Everyone believes they have felt it—at least once in their lives. But most have only brushed the surface of what love truly is. Few ever experience the vastness, the stillness, and the divine depth of this sacred force.
In this chapter, we will attempt to gently move beyond the surface-level understanding of love and into its true nature—as revealed in Vedantic thought and the teachings of Shri Krishna. By the end, I hope the reader arrives at a clearer, quieter understanding of this eternal force—very different from what they may have arrived here believing.
The key questions we will explore together are:
- What is Love, as defined by Shri Krishna?
- What does Vedanta say about Love as the Binding Force of Existence?
- How is Attachment Different from Love?
- The Journey of Love: From Self to Oneness
- What is Self-Love, from a Spiritual Lens?
- How is Love the Highest form of Freedom?
What is Love, as defined by Shri Krishna?
Love is not an emotion.
It cannot be—because emotions are fleeting. You can be angry with someone, disappointed in them, or even hurt by them, and still feel an unshaken, quiet love underneath. You may not speak to them for years, but the love you once felt doesn't dissolve with time. You may lose them, but something in you still remains connected—as though love continues where the relationship ends.
It isn’t a passing feeling either. If love were just a feeling, it would come and go like joy, sorrow, or fear. But true love lingers even in absence. It doesn’t rely on presence, nor does it fade when the beloved is gone. There are mothers who’ve lost their children decades ago, lovers separated by lifetimes, or saints detached from the world—all who still love with the same intensity, as though love exists outside of time.
Then perhaps, love is a thought? But even that doesn’t hold. A thought is something you can hold, shape, dismiss. But love? Love is there even when thoughts dissolve. In silence. In stillness. In deep meditation, where the mind is quiet, one still feels love—so alive and overwhelming that it brings tears without reason.
So what, then, is love?
Shri Krishna gives us the answer—not in a single line, but through the way he lives. He loved Radha—not with possession, but with devotion. Their love wasn’t bound by marriage, duty, or the world’s definitions. It was beyond all conditions. He never took from Radha. He became her. And so did she. In the union of the divine and the devotee, the self disappeared.
He loved the people of Braj, not as a ruler, not as a saviour, but as one among them. Their joys were his, their sorrows echoed in his flute. He walked amongst them not as God, but as a cowherd—because love, in its purest form, knows no hierarchy.
He stood on the battlefield with Arjuna, a friend ready to counsel. Not with dominance, but patience. He never forced Arjuna to act. He guided him. Because true love does not bind—it frees.
To Krishna, love is presence without demand, giving without expectation, and oneness without condition. It is not something you feel. It is something you are. The Gita calls it bhakti—not devotion born out of fear or ritual, but out of a total surrender to love itself.
Love, in Krishna’s world, is the force that unites the universe. It is the energy that makes a cowherd dance, a devotee cry, a warrior fight with dharma, and a soul recognise its source. True love, therefore, isn’t something you experience. It is something you become.
Love is a state of being.
It’s like a place—a sacred home—where your soul rests in complete peace. In that space, fear vanishes. Doubt disappears. You feel unshakably free. Capable. Alive. Limitless. There, you don’t just feel happiness—you become it. You don’t just dream of possibilities—you live them. You don’t need someone to complete you—you are whole.
That is what freedom looks like. And that, in its most sincere essence, is what Krishna showed the world—Love that liberates.
What does Vedanta say about Love as the Binding Force of Existence?
In Vedanta, love isn’t just a human emotion or a personal experience. Love is existence itself. It is the very fabric of the universe—the silent thread that connects the seen to the unseen, the soul to the source, the individual (jiva) to the universal (Brahman).
Unlike modern ideas that see love as a feeling between two bodies, Vedanta declares something radical—“You are Love.” Not metaphorically. Not poetically. But literally.
According to the Upanishads, the reason we feel love for anything or anyone is not because of them—but because of the Self (Atman) within them, which is also within us.
"Atmanastu kāmāya sarvaṃ priyaṃ bhavati", says the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad. "It is for the sake of the Self that everything is dear."
When you say you love someone, Vedanta quietly asks—do you love them, or do you love the way their presence reflects your own deeper Self back to you? The truth is: we are drawn to what reminds us of our infinite nature. That’s why even in the most intense love, we’re not merely attracted—we feel expanded, infinite, unafraid. Because the Self has recognised itself.
