Guru warned him quietly, without drama.
“There will be a **steep shift**,” he said. “Steep enough to cost you your sanity if you resist it.”
Amay listened—but did not fully understand then.
He understood now.
His mind had reached a threshold where distinctions began to dissolve. He could no longer tell where meditation ended and ordinary awareness began. Sometimes he would realize—only much later—that he had been meditating all along.
He could feel everything.
Heat and cold no longer announced themselves; they *existed* within him. The breeze brushed his skin even when his body was still. He could smell the air—soil after rain, dryness before dusk—without moving. He heard everything at once: leaves rustling, birds calling, the waterfall breathing in the distance, even the smallest displacement of air.
And then came the most unsettling part.
With his eyes closed, he could see exactly what he would have seen with them open.
Not imagined shapes. Not memories.
Presence.
The world no longer required his eyes.
At night, strangely, things were clearer.
He could differentiate dreams from reality now—not because dreams were weaker, but because reality carried a truth that hurt more. In dreams, Anvi still existed. She spoke. She reacted. She felt.
But even there, his mind stayed conscious of the truth.
Anvi was dead.
That awareness pierced every dream like a silent wound. It was becoming harder—harder to hold the dream, harder to let it go—but his consciousness never slipped. He knew where he was. He knew what was real.
Daytime was more dangerous.
In daylight, he would sit down to meditate and forget to come back. Hours passed without him noticing. His eyes remained closed—not because he chose to keep them shut, but because the world inside had become just as complete.
Sometimes he forgot to open them at all.
The distinction between *seeing* and *being aware* vanished. The body existed. The mind expanded. The self thinned.
Guru watched him closely.
Amay was not losing his mind.
But he was standing at the exact edge where one could.
The question was no longer whether Amay could enter deeper states.
It was whether he could return from them—
without losing himself.
Time passed. Seasons completed their quiet circles.
And spring came again.
One morning, Amay sat beneath the familiar tree when Guru approached and settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. There was no urgency in either of them now.
“The weather is pleasant,” Amay said softly.
“Indeed,” Guru replied.
Amay let the silence stretch. The air was warm but gentle, the kind that carried life without demanding attention.
“This world is so beautiful,” Amay said after a while.
“I wish Anvi could see it.”
There was no ache in his voice anymore—only calm acceptance. Guru smiled, sensing the shift.
“If you had to describe this world to her,” Guru asked, “how would you do it?”
Amay sighed —not deliberately, but naturally—and began.
He spoke of the tall trees, their leaves catching light in uneven patterns. Of the mustard fields stretching endlessly, yellow like quiet fire under the sun. Of the small huts scattered at a distance, smoke rising lazily from their roofs. He described the warmth of the sun—not harsh, but reassuring. The temperature that sat perfectly between cool and warm.
He spoke of birds—how some called sharply, others softly. Of the breeze that moved differently in the morning than in the afternoon. Of the waterfall—steady, alive, never silent, yet never intrusive.
He described everything.
When he finished, Guru was smiling.
“You are ready now,” Guru said.
Amay frowned slightly. “Ready for what?”
Guru turned toward him.
“Open your eyes.”
And then it struck him.
Amay realized that throughout the entire conversation—while describing colors, distance, depth, movement—his eyes had been closed.
Yet he had seen everything.
Smelled the air.
Heard the birds.
Felt the breeze.
Known the warmth of the sun.
Nothing had been missing.
In that moment, Amay understood.
He had not escaped his senses.
He had mastered them.
The world no longer needed to enter him through sight or sound.
It existed within him—complete, undistorted, whole.
Guru remained silent for a while, letting Amay sit with the realization. The breeze moved through the mustard fields as if it, too, was listening.
Then Guru spoke.
“You are wondering what just happened,” he said calmly. “And why it happened.”
Amay nodded. “I can see… without seeing. I can feel everything, yet nothing overwhelms me anymore. My dreams, my meditations, my waking state—they no longer feel separate.”
He paused. “You said I’m ready. Ready for what exactly?”
Guru turned toward him fully.
“Your seven chakras are awakened,” he said. “Not suddenly, not magically—but naturally, in the only order that does not destroy a human mind.”
Amay frowned. “I never tried to awaken them.”
Guru smiled. “That is why they awakened.”
Muladhara – The Root
“You began here,” Guru continued. “Without knowing.”
“When you first came, you were restless, afraid, desperate to hold on—to Anvi, to answers, to certainty. But slowly, through routine, discipline, cleaning, grounding yourself in the land, your Muladhara stabilized.”
Amay remembered the early days—the sweeping, the dusting, the repetitive simplicity.
“You learned safety without possession,” Guru said.
“That anchored you. Without this, everything else would have shattered you.”
Svadhisthana – The Sacral
Guru’s voice softened.
“This is where Anvi lived.”
Amay inhaled sharply.
“Your longing, your desire, your suppressed intimacy—your dreams were born here. But notice,” Guru said, “you never forced fulfillment. Even in dreams, your awareness remained.”
Amay recalled the difference between reality and dream—the restraint.
“You transformed craving into awareness,” Guru said.
“That is why this chakra purified instead of consuming you.”
Manipura – The Solar Plexus
“This,” Guru said, “was your greatest battle.”
“Ego?” Amay asked quietly.
“Yes. Control. Power. The need to define the relationship, the moment, the outcome.”
Guru looked at him intently.
“When you stopped demanding answers—from her, from fate, from yourself—your Manipura awakened.”
Amay remembered the day impatience left him. Not dramatically—just quietly.
“You learned strength without dominance,” Guru said.
“That is true power.”
Anahata – The Heart
Guru placed his hand lightly on Amay’s chest.
