Mahadev

by Renuka Narayan

  RENUKA NARAYANAN

  Mahadev

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CONTENTS

  1 Sadashiva Samarambham

  2 Kalakuta

  3 Vipareet

  4 Gajanan

  5 Malai Mandir

  6 Kumar

  7 Shivaskanda Murti

  8 Kalinath

  9 Madurai

  10 Nagchampa

  11 Ganga

  12 Tandavan

  13 Mahadevi

  14 Shivaya

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN ANANDA

  MAHADEV

  Renuka Narayanan writes on religion and culture. She was the arts editor of the Indian Express, where she also wrote a column on religion for the editorial page. She was editor, Religion and Culture, Hindustan Times and the start-up director of the Indian Cultural Centre, Embassy of India, Bangkok.

  Her published books include The Book of Prayer, Faith: Filling the God-sized Hole, The Little Book of Indian Wisdom and The Path of Light: Tales from the Upanishads, Jatakas and Indic Folklore.

  She lives in Delhi.

  Namas Parvati Pataye . . . Hara Hara Mahadeva!

  1

  Sadashiva Samarambham

  ‘Who is Shiva?’ asked the child.

  ‘Nobody knows enough to really tell,’ said her doting parents and grandparents. So they asked the family guru when he came by on a visit.

  But he too shook his head. ‘Nobody knew enough to really tell, even in the old days when the gods are said to have walked openly amidst us,’ the guru said. ‘“Tava tatvam na janami, kidrishosi, Maheshvara, I do not know the true nature of your being, nor who you are, Great Lord”. That’s what it says in the Shiva Mahimna Stotram, an ancient Sanskrit hymn to Shiva, which many people recite even today. The great nineteenth-century saint Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa went into Samadhi, a deep yogic trance, while repeating it.’

  ‘Tell me everything you know about Shiva!’ said the child eagerly, and catching her mother’s eye, hastily added, ‘Please, Teacher.’

  The guru looked gravely back at her. ‘He remains a mystery despite the many stories about him,’ he said. ‘Even the Shiva Mahimnah Stotram, which lists many stories about Shiva, says that Shiva is too big a mystery for anyone to ever fully understand. Scholars say that this hymn may have been written by a person called Grahila, who poetically calls himself Pushpadanta, a gandharva or a heavenly musician, in the hymn. He famously says:

  Asita-giri-samam syat kajjalam sindhu-patre

  sura-taruvara-shak ha lekhani patra-murvi

  likhati yadi grhitva sharada sarva-kalam

  tadapi tava gunanam isha param na yati

  O Lord, even if the black mountain was ink, the ocean the inkpot, a branch of the wish-fulfilling tree the pen, the earth the writing leaf, and if, taking these, the Goddess of Learning herself writes for all eternity, you cannot be completely described.

  What a picture that paints! But we can say that we know two important things about Shiva. That he is one half of God. And that he dances.’

  ‘Who is the other half of God?’ said the child at once.

  Her family smiled, knowing the delightful answer. Pleased that she had asked this question, they sat back and arranged themselves comfortably, the better to hear their guru say it.

  ‘The other half of God is Shakti. We also call her Devi, Amba, Parvati, Gauri, Lalita, Kamakshi, Chandi, Chamundi; so many wonderful names, each with a story, just like Shiva,’ said the guru, his face glowing with the lustre of saying the names aloud.

  ‘So Shiva is half-woman?’

  ‘Or Shakti is half-man. We can see it either way, or see them together as one, the way our people usually see them,’ said the guru.

  The child looked doubtfully at the teak-framed painting on the wall that showed Shiva and Parvati sitting side by side with their heavenly children Ganesha and Kartikeya on their laps. ‘Then why do we see them like that?’ she asked.

  ‘God is actually the one Supersoul or the Paramatma. But it’s hard to understand that properly. It does not satisfy our human need to pray to “Someone” who, we hope, understands us. We need a personality, an interesting one. So, logically, we try to understand the Creator through creation. What do we see? In our lush, tropical country we see that creation is full of natural forms Aa Setu Himalaya, meaning from the southernmost shore to the highest northenmost mountains or all the way from where the three oceans meet right up to the high Himalayas. This is our land, Bharatavarshe Jambudvipe. Bharatavarshe, the land of the Bharatas; Jambudvipe, the island of the rose-apple. So it seemed natural to us that the Creator revels in form. That’s why we first saw and still see “God” in many ways—even as “gods” whom we think of as the expressions of the Supersoul.

