serpent ready to strike, then rising like smoke up a chimney. For a fleeting second, the primal merged with the sacred. The line between attraction and awareness trembled like a tightrope.

His breath slowed. His mind, though tempted by the intoxication of the moment, reached deeper. Remember, my boy… desire is not your enemy, but your doorway, his grandfather’s words echoed like an old raga resounding in the silence. The teachings he had heard since childhood from the wrinkled lips of a man who wore both the garb of a saint and the smile of a rebel.

He did not suppress the feeling. No. Ishaan had long known that suppression is merely buried attraction waiting to explode. Instead, he turned inward—like a river meeting the ocean.

He didn’t run from the sensation; he rode it. In one swift, inner motion, the energy burst upwards—along the same spine it had once coiled around—now transformed, refined. As if a gust of wind had lifted his consciousness from the roots of survival to the open sky of stillness.

His eyes half closed for a moment—not in retreat but in presence.

Ajna… sahasrara… silence.

He felt as if his whole being had become a flame—still, unmoving, and aware. The classroom, Myra, the table—all there, but also not. He was both in the scene and beyond it, like a witness watching a movie, feeling it, yet untouched.

Myra noticed the shift.

Her playful smile faded, replaced by awe. She sat up slowly, blinking at him. “What just happened?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ishaan opened his eyes, now deeper and calmer. “Nothing… and everything.”

She leaned in closer, her expression a mix of curiosity and reverence. “You changed. I saw it. I felt it. Like you were here… but not.”

He smiled softly. “Sometimes, the fire of desire lights the path. If we can see it, not chase it.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. “But… weren’t you tempted?”

“I was,” he admitted. “But that energy doesn’t always have to go where the world wants it to. It can become something else.”

She blinked, stunned. “That’s… actually beautiful.”

Just then, footsteps echoed faintly outside. Probably teacher madam. Maybe Mr. Dutt. The spell would break soon.

Myra quickly hopped off the table, now self-conscious. “If anyone saw us like this…”

He chuckled gently. “They’d probably call it ‘art’.”

She gave him a playful shove, then paused. “Ishaan… I think… you’re not just a student here. You’re something else.”

“Neither are you,” he said quietly, looking into her eyes.

She stared back, and for a second, something ancient and silent passed between them—a knowing, a familiarity from another lifetime, perhaps. As if they had played this scene before, under different skies, in different bodies.

Then, the classroom door opened.

It was Mr. Dutt.

“Early birds, I see,” he said, arching an eyebrow.

“Just reviewing homework,” Myra lied quickly, brushing her hair behind her ears.

Mr. Dutt looked at them for a moment too long, as if sensing something deeper beneath the surface, but said nothing and walked to his table.

The morning classes passed with strange quiet intensity. Ishaan noticed Myra glancing at him now and then—not flirtatiously, but almost… worshipfully. Like he had touched something sacred, and she had seen it.

At lunch, Gagan caught up with him.

“Dude, what’s going on with you two?” he asked, nudging Ishaan with a teasing smile. “You’ve been radiating some yogic-glow-baba-vibes.”

Ishaan shook his head, smiling. “Nothing happened. And yet… something changed.”

Gagan looked puzzled. “Bro, stop speaking in riddles.”

Anjali joined them at the table. “Myra’s been so quiet since morning. Like she saw a ghost.”

“Maybe she did,” Ishaan said softly.

Anjali raised an eyebrow. “You’re weird, Sharma. But… cool weird.”

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, Ishaan walked alone near the school’s back gardens. He often came here when something inside him stirred. Today, the air was rich—not with scent, but with meaning. Every leaf, every shadow seemed to whisper stories.

He remembered his grandfather sitting under the banyan tree back home, telling tales of energy, of Kundalini, of how the path was not about escaping life but seeing it clearly—desire included.

Desire is the matchstick. Awareness is the flame. And love is the light that remains once both disappear.

He smiled at the memory.

A soft crunch behind him made him turn.

It was Myra.

“I knew you’d be here,” she said, a little breathless.

“How?”

“I don’t know. I just… felt it.”

They sat on the wooden bench under the tall cedar tree.

After a long silence, she asked, “Do you think… I could ever do what you did this morning?”

“What did I do?”

“You turned… something hot and messy… into something quiet and sacred.”

He looked at her. “You already can. You just have to watch. And not run away.”

She was quiet for a while. “Sometimes I feel like I was born knowing something… and forgot it along the way.”

