Ishaan reached the twenty-first chapter while slowly turning the pages of his handwritten book, She Who Became My Guru, the paper still carrying faint scents of sandalwood from his earlier morning rituals. Outside his hill home, pine trees whispered in the breeze, and the snow-capped peaks shimmered like sages in silent meditation. The fireplace beside him crackled gently, as if eager to accompany him on this deep inward journey.
The chapter opened like the rising of the moon: gentle, silent, inevitable.
It had been days since that overwhelming night on the moon when Vedika had listened to Ishaan’s soul bare itself. And now, sitting at his modest desk in the lunar observatory—earthlight filtering softly through crystalline windows—he began writing, not for the world, but for himself. Yet he knew someone would read it. Perhaps not today, not tomorrow, but one day—when the need to know overtook the fear of knowing.
Ishaan began not with events but with reflections. “How strange,” he murmured to himself, “that in childhood, the first face of love I knew was Govind’s… and yet, beneath it, was Krishna’s presence. Now I see, beneath both, stood another—silent, unwavering—the soul of Dadaji.”
His fingers moved like a calligrapher’s, slow yet deliberate, as if decoding inner etchings.
He recalled the mornings of his childhood when Dadaji sat on the veranda, reading ancient scriptures, surrounded by silence so thick it felt like a protective aura. “Back then,” Ishaan thought, “I only saw an old man wrapped in wool. But now I realize he wasn’t reading stories—he was living them.”
During those years, Govind had been the storm, Krishna the rain, but Dadaji—he was the unchanging sky.
Ishaan’s pen danced across the page as he began to draw lines between his experiences: love for Govind, his boyish mischiefs echoing Krishna’s leelas, and now, this strange fusion of divine love that shielded him from spiritual downfall. Vedika had once said, her voice almost a prayer, “When you truly love God, your love becomes immune to impurity. It sheds its skin, like a snake shedding desire, until only its essence remains.”
He had smiled at that, but now he understood.
One evening, shortly after the moon mission had given them weeks of otherworldly contemplation, Vedika had asked him while sipping a rare tulsi brew, “Why does your love survive, Ishaan? Even after the storms?”
And he had responded, almost unknowingly, “Because I first loved the divine in a human… and then I saw the divine had always been there.”
He chuckled, remembering how she had tilted her head with mock irritation. “So, is that your secret equation? God plus Human equals Immunity to Madness?”
They had both laughed, but within that laughter was something weightless, ancient.
Ishaan kept writing.
He wrote about Govind’s childhood: how he would climb mango trees and chant self-made couplets about school teachers, how he mimicked Krishna’s butter-stealing antics and turned them into biscuit raids. How, every night, Ishaan would watch him act out scenes from Bal Leela, and how those divine stories—heard daily in their home—had slowly seeped into the soil of his heart.
He now understood: his love for Govind was never merely for Govind. It was a seed watered daily by Krishna’s mythology, unknowingly fertilized by Dadaji’s spiritual gravity. “Childhood,” he wrote, “is not so different, whether human or divine. Only the lens we place on it—purity, myth, mystery—shifts its meaning.”
He closed his eyes, remembering.
It was the day after their celestial confession. Vedika had asked him to sit beside the moon lake, where reflections looked clearer than the objects themselves.
“You know,” she began softly, “your love for Krishna didn’t shift to Myra by accident. It flowed like a river into her because love, if genuine, doesn’t end—it only changes the vessel.”
Ishaan had been silent.
She added, “It’s the same love. The same current. Only, with Myra, you had a face to hold. With Krishna, you had to build that face from longing. And when that longing found a form—Myra—it intensified.”
Ishaan remembered whispering, “But what about the danger? Doesn’t strong love corrupt?”
Vedika shook her head. “Only when it’s not purified by its source. The love that begins in devotion—even if diverted—carries a fragrance that cannot rot. And if one enters physical love with a refined heart, then even passion becomes a teacher, not a trap.”
And that had been a turning point.
In that moment, something in Ishaan shifted. He looked at the moon and realized it was no longer cold—it was a mirror. The pit between two loves wasn’t a fall—it was a bridge.
He continued writing.
Medical science had given him terms: mirror neurons, oxytocin, emotional transference. Puranic wisdom gave him metaphors. But lunar research had given him the experience—the inarguable knowing—that love itself was a medium of awakening.
He remembered Mr. Dutt’s voice, from the old Pine Crest classroom, thundering about “energy never dying.” How strange that those physics lectures now echoed in his spiritual life. Myra, Anjali, even Gagan—each had been frequencies in his inner spectrum. Each had offered reflections, distortions, or amplifications.
And yet, one figure had never left the background: Dadaji.
He remembered the day he found the handwritten letter, locked in Dadaji’s wooden trunk. A letter that wasn’t addressed to anyone but was dated three months before Ishaan’s birth.
It read:
“The one who will carry forward my fire will not be taught—it will awaken in him. May he one day find the moon in his mind, the sun in his chest, and the stars in his breath.”
Ishaan stared at that letter for hours. It wasn’t a prophecy. It was a transmission.
Later, while speaking to Vinod during a late-night tea session back on Earth, Ishaan had casually brought it up. Vinod had sipped his chai and said, “Then your Dadaji wasn’t just a grandfather, Ishaan. He was your seed memory. The beginning of your spiral.”
The phrase struck him like lightning.
Dadaji hadn’t raised him. He had implanted something.
“Father, Guru, Self,” Ishaan wrote in bold across the next page. “In the true journey, they are not separate. The guru is born as father, the self is born as disciple. One grows into the other.”
He remembered Ranjana once saying, “It’s funny how your spiritual side never needed explanation. Like it came coded.”
It had. And that code was Dadaji.
The chapter moved forward, not in time, but in depth.
He described how the mind’s idea of God always lacks form, and how strong love helps conjure that form with such clarity that it becomes real. “That’s why devotion to an unseen divine requires stronger love than to a visible human,” he noted. “It’s like painting without canvas. Only the lover’s gaze creates the shape.”
And when that divine love finds a human host—Myra, Govind, Vedika—it becomes stronger than either could hold alone. Like a dhyana chitra—those focused inner images yogis meditate upon—it gets forged not only from faith, but from memory, longing, and the fire of the search.
As Ishaan finished the final lines of the chapter, snow had started to fall gently outside his window. A slow, graceful dance. The same dance he had seen on the moon—tiny flakes of cosmic dust drifting silently.
He leaned back.
The chapter had ended, but it felt like a beginning.
Outside, the hills were turning white again, wrapping the earth in a blanket of stillness. From his hilltop retreat, Ishaan watched the horizon melt into the mist, feeling the presence of his grandfather, his guru, his self—all as one breath in his chest.
He closed the book and whispered to the fireplace, “Dadaji… I see you now.”
The fire answered not with sound, but with warmth.
Demystifying Kundalini 