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.
Demystifying Kundalini 