  ‘So an image like this, of the First Family, is really like a book. Each detail in it tells a story about the powers of God. We have many images to remind us of the many powers of God. And we have rules for iconography or spiritual art, called Murti Shilpa Shastra on how to make these images of God—as a god or goddess or divine family. We also have rules for iconometry, the system of measurement for making spiritual art, called Talamana. But it was Acharya who made us see the gods clearly in the first place,’ said the guru.

  ‘Who is Acharya?’ asked the child.

  ‘Acharya means a teacher. Here I mean Adi Shankara, the great teacher who went around India years and years ago risking life and limb to make religion clear to people,’ said the guru.

  ‘Jaya Jaya Shankara . . .’ murmured the family in affirmation, hearing the beloved name.

  The family guru nodded.

  ‘Adi Shankara was named for Shiva, who is the Adi Guru or the first teacher,’ he said. ‘Adi means “the first” or “the beginning”. To come close to understanding Shiva, we need to see him the way we originally saw him, through our own eyes, and not through the eyes of others. And one of the first and most important ways we see Shiva is as Dakshinamurthi, Lord of Learning. He sits on a raised rock under a banyan tree with one leg bent at the knee. This pose is called veerasana. Four sages, the Sanakadi yogis, are clustered at his feet like students. Lord Dakshinamurthi is Shiva as our first teacher, the Gurumurti.’

  Meanwhile, the child’s mother had Google-searched Dakshinamurthi’s image on her phone and silently held it out.

  The guru smiled. ‘That’s how he communicates, too, through silence. “Dakshina” means “gift” and also “south”. And indeed, Dakshinamurthi looks southwards to gift us moksha or soul-liberation, since the south is the direction of moksha. Almost every old Indian temple, anywhere, has an image of Dakshinamurthi on its southern wall. Look for it the next time you visit a temple.’

  ‘Of the twelve most ancient Shiva temples, the one at Ujjain has the shivling facing south. It’s called “Mahakaleshwar”, the Lord of Time. I was told it represents Dakshinamurthi,’ volunteered the child’s grandfather.

  ‘I remember you took me there when I was about ten years old, really early in the morning,’ said the child’s father to his father, who was pleased that he remembered.

  Meanwhile, the child and the guru pored over Dakshinamurthi’s picture.

  ‘See how young and peaceful his face is, with the crescent moon on his head. How the old sages look up to him. Among us, even a young guru, if knowledgeable, can have older disciples. Look how his eyes are closed in deep meditation and his body is pale, with sacred ash all over it,’ said the guru. ‘He’s wearing a deerskin as a wrap and holding a japmala, a veena and a sanyasi’s staff.’

  ‘He has snakes around his wrists and ankles and neck. Why does he wear snakes?’ said the insatiable child.

  ‘I don’t know the reason, either,’ admitted the child’s father.

  ‘Oh
, you’ve forgotten the lovely story about that,’ said the child’s grandmother. ‘Naturally, everybody was afraid of snakes—people, birds, beasts—everybody! They didn’t understand snakes at all. So they threw stones, snarled and shrieked at them. The snakes felt very bad about it. Wouldn’t you, if nobody liked you and made it their business to hurt you? So they went wriggling in a body to Shiva because they’d heard he was a strong, straightforward god with no fancy airs about him.’

  ‘“Everybody hates us. We’re so ashamed and depressed,” they wept at his feet.’

  ‘“Don’t cry. You can live on my body if you like,” said Shiva kindly.’

  ‘The snakes cheered up at once. “Thank you, Great God! We never expected such a big honour!” they said, charmed by the perfection of the plan, for now everybody else would be so jealous. They began to fight good-naturedly about taking turns. The serpent Bhashaka won the honour of a permanent place on Shiva’s very neck . . . around that beautiful blue throat.’

