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Chapter 11: The Dream Realization

It was a quiet Sunday morning.

The kettle hissed faintly as steam curled toward the sunlight spilling into Ishaan Sharma’s modest study. His Himalayan home, now his spiritual retreat, lay nestled between deodars and silences. The world had changed. The pace had quickened, technology had taken strange shapes, people no longer paused. But Ishaan… he had slowed down. Deliberately.

At 52, his salt-peppered beard curled gently over his kurta collar, his eyes still sharp but wrapped in softness—the kind that life bestows only on those who have wept deeply, loved truly, and died inwardly more than once.

As he sipped from his brass cup of tulsi-chai, he opened his old leather-bound journal—one of the many from his Pine Crest School days. And without effort, memory poured in—not just as thoughts, but as living breath.

He closed his eyes.

And the dream began again.

He was sixteen. Or perhaps seventeen. Those years blurred. What remained sharp was that night—a night soaked in longing, ripe with ache, saturated with purity he hadn’t earned but had somehow stumbled into.

He had cried himself into sleep with Myra’s final letter pressed to his heart. Her handwriting still felt warm. The candle had danced one last time before surrendering to darkness.

And then, it happened.

In his dream—or what he now knew wasn’t a dream at all—he had stood at the edge of a garden humming with mist. Not the school’s garden, not Dadaji’s orchard—but a strange otherworldly space drenched in jasmine. The air had shimmered. The path had glowed. And he—still a boy—had walked barefoot, weightless, toward a spiraling tower made of living light.

Now, as he sat in the quiet of his study, he whispered aloud, “I still don’t know if I walked up that tower… or if it rose within me.”

Each chakra had unfolded like a memory:
Muladhara—the base—was that childhood shame, that moment he’d failed to protect a wounded bird.
Swadhisthana—his adolescent desires, his first confusion about love and purity.
Manipura—the fire of rebellion, the pride of outshining even Vinod in a science project.
Anahata—the sacred wound of loving Myra, and letting her go.
Vishuddha—his silence during Dadaji’s funeral, and the truths he couldn’t voice to anyone.
Ajna—the flash of insight during Mr. Dutt’s last lecture before retirement: “Every question that burns in you is a forgotten answer trying to rise.”
Sahasrara—the summit. The dissolution.

He had floated in light. And then they appeared—his Dadaji and Myra, not as themselves but as a radiant union. In the dream, they merged until they were indistinguishable—one soul, one light.

Ishaan still remembered their words, as if whispered in his ears just yesterday:
“You were not walking toward us. You were walking into yourself.”

That sentence had unraveled everything. All searching, all yearning—it had never been about someone else. Not Myra. Not God. It was always the Self, waiting in silence.

He remembered waking up that morning and just knowing—not intellectually, not even emotionally—but in every cell: Kundalini had risen.

There were no visions that day, no levitation, no miracle. Just a calm that pierced bone. A stillness that didn’t need a name.

At school, Gagan had teased him mercilessly, “Oye Ishaan, you’ve turned into a perfect baba overnight? Should we start touching your feet?”

They’d all laughed. He had laughed too. But deep inside, something had crystallized—something ancient and irreversible.

Even now, as he stared at the tea swirling in his cup, he smiled faintly. “You were right, Gagan. I did become a baba. Just didn’t wear orange.”

That afternoon after the dream, he’d gone to Mr. Dutt.

He still remembered the quiet exchange beneath the old Bodhi tree.
“I saw her,” Ishaan had said.

Mr. Dutt had kept watering the tree without looking up. “And did she show you who you are?”

“Yes,” Ishaan had whispered, “And also who I’m not.”

Mr. Dutt had paused, looked at him, and said, “Some dreams are not dreams. They are the soul’s way of skipping linear time.”

Back in the present, a breeze blew through the window. Pages of the journal fluttered like wings.

Ishaan ran a hand over the entry that began, “She Who Became My Guru”—his first attempt to capture what Myra had truly meant to him. Not as a teenage muse. Not as a romantic flame. But as a living portal—the very image of divine shakti who tricked his ego into surrender.

She didn’t teach him in the traditional sense. She was the teaching.

