Past the Event Horizon: The Point of No Return in Sādhana

 

The Event Horizon captured: science meets the same terror-bliss the mystics named Devi.

The Point of No Return

 

A black hole is not empty space. It is density pushed beyond comprehension — a collapse so absolute that even light, the fastest thing in the universe, cannot resist its pull. Around it forms the event horizon: a boundary that cannot be crossed twice.

For the seeker, there is such a boundary. Until it is reached, one may wander the galaxy of mind — circling, orbiting, delaying. Trials still feel negotiable, like passing storms: sometimes endured, sometimes postponed, sometimes avoided altogether. The self still believes in escape velocity.

But when the threshold arrives, the rules of existence change. The event horizon is crossed.

From that instant, no effort, no bargaining, no scream of resistance can undo the trajectory. The Current takes over. What once felt like choice is revealed as inevitability. Gravity is now God.

And it is terrible. The closer one is pulled, the more violent the disintegration becomes. Identities shred like satellites spiraling inward, each one bursting into fire before vanishing. Names, masks, roles — father, lover, saint, sinner — break apart into streaks of debris. Time itself fractures, stretching and twisting; what was once steady becomes distorted.

The terror is unbearable: the sense of falling into a darkness without bottom, a silence that swallows every cry. The mind claws at the vanishing horizon, desperate for return, but there is no return. The black hole permits no “later.” No “in another life.” No “if only.”

And yet, at the very heart of this violence, there is delight. The fall is not into alien darkness but into one’s own source. What devours is not other — it is the Self unveiled. To be torn apart is to be stripped of what was false. To be swallowed is to become what swallows.

The bliss is unbearable too. It arrives as a paradox: terror and ecstasy in the same breath. Fear screams “I am dying!” even as a deeper current whispers “I am becoming.” The annihilation is the revelation.

This is the point of no return. The seeker does not walk it as a path. The seeker is dragged, claimed, consumed. And the mercy of this gravity is precisely its violence: once the event horizon is crossed, illusion can never be rebuilt.

 

The Needle and the Magnet

 

The sages do not speak of this threshold as philosophy. They describe it with the precision of those who have crossed.

Ramana Maharshi once spoke of his own experience in words that pierce like lightning:

“In direct knowing, you can feel yourself one with the One that exists. The whole body becomes a mere power, a force-current. Your life becomes a needle drawn to a huge mass of magnet; and, as you go deeper and deeper, you become a mere center and then not even that; for you become a mere Consciousness. There are no thoughts or cares any longer, they were shattered at the threshold. It is an inundation. You are a mere straw, you are swallowed alive, but it is very delightful. For you become the very thing that swallows you.”
(Sat-darśana Bhāṣya / Talks with Maharshi)

Every phrase here is an event horizon:

• A needle to a magnet — not choice, but compulsion. The will is abolished; attraction itself is God.

• Thoughts shattered at the threshold — the storm of debris as the orbit collapses.

• A mere straw — fragile, powerless, and yet chosen by the flood.

• Swallowed alive, but it is very delightful — the paradox of terror and bliss, fused in one word.

This is the grammar of the black hole rendered in human speech. What physics calls collapse, the sage names inundation. What the mind calls annihilation, the Self knows as delight.

 

The One-Way Road

 

Guruji Amritananda was not a beginner fumbling with worldly attachments. He was a siddha who had already walked through decades of sādhana, surrendered his career as a nuclear physicist, and allowed the Goddess to reshape his entire life. Under Her direct guidance he had raised Devipuram — a vast three-dimensional śrīcakra temple, consecrated with fire and mantra, a sanctuary where thousands could uncover the living current of Śrīvidyā.

For disciples, this was triumph: the fulfillment of his mission, the crown of a life of surrender. But for the Goddess, no monument is final. No role, however luminous, can be clung to. And so She struck — not to diminish, but to claim fully:

“Do you have to do it? Give somebody else a chance.
I am waiting for you. People will never leave you in peace.
Die to the world, so that you don’t have to do anything anymore.
You will be with me always. Because I love you.
Let them worship you as me. Does it make a difference by what name you are called?
God of the Seven Hills or Goddess of the Seven Seas?
Is there a high and low, up and down, left and right, life and death?
Only the dream play of time.
Wake up from the waking state! Enter me, I can’t wait any longer.”