“You’re remembering now.”

A gentle breeze brushed past them.

“Ishaan…”

“Yes?”

“Who are you, really?”

He turned toward her, not with pride but simplicity.

“A student. A seeker. A boy who met someone who reminds him of a path he once walked.”

Her eyes glistened. “And who am I?”

He smiled. “She who became my guru.”

They sat in silence. No drama. No declarations. Just the sacredness of presence.

Introduction to the Series: She Who Became My Guru

Hi friends,

Love, in its deepest essence, is not merely a romantic emotion—it is a portal to transcendence. “She Who Became My Guru” is not just a story of teenage tenderness or cosmic coincidence; it is a soulful narrative of transformation, where divine love (prema) and spiritual awakening walk hand in hand through the corridors of everyday life.

This blog series is based on lived experience, contemplative memory, and mystical insight. It tells the story of an introverted student from a remote village whose life changes forever upon meeting a girl in a disciplined, army-controlled senior secondary school. What begins as a casual friendship for a quiz competition soon ripples into a deep undercurrent of emotional and spiritual evolution.

She was not a teacher. She was not a saint. Yet, her mere presence activated a current within the boy’s being that would slowly rise, oscillate, and eventually explode into a full Kundalini awakening. All without rituals, dogmas, or conscious pursuit—just the raw purity of presence, emotion, and silent grace.

Through dialogues, vivid scenes, mystical moments, and subtle humor, each chapter brings to life the boy’s inner journey. From the shy exchanges in a schoolroom to the surreal experiences on the Moon (yes, truly!), this story is both grounded in Indian mysticism and painted with the colors of futuristic imagination. Tantra, Samadhi, Puranic echoes, modern education, arranged marriage, sexual energy, and cosmic vision—all unfold as living characters in this spiritual adventure.

This is not just a novel. It is a window into what modern love can truly become when blessed with awareness. It is also a gentle challenge to outdated spiritual orthodoxy, proving that even the silent longing of a village boy can unlock the gates to Savikalpa Samadhi.

Why Read This Series?

  • To explore the mysteries of Kundalini and self-realization in a relatable, story-driven format.
  • To discover how spiritual experiences unfold in the most unexpected moments of modern life.
  • To reflect on the roles of feminine presence, ancestral wisdom, and inner control on the path of awakening.
  • To immerse yourself in a story that is simple yet profound, poetic yet real.

Each chapter is written in easy-to-understand language, deeply emotional, and filled with thought-provoking reflections—all embedded within a suspenseful, engaging narrative. The characters may be fictional in name, but their souls are rooted in real experiences—mine, and perhaps yours too.

So, dear reader, walk with me. One chapter at a time.

Let this journey begin.

Chapter 1: The Boy from the Quiet Hills

In the cradle of the lower Himalayas, where clouds brushed treetops like old friends and time slowed to the rhythm of rustling pine needles, there lived a boy named Ishaan. His village—silent, scattered, and serene—seemed etched more in spirit than in stone. It was a place where the morning mist carried the dreams of its people, and the twilight melted into tales told by flickering hearths.

Ishaan was a child of that hush. To the world, he was quiet—almost invisible—wandering through school corridors with the stillness of snowfall. Teachers marked his presence; classmates overlooked it. Yet, beneath that silence breathed a spirit wide awake.

At home, Ishaan transformed. He spoke with candor and a flicker in his eyes, revealing the poetry of a mind that saw beyond what was seen. His mother often said that his silences weren’t empty—they were full, like the sky before rain. To his siblings, he was a storyteller, a mimic, a thinker who asked why the stars trembled and where dreams went after waking. But in public, words betrayed him. They halted on his tongue, unsure, unready, often unspoken.

He had just passed his matric exams from the modest village school—a single-story building shaded by deodars and discipline. His marks, quietly earned and quietly celebrated, opened a new door. His father, a stern yet sensitive man of the soil, decided it was time Ishaan stepped out of the cradle. A senior secondary school awaited in the town across two rivers and one dusty highway—a place that promised better education and, perhaps unknowingly, solitude of a different kind.

As they packed his modest belongings—a steel trunk, a water flask, a photo of Lord Shiva, and the tight hugs of a home—something shifted. Ishaan was leaving not just geography behind, but the language of comfort and known patterns. His village was more than a place; it was a rhythm he had memorized. Now, it would become memory.