He had loved her fiercely. But what she awakened in him went beyond name and form. Beyond gender. Beyond story.

Now, five decades wiser, he no longer craved her return. She never left. She was there in every mountain breeze, every silent tear during meditation, every unexpected burst of joy while watching a child chase butterflies in the fields.

That evening, Ishaan walked to the far edge of his land, where an old peepal tree stood. He sat cross-legged beneath it, just like in his school days.

Far below, the village was beginning to light its evening diyas. The temple bell rang once. A distant cow mooed.

He closed his eyes—not to meditate, but to listen.

Not to seek, but to remember.

And from within, rising like the soft breath of dusk, came her voice:
“You don’t need to look for me anymore, Ishaan. You became me the day you let go of me.”

He smiled.

His breath deepened.

The sky faded into indigo.

And from the silence of a well-lived life, a boy’s dream whispered again.

—

Some memories do not belong to the past.
They are portals.
To our beginningless Self—
Waiting always,
In the garden of Light.

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.

Chapter 5: A Spark Without Words

The final school bell had rung, and like a flock set free, the students poured out into the corridor, the air filling with laughter, chatter, and footsteps shuffling against the dusty tiles.

But Ishaan Sharma didn’t rush. He never did.

He stood at the corner of the verandah, half hidden behind a pillar weathered by years of monsoons and sun, watching the world with that same quiet, curious stillness that had started to draw attention — especially Myra’s.

Her friends were giggling as usual — Anjali in particular was animated, narrating something with wild hand gestures — but Myra was quieter today. Her glance, as fleeting as a breeze in spring, drifted to where Ishaan stood, head tilted slightly, eyes cast downward in thought.

They had never talked alone. Never walked together. Not even by accident.

And they never would.

Not here.

Not in this time.

Not in this place.

—

It was a different era in their little town — one where even walking in a pair of opposite genders was enough to become the centre of murmurs and raised eyebrows. A single touch — even an accidental brush of the hand — was enough to stir storms in conservative corners. Usually, the dress used to be decent and classical, with a traditional style of tying the hair. Although the subjects of study were purely science-oriented and modern, it was a good blend of tradition and modernity.

Myra, graceful and thoughtful, followed those boundaries as naturally as a river flowing within its banks. Not out of fear. But out of deep respect — for her family, her culture, her own sense of purity.

And Ishaan… Ishaan would never even imagine crossing those lines.

He barely spoke as it was.

If he ever did, it was only when asked something directly. His answers were short, sometimes just a nod, sometimes a quiet, “Hmm.” He had no idea what love meant — not in the way others his age teased or whispered about it. But when Myra was near, something happened. Not to his body, but to his breath. To his soul.

—

One afternoon, while the students waited for their class teacher, Anjali joked loudly, nudging Myra, “Look at Ishaan — again! That stillness! Myra, I think he’s about to open his Shiva’s third eye!”

Everyone burst into laughter.

Myra laughed too, her tone light, but there was a twinkle in her eye that didn’t match her laughter.

“Ishaan Sharma,” she teased across the room, “Tell us — are you meditating or planning world salvation?”

He looked up, surprised by the attention. Then — as usual — looked away, the faintest blush warming his face.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

That silence of his had its own gravity.

The kind that made even jokes fall quiet after echoing too far.

—

Many boys stayed in the small hostel attached to the school — a faded, timeworn building behind the playground. It was noisy, cramped, and full of the usual pranks, midnight whispering, and the chaotic joys of teenage boys.

But Ishaan almost never stayed back.

Each day, after the last class, while most boys ran off to games or to the hostel mess, Ishaan would begin a long journey home — several kilometers on foot just to catch a rattling state bus, which took him further into the outskirts of town. And then again, he walked.

No one understood why he put himself through that daily ritual.

But for Ishaan, there was something waiting at home that no hostel comfort could match.

—

As the sun softened and shadows stretched long on the mud path, Ishaan would arrive at his modest home — a place that smelled of earth, incense, and old wisdom. Inside, seated cross-legged near the window that opened to the backyard peepal tree, his grandfather chanted from the *Puranas* — the *Shrimad Bhagavat*, the *Shiva Purana*, or sometimes, from the *Devi Bhagavatam*.