  ‘I love that,’ said the child’s mother while the child flew to hug her grandmother, touched by Shiva’s kindness to the weeping snakes but unable to express it in words.

  ‘Didn’t Bhashaka have a daughter called Ahilavati, who married Prince Ghatotkacha in the Mahabharata?’ said the child’s grandfather suddenly.

  ‘You never told me that story!’ exclaimed his son.

  ‘I just remembered it,’ smiled the grandfather. ‘Your daughter’s interest in Shiva is unlocking sealed, forgotten boxes in my head.’

  ‘But why is Shiva’s throat blue?’ put in the child, and her parents exchanged a quick look, managing not to roll their eyes.

  ‘I’ll tell you next time. Or your grandparents or parents can,’ smiled the guru, getting up.

  ‘And miss hearing you say it? No, Guruji. Please come every Monday evening to tell us an instalment of the Shiv Lila,’ begged the elders. ‘Let’s keep it as a weekly tradition for the rest of the year, unless you’re travelling, or we are.’

  ‘It’s so much nicer when you tell us the stories,’ said the child’s parents.

  ‘Why on a Monday? What’s “Shiv Lila”?’ said the child, closely following the conversation.

  ‘Each day of the week is special to some aspect of God. Monday is special to Mahadev, the Great God, as we love to call Shiva. We call God’s stories a “lila”, meaning “play or cosmic drama”, because we choose to believe that everything is a game for God, whom we also call “the gods”,’ said the mother.

  ‘Well said. Whenever we meet, let’s share what we know about Shiva then!’ suggested the guru.

  ‘Shravanam, or listening to holy stories, will win us some merit as well,’ enthused the grandmother.

  Deep in their hearts, the Great God smiled. He liked it when people shared his stories. Doing that was supposed to make them calm, strong and affectionate. ‘Just as they should be,’ thought Shiva, and Parvati smiled, too, in amusement. There were going to be a few surprises. That was the very essence of Shiva. You never knew what he’d do next. Or what you might do, because of him.

  2

  Kalakuta

  ‘You wanted to know why Shiva’s throat is blue?’ the guru asked the child on his next visit.

  ‘Yes, please!’ said the child.

  ‘It’s a strange, strong story, with beautiful ideas that we have never forgotten; ideas that people across Asia have shared and made their own, in many wonderful ways. Also, it tells you why we can’t help loving Shiva,’ said the guru slowly as though choosing his words with care.

  ‘We’re ready for it,’ said the family as it settled happily on the carpet while the guru took a seat of honour facing them.

  ‘A small greeting to God, first,’ said the guru and everybody brought their palms together.

  ‘Sri Ganeshaya Namaha,’ said the guru first, ‘honour to Lord Ganapati, with whose name we begin all things.’ The family dropped their heads low over their hands.

  ‘Namas Parvati-pataye,’ said the guru, ‘we bow to Parvati’s husband.’

  ‘Hara-Hara Mahadeva! Hail to the Great God!’ said the family in one voice, even the child, for her mother had prepared her for this traditional sequence of call-and-response with which a teacher begins a session of telling holy stories.

  ‘Janaki-kanta smaranam,’ said the guru next, ‘we remember Sita’s beloved’.

  ‘Jai-Jai Rama-Rama, victory to Rama,’ responded the family.

  ‘Sri Anjaneya murti ki . . .’ came the guru’s final call, ‘to Lord Hanuman . . .’

  ‘Jai,’ rang the answer, ‘everlasting triumph.’

  The guru smiled at them and they smiled back, sealed in the ancient bond of teller and listener.

  ‘You know how our ancestors saw the world,’ began the guru. ‘Brahma the Creator, hailed as Prajapati, the All-Father, created three main races: the celestials, the humans and the titans, called deva, manushya and asura in Sanskrit. They were each given one of the three realms of the universe—the celestial world called Svarg, the earth in the middle called Prithvi and the netherworld called Patal.’

