A soft breeze brushed the dew-laced courtyard of Pine Crest School, gently stirring the silence of dawn. The events of that morning—the moment Myra had playfully reclined on the table and Ishaan had transmuted raw desire into pure presence—had not ended with the bell. They had marked the beginning of a silent revolution.
That morning had not merely passed—it had opened a gate.
In the weeks that followed, Ishaan noticed a strange phenomenon within himself. Every glimpse of Myra, every moment she leaned forward to whisper to Anjali or laughed over some silly joke, sent currents of energy rippling through his spine. It wasn’t desire in its old form anymore. It wasn’t restless or consuming. It was… flowing. Almost like music.
He began to call it The Year of Flowing Energy in his diary.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Gagan chuckled, nudging Ishaan with his elbow as they sat beneath the tall gulmohar tree during lunch.
“Not a ghost,” Ishaan said, his eyes still dreamy. “A goddess.”
Gagan rolled his eyes. “Oh no, not again. Is this about Myra?”
Ishaan smiled but didn’t answer.
“Bro,” Gagan said, biting into his sandwich, “I swear, one day you’ll see her and float up like Hanuman did when he heard the name of Ram.”
“Maybe that’s what love really is,” Ishaan whispered. “The way it makes you light.”
Gagan paused, genuinely curious now. “Okay, what’s happening with you? You’ve stopped talking like a schoolboy and started talking like Kabir. Did you hit your head somewhere or… meditate too much again?”
Ishaan grinned. “You won’t believe this… but sometimes when I look at her, I see Dada Guru’s face for a second. Not literally. It’s like… like Myra and he have merged inside me as symbols. One stands for love, the other for discipline. Both lead me back to the same stillness.”
Gagan stared, then gave a low whistle. “That’s some next-level stuff.”
What followed was a year unlike any Ishaan had ever known. It was as if the entire universe was conspiring to test the strength of this new awareness.
One morning, the biology teacher was supposed to explain human reproduction. Detailed diagrams were drawn on the blackboard, but by some strange twist of fate, Ishaan was absent that day.
“Lucky escape,” Gagan later joked. “They showed everything. I mean everything.”
But for Ishaan, it didn’t feel like coincidence. It felt like divine orchestration.
“If I had seen those images then,” Ishaan explained to Gagan later, “I think my mind would have cooled the fire too soon. You know how when you explain something too early, the mystery vanishes? This fire… it needed to burn a little longer.”
Gagan nodded thoughtfully. “You mean like Krishna and the gopis?”
Ishaan blinked. “What do you know about Krishna and the gopis?”
“Hey,” Gagan said, pretending to puff his chest, “I may be goofy, but I’m not ignorant. My nani used to tell me stories. Krishna dancing with all the gopis at once. Everyone thought it was sensual, but she said it was spiritual. Like divine love flowing everywhere.”
Ishaan’s eyes lit up. “Exactly! People think it’s about one man and many women. But it’s not about numbers. It’s about the capacity to hold many reflections of love, without breaking. Without lusting. That rasa… it’s a dance of the soul.”
Gagan slowly nodded. “So you think what you’re experiencing is… that?”
“Maybe a little slice of it,” Ishaan said. “This love, this attraction—it’s intense, yes. But it’s also sacred. Like the bhakti of Meera. Like Radha’s surrender.”
One evening, Ishaan sat alone in the school library, flipping through a book on Indian mysticism. The words blurred before his eyes as waves of energy rolled up his spine just at the thought of Myra walking down the corridor. He closed his eyes.
There she was.
Not as a physical form, but as light. Flowing, glowing, transforming.
The image faded, and in its place appeared his Dada Guru, seated in lotus pose, smiling faintly.
Then both forms melted into a single golden sphere.
He sat frozen for a long time, unsure if he had meditated or dreamt.
The mysticism deepened when he began waking up at odd hours of the night, his spine alive with sensations. It was not sexual. It was something subtler. Like someone pouring soft golden threads through the back of his head. He once described it to Gagan as “dreaming through the spine.”
“Dude, you need to sleep more,” Gagan joked.
“No,” Ishaan replied, eyes shining, “I need to wake up even more.”
They laughed, but Ishaan was serious. There was something inside him transforming quietly, like a seed growing underground.
A curious incident happened near the school pond.
He and Myra had gone to fetch a lost volleyball. They were alone. The sun dappled through the trees. As she leaned over to grab the ball, her fingers brushed his.
For a fraction of a second, everything froze.
No bird chirped.
No wind blew.
And then, in that stillness, a rush of energy shot up Ishaan’s spine like a flame.
Not the restlessness of old desire, but a roar of divine sweetness.
He looked at her, breathless.
She smiled and said, “Are you okay?”
“I think I just met God,” he replied softly.
Myra laughed, but her cheeks flushed slightly. Perhaps she felt it too.
That year, Ishaan discovered a secret about energy. That it doesn’t obey our logic. It flows where it finds love, meaning, and mystery.
His Dada Guru’s teachings echoed within him more powerfully now: Kama, when not chased, becomes Prema. Prema, when not possessed, becomes Bhakti. Bhakti, when surrendered, becomes Mukti.
Each time he remembered Myra, he did not try to push her away. He let the fire of attraction rise, then guide it upwards.
His focus shifted to his Ajna chakra during meditations. Often, tears rolled down his cheeks without any clear reason. Bliss had begun dripping through the cracks of his teenage restlessness.
One evening, during a thunderstorm, Ishaan wrote in his diary:
“I no longer want to touch her skin. I want to touch her light.”
“I no longer wish she loved me back. I wish she finds that same river flowing inside her that now carries me.”
“This love… it doesn’t want to possess. It wants to merge.”
He paused.
Then added:
“Maybe she has already become my guru.”
The monsoon passed. So did the year.
But the energy stayed.
What had begun as a spark without words had turned into a river without banks. And Ishaan Sharma, the boy once afraid of his own desires, was now sailing its waters like a mystic in love.
Still unsure where it would take him.
But finally, fully, unafraid.
Demystifying Kundalini 