The words floated through the evening air like gentle fireflies.

“…And when Radha saw Krishna walking away with others, she smiled, not out of jealousy, but from love that knows freedom…”

Ishaan would stand silently at the door, schoolbag still on his shoulders, listening. His great-grandmother, old and blind, sat on a woven cot nearby, swaying gently, muttering the name of Hari under her breath with every bead of her rudraksha mala.

Those stories — soaked in devotion, layered with longing and surrender — were not fiction to him.

They were mirrors.

He could feel them echoing somewhere inside, in a space still unnamed.

—

It was on one such evening, while his grandfather spoke of Radha’s love, that Ishaan found himself thinking of Myra.

*Could that kind of love still exist?*
*The kind that waits, that watches, that never asks or takes or even speaks, but simply… is?*

She had never once walked beside him. Never sat alone with him. Never touched his hand. And yet, somehow, he felt as if she lived in his breath now. Not as an obsession, but as a presence — gentle, sacred, untouchable.

Like the flute music only Radha could hear.

—

One day, during a group assignment, Myra turned to him suddenly and said, “You always listen like you’re not just hearing me, but… remembering me.”

Her voice was half-teasing, half-vulnerable.

Ishaan blinked. “Maybe I am,” he replied without thinking.

The group laughed.

Myra paused. Her smile faded just a little — replaced by something softer.

They returned to their books, but the air between them had changed.

A string had been plucked.

—

The school had announced a visit to a nearby heritage temple — an old Shiva shrine atop a small hill, as part of an educational outing. The excitement was palpable. But Myra, even here, chose to remain in the company of her close-knit circle of girls. Even during the bus ride, she sat with Anjali, keeping the invisible lines of decorum intact.

Ishaan sat near the back, watching the green hills pass by, the wind tousling his hair.

At the temple, students scattered in groups, climbing the stone steps, marvelling at the ancient architecture, clicking pictures with shaky school cameras.

Ishaan drifted towards the rear courtyard of the temple — drawn to the silent banyan tree whose roots kissed the stones below.

A breeze blew. A cowbell chimed. And from the temple’s sanctum, a faint *Om Namah Shivaya* floated outward.

He sat beneath the banyan, closing his eyes. Not to meditate. Just to *be*.

—

A few minutes later, soft footsteps approached.

It was Myra.

She didn’t sit beside him. But she stood nearby, her hands folded, eyes on the leaves swaying above.

“You feel different,” she said suddenly.

He opened his eyes.

“In what way?” he asked.

“Like someone who doesn’t belong entirely to this age.”

Ishaan gave a faint smile. “Maybe I read too many stories.”

She shook her head. “Or maybe you *remember* too many.”

There was silence again.

Then she whispered, “Tell me… what is love, really?”

He looked at her for a long moment, then answered, “I think love is what remains when all desire has fallen asleep.”

—

The bus ride back was quiet.

Nobody said much. Not even Anjali.

Ishaan sat by the window, watching the trees sway under the dimming sky. Myra was two rows ahead. But their reflections, caught briefly in the glass — her gaze looking forward, his slightly turned — touched each other.

Not a word.

Not a touch.

Just a spark.

Without words.

—

That night, at home, as his grandfather read the same verse once more — “…Radha’s love knew no possession. Only presence…” — Ishaan closed his eyes and let the story carry him.

Not into fantasy.

But into something very, very real.

Chapter 4: Pages and Perceptions

The mist lingered low over the hills that morning, weaving like a soft shawl draped across the slopes. Ishaan sat beneath the deodar tree, his fingers tracing idle patterns into the moist earth, while thoughts of Myra shimmered through his mind like sunlight dancing on still water. Something had changed after the quiz—their quiet camaraderie now hummed with a subtle intensity neither of them fully understood, but both deeply felt.

It was not in grand gestures or spoken promises. It was in the way her name lingered on his lips even when unspoken. In the way his heart beat just a touch faster when he spotted her from across the corridor. Myra had stepped into his life not like a storm, but like a soft poem read under candlelight—each line revealing more than the last.

