Devi Laughs at Your Liberation Plan

 

She dances within the smoke of broken certainties—each gesture a new desecration, each turn Her laughter made visible.

 

 

I. The Myth of the Glorious Awakening

 

Everyone begins with an image.
We hear of saints struck by lightning bolts of revelation—visions, voices, the Goddess descending in radiant form. We read of Guruji Amritananda’s heart exploding into galaxies, of Saraswati appearing before him with a veena, of Annamalai Swami receiving the final word from Bhagavan and vanishing into silence. The mind cannot help but dream: Ah, so that is how freedom looks.

For years that image sustains the seeker. It gives direction, hope, a mythology of arrival. And yet it is precisely that dream that the Current must one day burn—because the Divine never repeats a miracle. She seeks out the most protected imagination of liberation and desecrates it.

Awakening rarely unfolds as the flowering of the sacred. It begins as its dismantling.
The moment when prayers stop working, when the altar feels hollow, when even devotion loses its sweetness—that is the unseen threshold.

The explosions that tore through Guruji’s chest were not privileges; they were demolitions of certainty.
The silence that covered Bhagavan’s face before Annamalai Swami was not rejection; it was mercy beyond speech.
And when the Current withdraws from every image and mood, leaving only stillness, it is not loss—it is consummation.

The world adores the saints’ visions, but realization begins where vision ends.
Every firework of revelation is only the prelude to cooling.
The Current meets each psyche at its point of greatest resistance, and there it breaks what was most sacred—not to humiliate, but to free.

 

II. The Current and Its Precision

 

The Current never strikes at random.
It moves with surgical precision, finding in every being the point of greatest resistance — the one place still mistaken for truth. There it breaks, not cruelly but cleanly, so that what had been worshipped as strength can finally return to silence.

When the physicist-turned-devotee Guruji Amritananda began his meditations, he sought the humming sound that had visited him in childhood. “I’d just listen to that humming sound coming from within me,” he said, “around 300 hertz, rising higher and higher.” For two nights nothing happened — only peace. On the third night came the blast:

“I felt as if a bomb had been placed in my heart, and—with a tremendous noise and unbearably bright light—I had exploded into bits and pieces, every particle of my body thrown off to the ends of the galaxies.”

It was the same energy he had once helped weaponize turned inward.
The scientist who had trusted measurement met the unmeasurable within his own chest. The Divine spoke in the only grammar his mind could not refute — a nuclear detonation of consciousness.

For Annamalai Swami, the blow came differently. Each evening he would enter Bhagavan Ramana’s hall, and the Guru would greet him kindly. Then, one day, Bhagavan covered his head and face with his dhothi, refusing to look at him. He did the same the next two nights. When Annamalai finally asked why, Bhagavan said quietly,

“I am remaining still like Śiva. Why are you talking to me?”

Later he explained:

“When the mind has attained maturity, if one still thinks one is separate from God, one falls into the state of an atheist. You are a mature sādhaka. It is not necessary for you to come here anymore. Stay in Palakottu and do your meditation there. Try to efface the notion that you are different from God.”

It was the same mercy in opposite polarity.
For one, the face of matter exploded into spirit.
For the other, the face of the Guru disappeared into stillness.
Both lost the sacred form that had sustained them. Both were struck exactly where faith was strongest — and therefore where bondage still hid.

This is the secret geometry of awakening:

• The intellect is met by a revelation it cannot analyze.

• The devotee is met by a silence that refuses reassurance.

• The warrior is met by defeat.
  Each soul is pierced through its own armor, and that wound becomes the doorway.

Thus the Current shows infinite compassion through apparent violence.
It desecrates only what one still mistakes for holiness.
It burns only the shrine that has begun to imprison.
And what seems the end of grace is, in truth, its most exact gesture.

 

III. Desecration as the Goddess’s Mercy

 

From the outside, revelation looks like grace descending.
But from within the one struck by it, revelation is desecration—the unmaking of the very ground on which a life once stood.

