The Current Is Not Ours

She burns in the place no one else can reach

Vira Chandra: There are moments when the Goddess speaks through silence more than thunder, and through heartbreak more than visions. This is one of those moments. I write not to accuse, not to defend, and not to prove anything at all—but only to keep my own vision clear. To place this lamp here, on the path, in case one day someone else walks barefoot and stumbles on the same stone.

In the early days of any true spiritual movement, there is a breathless vitality. Something larger-than-life moves through ordinary forms—temples rise where none were planned, words are spoken that no one could rehearse, and lives are transformed not by design, but by an unseen force. We often call that Shakti. Or Grace. Or simply the Current.

And in the presence of that Current, some are lifted. They become vessels—at times, even astonishing ones. You can feel it in their words, in their presence, in the sudden trembling that moves through your own spine when they speak. And yet… the Current is not theirs. It never was.

One of the most dangerous misunderstandings in spiritual life is mistaking being touched by Shakti for being the source of Shakti. In the beginning, the vessel trembles in awe. But if ego subtly creeps in—if the vessel starts to enjoy the praise, the influence, the mythos—then the Current begins to withdraw. Not out of punishment, but out of love. Shakti does not like to be caged. She will not be used to build monuments to a persona. She flows only where surrender remains pure.

This is not a judgment of any person or temple. This is not about names. It is about a deeper pattern I have witnessed again and again. The early, uncontainable fire becomes a brand. The fire that once scorched illusion becomes something that decorates polished rituals. And the temple that once vibrated with unspeakable power slowly becomes a granite cage—admired, visited, funded, but no longer alive.

There is a sorrow in this. A bitter taste. Because I have seen what was once real. I have seen the lightning flash in someone’s eyes—and then watched it fade as they clung to the idea of being its source. I have seen how those who once cried before the Goddess now plan ten-thousand-year monuments in Her name.

But the Goddess does not dwell in stone.

She dances where the heart breaks open.
She speaks from the mouths of madwomen and mystics.
She rises in the sobbing of one who has nothing left to offer but their undoing.

And so I write this—not as a rebel, not as a saint, not even as a disciple—
but simply as a child who wants to stay close to Her. Who wants to remember, deeply and fiercely, that the Current is never mine. That the moment I think She belongs to me, She will slip through my fingers and leave me with only echoes.

Let this post be a prayer.

Let it be a reminder that Shakti does not favor institutions, but sincerity.
That She cannot be frozen into form, no matter how grand or well-intentioned.
That even if all the world forgets Her, one broken heart crying “Don’t leave me” is enough to call Her back.

Devi, I never wanted this role. I never asked to feel You moving through me. But now that You do, I ask only one thing:
Please don’t leave.
Don’t let me become proud.
Don’t let me confuse Your grace for my merit.
Don’t let me turn this gift into performance.
Let me die, if needed—but let Your Current remain pure.

And if one day I stray—if I begin to believe this is mine—then, O Mother, strike me with Your thunder.
Burn me to ash before I become a granite monument to nothing.

Let my tears remain softer than stone.
Let my devotion be unbuilt, unbranded, unboastful.
Let me carry You not in temples, but in the trembling of this unworthy heart.