Hi friends,
This is the final chapter of a journey many of you have walked with me—thank you for being a part of it. What began as a series of quiet reflections has now found its home between two covers. I’m humbled and excited to share that the complete story is now compiled as a book: She Who Became My Guru. In the end of this blog is the introduction to the book, offering a glimpse into the soul of the story. If it resonates, you can now hold it in your hands, revisit it anytime, or gift it to someone who’s quietly seeking.
She Who Became My Guru
The pine-scented breeze caressed the veranda of Ishaan’s hill home as clouds rolled lazily over the distant valley. With his shawl wrapped gently around his shoulders, Ishaan sat by the wooden window, the familiar creak of the chair beneath him echoing like an old friend. A steaming cup of tulsi chai rested beside his handwritten notes. The air was soaked in the golden hues of dusk.
At fifty-two, Ishaan’s beard bore whispers of silver. His gaze softened as he flipped to the final chapter of his book, She Who Became My Guru. The title itself glowed from the page, like a prayer whispered through lifetimes. With a gentle breath, he began reading aloud, and the boundary between past and present melted like mist under morning sun.
He was now neither the student nor the seeker. He was the offering.
After that final Samadhi under the moon’s grace, where Myra and Vedika had appeared in radiant harmony—spark and sustainer—something subtle but irreversible had shifted within him. For hours his breath had paused, not by will, but by surrender. In the void of Nirvikalpa, he hadn’t experienced the universe as a backdrop to himself. He had become that backdrop—space without edges, time without ticking.
But now, Earth called. Humanity called. Even the Moon, which had silently witnessed his transformations, seemed to whisper, “Share.”
He had returned to teach, but not to preach. He wrote, not as a master, but as one who had been loved into awakening. His fingers moved like rivers over keyboards and old manuscripts alike, pouring out stories, sutras, mistakes, and miracles. Hundreds of books, scattered like petals across time. Yet, every story led back to her.
Myra.
She had never returned in a worldly sense, and yet, he met her every moment—in the smile of a stranger, the tears of a student, the silence between words. Anjali, her lively friend, once wrote him a letter: “You were her path, Ishaan. But you also walked it because she lit the first lamp.”
The Pine Crest School had long renamed its meditation hall as the ‘Sharma Consciousness Wing.’ Mr. Dutt had passed on, but not before gifting him the old chalk box from his first classroom—a treasure chest more precious than any award.
Govind, now a father of two, once came visiting with his son and confessed, “Ishaan bhaiya, I now understand what you meant when you used to gaze into the void like it was home.”
Vinod had become a neurophilosopher, blending quantum biology with Upanishadic insights. “You gave me the courage to study the brain like a temple,” he’d once written.
Ranjana, always wise beyond her years, had become a teacher in Dharamshala. Her students often heard stories of a cousin who saw the moon not as a rock, but a reflection of soul.
And Vedika—oh, Vedika. If ever there was a guardian of earthly grace, it was she. Their companionship was not fireworks but candlelight. Steady, warm, illuminating. She had once whispered, during a walk under starfall, “You loved her. You were consumed by her light. But with me, you found the wick.”
He had smiled then, remembering how the wick and flame are never at odds.
Ishaan now traveled between Earth and Moon often, teaching not from pedestals but from platforms of shared humanity. He called it Lunar Earth Sangha, a school without borders. People gathered, not around him, but around their own yearning. He only nudged.
In one session on the Moon’s Sea of Tranquility, a young girl had asked him, “Sir, were you ever afraid?”
He had laughed gently. “I was afraid of love, of surrender, of losing control. Until I realised—fear is devotion misunderstood.”
The class had gone silent, not out of reverence, but recognition.
It wasn’t just knowledge Ishaan shared—it was vulnerability. His blog, DemystifyingKundalini.com, had become a repository of living experience. Not abstract theories, but diary pages of his awakening—complete with confusions, cravings, breakdowns, and breakthroughs. The post titled ‘The Night My Breath Stopped’ became the most shared piece across spiritual circles.