He recalled clearly the day she first approached him for help. It wasn’t just the request for a book; it was the way she’d asked. Direct, but with a hint of curiosity that seemed to reach beyond the surface. The quiz topic had surprised many—Child Care and Family Planning—a mature subject, loaded with societal perceptions and silent hesitations. But Myra had asked for reading material without the slightest giggle or awkwardness. Ishaan had admired that.

What he didn’t admit to anyone, not even himself at the time, was how heavily he’d hesitated before deciding to lend her the book. It wasn’t a textbook from their syllabus—it was from his uncle’s private collection, a well-thumbed medical volume, factual but unflinching. It spoke candidly of biology, reproduction, contraception—terms that still made classmates squirm in discomfort.

But she had asked. And he could not deny her.

When he had handed it to her the next day, carefully wrapped in newspaper to preserve both dignity and discretion, he noticed how her eyes searched his face—not for approval or attraction, but perhaps for understanding. He offered none. Just a nod, and a simple sentence: “It’s straightforward. But helpful.”

She had taken it, her fingers brushing his, the touch brief but electrifying. For the next two days, Ishaan avoided thinking too deeply about it. Until she returned the book.

There was a hesitation in her movement, the way she held it between both hands like it was something sacred yet fragile. A flicker of embarrassment danced across her face, but her smile outshone it.

“Very helpful,” she had said softly, eyes not quite meeting his. “Thank you… and for being so… open.”

It wasn’t just the gratitude that touched him, but the honesty behind it. That simple exchange had stripped away the superficial awkwardness often surrounding such subjects. Myra hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t mocked. Instead, she had returned it with respect, appreciation, and something unspoken.

From that point on, the air between them shimmered with unsaid things.

The day of the quiz had been one of nervous anticipation. And this time, it wasn’t fate or faculty that paired them together—Myra had asked Ishaan to participate with her. It was a quiet invitation, shared under the tree between classes.

“I want you with me,” she’d said, almost casually, but her eyes revealed the sincerity behind the offer.

There were only two boys among five girls in the medical session, so the competition for a female partner was not intense. In fact, Myra’s friends had taken note of her growing closeness with Ishaan—and not all of them were pleased. A few tried to dissuade her subtly, drawing her attention away, placing gentle wedges between their growing bond. Even Anjali, one of her friends pretended to show love and care for Ishaan, just to draw him away from her and closer to herself by pointing out how much more affection he was showing. Envy has its own ways of dressing in friendly concern.

But Ishaan had sensed the truth. Beneath the smiles, the shared laughter, he could hear the deeper call. Myra wasn’t just choosing him for his academic grasp—she was choosing him for something more instinctual, more spiritual. And that was all he needed to know.

Ishaan’s calm presence and sharp knowledge complemented Myra’s eloquence and poise. Together, they were a force of quiet brilliance.

During the segment on child development, when Myra spoke about the psychological importance of early parental bonding, Ishaan couldn’t help but notice the way a hush fell over the room. Her voice carried both intelligence and care. She wasn’t reciting answers—she was speaking truth.

Later, one of their classmates whispered to Ishaan, “Bro, you looked like you were going to cry when she answered that question. You okay?”

He had laughed it off, but in truth, something had stirred within him. Not just admiration—but reverence.

Now, sitting beneath that deodar, those moments replayed in his mind. The quiz was over. Their names had been announced among the top scorers. But the event had done something more than just bring accolades. It had opened a new page in the quiet book of their shared story.

They still hadn’t spoken alone since. Conversations remained nestled within the comfort of the group—safe, public, undefined. Yet, each shared glance felt like a verse in an ancient poem only they could read.

Sometimes, Ishaan would catch her watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking. And sometimes, their eyes would meet across the classroom, and something ancient would stir—something older than their lives, something deeper than teenage affection.

One afternoon, as they sat with friends discussing the quiz, the topic drifted to the book.

“Ishaan gave me the weirdest book,” Myra said casually, but there was a twinkle in her eyes.

“Weird?” he asked.

“Weirdly… honest.”

A chuckle went around. Someone added, “Bro, bold move giving that to a girl.”

Ishaan shrugged. “She asked.”

Myra smiled. “And I respect that he didn’t sugarcoat knowledge. Truth shouldn’t be hidden in silence.”