The morning of his departure, the hills stood still, as if listening. His mother’s silence was heavier than her tears. His younger brother clung to his kurta. His father said little—just a firm nod, a pat on the back, and a gaze that meant everything. Ishaan sat on the rickety bus, watching the pines retreat like waving elders.

That bus ride was the first chapter of an inward journey—one that wouldn’t just carry him to a school, but toward a self still forming, still hiding. He felt a strange loss—not of people or places—but of something nameless, a quiet certainty that used to live within him. The fields grew flatter, the air warmer, and the silence inside him louder.

There’s a peculiar loneliness in growing. Not the loneliness of absence, but of shedding. As the bus wound down the mountains, Ishaan felt he was not simply going somewhere—he was being unmade, so he could be made again.

That was the first lesson the hills taught him:
You don’t grow by adding; you grow by leaving.

And so began his life beyond the quiet hills. He didn’t yet know that the roads he took would soon bend into strange meetings, that the stillness in him would find an echo in someone unexpected—a presence that would awaken, guide, and undo him in ways no school ever could.

But that is for another time. For now, Ishaan sat in silence, a boy uprooted, gazing at a world he didn’t yet belong to, unaware that he was already on the path—not just to knowledge, but to a silent revolution within.

Chapter 30: The Ultimate Realization – The Universe Within

Hi friends,

I’m thrilled to share with you the final and concluding chapter of my series—now compiled and released as a brand-new book titled “Journey Beyond Earth: A Veterinarian’s Life on the Moon.”

This book has been a labor of love, imagination, and curiosity, blending the science of veterinary care with the wonder of lunar exploration. Through the eyes of a dedicated veterinarian stationed on the moon, the narrative takes you beyond the boundaries of Earth—into a world where healing, survival, and emotional resilience are just as vital in space as they are here at home.

In this concluding chapter, I’ve wrapped up the experiences, emotions, and lessons of life beyond Earth. It’s more than just a story—it’s a reflection on adaptation, empathy, and what it truly means to care for life, no matter the planet.

If you’ve followed this journey from the start, thank you for being part of it. And if you’re new here, you’re warmly invited to explore this imaginative tale from the beginning. The full book is now available, and you’ll find the official introduction at the end of this post to give you a feel for what lies ahead.

Your support, comments, and shares mean the universe to me.

Stay curious, and keep reaching for the stars!

The Ultimate Realization – The Universe Within

The vast, silent abyss stretched infinitely around them as the ship drifted through the cosmic void. The crew lay in their cryogenic pods, their bodies suspended between life and oblivion. Yet, even in this profound stillness, something stirred within Aryan Verma’s consciousness. It was not a dream, nor was it mere thought—it was awareness itself, floating free of form, untethered from the body yet deeply present.

As time lost meaning, an understanding dawned upon him: this was not death, nor was it the ultimate yogic samadhi. Cryogenic suspension was a state of subconscious dormancy, an artificial sleep that neither liberated the mind completely nor bound it to earthly chaos. It was like the twilight between waking and deep sleep—a space where the soul rested but did not dissolve.

“Had it been the final state,” his thoughts echoed in the infinite blackness, “then why would there still be a journey ahead?”

When he finally emerged from his frozen slumber, the first thing Aryan felt was an overwhelming sense of vastness—not of outer space, but within himself. His body awakened slowly, but his mind had already traversed distances that no spacecraft ever could. As he adjusted to the dim glow of the ship’s control panel, he saw Meera, Avni, and Ansh stirring in their pods.

Meera’s voice was the first to break the silence. “That felt like…dying. But not really.”

Aryan looked at her, his eyes carrying an inexplicable serenity. “Yes, stepping into cryostasis was like willfully surrendering to the unknown, much like the sages of old—Rishi Dadhichi, who gave up his bones for the gods, or King Shibi, who sacrificed his own flesh. It was a death of the known self, but not the end.”

Ansh, still groggy, yawned and stretched. “So…we’re still alive. But where are we now?”

Aryan turned to the ship’s navigation console. “Approaching the exoplanet,” he murmured, eyes scanning the displays. “But I feel as though I have already traveled further than any ship could take me.”

As the planet loomed ahead, its atmosphere shimmering like a mirage, Aryan’s thoughts drifted inward. Was this truly the final destination? Or was it only another mirage in the endless desert of existence?

