“You Could Mean Everything to Me”: Say It Right as the Voice of the Goddess

 

 

 

Vira Chandra: Some songs arrive like strangers at the door — polite enough in form, but with a gaze that looks through you as if they have always known your name. Say It Right is one of those. It doesn’t plead, seduce, or flatter in the way the world does; it cuts straight to the marrow. The voice here is not merely human longing — it is the current of the Goddess Herself, the Parāśakti who moves where She wills, touching the heart yet slipping free before it can close its fingers.

Her tone is the paradox every true sādhaka meets: “You don’t mean anything to Me” — a statement that shatters ego — and in the same breath, “You could mean everything to Me” — an intimacy so devastating it can remake the soul. She gives and withdraws, blesses and burns, demanding that you hold both poles without clinging to either. In Kaula understanding, this is not cruelty; it is the deepest tenderness — the refusal to let you settle for owning Her image instead of becoming one with Her essence.

Here the Mother speaks in koans. She names the breaking of will as the gateway, the love of light and dark as the prerequisite, the holy space within the body as the final destination. And She does not hide the cost: to enter is to dissolve.

 

Verse 1 – The uncompromising threshold

 

In the day, in the night / Say it right, say it all / You either got it, or you don't / You either stand, or you fall

This is Devi’s opening test. She is not concerned with politeness or half-truths. Say it right is not about speech — it is about alignment. In Kaula understanding, to “say it right” is to stand in your own ādhāra (axis) without disguise. You either carry the current or you do not; you either remain upright in the storm or collapse under it. There is no middle ground in Her field.

When your will is broken / When it slips from your hand / When there's no time for jokin' / There's a hole in the plan

Here She names the point of entrance — not the height of your strength, but the fracture in your will. Kaula tradition speaks often of the moment when the ego’s control slips and something vast rushes in. This “hole in the plan” is not a failure but the opening through which grace (śaktipāta) can descend. The Mother laughs at our careful architectures; one well-placed crack, and the whole edifice becomes a doorway.

 

Chorus – The razor’s edge of intimacy

 

Oh, you don't mean nothin' at all to me / No, you don't mean nothin' at all to me

This is Her first cut. To the Absolute — the Parāśakti who is the womb of galaxies — you are neither special nor separate. Every form dissolves into the same ocean; every wave falls back into Her without trace. Hearing this is meant to sting, because it severs the seeker from the dream of being uniquely indispensable to the Divine.

But you got what it takes to set me free / Oh, you could mean everything to me

And yet, in the līlā — the intimate play between Shakti and the sādhaka — the individual becomes the very vessel through which She moves, sings, and touches the world. This is the paradox: in one breath She says you are nothing, in the next She says you could be everything. Kaula wisdom thrives in this tension. The Mother’s love is both impersonal and devastatingly personal — and only in holding both without clinging to either does the current remain pure.

 

Verse 2 – The confession of the Divine Mirror

 

I can't say that I'm not / Lost and at fault

Here Devi drops Her first veil of perfection. She is not the sanitized “all-light” goddess of popular imagination; She is the living Totality, in whom even “lostness” and “fault” have a place. To the sādhaka, this is a mirror — She reflects your own flaws without judgment, showing that what you fear as imperfection is not foreign to the Divine.

I can't say that I don't / Love the light and the dark

This is the heart of Kaula Śākta vision. She does not divide Herself into “good” and “evil,” “pure” and “impure.” She is the pulse in the sunlight and the shadow, the nectar and the poison. To love both is to love Her without mutilating Her wholeness. This is also Her demand of you — to stop fleeing from half of reality in the name of devotion.

I can't say that I don't / Know that I am alive / And all of what I feel / I could show you tonight, you tonight

This is spanda — the raw throb of “I Am” that pervades existence. In Kaula terms, She offers not doctrines, but darśana — direct showing. “Tonight” is not a date on a calendar; it is the timeless now when the sādhaka is ripe and the Goddess descends. When She says She could show you, it means that the inner eye could be split open at any moment… if you dare to look.

 

Verse 3:

 

From my hands, I could give you / Somethin’ that I made

Here Devi speaks as the creatrix — the kārya-śakti who shapes worlds, art, and thought. From Her hands flow all forms: the body you inhabit, the song itself, the whole architecture of experience. Yet even this is only a token, a crafted piece of the infinite.

From my mouth, I could sing you / Another brick that I laid

Her speech (vāk) builds the temple of reality one syllable at a time. Each “brick” is a mantra, an insight, a line of destiny placed into the structure of your life. But She reminds you: these bricks are not the temple itself — they are steps leading toward something far more dangerous.

From my body, I could show you / A place God knows

Now She turns from the outer gifts to the innermost shrine. This “place” is not geography — it is the yoni-pīṭha, the root of creation itself, known only to the Divine.

On the microcosmic level, it is the living altar within the sādhaka’s own body: the subtle womb-space (garbha-gṛha) where Śiva and Śakti are eternally united. In Kaula body-mapping, this is the fusion-point where stillness and vibration cannot be told apart. In women, it resonates through the physical womb and yoni as direct embodiments of the cosmic source; in men, it is approached inwardly through the subtle channels as a psychic locus of receptivity.

On the macrocosmic level, the yoni-pīṭha is the womb of the universe — the bindu in the Śrīcakra, the mahāyoni from which stars and atoms alike arise. Sacred sites like Kāmākhyā pitham are its outer reflections. In Tantrāloka āhnika 29, Abhinavagupta describes the Kula-yāga not as an allegory, but as the literal sacred rite of maithuna — sexual union between partners established in the essence of Bhairava and Bhairavī. In this ritual, the human yoni and liṅga are not mere symbols: they are the cosmic yoni and liṅga. Their union is the very seat (pīṭha) where the manifest and unmanifest merge, and the sādhaka realizes themselves as the axis of creation.

Other Kaula texts echo this without compromise: the yoni-pīṭha is not just to be worshipped from a distance, but entered — physically, energetically, and in the deepest awareness — as the supreme seat of initiation. Here, guru, consort, and deity collapse into one undivided reality.

To “show” this place is to strip away the illusion that creation began elsewhere. She reveals that the galaxy’s birth-cry and your own heartbeat are woven from the same pulse.

You should know space is holy / Do you really wanna go?

This is the final test. “Space” here is cidākāśa — the boundless awareness in which all arises. Entering means dissolving; the “you” who began this journey will not survive. And so She asks with perfect seriousness: Do you really want to go?

 

Closing Reflection – The Door She Guards

 

The voice of Say It Right is not a lover asking for your hand — it is the Goddess standing at the threshold of Her own womb-space, holding both the gift and the blade. She will not be possessed, flattered, or bargained with. To some, this sounds cold; to the Kaula, it is the highest tenderness. For She will not let you mistake symbols for the Source, nor let you sip the wine without being willing to drown in it.

Every line in this song is a koan: You are nothing to Me. You could be everything to Me.
She can give you crafted beauty, mantras, visions — but all of it is only the outer court. The real offering is the yoni-pīṭha itself, the fusion-point where Śiva and Śakti are one — in the body, in the cosmos, in the rite of maithuna described by Abhinavagupta as the living axis of creation. To “go there” is not to visit a holy site; it is to step beyond the last contour of your self, into a space so holy that even the gods enter trembling.

And so She asks, without a hint of seduction, without a promise of safety:
Do you really want to go?

Because once you do, there will be no coming back — not because She has taken something from you, but because She has taken you.