𝔎𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔦: The virtue of infinite love

Chapter 13

I dared not raise my eyes.

I had trembled in His gaze.

I had stumbled in His presence.

The Lord of the Universe — He who sleeps upon Ananta, He who creates, preserves, and dissolves all that is — stood before me like the tender evening sun, neither harsh nor blinding, but soft and all-knowing.

But just when I thought He had said all there was to say, He stepped forward.

His anklets, strung with stars and syllables, rang softly across the milky sea.

"Vishnuchittar," He said again, but now His voice... it was deeper than oceans, subtler than breath, as though the  themselves were speaking.

"You ask who she is. That girl who strings flowers with fingers still soft with childhood. That girl you rebuked."

I swallowed, shame burning under my skin.

But He was not angry.

He was vast, vast as Brahman, and in that infinitude, there was only truth.

He lifted one hand — just one — and in it shimmered all of creation.

"You see a daughter," He said.
"But I — I see Kundalini Shakti herself.
She who lies coiled at the base of every being, waiting to awaken, to rise — to return to Me."

I felt the very padma under my feet tremble.

"She is not born of mere flesh," the Lord continued.
"She is the tapas of ten thousand sages, woven across yugas, incarnate now with a purpose that not even the Vedas can name fully."

He turned, and even the milk-ocean dared not ripple in His path.

"In her eyes, burns the same tejas that commands the sun to rise.
In her breath, blows the wind you call Vāyu.
In her will, rides Indra's thunder,
And in her silence, sleeps the Gāyatri herself."

I fell forward again.

My knees kissed the blooming lotus. My palms were shaking. My soul, bare.

"She is the Mother," He said now, gentler. "Not of one home. Not of you alone.
She is the Janani of all moving things. Not a rock shifts, not a star spins, not a child takes its first breath — unless She, in Her subtle will, allows it."

I wanted to cry. But even tears felt too small in this vision.

"You called her foolish," He said, and now there was the faintest trace of something — was it amusement?

"You thought she sinned by adorning My garland.
But you forget, oh jewel among My bhaktas —
She is the one I adorn Myself with."

My throat closed.

"You chant hymns to Lokamāhādevī —
You sing of Her who sits beside Me in Vaikuṇṭha.
But you, Vishnuchittar, you who are pure of heart,
Did not recognize the one who rules the palace of My heart when she stood before you with fingers trembling and eyes lowered."

I could not speak. My mouth had dried from awe. 

"The flowers she strings are not mere blossoms. They are the jīvātmas of all beings, waiting to be woven back into My chest."

A tear, hot and human, rolled down my face. It hit the lotus petal with a sound like a temple bell.

The Lord smiled. Not in jest. Not in rebuke. But as one father smiles when a child finally understands.