Ishaan reached the sixteenth chapter while scrolling slowly through the weathered pages of She Who Became My Guru, seated on the edge of a boulder near a clear Himalayan stream in Himachal—his native land. The breeze carried the scent of pine and wildflowers, and the hush of the mountains gave the words on the page a living pulse. His fingers paused for a second on the heading, The Ancestors’ Abode, and a strange pull of nostalgia coiled around his heart. The water rippled before him, as if mirroring the grey valleys of the moon. And as he began reading, the line between memory and moment dissolved effortlessly.
Returning to the Moon wasn’t like revisiting a city or an old neighbourhood—it was like stepping into a dream you had once woken up from, only to find yourself dreaming it again, but wiser this time. Ishaan Sharma, now a seasoned veterinarian with a weather-wrinkled gentleness in his smile, stood once again on the soft dust plains of Pitru Loka, where shadows walked slowly and the silence carried songs of the past.
The Moon had changed since his student days at Lunar University, or maybe he had. Back then, his limbs were lighter, his mind more restless, and his heart flared with the intense and nameless flame of longing. Myra. Her image, back then, had been seared into the grey landscape of the Moon like a mantra. It wasn’t just memory; it was meditation. Her soft gaze, her unspoken words, her sudden silences—they had all danced in his consciousness, bathed in lunar tranquility.
Yet even amidst the deep pull of that image, something else had arisen—his Dada Guru. Whenever the image of Myra would intensify in that moonlit solitude, so would the vision of his Guru, standing silent in ochre robes, his eyes like twin moons of ancient wisdom. The Moon, after all, was Chandraloka, the realm of the ancestors, a place where meditating on lineage, legacy, and liberation came as effortlessly as breathing. Ishaan had often felt as if the Moon itself held the contemplative power of thousands of rishis and grandfathers whispering through its valleys.
Now, two decades later, Myra’s image had softened, like a perfume clinging faintly to an old letter. His wife Vedika and children Diya and Ruhan filled the space where earlier only one name had echoed. Yet, as he stepped once again onto the Moon’s surface, he felt the subtle shimmer of Myra returning—not as a woman, nor as a memory, but as a reflection of his own soul. She was no longer someone separate. She had dissolved into the great sacred fluid of his being, becoming part of what he now called awareness.
“Funny,” he once wrote in a margin, “how one who stirred the storm becomes the stillness itself.”
Back then, Ishaan remembered struggling with those overwhelming visions. To still the whirlpool, he had meditated on Govind, his cousin brother who had once lived in their home, an enigmatic figure full of spiritual curiosity. Merging Govind’s moral strength with the image of Myra created a strange alchemy—a divine Yin-Yang. Myra’s gaze turned prophetic; her silence began speaking the truths of the cosmos.
Even his Pine Crest days came back to him. He would often see Mr. Dutt, his old science teacher, in his dreams on the Moon, carrying a celestial blackboard and scribbling formulas that dissolved into Upanishadic verses. Vinod, his intelligent classmate, now a researcher in dark matter, had once joked, “Ishaan, you don’t need a spaceship. You are a spaceship.”
The Lunar University corridors had once echoed with Gagan’s voice, singing retro Bollywood while Ishaan secretly stared out the window, thinking of Myra’s absent presence. Ranjana, his cousin sister, had sent him voice notes back then, filled with homemade advice and cheerful rebukes, urging him to eat well and not let his head get lost “in those Moon books.”
But this return was not merely academic—it was spiritual. The Moon had been officially designated as a psychospiritual habitat, and Ishaan’s posting wasn’t to treat space cows or lunar llamas—it was to explore how ancestral energies affected the psychic health of settlers. He was part vet, part mystic psychologist.
One evening, while examining a Lunar Hawk—an alien-like bird adapted for low gravity flight—he saw them. Far away on the horizon, silhouettes danced. Not human. Not alien. Not ghost.
They were… energy drinkers. Beings that fed not on blood or flesh, but on contemplative energy. They shimmered like dew caught in starlight. These beings relished the deeply meditative aura of Pitru Loka. When Ishaan would sit in dhyana, meditating on the intertwined forms of Guru and Myra, he would feel his thoughts lift like incense, and in those moments, he sensed them dancing—graceful, distant, never intruding, but always feeding. And in turn, they gave back something inexplicable. A deeper stillness. A broader silence.
He recorded these experiences in a log but never sent them to Earth Control. Some truths must grow roots in silence.
Reading these pages now, Ishaan chuckled softly. “Why did I never propose to Myra, despite burning inside?” he had once asked himself.
The answer had unfolded slowly through years.
There were too many walls: cultural, social, and perhaps most formidable—the silence between them. Years had passed without a single word exchanged. Ishaan had once considered breaking that silence, but the imagined effort of convincing her, her family, his family, the rituals, the explanations, felt more exhausting than uplifting.
So he chose an arranged marriage, not because it was easier, but because it was possible.
He had written once: “Why diminish the joy of an upcoming arranged marriage by openly mourning an inaccessible love?”
Still, divine love stories from the Puranas whispered their answers to him. Radha never married Krishna. Shiva married Parvati only after years of austerity. These stories weren’t just stories—they were energy blueprints. Ishaan realized the seers had deliberately embedded love tales in scriptures so that even a flicker of romantic energy could be sublimated into a full-fledged path of awakening. Romantic memory merged with spiritual devotion, and something beyond the two emerged—something powerful and liberating.
He remembered one particular night.
A meditation session had reached an unexpected intensity. Myra’s form appeared before him not as a girl, but as a celestial goddess, her outline flickering with cosmic fire. Then it shifted, merging with the image of his Guru. Myra’s gaze became his Guru’s. Ishaan had cried then—not from sadness, but from awe.
He had understood.
Myra was not outside him.
She never was.
The chapter neared its end. Ishaan lifted his eyes from the page. The sun had dipped low over the mountains, casting orange-gold light through the tall pines. Birds fluttered back to their nests. A cowbell rang faintly from a distant pasture. Somewhere nearby, children laughed, their voices carried on the breeze like echoes from a simpler time.
He let the book rest on his knees and looked up at the sky. The Moon had just begun to rise, its faint arc glowing like a half-drawn smile. He whispered aloud, “Pitru Loka isn’t just on the Moon. It’s anywhere your soul touches its lineage… and bows.”
In the distance, the stream sang its eternal song, as if echoing his prayer: Jai Guru Dev, Jai Myra Dev, Jai the Self that was never separate.
And with that, Ishaan closed the chapter—not just in the book, but in his heart, which had never been broken, only opened a thousand times to newer skies.
He leaned back, eyes distant, memory stirring.
“I still remember the day I decided to leave the Moon,” he murmured to himself. “The medical facilities there—limited, cold, clinical—weren’t enough for an aging body like mine. I was growing old, and strangely, I found myself yearning for the things I once took for granted: the smell of soil after rain, the warmth of sunlight filtering through leaves, even the chaos of crowded streets.”
A smile flickered at the corner of his lips.
“That hunger brought me back. I took early retirement and returned to Earth. Because in the end, no matter how far you travel… home is home, and Earth is Earth.”
Demystifying Kundalini 