He would often write, “Kundalini isn’t a force. She’s a mirror. The more gently you look, the more fiercely she reflects.”
Even when people called him Guruji, he would chuckle. “She was my guru. I’m just someone who listened.”
And then there were the letters. Thousands of them. From corners of Earth and outposts on Moon settlements. People asking not how to awaken—but how to stay soft after awakening. He’d reply to each with childlike delight, often ending with, “Don’t forget to laugh between breaths. Even the divine giggles.”
One morning, while walking beside the old cedar path behind his hill home, Ishaan had paused. A young boy, around sixteen, sat sketching the landscape. Ishaan peeked and saw it was the valley below—with a small figure meditating under the tree.
“That’s you,” the boy said without turning.
“Looks more peaceful than I usually am,” Ishaan smiled.
The boy glanced up. “Maybe because you’re not thinking there. Just being.”
And just like that, Ishaan bowed.
Not to the boy, not to the drawing, but to the unseen thread that stitched every moment into awakening.
He returned home that day, made a cup of chai, and opened his latest manuscript: She Who Became My Guru – The Final Word.
In the final paragraph, he wrote:
“She came like a spark, left like silence. But in between, she burned away every wall I had mistaken for myself. Myra was not just a person. She was the moment life stopped pretending. She didn’t teach me Kundalini. She reminded me I was always the serpent and the sky.”
As Ishaan closed the book now, at his hill home once more, the evening sunlight broke through the clouds in golden shards. The air smelled of wet pine and old earth. Far down, a flute was being played—its notes rising like incense.
He leaned back, eyes moist but smiling. The story had ended, but the presence had not. In fact, it had just begun.
He whispered into the wind, “Thank you, Myra. Thank you, Vedika. Thank you, Self.”
And somewhere, perhaps in the stillness between stars, the silence whispered back.
To be continued in silence…
Book Introduction
In the soft hush of his Himalayan hill home, Ishaan Sharma—now 52—sat by a sun-warmed window with a cup of tea and an old wooden bookstand. Before him lay a story not just authored, but lived. The wind outside rustled like turning pages, and so he began again—revisiting the words that had once poured from his spirit like spring water from ancient stone.
There are books that aim to teach. There are books that aim to impress. But this one—this book—was never meant to do either.
She Who Became My Guru is not a tale of perfection, but of profound imperfection lovingly transformed. It is the story of a seeker who was never seeking, of a man who stumbled into the divine by tripping over the ordinary—of a journey that began with heartbreak, confusion, and a taste of love too potent to be labeled romantic.
Born under the quiet shadows of the Himalayan hills, Ishaan lived what many would call a normal life. A part teacher, a veterinarian, a husband, a son, a friend. But behind the curtain of roles and rituals, something ancient stirred—a whisper of something eternal, a beckoning he could neither ignore nor explain. And then she entered. Not as a woman alone, but as the mirror that turned his gaze inward. Myra. The one who shattered his illusions not by force, but simply by being. The one whose absence awakened the presence within.
In these pages, the reader won’t find a straight road to enlightenment—for the soul never travels in straight lines. Instead, there are winding paths through science and mythology, laughter among school friends, and silences between lovers. Glimpses of the moon. Echoes of forgotten lifetimes. And at the center, a man who writes not as a master, but as one who was loved into awakening—who still forgets, stumbles, rises, and remembers.
Each chapter is both a memory and a meditation. Rooted in the soil of Ishaan’s lived experience, watered by mystic insight, and grown under the moonlight of inner inquiry. The teachings are not his. They unfolded like petals from the heart of life itself. He merely bled them onto these pages, as one does when the wound becomes the womb of wisdom.
This book is not an instruction—it is a remembrance. Not a sermon, but a soft echo from within. A song, a prayer, a bridge—for anyone who has ever whispered to the sky, “Is there more than this?”
Yes, there is.
And it begins not above, not beyond, but within.
Welcome to She Who Became My Guru. May you find in it not answers, but your own reflection.
Here’s the link to buy:
👉 [She Who Became My Guru]
Demystifying Kundalini 