That moment etched itself into Ishaan’s soul. In her, he saw the fearlessness of a seeker. Someone who valued truth over comfort. Someone who could laugh at herself but never at the sacred.

That night, Ishaan lay on his cot, eyes open to the ceiling. The quiet murmur of pine needles brushing against his window felt like whispers from a wiser world.

He thought of Myra—not as a girl, not as a crush, but as a reflection. She hadn’t just stepped into his world—she had cracked it open.

He remembered something his grandfather once told him during a village evening under the stars: “When your soul’s longing takes form, she may appear not as a goddess, but as a friend. Or a stranger. Or even a classmate. But you’ll know her—not by her words, but by what her silence awakens in you.”

That’s what Myra had become.

Not merely a girl with curious eyes and a confident smile. But a mirror that reflected his truest yearning—to learn, to grow, to awaken.

Perhaps that was why the subject of family planning, so taboo for many, had not felt inappropriate between them. It had felt… natural. Because they were seekers. Not of romance, not even of companionship—but of understanding. Of truth, no matter where it lay.

And Ishaan began to sense it—Myra was not here by chance.

She was not just a classmate.

She was his catalyst.

She would become his Guru.

And though their journey had barely begun, the first pages of perception had already turned.

Like ancient scriptures hidden in plain sight, waiting to be read.

As he drifted into sleep, he whispered a thought to the night wind:

“She who became my Guru… doesn’t even know it yet.”

The pines rustled softly.

Perhaps they did.

Chapter 3: Her Entrance: Myra

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.

Chapter 2: A School in the Arms of Discipline

The scent of resinous pine hung softly in the air, like the memory of something sacred.

As Ishaan stepped down from the last rickety bus that had brought him up the winding roads from the comfort of home, a silence greeted him—one that wasn’t empty, but full. It was as if the mountains themselves were holding their breath. The sunlight filtered through tall deodars, dappling the gravel path like blessings from the sky. His city-worn shoes crunched over dry needles and hidden pebbles, but even that sound felt respectful here, hushed by nature’s quiet grandeur.

He paused. His gaze wandered to the fluttering prayer flags strung between two oaks—tired from the wind, but still dancing. Somewhere nearby, a bird sang just once, then flew off, its wings slicing the silence like a whisper.

This was not the city. Not even close.

Not the crowded school he had tried earlier in Chandigarh even though for a very brief period—a place full of vehicles, vending machines, and voices louder than thoughts. That city school had promised everything—facilities, computers, science labs, even a swimming pool—but the noise! The endless, soul-numbing hum of engines, gossip, mobile phones, and ambition. There, no one really studied. They competed. No one really listened. They just waited for their turn to speak. Ishaan’s heart, already too soft for that world, had shrunk into itself like a turtle under threat.

This, however, was different. That’s why the mountains, his inborn mates, were calling him back once again—away from the hustle of the city.

Here, amidst the thick woods of Himachal Pradesh, was a modest civilian school nestled within a cantonment area—a strange blend of order and calm. Though the buildings wore no army badge, the air carried discipline, a certain stillness of routines long practiced. The cantonment itself was mostly civilian now, with shops and households run by locals, but the army’s subtle influence hung in the backdrop like a prayer woven into the air—never loud, never pushy, just present.

Even the wind seemed to move with purpose.

He approached the school gate, where two children—perhaps from the senior classes—stood chatting softly, their uniforms neat and their postures straight. One of them looked at Ishaan and gave a small, sincere smile. Not the polished, indifferent half-smile of city kids, but something more human.

“Ishaan Sharma?” a voice called from the porch.

He turned. A teacher, tall and lean, with streaks of silver in his hair and eyes that had clearly seen more than textbooks, stepped down the stairs and offered a hand. “Welcome to Pine Crest School.”

Pine Crest.

Even the name carried dew.

As Ishaan walked beside him toward the main building, he noticed everything—the prayer flags near the flagpole, the scent of turmeric wafting from the kitchen, the rhythmic chirping of crickets from somewhere behind the library. No noise. No rush.