Man had always sought new lands, new worlds, believing that space was his ultimate frontier. But space was not outside—it was within. The reason humans yearned for it was simple: the soul itself was space. It was infinite, boundless, and ever-expanding. To seek space outside was, in truth, an attempt to reunite with one’s own essence.

“Do you realize something?” Aryan said, turning toward his family, his voice carrying a quiet revelation. “Everywhere we have traveled, from Earth to the Moon, from the Moon to this distant world—what were we truly searching for? Space? We already have it within us.”

Meera nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. “Yet, where there is pure space, the body cannot survive. And where there are the resources for life, space feels distant because of the chaos of existence. It’s a paradox.”

“Exactly,” Aryan agreed. “But if we put in the right effort, we can create a space within ourselves that is untouched by chaos—a stillness that remains, no matter where we are. That is the true journey. Not outward, but inward.”

Avni, always the most skeptical, smirked. “So are you saying all of this was unnecessary? That we could have just stayed on Earth and meditated instead?”

Aryan laughed. “In a way, yes. But experience is the best teacher. Without this journey, would we have truly understood? Sometimes, one must travel outward to realize that the destination was within all along.”

The ship descended into the exoplanet’s atmosphere, golden clouds swirling beneath them. But even as they prepared to set foot on a new world, Aryan knew the greatest journey had already been taken.

Everything, everywhere, was only space. The illusion of matter was but a fleeting ripple in the ocean of the infinite. And the ultimate realization? That the universe they had sought was within them all along.

As the ship touched down, Aryan closed his eyes for a moment. Not to rest, but to witness the cosmos unfolding within.

A thought lingered in his mind—where there is only space, survival is impossible; where there is life, space is hidden behind the veil of activity. But those who master the balance between both worlds attain true freedom.

The journey had ended.

And yet, it had only just begun.

Illustrator’s Note

As someone who has visually walked alongside the themes of this book, I couldn’t help but reflect on the paradox of renunciation. People who mock or resist it often don’t do so out of conscious defiance. Rather, they seem driven by a subconscious belief: that one must first accomplish something tangible—perhaps even awaken the Kundalini and attain self-realization—before taking the next step of renunciation. Otherwise, it feels hollow, like a shortcut taken too soon. In a way, they expect you to prove yourself in the physical world before choosing to transcend it.

Ironically, it’s often during that very pursuit—while striving and struggling in the material world—that energetic awakening begins to unfold on its own. Yet, most people can’t recognize a purely mental or inner awakening unless it’s accompanied by visible, physical achievement. Physical success is what the world readily acknowledges. Only a rare few see deeper—valuing an awakening that’s subtly blended with outer accomplishment more than mere worldly success alone. That’s where many misconceptions arise: we’re wired to believe only what we can see, touch, and measure.

As I illustrated these concepts, I found myself contemplating this quiet mystery—the way the spiritual and the worldly intertwine, often when we least expect it.

Book introduction

Life has a way of turning ordinary journeys into extraordinary adventures. Our family’s story is woven with countless road trips—long drives between home and work, where the car became more than just a vehicle; it was a space of bonding, laughter, and shared dreams. As our children grew, so did our conversations, shaped by the endless roads stretching ahead of us.

One day, during one such journey, a thought struck me—”Why not see everything as connected to space?” It was a simple idea, yet it sparked a wave of imagination in our travels, turning even the most routine landscapes into cosmic wonders. The sheer joy and satisfaction we felt in these discussions made the universe seem closer than ever. I think it was the open mind of the child journeying with us that inspired me to think beyond the ordinary and imagine all this.

And then, the idea of this book-cum-novel was born. It wasn’t something I planned or struggled with—it simply flowed, as if it had always been waiting to be written. This short novel is a unique combination of science fiction and autobiographical reality. Just like the dual nature of matter—both wave and particle—this story, too, holds two truths at once. It is as real as it is fictional. What one perceives, it becomes. It dances between fact and imagination, shaped by the reader’s own lens.

Interestingly, I had always written under a pen name, choosing to keep my identity undisclosed for various reasons. My son, though, was never really a fan. He’d tease me all the time, saying stuff like, “Papa, your pen name is totally lame!” All I could do was laugh and shake my head. So, for the first time, I made a different choice—I wrote this book in his name instead of mine. It felt like the perfect tribute to the youngest member of our family, who was just a little child—still in nursery and kindergarten—when we first stepped beyond the comfort of home and into a world of endless possibilities.

