Vira Chandra: There comes a moment in every seeker’s life—not always with thunder, not always with flames—when the rituals stop echoing. When the words that once brought shivers now fall heavy and hollow. When the robes, the roles, the beautiful systems no longer suffice. And beneath all that, something aches. Not for more knowledge, not for more power, not even for more purity. But simply: to know what love is.
This song, for all its simplicity, touches that aching nerve. It’s not a theological treatise. It’s a cry—a longing stripped of pretense. And for that reason, it may speak deeper than a hundred scriptures recited without hunger.
Many have walked the path of the sacred only to lose their way not in sin, but in subtle pride. Not in denying the Divine, but in mistaking the role for the Reality. Even those who once carried the current of the Goddess with breathtaking authenticity can slowly begin to orbit themselves, until the fire grows cold and the rituals become cages. That doesn’t make them evil—it makes them human. And if we’re honest, we all carry that risk. Every one of us.
This commentary is not written in critique of any person. It is written for the part of us that is tired of roles. Tired of pretending. Tired of spiritual heroism. It is for the one who has seen saints fall and still dares to kneel—not before them, but before the mystery that remains.
This is a song for those who have burned their fingers on too many candles. Who have said the names, sung the stotras, invoked the deities—and still, somehow, feel incomplete. It is for those who know that love isn’t something you master. It is something that breaks you open again and again—until there’s nothing left but the ache itself.
Let us walk through this song stanza by stanza. Not as scholars, not as rebels, not as teachers—but as friends of the fire. Let us listen as if the Goddess Herself is whispering through these lyrics, not in grand pronouncements, but in a raw, pleading voice: “I want to know what love is. I want you to show me.”
[Verse 1]
I've gotta take a little time
A little time to think things over
I better read between the lines
In case I need it when I'm older
There’s a quiet dignity in this opening. It’s not dramatic, not desperate—just a simple pause. A breath. A turning inward. Not because the speaker has figured it all out, but because something deep inside finally admits: I need to stop running.
In the Kaula path, this is the first fire. The willingness to look. To sit still and let the discomfort speak. To let the silence peel back the script we've rehearsed for so long—about who we are, what we want, what our spiritual path is supposed to look like.
“Read between the lines,” he says—and how many of us have spent years chanting mantras, performing rituals, chasing roles of purity and attainment, without ever reading between the lines of our own hearts? This verse isn’t small. It’s sacred. It is the beginning of humility—the kind that comes not from shame, but from clarity. The kind that says: I don’t know. But I’m ready to see.
[Verse 2]
Now, this mountain I must climb
Feels like the world upon my shoulders
Through the clouds, I see love shine
It keeps me warm as life grows colder
Spiritual life is not a ladder; it is a mountain. And not the kind you climb in daylight with cheering crowds, but the kind you climb alone, in mist and exhaustion, unsure if the summit even exists.
The burden here isn’t just worldly stress—it’s the invisible weight of longing. The pain of having touched something once—maybe in a glimpse of the Goddess, maybe in the eyes of a teacher, maybe in a fleeting moment of union—and then losing it. Life gets colder. Rituals lose their warmth. The world demands your back, your wallet, your time. And yet, through the clouds, something still shines.
That’s Her.
Not as a vision. Not as a philosophy. But as a subtle warmth that refuses to die in you, no matter how lost you feel. In Kaula, we speak of Her not as someone to be reached, but as someone who never left. The climb is not to reach Her—but to remove the weight of everything that made you forget.
[Pre-Chorus]
In my life, there's been heartache and pain
I don't know if I can face it again
Can't stop now, I've traveled so far
To change this lonely life
This is where the voice starts to crack.
He’s not asking for theory, not quoting scriptures. He’s just speaking from that raw, exhausted place that most people spend years avoiding. “I don’t know if I can face it again.” That line alone contains more tapas than a hundred fasts.
In the Kaula tradition, we don’t glorify suffering—but we don’t flee from it either. Because there are some kinds of pain that are not signs of failure. They are signs that something false is breaking apart. They’re contractions before birth.
And what’s most striking here isn’t the pain—it’s the perseverance. “Can’t stop now.” That’s the paradox of the true seeker. Not the one who thinks he’s holy, but the one who’s been shattered and still dares to whisper: “I want to love again.”
That’s where grace often comes—not in perfection, but in the sincerity of one who has every reason to shut down, and yet still takes one more step. That one step—through heartbreak, through confusion, through loss—is itself the path.
[Chorus]
I wanna know what love is
I want you to show me
I wanna feel what love is
I know you can show me
This is not a chorus of desire—it’s a chorus of surrender.