When Guruji Amritananda spoke of the Goddess Saraswati appearing before him, radiant and smiling, the world saw a scientist blessed with divine vision. What they could not see was that for the mind which had built its empire on equations and proof, this vision was a catastrophe. His whole identity—rational mastery, control, intellect—was torn open by something that refused measurement. What devotees later called “bliss,” to him was terror. The blast in his heart was not symbolic; it was the implosion of a worldview. In that moment the proud architect of nuclear power became the rubble through which Shakti could finally breathe.

Annamalai Swami’s breaking came in an equally perfect inversion. For years he cherished nothing more than the personal intimacy of service to Bhagavan Ramana—cleaning his hall, sharing quiet conversations about ashram disputes and human frailty. That closeness was his sacred world. Then, one day, Bhagavan covered his head and refused to meet his eyes. The same eyes that had once looked on him with tenderness now hid behind a cloth. To the devotees around, it seemed like a mysterious gesture of the Master; to Annamalai, it was a living death. The Guru who had been his universe erased himself from view. Only later would the meaning become clear: when love has ripened, even the beloved must vanish.

This is the secret of divine precision.
The Current never attacks weakness; it strikes at the center of strength.
It does not insult faith—it fulfills it by shattering its object.
It turns the brightest light against the firmest wall, until both disappear into transparency.

So what the world hails as miracle is often the saint’s crucifixion.
What devotees call darśan is, for the one inside it, dismantling.
Only later, when the ash has settled, is the mercy seen: the mind that could cling has been removed, and what remains can finally rest in the quietness that was always there.

Desecration, then, is not the opposite of grace.
It is how grace works when the soul is ready for nothing less than truth.

 

IV. The Non-Repeatable Miracle

 

The Goddess never repeats a miracle—because She never repeats a wound.
Each psyche carries its own fortress, and the Current enters only through the gate that resists Her most.

The scientist required an explosion.
The disciple required the disappearance of the Guru’s face.
Another may require the slow corrosion of certainty, or the quiet starvation of every emotional crutch.
There are as many thresholds as there are hearts.

This is why imitation never works.
The mind studies the trajectories of saints and tries to reconstruct them:
visions like Guruji’s, self-inquiry like Annamalai’s, renunciation like Ramana’s.
But the Divine does not honor blueprints. She honors necessity.
To repeat another’s miracle is to ask for another’s wound—and that wound no longer exists.

Every revelation is a bespoke incision.
Once the structure it was meant to break has dissolved, the gesture itself becomes obsolete.
That is why the same Saraswati who appeared before one devotee will remain utterly silent before another.
That is why the same hill that spoke to Ramana in thunderous stillness may offer only wind and stone to those who arrive seeking the echo.

The stories of the siddhas are not maps; they are fossils of fulfilled resistance.
Their value is not in replication but in recognition—proof that freedom is possible, not instruction on how to earn it.
The moment a seeker begins to pre-meditate realization, imagining how it should unfold, the Current must deviate instantly, breaking that imagination as well.
For pre-meditation is only the mind’s final attempt to dictate the form of its own death.

Thus the path cannot be predicted, only surrendered to.
Each miracle is a one-time language through which the Infinite convinces the finite to open.
When that opening is complete, the language falls silent.

What remains afterward is not a new story to imitate,
but a freedom that no longer needs a story at all.

 

V. The Grammar of the Goddess’s Surgery

 

The Goddess speaks one language to each soul—the language it cannot translate.
She selects the wound with absolute precision, always through the structure that still resists Her total freedom.
No miracle is repeated, because no resistance is identical.

When the mind is scientific and armored in proof, She appears in forms that annihilate logic itself.

• The scientist meets Her as thunder and revelation, as vision so tangible that the intellect collapses.
  Guruji Amritananda’s heart-blast was this incision: the physicist demolished by the physics of Shakti.
  Yet even he was not finished until decades later, when those very visions ceased. Only then did the last identity—the “builder of Devipuram,” the Guru of devotees—dissolve into  light. The final mercy was subtraction, not spectacle.

When the heart is devotional and secure in the nearness of the Guru, She answers with withdrawal.