This book is more than just a story; it’s a reflection of our journey, a blend of love, curiosity, science, and dreams—and the belief that no destination is too far—not even the moon.

🚀 Just Launched!
My new eBook is now available worldwide on Amazon Kindle!
No matter where you are, you can grab your copy using this universal link:
👉 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F3PYFJ6Z

Or

https://mybook.to/uY0kt

📖 Dive in, enjoy the journey, and don’t forget to leave a review if you like it.
Your support means the world! 🌍✨

Chapter 29- The Last Message to Earth

Dr. Aryan Verma’s consciousness flickered like a distant flame, caught between the abyss of time and the pull of an unseen future. The deep silence of cryogenic sleep had no dreams, no sensations—only an eternal pause, a breath held by the universe itself. But something stirred in the depths of his being, a whisper that was neither memory nor vision, but something beyond.

He was weightless, yet he felt motion. A slow, gentle pull, like being carried by an invisible river. And then—a sudden awareness. Not of his body, but of his mind, awakening like the first rays of dawn breaking over an untouched world.

A soft chime echoed through his pod. Systems were engaging. Cryogenic stasis was ending.

His eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them open, blinking against the dim light of the spacecraft’s interior. The cold sensation faded as warmth coursed through his limbs, his body reanimated from its deep slumber. He inhaled sharply, a sudden rush of air filling his lungs. The process was seamless, yet unsettling—like waking from death itself.

One by one, the pods around him began to hum with life. Meera, Avni, and Ansh emerged slowly, their eyes fluttering open, confusion and wonder battling in their gazes.

“Dad?” Avni’s voice was hoarse. “We made it?”

Aryan swallowed, his throat dry. “We’re awake.”

Meera sat up, pressing her fingers against her temple. “How long…?”

A holographic interface flickered before them. The system’s voice, smooth and artificial, provided the answer: ‘Time elapsed: 27 years, 4 months, 13 days.’

A silence thicker than space itself settled among them.

Ansh was the first to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. “Twenty-seven years?”

Avni gasped. “That means… everyone we knew on Earth… they’ve aged. Some might not even be alive.”

The weight of time bore down on them. The world they had left behind had moved on without them, reshaped by years they had never lived.

Meera exhaled sharply, composing herself. “We knew this would happen. We prepared for it.”

“Yes,” Aryan said, though the words felt hollow. The mind could accept, but the heart resisted.

A sudden beep interrupted his thoughts. The interface projected a flashing message—one marked with a priority code from the Lunar Space Station. A relic from the past, waiting for them in the present.

“An old transmission?” Aryan muttered, accessing the file.

The screen flickered, and a familiar face emerged—a much older Dr. Raman, the director of the Lunar Colony. His hair had grayed, his eyes lined with time, but his gaze held the same intensity Aryan remembered.

“Dr. Verma,” Raman’s voice was calm, yet heavy with emotion. “If you are receiving this, then you have awoken. I do not know what awaits you, but I trust you have reached the edge of a new world.” He paused, his expression darkening. “Much has changed since you left.”

Aryan’s heart pounded. Something was wrong.

“The Earth…” Raman hesitated, as if struggling to find the right words. “It is not the world you remember.”

A chill ran through Aryan’s spine.

“In the decades after your departure, the planet faced trials beyond our worst fears. Climate shifts accelerated. Nations fought over dwindling resources. Technology advanced, but at a cost. The balance was lost. And now… the Earth you left behind is—”

The message cut off abruptly. Static filled the screen.

“Wait, what?” Avni leaned forward, panic flashing in her eyes. “That can’t be it!”

Aryan frantically scrolled through the data. The transmission had been interrupted. Whether by technical failure or deliberate action, they would never know.

Ansh’s voice wavered. “Is Earth… still there?”

A heavy silence stretched between them.

Meera closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. “Whatever happened, we cannot change it now.”

Aryan ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. The Earth they had once known was now a mystery. Perhaps lost. Perhaps changed beyond recognition. But one thing was certain—if they had ever considered turning back, that door was now closed.

Avni looked at her father, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination. “What do we do now?”

Aryan met her gaze, steadying himself. “We move forward.”

As they prepared to leave behind their past forever, Aryan reflected on the nature of cryogenic sleep. It was not an experience of space, nor could it be compared to the ultimate yogic samadhi of mindlessness. If it were, there would be no urgency to race towards the unseen future. Instead, it was a suspension—a state of the subconscious mind lingering between existence and absence, neither here nor there. True stillness, as the great sages had taught, was not merely the absence of movement but the cessation of all longing, all seeking. And yet, here they were, still searching, still yearning for a new home.