Not “I want to possess.” Not “I want to understand.” But “I want to know.” And in the deepest sense of the word—to be known by it, to let it undo you.
Who is the “you” in this song? We could say it is another person. We could say it is God, the Guru, the Goddess. But in the Kaula vision, there’s no need to separate. It is Shakti Herself who speaks through both the lover and the beloved. Who burns in the longing and responds in the silence.
This chorus is not a request. It’s a prayer. One that cannot be spoken until all your previous ideas of love have failed. When you realize that what you called love was mostly transaction, mostly fantasy. And now, you want something real. Even if it breaks you.
Especially if it breaks you.
[Verse 3]
I'm gonna take a little time
A little time to look around me
I've got nowhere left to hide
It looks like love has finally found me
This is the quiet aftermath.
After the storm of longing, something settles. The fire hasn’t gone out—but it no longer burns to destroy. Now it warms.
“I’ve got nowhere left to hide.”
In Tantra, this moment is sacred. Not when you are fearless, but when you are done with hiding. When the masks have crumbled and the roles feel too heavy to keep playing. You don’t need to be impressive anymore. You just need to be real.
This is where love arrives. Not with fanfare, but with stillness. Not in the form you expected—but unmistakably, undeniably, here.
When he says, “It looks like love has finally found me,” it’s not a victory cry. It’s the soft realization of someone who stopped chasing… and became still enough to be found.
In Kaula language, it’s the moment when Devi no longer appears as the object of longing, but reveals Herself in the very act of longing. She had always been the one pulling the thread. But now, there’s no more distance between seeker and sought.
[Pre-Chorus Refrain]
In my life, there's been heartache and pain
I don't know if I can face it again
Can't stop now, I've traveled so far
To change this lonely life
The repetition matters.
Kaula doesn’t move in straight lines. Awakening isn’t linear. We circle back again and again—not because we’re failing, but because the spiral of truth goes deeper each time.
This second pre-chorus is not the same as the first. It echoes—but with a difference. The pain is still there. But now, so is presence. So is honesty.
That’s how real transformation happens. Not by erasing our past, but by staying with it long enough for the fire to turn pain into power, and loneliness into love.
[Chorus & Outro]
I wanna know what love is
I want you to show me
I wanna feel what love is
I know you can show me
By now, it’s no longer a plea. It’s a soul cry. The line between “me” and “you” is beginning to blur.
This is the climax not of knowledge—but of surrender. When we finally stop performing. Stop proving. Stop trying to possess God, and instead let Her have us.
That’s when love begins to teach.
Not as theory. Not even as emotion. But as a current. A force that moves through your breath, your blood, your failures, your broken vows—and loves you anyway. And invites you to love like that too.
The tantric path never promised bliss. It promised truth. And truth is this:
You do not find love.
You become love—by letting everything else fall away.
And maybe that’s what this song was always about. Not a search for a partner. Not even for God. But for that state of undivided presence where you no longer fear being touched. Or undone. Or loved too much.
That is the real Sri Chakra—not built on gold or granite, but on tears, trust, and the silence after surrender.
The Love I Didn’t Know I Was Asking For
This song is not about romance.
Not really.
It’s the voice of someone on their knees—not begging for affection,
but for something real
after everything else has broken.
He says: “I wanna know what love is.”
But listen again.
What he’s truly saying is:
“I’ve run out of stories.
I’ve run out of poses.
I’m out of masks to wear.
Now I stand here, naked and ruined,
and I’m ready—
not for comfort,
but for the truth.”
And when someone reaches that moment,
whether they’re singing in a stadium or sobbing in a dark room,
the Goddess listens.
But She does not answer with poetry.
She answers with fire.
She does not arrive in form.
She arrives as the one who rips every false thing from your chest—
until the only thing left
is the trembling longing that you can’t explain.
And maybe that’s why I cried when I heard this song again.
Not because it was beautiful—
but because I saw myself in it.
Not the wise one.
Not the strong one.
Not the one carrying mantras and secret names.
Just the one who traveled so far
to change this lonely life,
and ended up here—
not knowing what love is,
but finally brave enough to ask.
So let this be my chorus.
I want to know what love is.
I want You to show me.
But not with visions.
Not with miracles.
Not with names or power.
Show me by not leaving.
Let me feel what love is—
when I’m no longer trying to earn it.
Let me feel what You are—
when I’ve stopped trying to become anything.
And if You must go,
then take everything.
But if You will stay,
then I offer everything.
Not as proof.
Not as bargain.
But as prayer.
Because if I ever thought I carried You,
forgive me.
You are the one
who has carried me.
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