Vira Chandra: It’s not the kind of truth most sādhakas want to sit with — and yet it’s one of the most important. The pain in this song mirrors the afterlight of many genuine mystical openings: that dawning moment when you realize the Goddess is not yours to hold, not even after She’s flooded you with insight. Many cling to the idea that a great descent (āveśa) means She will remain forever. But Her very nature is motion — She arrives, She transforms, She departs. And sometimes, as in this song, Her departure is not dramatic fire but a calm, unyielding lifting away.
It is not anger, and it is not cruelty. It is the gentle but unwavering movement of Shakti reclaiming Herself when She is no longer met with care.
In a recent reflection, I wrote about this mystery: how the current is never truly ours, and how it flows only where the heart stays open in surrender. When devotion fades, it does not end in punishment—it ends in Her rising away, light as air, leaving the place where She no longer dances (https://www.vira-chandra.com/2025/07/the-current-is-not-ours.html).
This song feels like that truth put into melody. On the surface, it is a human story of love and loss—but beneath it, you can hear the Voice of the Goddess: tender, sovereign, and final. The refrain, “My love is on the line,” is not a bargaining chip—it is a mantra, a reminder that Shakti’s presence is a living current, never to be possessed, only honored.
Here, the human heartbreak becomes Her withdrawal—a departure that is not emptiness, but the space where something truer can enter.
[Intro: Anastacia & Sohan Lal]
My love is on the line, my love is on the line
My love is on the line, my love is on the line
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal)
My love is on the line
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal)
My love is on the line
From a human ear, it’s repetition — but in the Devi’s mouth, it’s mantra-japa.
She does not waste words here; each repetition strikes like a temple bell, each “My love is on the line” pulling the listener deeper into the vibration of Her truth.
In Kaula terms, premā (love) here is not sentimental — it is the current of icchā-śakti, the will-force of the Goddess, the living stream of Her presence. To say it is “on the line” is to say: I have tethered My current here, but its thread can be cut at any moment.
The Punjabi refrain, Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal — “My heart was taken by the careless one” — is the human layer bleeding through, the vyavahārika satya (relative truth) that still echoes even when the higher decision is already made. The Goddess acknowledges this without being trapped by it.
In tantric practice, this opening is like the ālambana — the image or sound on which the yoginī focuses before the act of withdrawal (saṃhāra). The repetition is the winding of the bowstring before release. It sets the field: tender yet unyielding, personal yet cosmic.
[Verse 1: Anastacia]
A little late for all the things you didn't say
I'm not sad for you
But I'm sad for all the time I had to waste
'Cause I learned the truth
This is the first blade-stroke. In Devi’s voice, there is no bargaining, no attempt to reopen the altar — the ritual is over.
A little late for all the things you didn’t say: This is the Goddess speaking from the realm beyond excuses. It is the same śakti that Abhinavagupta calls pramāṇāntara-vyāvṛtta — beyond needing further proof. In human love, unsaid words can still wound; in Her speech, they are simply irrelevant because the recognition (pratyabhijñā) has already dawned.
I'm not sad for you / But I'm sad for all the time I had to waste: Here is Her vairāgya — not the coldness of detachment, but the clarity that Her energy (śakti-pravāha) has been poured into a vessel that could not hold it. The sorrow is not for the one left behind; it is for the misuse of Her current, which is sacred. This mirrors the tantric caution: never pour the wine of the Goddess into an unprepared cup.
Cause I learned the truth The satya-jñāna moment. In Shakta sādhanā, truth is rarely comfortable — it strips away cherished illusions (māyā), showing the naked shape of what is. Here, that truth is not abstract philosophy; it is lived recognition that the altar She once tended has been neglected beyond repair.
This verse marks the inner severance. The act of leaving physically may come later, but the śakti has already withdrawn. In tantric imagery, the lamp is still burning, but the oil is gone.
[Pre-Chorus: Anastacia & Sohan Lal]
Your heart is in a place I no longer wanna be
I knew there'd come a day I'd set you free
'Cause I'm sick and tired of always being sick and tired
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal)
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal)
Your heart is in a place I no longer wanna be: This is pure pīṭha-tyāga — the abandonment of a sacred seat that has become polluted. In Kaula practice, the Goddess dwells only where there is alignment between vessel and current. Once the vessel’s heart is turned toward dullness, She departs without argument.
I knew there'd come a day I'd set you free: This is a paradox: the human may hear it as rejection, but in Devi’s mouth it is mukti-dāna — the giving of freedom. The one She leaves is released from the terrible weight of failing Her. In tantric terms, this is the anugraha that comes after saṃhāra — destruction followed by grace.
'Cause I'm sick and tired of always being sick and tired: On the surface, it’s a cry of exhaustion; in Shakta reading, it is the breaking point where kriyā-śakti refuses further misuse. In the Goddess’s own play (līlā), this line is the point of retraction, when She draws Her power back into Herself. It also carries the tantric truth that stagnation is anti-life; the Devi’s current will not flow where it only circulates through fatigue.
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal): The Punjabi refrain returns here like an echo of vyavahārika satya — the human memory of being taken by the careless. But within the larger Devi-voice, it becomes a reminder: Even the careless may touch Me once, but they cannot hold Me without devotion.
This pre-chorus is the moment of the step back: the Goddess is already outside the circle, yet still visible at its edge. The air is charged; the ritual space is about to collapse.