And so, with the weight of the unknown pressing upon them, they turned their eyes toward the distant exoplanet—their new home. Whatever awaited them there, it was no longer just an exploration. It was a destiny they had no choice but to embrace.

The past was behind them. The future was uncharted. And the last message from Earth remained a whisper lost in the void, an unanswered question lingering in the vastness of space.

Chapter 28- The Final Journey to a New Home

Dr. Aryan Verma took a deep breath, his fingers tightening around the edge of his desk as he stared at the departure schedule glowing on the large screen before him. The moment had arrived—the final steps of their lunar existence before embarking on a journey unlike any other in human history. A distant exoplanet, carefully chosen for its habitability, was about to become their new home.

The air in their lunar habitat was thick with anticipation. Meera, his wife, paced slowly, her arms folded across her chest, lost in thought. Avni sat on the couch, her brows furrowed as she tapped absentmindedly on her tablet. Ansh, on the other hand, bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet, utterly fascinated by the idea of traveling beyond the Moon.

“You’re still sure about this, aren’t you?” Meera finally broke the silence, her voice softer than usual.

Aryan turned toward her, catching the unspoken emotions in her eyes—excitement, nervousness, a flicker of doubt.

He walked over, placing his hands gently on her shoulders. “We’ve made it this far, Meera. There’s no turning back now. But if you’re having second thoughts—”

She shook her head. “No… it’s just… leaving the Moon, our first step beyond Earth, everything we’ve ever known. It feels like a dream. Or maybe a dream within a dream.”

Avni looked up. “You mean like how the yogis say reality is just layers of perception?”

Aryan smiled. His daughter had a way of bringing philosophy into even the most scientific discussions. “Exactly,” he said. “And perhaps, we’re just peeling away another layer of reality as we step into the unknown.”

The room fell into a contemplative silence, broken only by Ansh’s enthusiastic interjection. “But we’ll still have Wi-Fi, right?”

A burst of laughter rippled through the family, dispelling the tension like sunlight breaking through a storm.

The final preparations had been meticulous. Their belongings had been reduced to the essentials—clothing designed for the new planet’s conditions, medical supplies, Aryan’s veterinary equipment, and a few personal mementos. The children had carefully selected items that reminded them of their lunar home: Avni had packed her sketchbook, while Ansh had insisted on bringing his stuffed dinosaur, Rexy, despite the teasing from his sister.

The departure schedule was precise. Aboard the Stellar Voyager, they would leave the Moon’s surface, dock with the interstellar ark stationed nearby, and then embark on the long journey to the exoplanet. The voyage itself would span years in cryogenic sleep, a reality both thrilling and unnerving.

As they stood at the embarkation bay, a sea of emotions swirled in Aryan’s chest. This was not just another relocation—it was a leap into the great cosmic unknown. His mind drifted to the spiritual texts he had read, the ancient sages who spoke of leaving behind the transient for the eternal. Was this journey a mere physical transition, or was it symbolic of something far greater?

A low hum filled the air as the ark’s engines powered up. The final boarding call echoed through the lunar station. With one last glance at the silent, grey expanse through the massive observation windows, Aryan took Meera’s hand. She squeezed back, her silent affirmation giving him strength.

As the family settled into their stasis pods aboard the ark, a thought struck Aryan with profound clarity. To step into cryogenic sleep was to willfully embrace a kind of death—a concept unheard of except among the greatest of sages. He recalled the tale of Rishi Dadhichi, who surrendered his bones for the benefit of the gods, and the ancient king (Raja Shibi) who gave his own flesh to compensate for the loss of meat. Here they were, surrendering their waking existence, trusting that they would rise again in a new world. This was not just science; it was a sacrifice, a test of faith in the unseen future.

Avni gazed at the starry void outside. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, watching the Moon shrink in the distance.

Ansh leaned over. “I still think the new planet will be cooler.”

Aryan chuckled. “I hope you’ll say the same when we wake up there.”

The transition into cryogenic sleep was both fascinating and unnerving. Aryan felt his consciousness slip away, his last waking thoughts filled with wonder and anticipation. Would they wake up to a paradise or a challenge beyond comprehension?

The journey had begun, and the universe awaited.

