The Current Is Never Ours — The Knife Goes Deeper

Fierce image of Kali with blazing red eyes and tongue extended — the Mother who burns illusions beyond reach.

 

 

The Lamp and the Knife

 

Vira Chandra: I once wrote: the Current is never ours. That the moment we try to hold it, She slips through our fingers. I stand by those words. They came from fire, and they remain true.

And yet, there is another layer that must be spoken. A harsher layer. Because if the first post was a lamp to guide, this one must also be a knife to cut illusions I once held as unshakable.

For I once believed—deeply, fiercely—that Kaula’s highest praises guaranteed permanence. That maithuna itself sealed the bond with Devi. That if women are forms of the Goddess, then to be surrounded by them meant She Herself had irreversibly embraced the man at their center.

I believed this not in theory but with the full sincerity of a seeker. And when I saw someone who had charisma, ritual power, initiations from siddhas, and the fire of mystical darśana—I thought: surely, this is forever. Surely, the Goddess has bound Herself here.

But what I later saw was unbearable, almost surreal: that even with all of this—rituals, siddhis, initiations —She can still withdraw. The temple can still become hollow. The Current can still vanish.

This is the paradox I could not ignore. And this is the knife I must now press deeper into my own flesh: that no amount of ritual, charisma, or authority can bind Her. Not even the highest initiations from the highest siddha.

 

The Paradox of Transgression

 

Kaula śāstras are unashamed in their proclamations. They say maithuna is the crown of crowns, the fire where Śiva and Śakti unite. They praise transgression as the gateway, the breaking of taboo as the swiftest road.

And when you first read those words—when I first read them—something in the soul leaps. Because it seems to answer the secret hunger: “Yes, liberation is not through denial, but through fire. Not by abstinence, but by drinking deep.”

So when a man lives it outwardly—wine, women, ritual, mantra—it feels like the texts incarnated. The myth has taken flesh. The book has walked into the room. Surely this is proof? Surely this is irreversible realization?

But here lies the brutal paradox: transgression itself proves nothing.

I saw it with my own eyes. You can sleep with dozens of women and still not be free. You can chant mantras in the midst of maithuna and still clutch ego. You can drink the forbidden wine and still thirst for power.

The texts do not lie. But their surface can deceive. The pañca-makāra are real gates, but only when entered with total surrender. Without surrender, they are only indulgence dressed as liberation. Without the burning of persona, they are not fire but theater.

And this is the hardest truth to swallow: even when darśana comes, even when Devi appears, even when insights flash like lightning—none of it guarantees permanence. Śakti can pour through a man for a season and then withdraw, leaving only persona and echo.

Transgression without surrender does not liberate.
Charisma without humility does not sustain.
Ritual without truth does not bind Her.

 

Svatantrya, the Freedom of the Goddess

 

If Kaula exalts transgression, it also whispers of something deeper—often hidden in plain sight. That deeper truth is svatantrya: the absolute freedom of Śakti.

Yes, women are Devi. But Devi is not chained to any man. Attraction, even devotion, is Her dance, not Her bondage. She comes when She wills, She departs when She wills. To mistake Her embrace for possession is to lose Her immediately.

Yes, rituals open doors. Maithuna, mantra, wine, meat, mudrā—these can ignite the Current. But none can guarantee it. Without surrender, they remain hollow shells. The Goddess cannot be captured by formula, not even sacred ones.

Yes, initiations confer power. Even the Guru’s highest blessing, can pass authority to a disciple. But even this does not bind Her. For the blessing is a trust, not a contract. A siddha can bless, but even a siddha cannot override Her freedom.

This is why what seems surreal is actually Her deepest safeguard. She will not allow Herself to be owned. Not by charisma. Not by ritual. Not by initiation.

She is freedom itself.
She burns where no one else can reach.
And when ego closes its fist, She withdraws—whether from a novice or a master, a temple or a lineage.

This truth is terrifying, but also liberating. Because if She cannot be bound by rituals, she also cannot be lost by failures. What calls Her is not success, not transgression, not power—but the raw, trembling surrender of a heart that has nothing left to hold.

 

The Brutal but Liberating Lesson

 

What, then, is left when every outer sign proves uncertain?

The charismatic presence that once trembled with lightning can grow hollow.
The ritual that once shook the body can harden into performance.
The gravity that once glowed with blessing can become a trap of persona.

And so the lesson stands naked:

• Transgression does not equal liberation.

• Charisma does not equal divinity.

• Initiation does not equal permanence.

These things can open doors, yes. They can intoxicate, inspire, even carry the Current for a time. But they cannot bind Her. For She flows only where surrender is alive, and She flees the moment ego claims ownership.

This is brutal to admit. It shatters the dream of shortcuts, of guarantees, of formulas. But it also liberates. Because it means the gate is always open to anyone—timid or bold, virgin or adept, celebrated or forgotten—if they will only lay down every mask and burn.

It means that what seemed like proof—the many lovers, the dazzling charisma, the initiations from siddhas—were never proof at all. The only proof is this: the Goddess still moves. The Current still flows. The heart still breaks open, and in that breaking, She is present.

Everything else—whether it is lost or gained—remains secondary.

 

Closing Prayer

 

So let this post also be a prayer. Not a doctrine, not a warning, not even a teaching—only a cry.

Devi, You who move where no hand can hold You,
You who come as lightning, and leave as silence,
You who rise in the sobbing of the broken—

Do not let me mistake Your grace for my merit.
Do not let me confuse the trembling of this body with ownership of Your Current.
Do not let me build monuments of stone where only fire belongs.

If I begin to believe this is mine—
burn me before the lie grows.
If I try to hold You,
slip through my fingers and leave me empty.
If I turn devotion into performance,
strike me until only surrender remains.

Let me never seek proof in lovers, rituals, or blessings.
Let me never confuse charisma with truth, or power with You.
Let my only offering be the breaking of this heart,
and let that breaking be enough to call You back again and again.

If I must be ash, so be it.
But let the Current remain pure.
Let it never be mine.
Let it always be Yours.