Vedanta sees love as the binding force of all creation—not in the romantic sense, but in the unifying sense. Just like gravity holds the planets in orbit, love holds beings in existence. It is the reason stars burn, rivers flow, birds sing, and sages meditate. Even the desire for liberation (moksha) is not born out of escape, but out of a soul’s longing to merge back into pure love—its original state.
In deep meditation, when the ego (self) falls away and only silence remains—what you feel is not emptiness, but love. A presence so vast, so peaceful, that all fear disappears. That presence is Brahman—and it is love itself.
So in Vedanta, love is not for the body, not for the mind, not even for the relationship. It is the dissolving of all separateness. The moment when the lover, the beloved, and the act of loving—all merge into one.
That is why love is not something we do. It is what we are—beneath the masks, the names, and the identities.
How is Attachment Different from Love?
As we have already explored, love is not a fleeting emotion. It is not a passing thought or momentary thrill. Love is a state of the soul. It is our natural resting place when the mind is still and the heart is open. When one begins to experience this blissful state—this inner flowering—it is divine, transcendent. But here’s where the shift begins.
Instead of observing love as a divine experience, we often begin to cling to the feeling it brings. We trace the feeling back to a person, an event, a memory—and then start believing that this external form caused the love. “I feel loved because of you.” And suddenly, instead of letting the experience pass through like a sacred wind, we want to trap it, preserve it, repeat it. This is the beginning of attachment.
The lover becomes a possession. The bliss that once brought freedom now gives birth to fear—What if I lose them? What if this feeling ends? We stop allowing, and begin controlling.
Consider the love of a mother. For years, her child is her world. She nurtures him, protects him, weaves her identity around him. But then comes the time when the child must step out, to carve a path of his own. The loving mother may now feel fear—not because she loves any less, but because her identity is now at stake. “What will I be without him here?” she wonders. Her concern appears to be care, but at its root, it’s a fear of the disintegration of her safe emotional sanctuary. She wants to hold on—not to the child, but to what the child represents for her. And so, the love quietly turns into attachment.
But not all mothers respond this way. Some smile and let go. Not because they feel less, but because they understand more. They trust the journey of their child. They love enough to give space. That is love—not just in emotion, but in action.
Attachment doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes, it wears the mask of deep affection. It disguises itself as care, as loyalty, as ‘forever together’ vows. And yet, it silently steals the sacredness of love and replaces it with fear.
In relationships—especially romantic ones—we often believe that the happiness we’ve finally found has a single source: our partner. “They complete me,” we say. And soon, the bliss we once experienced turns into a need. We want their presence not because our love is overflowing, but because their absence would be unbearable. This is where love begins to morph.
We stop walking our own journey. We begin orbiting theirs. Our dreams take a backseat. Our self-worth becomes tethered to their validation. And all the while, we call it love.
But this, in its essence, is fear—not love. A fear of losing the one thing that we believe holds our happiness. A fear that shackles. A fear that turns divinity into dependency.
Even in the sacred text of the Bhagavad Gita, Shri Krishna warns of this very illusion. He speaks of Moha—the attachment that clouds the mind and binds the soul. He says it is Moha that causes delusion, and delusion leads to loss of memory, then to the loss of wisdom, and ultimately to self-destruction.
In this light, we see how clinging to a person, an outcome, or a role in our life doesn’t strengthen love—it strangles it.
True love does not say, “I can’t live without you.” It says, “I honour your path—even if it someday diverges from mine.” It trusts the dance of the universe.
A relationship rooted in divine love allows both people to grow, even if it means they grow apart. But a relationship rooted in attachment traps both souls in a cage of expectation. One becomes the caretaker of the other’s joy, and soon both are burdened.
To love someone is to see their soul—not just the role they play in your life. It is to bless their freedom, even if it costs you comfort.
Attachment binds. Love liberates.
Attachment says, “Stay, so I feel whole.” Love says, “Go, grow, and I will remain whole.” Attachment arises from incompleteness. Love flows from fullness. In love, there is no fear. There is peace. There is space. There is the unwavering trust that if it is real, it can never be taken away.
And that, dear reader, is the difference. One demands. The other allows. One grips. The other opens. One seeks security. The other offers freedom.