Chapter 26- The Search for the Next Destination 

Part 6: A New Beginning and the Universal Truth

The Search for the Next Destination

Dr. Aryan Verma sat in the main research hub of the Moonbase, his fingers gliding across the holographic console. The decision had been made—humanity’s journey was far from over. Now came the next challenge: finding the right destination.

Meera entered the room, her eyes scanning the array of star maps and planetary data floating in midair. “So, where do we begin?”

Aryan smiled, his excitement barely contained. “We’ve been looking outward for years, Meera. But now, we truly have to think beyond the Moon, beyond Mars. Somewhere sustainable, somewhere we can call home for generations.”

Ansh, who had been silently observing from the corner, suddenly perked up. “Dad, have you checked Kepler-442b? It’s been on the list of potentially habitable planets for years! Its star is stable, it’s within the habitable zone, and—” He paused, flipping through data projections. “Look at this! It has a 97% probability of Earth-like conditions!”

Avni leaned over his shoulder, impressed. “So, we’re talking oceans, an atmosphere, and maybe even plant life?”

“That’s the hope,” Aryan confirmed. “But there’s more to consider. Distance. Resources. Feasibility of travel. The farther we go, the harder it gets.”

Meera folded her arms, ever the practical one. “And what about the unknown variables? We might be walking into an ecosystem that isn’t as friendly as we assume. What if we’re not alone there?”

A hush settled over them. The thought had always lingered in the background. Space was vast, and they had no illusions of being the only intelligent species in the cosmos.

Ansh, still glued to his screen, broke the silence. “We could send a probe first. AI scouts can map the planet, analyze its atmosphere, and even detect signs of advanced life.”

Aryan nodded. “That’s a logical step. But we must act fast. The Interstellar Expansion Initiative has other teams researching destinations, and we can’t afford to lag.”

Avni smirked. “So, it’s a space race? Good. I always wanted to be part of one.”

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of calculations, projections, and simulations. Aryan worked alongside some of the best minds on the Moonbase, analyzing planetary candidates one by one. Kepler-442b remained a strong contender, but there were other possibilities—Proxima Centauri b, a planet orbiting the closest known exoplanetary system, and Luyten b, which had conditions remarkably similar to Earth’s prehistoric climate.

During one of their late-night discussions, Meera noticed Aryan staring at the screen with an almost trance-like focus. She placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “You look like a man searching for something more than just a new planet.”

He exhaled deeply. “Maybe I am. You ever get the feeling that we’re being guided? That we’re not just choosing this path, but it’s choosing us?”

Meera considered his words. “You’ve always been drawn to the unknown, Aryan. But I think it’s more than that. You don’t just want to find a new home. You want to find meaning.”

He chuckled softly. “And maybe that meaning isn’t in a place, but in the journey itself.”

The first probe was launched toward Kepler-442b, carrying an array of instruments designed to analyze every aspect of the distant world. The transmission delay meant it would take time to receive detailed reports, but the first images sent back left them in awe.

A breathtaking landscape unfolded before them—a vast expanse of cerulean oceans, emerald forests stretching beyond the horizon, and towering mountain peaks glistening under an alien sun.

Ansh gasped. “It looks like Earth before civilization! This is incredible!”

Avni’s eyes gleamed. “No dust storms, no barren wastelands. Just pure, untouched nature.”

Meera, despite her initial hesitation, couldn’t help but smile. “It’s beautiful.”

Aryan, however, remained silent, staring intently at the data stream. The atmosphere was stable, oxygen levels were compatible, and there were clear signs of an active biosphere. But something felt… off. A presence. An unshakable sense that they weren’t just discovering this planet—it was watching them back.

“What is it?” Meera asked, noticing his change in expression.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I feel like… we just stepped into something far bigger than we understand.”

As the final reports trickled in, a decision loomed. Kepler-442b was viable. It was everything they had hoped for and more. But something inside Aryan whispered caution. He had spent years learning to trust his instincts, and now they urged him to dig deeper.

One evening, as he wandered the lunar surface alone, the stillness of space pressing in around him, a realization struck him. The universe was not just a collection of rocks and gases—it was alive. And every step they took deeper into it was a step into a greater, unfolding mystery.

The question was no longer whether they could go. The question was whether they were truly ready for what they might find.

As Aryan turned back toward the base, he knew that the next chapter of humanity’s journey was about to begin. But this time, it was not just about survival or exploration.

It was about awakening.