• The servant of the Master meets Her through absence.
  Annamalai Swami, whose greatest joy was intimate service to Bhagavan, found the same hand that once blessed him covering its own face. The closeness that had defined his life turned into a wall of silence, and the wall itself became the final teaching.

When the seeker is nourished by sweetness, by tears and song and visions of the Mother, She comes as dryness.

• The bliss-devotee meets Her as the smoke that refuses to ignite. All the warmth that once confirmed faith is drawn out, until love no longer depends on flavor. In that cooling, devotion matures from emotion to being.

When the ascetic hides behind renunciation, She enters as temptation.

• The renouncer meets Her as the pulse of life itself—beauty, desire, taste, the scent of the forbidden. She shatters the pride of detachment, forcing the saint to see that what he fled was also divine.

When the mystic builds refuge in visions or powers, She arrives as blankness.

• The visionary meets Her as void, the Goddess who refuses every image. The seer loses sight until seeing itself disappears.

When the philosopher worships clarity, She responds with paradox.

• The thinker meets Her through contradictions that no logic can reconcile, until thought concedes defeat and ripens into wonder.

When the sentimental heart seeks constant intimacy, She grants solitude.
When the fearful soul prays for safety, She sends danger.
When the proud pray for recognition, She answers with anonymity.

Every incision is perfect.
She never grants what is imagined; She grants what will end imagination.
Her operation is tailored, merciless only to what is false.

If She has truly taken a being seriously, She will not give comfort, confirmation, or repetition.
She will give only the one surgery that cools the system most precisely from its last attachments.

The scientist’s blast, the disciple’s silence, the devotee’s drought—each is the same medicine in a different body.
When the operation is complete, the patient disappears,
and only the Surgeon remains.

 

Epilogue — The Laugh of the Goddess

 

All premeditated ideas of awakening are comedy to the Goddess.
The more elaborate the plan, the louder Her laughter.

“I will go to the Himalayas, find a cave, and meditate until the world disappears.”
She smiles, and the mountain collapses into the heart. The cave becomes the kitchen. The real austerity begins in the noise of ordinary life, not its absence.

“I will live as a Gṛha-Avadhūta — a householder-sage, serene in the midst of chaos.”
She nods, then sends a storm through the household. The marriage cracks, the child falls ill, the savings vanish. Detachment becomes more than a verse to quote; it becomes the breath that keeps one from collapsing.

“I will renounce everything and wander as a beggar.”
She answers with a body that demands medicine, a pandemic that forbids wandering, or a stranger who gives food only if one stays. The vow of movement dissolves into the realization that freedom was never in the road.

“I will practice tantra, embrace the world, and turn desire into divinity.”
She grants the embrace — and then removes the pleasure, leaving only the trembling honesty of seeing what “embrace” truly means when the beloved turns to ash.

“I will be silent like the sages.”
She fills the silence with voices that will not stop, until one learns that real stillness is not the absence of sound but the collapse of the listener.

“I will spread wisdom to the world.”
She grants a platform, then ensures that no one listens—or worse, that many listen and misunderstand. The thirst for impact burns until the need to be understood dissolves into the peace of being.

“I will become pure.”
She sends a temptation so exact that it reveals purity was only pride in disguise.

“I will conquer my ego.”
She hides it behind spiritual language, smiles through it, and lets the seeker wear it like a halo until it becomes too heavy to bear.

To every script the Goddess says the same thing:
“Not this, not that. You will not choose the terrain of your liberation.”

She does not destroy these plans to mock devotion but to complete it.
Because each plan, however noble, is still an architecture built by fear — the fear of being taken where the mind cannot stand.
And that is exactly where She is waiting.

When every map has burned,
when the saint, the hermit, the ascetic, the lover, the philosopher, and the wanderer have all been outplayed by Her mercy,
then the laughter fades.

What remains is simple and inconceivable:
no Himalayas, no home, no renunciation, no union—
only the space in which all those words had appeared.

And that space is not silence; it is Her smile without a face.