#23. Sahasrara - Blossoming the Shivratri of 2026

The first Shiva Ratri of the year 2026—a sacred day to defeat Apasmara, the dwarf demon who resides within me. This ignorant consciousness drifts toward the glitter of gold, where artificial shimmers often subdue the shining sun waiting for its rendezvous with us. Muyalaka is maya itself, pulling us toward the unreal. The dwarf demon represents the spiritual ignorance and ego of humankind. That is where the Aham is generated.

The Sahasrara, located at the crown of the head, is the dwelling place of my Mahadeva—Mahadeva in the form of beauty, the beauty of Nataraja performing the cosmic dance and smiling radiantly as we unite. You are none other than my soul, pure and unadulterated. As I feel your presence on the crown chakra, unfolding each petal of the violet rays of consciousness, I smile within, for I know you are my shakti, you are my soul.

Mahadeva is neither god nor ritual—Mahadeva is every breath of being. The purest form bestowed upon me by him manifests in moments where light prevails—not the light of lamps or stage, but the light of consciousness itself. Nataraja dances as me, as those I see before me—cool, fearless, and limitless. I plead to you, dear Nataraja, to my Adi and my Ananta: grant humankind the intention to live with kindness.

Let me share with you a moment when this truth revealed itself to me. Have you ever entered the sanctum of the Matrimandir in Auroville, where light falls upon the crown of the head at the Bai-Hui point? Bai-Hui is the highest point located at the peak of the skull. That beam of light from the ceiling feels like a direct tête-à-tête with the Sun God. I have experienced this. As I looked up, it felt magical—the demon was liquefying as Nataraja found balance, with one foot aligned through my kundalini. He smiled, whispering, "Here, finally we met! I was waiting to meet you." I couldn't speak. Like a child, I wept as he took his rightful throne within me.

Aum, Aum, Aum

My mind, so restless; my mind, so insecure, met him. A dwarf demon living within me sometimes laughs like Ravana—Ravana, so filled with talent but drunk with ego. Your cosmic dance found a place on the crown of my head, at Bai-Hui. I am calm now, for he has balanced himself on my Sahasrara. He who is my Mahadeva, he who is me—me with my incompleteness. He who is Nataraja completes me!

A faint song came along… I recognised it, a favourite!

Karde mujhe mujhse hi riha

I smiled again and hummed along:

Manke mere ye bharam,

kacche mere ye karam,

leke chale hai kaha?

Main to jaanu naa…

Tu hai mujh mein samaya, kaha leke mujhe aaya

Main hoon tujh mein samaya, tere peeche chala aaya

Tera hi main ek saya…

It continued! 

#22. The Third Eye: Ajna

Out of all the chakras, why would only the Ajna have its beej mantra as 'OM'? This question stayed with me during meditation sessions that always begin the same way: Close your eyes, focus on the breathing, and bring all your awareness to the centre of the eyebrows. Over time, we begin to visualize that bright, enchanting light within us—spreading through the entire body, radiating its beam beyond.

The Ajna Chakra. The third eye chakra. And when speaking of the third eye, how can I not speak of Mahadeva?

I have kept myself free from the clutches of attachment to any particular sect, religious belief, or ritual. As a kid, it was my mother who was my anchor. She still remains there—she is my ritual. Most things were done because "Mom said so!" Over time, when logic began questioning the doings, my generation carried the fear of "What if?" The generation I see now carries only "If it's me, I proceed!" Somewhere in between these worlds, I'm trying to find my footing—trying to balance the soul in what feels unmistakably like Kaliyuga.

I see it in the youth who scrolls through social media during lunch, curating a life that exists only in filtered frames. I see it in myself when I check my phone immediately after meditation, as if the silence needed to be filled. This is the decay I'm speaking of—not some distant mythological darkness, but the everyday fragmentation of attention, the constant noise drowning out the whisper of something deeper.

I close my eyes, and there he is. Shiva—not as Nataraja dancing in a temple, not as Bhairava with his fierce gaze, but as something quieter. He's not consuming the poison of the ocean this time; he's absorbing this modern toxicity, this fracturing of presence. And in that absorption, something in me recognizes itself. For me, Ajna chakra is where my Mahadeva resides—not as a deity separate from me, but as my own consciousness watching itself. Shiva becomes the witness within, the part of me that remains still while everything else churns.

This is what the third eye offers: the capacity to observe without being consumed. To see the craving, the expectation, the discontent—not from within the storm, but from that quiet centre between the eyebrows.

Yet the awakening sometimes takes a back seat. Consciousness takes regular naps in the intervals. The cravings seek appreciation surrounded by unbounded expectations, and then comes the pain of discontent. This is precisely why activating the third eye chakra matters—it enables that gateway connecting our human experience to higher consciousness, linking to the pineal gland where ancient yogis believed the soul's vision resides.

Balancing this indigo-lit chakra answers questions we sometimes fail to ask ourselves: "Am I a machine working with a switch on and switch off mode?" And the bigger question: What is your purpose in life?

