She Comes and Goes: Shakti, Ego, and the Fragile Fire of Inspiration

 

Madonna in "Frozen" song

 Vira Chandra: Some songs feel like scripture. A line hits you, and it’s as if the Goddess Herself spoke. Not as metaphor, not as a trope—but as a presence. Her breath carried in melody. Her mood poured into the voice. For a moment, you forget who wrote it, who sings it. You are simply moved.

This isn’t rare. Shakti has always danced through artists. She’s whispered through poets, roared through musicians, shimmered in the silences between their words. And often, when we listen with an open heart, we can feel Her there—raw, naked, unmistakable.

But this gives rise to a subtle confusion.

Because when we feel Her in the song, we may assume She must also be permanently present in the artist. That they must be saints. That the one through whom the fire passed must have become the fire.

But that’s not always true—rather, it is mostly untrue.

Many of the most powerful vessels of Divine inspiration were not stable in that current. Shakti passed through them, yes—sometimes with searing beauty—but the ego remained. The personality remained. The karmic hunger remained.

This is not a judgment. It’s a pattern.

An artist can be a flute—but not become the wind. A mirror—but not the light. The Goddess, in Her freedom, uses who She will. And She does not always wait for purification.

Abhinavagupta, the great Shaiva mystic and aesthetician, explained this with tender clarity. He described true inspiration as pratibhā — a divine flash of knowing, a spark of the Supreme Shakti. It moves not from effort, but from grace. And when it flows, the artist becomes something else: a conduit, a priest, a vessel for something sacred.

But for that sacred impulse to take form, something must give way.

The ego must step aside.

Not forever. But at least for that moment. Otherwise, the current flickers out before it can fully land. The form may be crafted, but it lacks breath.

Because that’s the danger: if the artist clings to control, the inspiration may be captured and commodified, but it will never truly live. It becomes performance, not offering.

And this, too, is why the experience of possession is so painful.

When Shakti flows through an artist, it is overwhelming. They feel like a god. Not metaphorically, but viscerally. There’s an exaltation, a clarity, a force far beyond the ordinary. The veil lifts. The music writes itself. The body dances. The words fall like thunder.

And then—She leaves.

The current stops. The glow fades. And they crash. Back into themselves. The body, the insecurity, the aging face, the noise of the world. And that fall can be unbearable.

Many cannot bear it. They try to recreate the moment by any means possible—substances, attention, reinvention. But it doesn’t return. Because it was never theirs to command. It was Grace. And Grace does not obey.

This is why the first songs of many artists are often the most powerful. Before they are known. Before they are watched. Before the ego learns to interfere.

In the beginning, they create out of urgency, out of devotion, out of love. They are unknown, unformed. And into that open space, She moves. The early works are often raw, imperfect—but alive. Because they are not trying to impress. They are trying to speak something real.

But fame distorts. Success tempts. The artist becomes aware of themselves as "the artist." The current is now filtered through self-image, through brand, through market. And the clarity is lost.

Take Madonna.

There is no doubt: at certain points in her life, the Devi moved through her. Songs like “Frozen” or “Like a Prayer” carried a haunting power—an almost archetypal resonance. Something greater was moving through her voice, her body, her presence. But what followed made the contrast painful to watch. There was no descent into stillness. No inward turn. Instead: a desperate attempt to hold the spotlight. Altering the face. Curating scandal. Trying to become irreplaceable.

But the Goddess cannot be kept. She comes and goes as She pleases. Without Self-recognition, even divine possession fades. And when it fades, the attempt to manufacture it becomes hollow. The temple becomes a stage again.

To be touched once is a gift. To remain in that current—that requires fire.

Not just talent. But tapas. Not just charisma. But dissolution.

It is the difference between a visitor and a sanctuary. Between a flash of lightning and the steady sun.

Abhinavagupta taught that when rasa—the distilled aesthetic flavor of emotion—is savored deeply, it brings a glimpse of the Self. It is, he said, the sibling of Brahmananda—the bliss of realization. But this happens only when the feeling no longer belongs to “me.” When the emotion becomes universal.

The true artist offers the feeling, not the identity.

That’s why so much art entertains but doesn’t transform. The ego remains the narrator. The flame dazzles but does not liberate.

But there are moments—ah, there are moments—when the ego disappears. When the singer vanishes and only the song remains. When the poem feels older than the poet. When the body moves but no one is dancing.

That is sacred art. That is Devi.

Such moments are rare. In most careers, they arrive only once—twice at best. To be truly possessed by Devi, to become a channel so raw that even the body dissolves into the current, is no small thing.

There are exceptions, but they are few. Björk has touched that current multiple times. Taylor Momsen, in her fiercest songs, channels a rage that feels ritual. Maria Brink too, when the performance gives way to invocation. But for most, the Goddess comes briefly—then vanishes.

And the artist is left with only the echo, trying desperately to summon Her again.

So yes, even fragile and flawed artists can sometimes touch that place. But we must not confuse the vessel with the wine. Do not canonize the ego. Worship the flame.

This is why I once wrote:

She has slipped into the unnoticed, the mundane, the very places no one thought to look. She speaks now through songs that were never meant to be sacred, through words written by those who may not even know Her name. She calls from within the ordinary, revealing Herself in unexpected voices, awakening those who can still hear Her.

And that is why I now concentrate on these so-called mundane songs. Not because I have abandoned the old ways, but because I see where She is moving now. Because I refuse to believe that wisdom can only be found in texts that no longer breathe. Because I feel Her unmistakable presence in places where others assume She does not exist. And because I know that when Anugraha Shakti moves, She does not wait for permission, She does not require a sanctioned space—She simply is, pouring forth wherever She wills.

This was never meant to glorify artists as saints. It was meant to honor the movement of Shakti, even through those who do not yet recognize Her. To honor the unexpected places where She now breathes.

We must be careful not to mistake a flash of Her voice for permanent realization. And we must never become cynical either—for the flashes are real. The presence is real. But it is Her, not them.

Let us honor the moments when the ego dissolves and something greater is born. And let us honor the Goddess who, in Her untamed mercy, chooses the unlikeliest mouths to speak Her name.