For the first time in many weeks, his heartbeat matched the rhythm of his steps

A Different Kind of Routine

The days that followed were unlike anything he had imagined. Here, students stood up when teachers entered not out of fear, but habit. The morning assembly wasn’t a chore—it was an invocation. Each student spoke something—a quote, a poem, a prayer—not to impress, but to share. And the teachers, though firm, seemed like mountain guides—always watching, but never pushing too hard.

The classrooms were modest—no smartboards, no plush seating—but what they had was attention. Focus. A kind of warmth that even broken desks couldn’t hide. Ishaan would often catch himself staring at the window during lectures, only to realise that the lessons were somehow seeping in even as he drifted. It was as though the very air here whispered equations and metaphors.

One day, during recess, a curious boy named Gagan plopped down next to him with a lunchbox full of pickled lingdu and chapatis.

“You’re the city guy?” he asked, mouth already full.

“I was,” Ishaan smiled. “Now I’m here.”

Gagan squinted like a monk considering a riddle. “You’ll stay. People like you always stay.”

“Why?”

“Because you look like you came searching for something.”

That line stayed with him longer than the taste of wild fern pickle.

The Silent Guru

The school had no formal guru. But in the silence between lectures, during the morning PT runs under foggy skies, or while sitting alone on the sun-warmed steps of the old temple behind the school, Ishaan found teachings more profound than words could ever deliver.

Once, during a class on moral science—a subject often laughed off elsewhere—the teacher, Mr. Dutt, placed a pebble on the table.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A stone,” someone replied.

“A weapon,” said another, giggling.

Mr. Dutt smiled. “Yes. But it is also a reminder. This came from a river nearby. Rolled, shaped, softened over decades. Like you. Life will toss you, polish you, bruise you—but if you allow it, it’ll shape you. Into what? That’s your choice.”

Something stirred in Ishaan’s heart.

He had thought transformation was loud, like lightning splitting the sky. But here, it arrived on little feet. Quiet. Patient.

That evening, he wrote in his journal—a habit he had picked up from the school’s curious emphasis on self-reflection:

> “I thought I needed a guru in saffron robes, speaking mantras. But maybe the pine trees are my gurus. Maybe the wind that wakes me up is. Maybe I am.”

Whispers in the Forest

There was a trail behind the hostel—a winding path that led to an abandoned British-era stone bungalow half-swallowed by moss. Rumor had it a saint once lived there. Some said it was haunted. Others said it was blessed. Naturally, the boys were forbidden to go.

Naturally, Ishaan went.

One misty Sunday morning, he followed the deer-trodden trail alone. With each step, the air thickened—not with fear, but with a kind of electric stillness. The kind you feel before a revelation. Or a memory.

The bungalow appeared like a forgotten temple, cradled in vines and secrets. He stepped inside. Dust motes floated like souls in sunlight. There were no ghosts, but in the silence, he heard something deeper.

His own breath.

His own heartbeat.

And then—nothing.

A strange emptiness bloomed inside, and for a fleeting second, he felt his “I” dissolve. No name, no class, no boy from the hills—just an awareness. Expansive. Eternal. Not frightening, but freeing. Like falling into the sky and finding it soft.

Then a bird chirped.

And the moment passed.

But it had happened. He couldn’t un-feel it.

The Awakening

Back at school, things seemed the same—but something inside had changed.

When he looked at classmates, he saw not competition, but stories. When teachers scolded him, he didn’t shrink—he listened. When the school’s peon, old Lalaji, limped across the corridor, Ishaan no longer ignored him. He offered a hand. And a smile.

“Something’s different about you,” Gagan remarked one evening.

“I think I’m just… beginning to notice things.”

Gagan nodded. “That’s how it starts. Before you know it, you start noticing yourself.”

Epilogue to a Beginning

Months passed.

Winter arrived with silence painted in snow. The mountains donned white robes like saints meditating in plain sight. The school felt warmer somehow. Perhaps because Ishaan had stopped looking for warmth outside.

He had come to escape the city. He had stayed because this place—this school wrapped in deodars, shadowed by army boots but sung into silence by birds—had taught him what no classroom ever could:

That discipline was not about rules, but rhythm.

That spirituality didn’t always wear beads—it sometimes wore sweaters and read geography.

And that the first guru… often waits quietly… until the student becomes silent enough to hear.