  ‘The celestials were light, airy beings, bathed in light. Their home, which they had named Indralok or Indra’s World after their leader Indra or Sakra, was a fair realm through which they chased the lightning, played with the thunderclouds and rode the rain. They had everything they could possibly want. They were free from hunger, thirst, pain and perspiration. The flower garlands that they wore were ever fresh, and their feet did not touch the dusty ground. They had no need to work at or toil for anything, and they would never grow old and die. There was music and dance in their realm and golden goblets of a honeyed drink called mead, from “madhu”, the Sanskrit word for “honey”. They were the Immortals to whom the ones below had to offer sacrifice to obtain their favour and cooperation.’

  ‘The earthlings were an interdependent race, much weaker than the celestials. Their home, the earth, was full of danger. They were exposed to the fury of the five elements and the rumblings and shakings of their terrain. Mountains rolled great boulders down on them, and mighty rivers broke their banks during the monsoon and washed the earthlings away with their dwellings of wattle and daub, thatch, wood and stone. Wolves and tigers tore them apart and tiny insects bit their skin, making them itch and scratch in pain. Sickness, old age and death claimed each one of them. No earthling—human, bird, beast, fish, reptile or insect—could escape that. The race of men had to think its way through every situation and work very hard to obtain the smallest ease or pleasure.’

  ‘But though they were clearly interdependent, the race of men had proved greedy. They wanted to grab everything and hoard everything, be it cows, gold, land or the women of their species. They wanted more and more with every new thing. They fought and killed each other for the smallest reasons. Their greed was not merely for material goods. They revelled in saying and doing unkind things merely for the spiteful pleasure of hurting each other. But they also had the imagination to make new things that had never been seen before. And for all its perils and pitfalls, the earth they inhabited was so beautiful that even the celestials secretly coveted it.’

  ‘The asuras or titans were a lumbering lot, gigantic in size, with strong, simple hearts. They loved their beautiful home, Patal, which glowed with treasures. Precious stones and minerals sparkled on the walls, silvery underground streams cooled the air and great iridescent serpents played with them and told them wonderful stories. However, the asuras revelled in their own strength and they hurt those weaker than themselves. They were marvellous beings capable of greatness, but their fatal flaw was their temper, which often made them cruel. Though theirs was an honourable race, too, created to keep the universe in balance, they were so jealous of the airy, confident celestials that they were always looking to score points over them and plotting attacks and invasions to take over the universe. Both the other races were wary of their violent ambition.’

  ‘In this complicated situation, one fine morning, the king
of devas, Indra, went by the ashram or hermitage of the sage Durvasa. Out of respect for Indra’s position, the sage silently handed him a celestial santanaka flower that he happened to have by him. It was infused with the power of the vidyadharas, a race of magicians who could fly in the air and become invisible when they chose. But Indra had a vain moment and carelessly let the magic flower fall to the ground. The sage, who was already famous in all three worlds for his quick-trigger temper, let fly at Indra with a terrible curse.’

  ‘“Wretched, mannerless creature!” stormed the sage, “you are unworthy of being a deva. I curse you twice over, once, to lose your riches, and secondly, I curse you and your race to fall ill, grow old and die like the earthlings!”’

  ‘Indra hurriedly begged Durvasa’s pardon and ran away but he was not really afraid. Was he not an Immortal? However, when the next asura attack on Svarg took place and some wounded devas actually died in battle, Indra was terrified. The devas managed to repel the asura attack that time but Indra knew the asuras would be back. He went straightaway to Brahma for a solution but, alas, the old Creator couldn’t think of one.’

  ‘“Let’s ask Vishnu,” said Brahma and they set out at once to Vaikunth, Vishnu’s grand gem palace beyond the highest heaven where he lived in lonely splendour amidst golden pillars and gauzy clouds.’

  ‘Bowing respectfully low, Indra told Vishnu his troubles and begged for help. They say that it was then that Vishnu, or Hari, as everyone loved to call him, meaning “destroyer of evil”, first showed his godlike form, with four arms, his hands holding the disc, the conch, the mace and the most perfect lotus. His large, bright eyes were as lovely as lotus petals and his shapely hands and feet glowed as pink, while his heroic body blazed with divine light.’

  ‘Indra and Brahma fell to their knees, stunned by his beauty and majesty. They looked hopefully at him.’