The morning air in Himachal carried a mountain stillness—an emptiness so complete it almost hummed. Ishaan sat on his pinewood verandah, legs folded, the old book She Who Became My Guru resting on his lap. He had turned to Chapter 20 again, not out of nostalgia, but because it always asked something of him. This chapter wasn’t ink on paper. It was memory.
His eyes traced the opening line: “She brought you here,” Vedika had said, “but I’ll walk you further.”
And in an instant, the stillness broke, as if time itself inhaled.
He had already told her once—long ago, on that impossible moonlit night after his awakening. A night that had felt like the afterglow of Samadhi, weightless and strangely natural. It had come up then, not as confession, but as a necessity. Now, while reading the chapter again at 52, he found himself reliving that same moment in full force, as if it were happening again in real-time.
On the moon, where dreams met dimensions, he had looked at Vedika’s calm, starlit face and said:
“I once loved someone… with a devotion that bordered on madness. Not just her—before her, there was him. My cousin. Govind. He was Krishna to me. Or maybe… Krishna had always been him.”
Vedika hadn’t flinched. He remembered how she’d merely nodded, her eyes like wells of cosmic understanding.
“So your devotion was pre-shaped,” she had replied. “Sculpted in love before it ever met a form.”
Even now, reading it again, Ishaan could feel that line break something open in him—something beautiful and necessary.
That memory was what birthed this chapter.
When Ishaan had first met Govind, they were just boys. But Govind’s wild laughter, his knack for vanishing sweets and sneaking into orchards, his untamed spirit—it all mirrored the stories of Krishna that echoed through their home. Govind, with his charm and mischief, was the living, breathing echo of the child-form Krishna. The love Ishaan developed for him wasn’t ordinary affection—it was bhakti in its purest seed form. A love that knew no shame, no rules, no boundary.
And in that divine mischief was concealed a spiritual safeguard:
“Love is love. If it is kept in practice, it can mix with any type of physical object irrespective of its nature, form, gender.”
Govind was his first Krishna. Not metaphorically—but experientially. The boyish play, the laughter, the disappearing laddoos, the gleam in the eyes that spoke of something far more ancient than childhood. It all forged a subconscious channel—through which Ishaan’s later love would pass, uncorrupted.
Because Krishna was there all along.
Later, when Myra appeared like a sunrise in human form, it wasn’t that Ishaan’s heart was shaken anew—it was that an old tune found a new instrument. The bhava was familiar. The fragrance, known. She reminded him not just of Krishna—but also of Govind, as if life was gently echoing a deeper pattern.
The love shifted again, just as it had from Govind to Krishna and now to her.
And still—love remained the same.
Vedika had summarized it perfectly that night on the moon, her voice filled with a quiet gravity:
“You loved Govind through Krishna. You loved Myra through Govind. The thread was always divine. Just we didn’t see it clearly until now.”
Reading now, Ishaan came to the line he had written years ago in this very chapter:
“Those who love God first cannot misuse love later. They cannot fall—because they have already risen.”
It made him chuckle softly. It was so true, so frighteningly simple. Because Krishna, that imagined and intangible flame of his childhood, had refined his love. Made it powerful yet tender. That purity had removed impurities like lust, attachment, craving, and misbehavior.
So when Ishaan finally encountered physical love again, it didn’t drag him down. It lifted him further.
There was no pit between two loves. There was a polished bridge.
On that moon, Vedika had said one more thing—he recalled it now as if she whispered it in the rustle of pine leaves around him.
“When love to Krishna becomes dhyana chitra,” she had explained, “it must be extraordinarily strong—because it lacks physical form. You have to keep recreating it every moment in your heart. That’s what makes it subtle, sharp, and sacred.”
“And then,” she had smiled, “if such love ever finds a real person—a body, a face, a voice—it explodes into something nearly divine. That’s what happened with you and Myra.”
He had nodded silently. “And with you, Vedika, that energy found a direction.”
She had tilted her head, amused. “You were always walking upward. I just gave you a torch.”
The chapter then veered gently into remembrance of Govind’s boyhood again. How he would splash into puddles right after a storm, not caring about being scolded. How he once fed the temple cow mango pickle, claiming she liked sour. How he broke his arm climbing a jamun tree to impress Ranjana, then told everyone he fell from heaven.
All so Krishna-like. Ishaan’s grandmother used to say, “Every boy is Krishna before he becomes a man. Some never stop being him.”
And that was true for Govind. In fact, it was true for every child. For every divine love.
“Actually, the childhood of everyone is similar whether it is human or god,” the chapter read, “only divinity, purity and mysticism is added to love that is to god.”
Now Ishaan’s fingers trembled slightly on the book’s edge—not from weakness, but from fullness.
This wasn’t a story.
This was a pattern. A cosmic intelligence weaving itself through the threads of his life—from Govind to Krishna to Myra to Vedika.
Each one carried him forward, never backward.
Because the moment love doesn’t possess, it transforms.
The moment it doesn’t pull down, it lifts up.
The moment it doesn’t crave, it awakens.
The wind whispered through the pines again, and Ishaan looked up from the page.
Vedika was walking along the path below, collecting pine cones in her shawl like a mountain girl from a folktale. She paused, looked up at him, and smiled.
He didn’t say a word. Just nodded.
The same way he had nodded years ago on the moon, after repeating everything he’d once disclosed.
The same way one acknowledges not a woman, but a guiding light.
He placed the book on his chest and leaned back.
There was no pit. There never was.
Just a sacred hollow where love echoed back as God.
Demystifying Kundalini 