Now, after everything we’ve said, one might be tempted to feel that attachment is a wicked, undesirable thing. But that would be unfair—and untrue. Attachment is not evil. It’s human. It is, in many ways, a gentle defence mechanism of the heart. Like a child clutching its blanket in the dark, we form attachments not out of malice, but to feel safe. It's the mind’s way of whispering, “When all else fades, at least she will stay.” And in that safety, we find a momentary home.
When seen through this lens—not of fear, but understanding—attachment becomes a bodily need, not a soulful one. It’s the cry of the form, not the song of the spirit. And if one can accept this distinction, then detachment, too, becomes softer. You’re no longer tearing yourself away from someone—you’re simply releasing the expectation of forever, and embracing the flow of life.
This is wisdom: to recognise that while attachment may walk beside love, it is not the same thing. Love is divine. Love is free. Love holds with open hands. And yet, in the world of form—in the lives we live with promises and partners—it is nearly impossible not to be attached. To expect otherwise is to deny the very humanness of our being.
So, let the attachment come. But let it come as a visitor, not as a jailer. Let it be observed, not obeyed. Let it be an honest connection, not a fearful need. For true love, even when walking through the corridors of attachment, always leads to freedom.
The Journey of Love: From Self to Oneness
Love, in its truest essence, is not a linear emotion but a journey of inner realisation. It unfolds in layers, not by the changing of the other, but by the dissolving of the self. Vedanta doesn’t speak of love as an external act — it reveals it as the fundamental nature of existence itself. Love is not something you feel towards someone, it’s what remains when separation ceases to exist.
This journey of love can be seen through three deeply spiritual states. They aren’t steps to climb, but inner realisations — sacred recognitions of what already is.
1. Only You are There
In the earliest stages of true love, there is a sacred disappearance of the self. You look at the other person, and suddenly your own needs, worries, and even your very identity... begin to dissolve. You are no longer the centre of your own world. They are. Their joy becomes your joy. Their pain, your burden. Their presence, your sanctuary.
“I am nowhere… only you are here.”
In Vedantic terms, this is where ego (Self) surrenders, not because it understands — but because it feels overwhelmed by something bigger than itself. This is the path of Bhakti — unconditional devotion. Like Meera, like Radha — who didn’t want Krishna, they simply belonged to him.
It is beautiful, but it is still drenched in duality. There is you and I, even if ‘I’ is fading. It is full of longing. Sweet ache. Sacred helplessness. You are the moon, and I — just a tide rising towards you.
2. You are Me
As the soul matures in love, longing becomes realisation. The intense focus on the other turns inward — and a quiet, stunning truth emerges:
“You are not someone separate. You are me. I am you. We are one.”
This is the shift from devotion to union.
You no longer gaze at the beloved like an idol on a pedestal. You begin to see your own face in theirs. Their happiness is not for you — it is you. Their suffering is not something you watch, it’s something you feel. The separation starts to break.
This is where Advaita Vedanta blooms. The core truth: there is no second. Ekam Evadvitiyam — “Only one, without a second.” You don’t love them as ‘someone else’; You begin to love them as yourself.
It’s not the romantic "I see my future in your eyes" — it's something so much more silent and cosmic: “When I speak to you, I feel as though I’m speaking to the deepest part of my own soul.”
In this love, there's radical empathy. Forgiveness flows naturally — not as a favour, but because you no longer see a wound to forgive. There is no room for pride, power games, or proving anything. You and the other — you're two eyes of the same being, blinking at the same sun.
This is the stage where silence begins to speak louder than poetry.
3. Neither You Nor I – Only Divine Existence
Then, one day, without warning… even that identification dissolves.
There is no ‘you’. There is no ‘me’. There is no story left. What remains is pure awareness — what Vedanta calls Brahman.
This is not a love that clings, or yearns, or worships. This is love that IS. It doesn't depend on the body, the name, the connection, or even memory. It is timeless. It is not about union anymore — because nothing was ever separate to begin with.
“We were never waves crashing into each other. We were the ocean — playing.”
In this love, the very concept of "loving someone" melts away. There’s no desire to possess, no grief of loss, no ecstasy of closeness. It is just… oneness.
This is the love the sages speak of in silence. The Buddha, sitting under the Bodhi tree — his love for all beings radiating without touching. Ramana Maharshi, silent on his mountain — loving not through touch, or word, or presence, but by being the presence itself.