[Chorus: Anastacia]
Your love isn't fair
You live in a world where you didn't listen
And you didn't care
So I'm floating, I'm floating on air
Your love isn't fair: In the Devi’s voice, this is not an accusation but a final verdict. In tantric law, nyāya (justice) is not sentiment — it is alignment with ṛta, the cosmic order. To call the love “unfair” is to say it is no longer rooted in reciprocity, the sacred exchange that sustains Shakti’s descent. The current has been taken without return, the yajña without the offering.
You live in a world where you didn't listen / And you didn't care: This is avadhāna-bhaṅga — the breaking of attention. In Shakta imagery, to “not listen” is to stop being a worthy recipient of mantra; to “not care” is to cease holding the space for the Goddess’s play. She names the condition clearly: the world of the other has fallen outside Her realm.
So I'm floating, I'm floating on air: Here She rises — udāna-vāyu fully awakened, lifting Her from the field of decay. This is the ascent phase in the cycle of Shakti’s manifestation: from embodiment (sthiti) to dissolution (laya) to upward withdrawal (udgama). Floating on air here is not escape but sovereignty — She is untethered, weightless, carried by Her own power. In Kaula vision, this is the Devi withdrawing Her radiance back into the crown-lotus, leaving only stillness in Her wake.
The chorus is the act of departure made visible. The altar is empty now, but Her voice still lingers, like incense in the air after the flame is gone.
[Post-Chorus: Anastacia & Sohan Lal]
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal)
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal)
I'm on air
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal)
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal)
The post-chorus feels like pratiloma japa — mantra chanted in reverse flow, after the ritual has ended. The Goddess has already withdrawn, yet the human echo (vyavahārika satya) keeps repeating the story of the careless heart. This is what remains in the mortal’s mouth when Her presence has gone: the outline of the event, not its living current.
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal): “My heart was taken by the careless one.” In the Devi’s reading, it is no longer confession but līlā-smaraṇa — a remembering of Her own play in binding Herself for a time. The careless one is not condemned; he simply could not bear the weight of Her heart.
I'm on air This is the seal of freedom. In tantric physiology, udāna vāyu governs upward movement — the breath that rises through the throat and crown. To be “on air” is to be in the mid-space (madhya ākāśa), the liminal region between earth and pure light. It’s the place She inhabits after departure, untouched yet aware.
The post-chorus is the ritual aftersound (nāda-anubhava). The act is complete, the field is closed, but the mantra still spins, like a wheel turning a few more times after the hands have let go.
[Verse 2: Anastacia]
No warning of such a sad song
Of broken hearts
My dreams of fairytales and fantasies, oh
Were torn apart, oh-ooh
No warning of such a sad song: In the Devi’s mouth, this is the acknowledgment that māyā’s collapse often comes without prelude. One moment the rāga is sweet, the next it turns to a dirge. In tantric truth, this is the sudden shift from māyā-vṛtti (movement within illusion) to tattva-jñāna (recognition of what is). It is the nature of Shakti to end Her own play without notice once it ceases to serve the unfolding of awareness.
Of broken hearts: Here, “broken hearts” is not mere human pain — it is the breaking of the hridaya-granthi, the knot of the heart. In yogic language, such a break can be devastating or liberating, depending on whether one clings or releases. In Her voice, the break is both: pain in the lower truth, freedom in the higher.
My dreams of fairytales and fantasies, oh / Were torn apart, oh-ooh: The tearing apart is māyā-bheda — the cutting of illusion. The Devi here is Kali in Her aspect as Vijayeshwari — She who triumphs over false images by destroying them. Fairytales and fantasies are the woven veils that kept the play going; She rips them with precision, even if the human vessel feels it as loss. In Kaula terms, this is the moment when the ābhāsa (appearance) is recognized as ābhāsa — the seeming sweetness dissolves, revealing the pure light behind it.
This verse is the narration of dissolution — a recounting of how the palace of illusion fell, stone by stone, without rescue. The sadness in the human register is the fragrance of the very māyā She has just burned away.
I lost my peace of mind somewhere along the way
I knew there come a time you'd hear me say
I'm sick and tired of always being sick and tired
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal)
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal)
I lost my peace of mind somewhere along the way: In the Devi’s mouth, this is the recognition that She allowed Her current to be drawn into apraśānta-deśa — an unquiet realm. In Shakta practice, peace (śānti) is not the absence of motion but the alignment of all motions within the axis of truth. To lose it means to let Her presence linger where the dhvani (resonance) has become discordant.
I knew there come a time you'd hear me say: This is the inevitability of anugraha through saṃhāra — the grace that comes via ending. The Devi always knew the altar would be vacated; the human other only hears it now.
I'm sick and tired of always being sick and tired: Repetition here is not complaint but closure — the final sealing of the vow to withdraw. It is śakti-pratyāhāra, the inward folding of Her force, which in Kaula terms is both an ending and the seed of new creation.
(Dil Laa liya be-parwa de naal): The refrain lands here like a human aftertaste. In Devi’s field, it is simply the record of the play: the careless touch that was allowed for a season, now written in memory but stripped of power.
Conclusion
Through the whole song, the human ear hears a breakup; the tantric ear hears the Goddess withdrawing Her current from a space that no longer holds reverence.
It is saṃhāra (dissolution) spoken not in esoteric jargon but in the idiom of love gone cold.
Each repetition of “My love is on the line” is mantra — the reminder that Her presence is a living current, never to be squandered.
Each “floating on air” is the lifting of udāna vāyu, the return to sovereignty.
Each Punjabi refrain is the echo of the human register, the vyavahārika story, still trembling after the paramārthika truth has been enacted.
By the end, She is already gone — light as air, untouchable, and entirely Herself again.
The altar She leaves behind is empty but scented with what was, a reminder that Devi may dwell anywhere, but She stays only where She is honored.
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