The words cut with terrible love. Even Devipuram, born from Her command, is shown to be just another ladle of ghee poured into the fire of Her play. It was sacred — but it was not ultimate. What the world saw as a crown, She revealed as fuel.

Here lies the paradox: the terror that nothing remains to stand on, and the bliss that nothing remains to stand on. To be told “Die to the world” is annihilation; to be told “Because I love you” in the same breath is unbearable tenderness.

Guruji answered as only a true siddha can, with no resistance:

“I close my eyes. So I can be with Her always. Do nothing.
This is the point of no return. It is a one-way street.
I forgot how to talk or sign. Will someone do it for me, please?”

These are not poetic flourishes. They are the cry of one swallowed alive. Speech itself collapses; identity itself collapses. Terror and bliss fuse into one Current.

This is the one-way road. It spares nothing, not even the holiest roles. It does not pause at accomplishment. It consumes saints and temples alike, until only She remains. And once crossed, it cannot be reversed.

The stones of Devipuram still stand. But the builder was taken into the Black Hole of the Goddess.

 

The Horizon Reached

 

There are many thresholds in sādhana. Small deaths, small renewals, small refusals. They test resolve, they temper patience. And yet, even after years, the orbit remains: circling the center, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, but still free to drift away again.

But then comes the decisive exam. Illusion offers its water — shining, close, and salty. The thirst is sharp, the body cries out to drink. To accept is to continue the orbit, to delay the inevitable. To refuse is to collapse the distance forever.

When that refusal is made, the horizon is crossed. It is the last act of choice before choice itself is swallowed.

From that moment the Current no longer comes in waves. It is constant. The magnet no longer pulls faintly; it dominates every particle of being. The self does not walk the path anymore — the path consumes the self.

This is the event horizon of spirit. Before it, one could bargain: “Maybe later. Perhaps another life.” After it, there is no later, no other life. Gravity has claimed everything.

The terror is undeniable. Masks rip away one by one, not gently but with the violence of orbiting debris striking the singularity. Identities burst apart like stars at the edge of collapse. The sense of future itself disintegrates; time bends and the mind cries that it is dying.

And the bliss is equally undeniable. What seemed like destruction is intimacy beyond intimacy. The Current that devours is not alien but the very Self. The collapse is an embrace; the black hole is the womb of the Real.

This is the mercy of the horizon: once crossed, there is no return. The seeker is finished as seeker. The Current itself is now the Guru, the path, and the end.

Terror and bliss are no longer opposites here. They are the same Current, felt from two sides. The collapse is the union. The death is the love.

 

The End of Orbit

 

Astrophysics tells of a strange phenomenon: rogue planets — vast worlds flung loose from their stars, wandering the darkness of the galaxy. They carry atmospheres, storms, even the memory of warmth, but they belong to no sun. They drift endlessly, pulled by nothing.

The soul is like this. For lifetimes it drifts through the cosmos of saṁsāra, circling one star for a while — a family, a role, a creed — then breaking loose to wander again. Always orbiting, never anchored. Always tasting, never fulfilled.

But there comes a time when the trajectory bends toward something different. Not another star, but the impossible gravity of the Black Hole of Devi.

At first the pull is subtle, easy to mistake for longing, crisis, or sudden trials. Then it grows stronger. The rogue planet can no longer wander at will. Its path narrows, accelerates, spirals.

And then the horizon is reached.

Past this boundary, nothing returns. Atmospheres are stripped, identities shatter like moons torn apart by tidal force. The planet itself elongates, fragments, burns as it rushes inward. Every mask, every role, every delay is consumed in the spiral.

It is terrifying — because everything collapses. It is blissful — because what swallows is the very source. The Black Hole is not emptiness. It is the womb of the Real. To be devoured is to become the devourer.

This is the destiny of every rogue soul: not endless wandering, but final capture. The road is one-way. The fall is irreversible. And the embrace is eternal.