This is Sat-Chit-Ananda:
Sat – pure existence.
Chit – infinite awareness.
Ananda – bliss beyond emotion.
And in this state, you realise: there is nothing to find. You were always this. Not a lover. Not a beloved. But the love itself. Eternal. Formless. Still.
What is Self-Love, from a Spiritual Lens?
In Vedanta, the Self — Atman — is not the ego-self. It is not your personality, preferences, wounds, or even your story. It is your unconditioned, eternal essence — the part of you that has never changed despite all the changes in your life.
And to love that Self is not to stand in front of a mirror and say, “I’m amazing.” It is to sit in stillness and realise: “I am.”
Just… “I am.” That existence itself is enough. Worthy. Sacred.
Self-love, then, is not narcissism. It is not bloated pride or ego in disguise. It is a sacred remembrance — the deep knowing of who you truly are beneath all your names, roles, and expectations. It is to hold your own soul the way you once held another’s — tenderly, reverently.
As Ramana Maharshi said: "The Self is love. It is the only reality. The universe exists because of love."
And if the Self is love… Then loving yourself is not selfish. It is spiritual clarity.
But here's the mistake we often make: we confuse the body with the Self. We think self-love means accepting this form alone — this face, this voice, this name. But Vedanta whispers something far more profound: You are not just this body. Not just this mind. You are the essence. You are Consciousness — the same divine spark that flows through all of existence. Not separate. Not divided. One.
So true self-love is not limited to “me”. It’s a call to widen the circle of self, to stretch your being until it includes every living soul. Until the dog on the street, the tree in the wind, and the stranger across the globe all feel like “I”.
That is the love of the Self — that sees the Self in All. That bows not just to the God within, but to the God everywhere.
To love yourself spiritually is to become love itself. And then love flows — Unconditionally. Spontaneously. Without choosing or avoiding. You’re no longer just loving the Self. You are the Self — and everything else is included in your embrace.
This is why, when love blossoms spiritually, it doesn’t cling… It expands. And it frees. Self-love is not a bubble. It is the boundless sky. It is seeing no separation at all.
So if you ever forget your worth, your light, your place in the cosmos — Sit with yourself. Not to analyse. Not to improve. But to be. And in that stillness, you’ll hear it again: “I am.” And that will be enough.
How is Love the Highest Form of Freedom?
In the world’s language, people speak of falling in love. But in truth — we rise in love. Because true love is not a descent into chaos, but an ascent into clarity. It’s the return to our natural state: vast, open, free.
When love awakens in its purest form, we stop seeing ourselves as separate — The lines between “you” and “me,” “mine” and “yours,” quietly fade away. And as the walls within dissolve, so do the chains that once held us in fear, insecurity, and comparison.
No longer do we envy. No longer do we compete. Because when the whole world feels like your own reflection, you naturally begin to give, not just to “yours,” but to every being around you — as if they were your very own soul clothed in different names and bodies.
We now understand what attachment truly is. We observe it. We don’t get caged by it. We can be attached, yet remain in love. We can be in love, yet feel no need to be in a relationship. Because nothing is only physical — everything is soul. And when everything is soul, there’s no fear of losing. Only the joy of seeing yourself… in another form.
And this is real freedom. Not a loud, rebellious kind — but the soft, radiant kind that comes from knowing: “I lack nothing. I need to prove nothing. I am everything.” In this freedom, you don’t run away from the world — You embrace it more deeply. You see career not as your identity, but as your expression. You no longer chase love out of fear of loneliness, but offer it because you are overflowing with it.
As Krishna says in the Bhagavad Gita: "He who sees the Self in all beings and all beings in the Self — he never turns away from it."
This is the highest love — where nothing can be taken from you, because nothing lies outside you.
And oh, how light it feels to live like this... To walk the world barefoot in spirit — untouched, unchained, unafraid.
That is why love — true, sacred, expansive love — is not a bond. It is the breaking of all bonds. It is not a cage. It is the sky.
Final Message
To deeply understand love, don’t try to remember everything you’ve read. Instead, try to feel it.
Sit alone. Be still. Observe your emotions. Next time you’re with someone you love, just watch. If fear arises, let it. If joy floods in, let it. Don’t try to change anything — just witness it.
Let it flow. Let it speak. Let it teach. Sit and observe… with love.