At this, I remember the core principle of Karma Yoga: Karmanye Vadhikaraste, Maa Phaleshu Kadachana, Maa Karma Phala Hetur Bhur, Ma Te Sangostva Akarmani. You have a right to perform your duty, but not to the fruits of action. Never consider yourself the cause of results, nor be attached to inaction.

Perhaps this is why only Ajna carries OM as its beej mantra. While the root chakra resonates with LAM—the earth element grounding us, while the heart chakra vibrates with YAM—the air element connecting us, the sixth chakra transcends elemental associations entirely. At the Ajna, where the ida and pingala nadis meet, where duality dissolves and perception shift from external to internal, only OM can contain that vastness. OM is not just a sound—it's the primordial vibration from which all creation emerges, the sound of consciousness recognizing itself.

When I sit in meditation and chant OM at the space between my eyebrows, I'm not invoking something outside myself. I'm tuning into the frequency that was always there—the hum beneath all the noise, the stillness beneath all the movement.

Om Om Om

O creator, grant us courage to meet ourselves as we truly are

To accept the flaws of this earthly form

Let our actions flow free from attachment to their fruits

Let conscience guide us toward goodness and selfless service

With each breath, each intention set clear

May we become souls detached yet overflowing with love

Desiring nothing more than what is

Let there be Hari, let there be Hara

Let each day pulse with that sacred vibration – Om Om Om!

#21. Vishuddha – Purifying the Intentions

The event was over. She had played a character flawlessly—poised, enigmatic, and elegant. As the crew celebrated their success, she sat watching them, contemplating. Maybe someone would call her for the group picture. Maybe someone would invite her to the meeting. Wasn't she part of them for months? In the chaos of celebration, she wasn't missed. She walked back alone, tears rolling down her cheeks.

She left. All by herself. All alone.

People fail to communicate—not because they lack words, but because they lack intention. Communication flows from what we feel for one another, from seeing each other as human rather than as functions in our daily machinery. 

We know this intuitively: don't go by what a person says; observe them—you will get to know their intention. But how many of us truly observe? How many of us notice who sits alone at the edges of our celebrations?

Today we have friendships without presence, connections without weight. We accumulate people like contacts in a phone, but when we're actually needed, no one is near. We speak constantly but say nothing. We connect endlessly but remain alone.

There's a chakra in the throat called Vishuddha—bright blue, governing truth and self-expression. It's meant to bridge heart and mind, to give voice to what we feel. But when situations become difficult, we go silent. The conversation is dropped. The wound remains. Where does unspoken pain go? It doesn't dissolve. It calcifies into distance, into the small resentments that accumulate like sediment. It becomes the reason someone stops initiating, stops hoping, stops believing they matter. It's the slow death of relationships we once cherished—not through dramatic ending, but through a thousand small silences.

We who feel deeply want to speak. We initiate, we reach out, we ask the difficult questions. But those questions disrupt the smooth surface we've agreed to maintain. They demand we stop celebrating long enough to notice who isn't celebrating with us. So the ones who speak up learn to go quiet—not because they've healed, but because they've learned their voices are inconvenient.

She said, "Why should I be in a place where my absence is not felt?"

I couldn't answer her. I could only ask myself: Where was I? Where was I when she sat alone, hoping? Where was I when she walked away?

I was celebrating. I was part of the noise that drowned out her silence. I was too comfortable, too caught up in my own moment, to turn around and see who wasn't there.

Ancient wisdom tells us that true communication heals—that speaking our truth, hearing another's truth, builds the world we want to live in. But wisdom means nothing if we don't notice when someone walks away alone. It means nothing if we don't ask: Where were we? And what will we do differently when the celebration ends and we finally look around?

She walked back alone that night—not in chosen solitude, but broken, with tears rolling down her eyes. And somewhere in her throat, the bright blue light dimmed, waiting for someone to ask her to speak, waiting for someone to truly listen.

Can Vishuddha be healed? Can we learn to communicate with intention rather than convenience? I don't know. But I know the healing begins when we turn around. When we see the empty space, the void where someone stood. When we ask their name before they walk away.

Dear Vishuddha,

Your bright blue light calls to me

The throat that wants to speak

Hums softly in its solitude

Waiting for the brave, not the meek

Let there be intention in our noticing

Let there be courage in our care

Not just words of love, but love in action—

Seeing who is and isn't there

Heal us with the truth we're afraid to speak

Heal us with the questions we avoid

Heal us when we finally turn around

And see the empty space, the void

Where someone stood, where someone waited

Where someone hoped we'd call their name

Heal us so we notice next time

Before they walk away in shame

Words of truth, truth from intention

Words that see, that stay, that mend

Let communication be our bridge back

To those we lost, and to ourselves again

#20. The Anahata Chakra

There is a fascinating bridge in Meghalaya called the Living Root Bridge. When we see pictures of this bridge, we question ourselves—How is this possible? It is a naturally grown pedestrian walkway formed from intertwined roots. Our central chakra, the Anahata, is also such a bridge, placed right at the center of the human body, interweaving the upper and lower halves to create the balance we are all searching for. 'Anahata' means unstuck or unhurt. Is it that simple? Perhaps not. Or perhaps yes. Our dear little heart resides there, wanting to be loved, wanting to express itself—yet it finds itself caught between right and wrong, between maybe and maybe not. There, a green glowing light resides.

