Antarvahini

By Jivika Vikamshi

Hey,

you remember that time 

you were brushing your teeth,

just staring at yourself in the mirror,

and suddenly your chest got quiet?

You weren’t thinking anything in particular.

Just existing.

But for a second-

your breath shifted.

You forgot what you were doing.

And something inside you… stirred?

Yeah.

That.

Or maybe you were walking home

after a long day,

headphones in,

listening to a voice note you didn’t really want to hear-

and suddenly you couldn’t hear anything.

Not because the sound stopped,

but because you did.

And for a flicker of a moment,

there was a stillness in your spine

so strange,

you couldn’t even tell if it was yours.

That too.

You didn’t call her.

You weren’t praying.

You weren’t lighting incense,

chanting mantras,

or sitting in lotus position

wearing mala beads.

But she rose anyway.

Antarvāhinī.

She who moves

from the inside out.

The current beneath your personality.

The one who doesn’t ask-

she remembers.

And when you’re quiet enough,

even by accident,

she starts to rise.

You might feel it

as a small pull in your lower back.

A stretch in your breath.

A sudden ache in your chest-

not painful,

just… unfamiliar.

Like someone else

is trying to breathe through you

from the base of your being.

You might find yourself

holding your body differently.

Not because you want to impress anyone,

but because something inside you

has started reorganizing itself.

Reclaiming you.

Maybe your spine straightens.

Maybe your belly softens.

Maybe you just feel…

safe,

but in a way you’ve never been taught to name.

This is not mystical.

This is not advanced.

This is Kundalinī Shakti

not as lightning or explosion,

but as a slow, sacred blooming

from the root of your being

upward

through the stillness you’ve been avoiding.

No visuals.

No firecrackers.

Just a quiet inner knowing that

something has begun

and it’s not stopping for your schedule.

It’s the current that rises

when you finally stop trying

to be anyone.

The movement that needs no movement.

The breath that deepens

when the noise has nothing left to say.

And if it feels like beauty

is suddenly unfolding inside your spine-

not soft, not dramatic,

but inevitable-

know this:

Tripura never left.

She was always the current.

Not the city.

Not the illusion.

Just the upward spiral

beneath the silence

you thought was empty.

And when it’s over-

or rather,

when it settles-

you might cry.

Or laugh.

Or feel like you just touched God

in the middle of a Tuesday.

And no one will know.

Because on the outside,

you’re still just brushing your teeth.

Antarvāhiṇyai Namah

( To the one who finally let the inner current carry them)

By Jivika Vikamshi