“Your heart chakra opened the moment you accepted that loving her did not require her to return it.”
Amay’s eyes welled slightly.
“You stopped loving to receive,” Guru said.
“You loved to be. That is why even grief did not close you.”
Amay whispered, “That’s when the dreams changed.”
Guru nodded. “Yes. Love became multidimensional.”
Vishuddha – The Throat
“You wondered why you could never say enough to her,” Guru continued.
“But expression is not only speech.”
“When you described this world to me,” Guru smiled, “you spoke truth without effort. No exaggeration. No longing. No suppression.”
Amay realized—his voice no longer trembled when he spoke of her.
“Your truth became clean,” Guru said.
“That is Vishuddha.”
Ajna – The Third Eye
Guru’s tone deepened.
“This is where sanity is lost if one is unprepared.”
Amay swallowed.
“You learned to distinguish dreams from reality,” Guru said.
“Even when dreams felt real. Even when reality hurt.”
“You knew Anvi was not alive—yet you did not collapse into denial.”
Amay nodded slowly.
“That clarity,” Guru said, “is Ajna. Perception without illusion.”
Sahasrara – The Crown
Finally, Guru looked upward—then back at Amay.
“When you no longer needed your senses to experience the world,” he said, “your Sahasrara opened.”
Amay felt a quiet stillness spread through him.
“You did not leave the world,” Guru said.
“The world entered you.”
Amay sat in silence, absorbing every word.
“So…” he asked finally, “what happens now?”
Guru smiled gently.
“Now,” he said, “you are capable of what you asked for long ago.”
Amay’s breath caught.
“To feel what she feels?”
Guru nodded.
“But remember,” he warned softly, “this is not a gift. It is a responsibility. When you feel another’s truth, you do not control it. You carry it.”
Amay lowered his head.
“I am ready,” he said.
Guru looked at him with quiet certainty.
“I know,” he replied.
Guru placed his hand on Amay’s head.
The moment his palm settled, the world dissolved.
The brightness of spring vanished, the fragrance of earth disappeared, and the ground beneath Amay ceased to exist. There was no sky, no horizon—only an endless galaxy stretching in all directions, infinite stars suspended in silence. There was no air to breathe, no wind to feel, no sound to hear. And yet, Amay was.
At the center stood the tree.
The same tree beneath which he had meditated for months—yet not the same. Its trunk glowed softly, as if veins of light ran through it. The branches spread like constellations, each leaf a small, radiant orb, pulsing gently, alive. Roots extended into nothingness, anchoring everything without touching anything.
Amay’s awareness trembled.
“What is this?” he asked, though he had no mouth.
“Where am I? What is happening to me?”
Guru smiled, untouched by the vastness around them.
“This,” he said calmly, “is not a place everyone can reach.”
He looked at Amay, his eyes steady, ancient.
“Many tried reaching the cave but failed. Some reached the cave yet never crossed beyond it. Some touched this realm but could not return—they locked themselves inside their huts, afraid of the world they left behind.”
Guru gestured toward the glowing tree.
“You,” he continued softly, “came out of your hut. You did not hide from pain. You did not escape grief. You sat with it. You awakened yourself.”
Amay looked again at the tree, realization dawning slowly.
“The tree… it was always like this?”
“Yes,” Guru replied. “This realm was always here. The tree beneath which you sat was always this radiant. It did not change.”
He lifted his finger and lightly touched Amay’s forehead.
“You did.”
Amay felt something open—quietly, gently, without force.
“You relied on your eyes, so you saw bark,” Guru said.
“You relied on scent, so you felt spring.
You relied on sound, so you heard birds and waterfalls.”
Guru’s voice softened.
“When the senses fell silent, your awareness learned to see.”
Amay’s thoughts slowed, stretched wide.
“But… there is no air here,” he said. “How am I thinking? How am I speaking? How am I existing?”
Guru chuckled softly. “You are not existing through the body anymore. You are existing through consciousness.”
Amay’s awareness flickered. “Is this… death?”
“No,” Guru replied gently. “Death is forgetting. This is remembering.”
The stars pulsed, as if agreeing.
“You asked me once,” Guru continued, “if there was a way to feel what Anvi felt.”
At her name, a deep ache passed through Amay—not sharp, but vast.
“Yes,” Amay whispered. “I wanted to know her pain… her silence.”
Guru nodded. “And that desire took you through your chakras, without you even realizing it.”
He placed his hand over Amay’s chest.
“Your root held you steady when the world collapsed.
Your sacral carried longing without corruption.
Your solar plexus disciplined your will when your mind wavered.
Your heart learned love without possession.”
Amay felt warmth spread outward.
“Your throat learned silence—because words would have broken her.
Your third eye awakened when you accepted truth without illusion.”
Guru’s hand rose slowly upward.
“Now,” he said, “you stand here.”
Amay felt both immense and small at once.
“Then why,” he asked quietly, “do I still feel restless? Why does it still hurt?”
Guru smiled with compassion.
“Because awakening does not erase humanity. It deepens it.”
He looked into Amay’s awareness.
“You may never know what Anvi felt.
And yet, you learned to love without answers.”
Something within Amay loosened—not grief, not longing, but resistance.
“There is one chakra left,” Guru said softly. “The crown.”
Amay’s awareness trembled. “What must I do?”
Guru’s voice became gentle as silence.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just surrender.”
The stars slowly dimmed. The galaxy folded inward. The glowing tree softened, its light retreating into bark and leaves. The smell of earth returned. The sound of birds returned. Spring returned.
Guru removed his hand.
Amay opened his eyes.
The world was the same.
But he knew now—
he was not.
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