As a stage artist, I have the fortune of being surrounded by talent and creativity. Along with it comes attachment—to the people I create with, to the characters I inhabit, even to the applause that fades as quickly as it comes. As we approach a show, something magical happens. Unwoven threads begin to tie themselves, just like the roots of that Living Root Bridge. Strangers become collaborators. Collaborators become friends. In rehearsal rooms and backstage wings, we align our energies in the beginning stages, then slowly become entangled with genuine affection. My heart, which gallops like a child, gets attracted to these candies and balloons—the warmth of creative communion, the thrill of shared purpose.

But here's where the theatre teaches its deepest lesson. Every show must end. Every cast must disperse. The stage that felt like home becomes an empty space again. This is where Anahata whispers its wisdom. Can I love fully without clinging? Can I give completely without expecting the gift to remain? The activation of this heart chakra teaches us to balance through wisdom, practice, and knowledge—not by feeling less, but by holding more lightly.

Being aware of Anahata means cultivating the spectator within. Picture yourself in the audience, watching a play unfold. You laugh, you cry, you lean forward in your seat—fully present, deeply moved. Yet you also know it's a performance. You understand the lights will come up, the actors will take their bows, and you'll walk back into the night. This is the art of being there and also not being there. Not detached, but free. Not cold, but unstruck.

The green glowing light at our center is the fourth primary energy in yogic traditions, governing love, compassion, and empathy without condition. This is love without transaction, without the silent ledger of who gave what and when. Only when love elevates itself beyond the need for return can it truly be called love—a love that nurtures the self while nurturing another, a love expressed through the chant of Yam, Yam, Yam, like invisible thread that holds pearls together without claiming them. A love that remains, even as everything changes.

A green glowing light called Anahata

Lives within my galloping heart

At times calm, at times racing

The simple chant of Yam, Yam, Yam

Guides this restless soul

Toward compassion and love—

Boundless and eternal.

#19. Manipura – The Solar Plexus Chakra

Group reading and storytelling has always been fascinating. In a recent read with a crowd of kids, we came across the magical Sun Drop Flower from Disney's Tangled—a golden coloured lily. Not a traditional flower, but a magical one. This magical flower is central to the plot, possessing powerful healing derived from a drop of sunlight. The same as Manipura—the solar plexus chakra located at the navel representing personal power, self-esteem, willpower, and intellect associated with the radiance of the sun.

Balance between different forces is always a significant part of our being. A sugar-coated candy can be hazardous to our wellbeing if taken regularly. And, an extremely spiced up food may generate ulcers in our gut. The balance is needed to experience the various states of our own nervous system. In recent times, older generations and Gen Z all experience troubled anger issues, not knowing the particular cause or how to deal with it. The Manipura comes as a relief.

Activating our Solar Plexus begins with visualising a bright smiling golden light radiating its energy throughout our body and senses. This light activates the balance we all need for the right purpose in our lives. Just as the Sun Drop Flower heals through its golden radiance, our solar plexus chakra holds the power to transform and direct our inner energies. When we feel lost, powerless, or overwhelmed by emotions we cannot name, it is often because this center has become dimmed or blocked.

The ancient wisdom teaches us poses like the warrior pose or the boat pose, affirming the positive declarations of our being—'I Can!', 'I am!' and 'I am worthy!' These practices are not merely physical exercises but tools for awakening our inner strength. The warrior stance grounds us in our power, reminding us that we have the capacity to face challenges with courage. The boat pose engages our core, literally and metaphorically, building the stamina needed to navigate life's turbulent waters.

It becomes very important for us to direct our energies in the right direction for the right purpose toward a self-directed and motivated goal. Be it managing our anger, finding the will to live, cultivating confidence in our decisions, or simply remembering our inherent worthiness, our dear Manipura does it all. This golden center within us is like having our own Sun Drop Flower, constantly available to heal, energize, and balance us.

When we chant loud "Ram, Ram, Ram"—the seed mantra of the solar plexus—we awaken this dormant power. We reconnect with that magical healing light that the children in our story circle so easily understood. They saw the Sun Drop Flower and recognized its magic because children naturally understand what we sometimes forget: that light, warmth, and healing power reside within each of us, waiting to be activated.

 

Residing in the centre of the body radiating the golden light

Churns the essence of the soul through time

Ram, Ram, Ram it vibrates within us

Awakening power, purpose and grace

Healing our hearts in this scared space

With that sun drop flower within us – Radiant and Free!