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High in the mountains of Tibet, among the stark Himalayan ranges, stands the sacred Mount Kailash. Around its dry slopes, the desolate terrain offers a sharp contrast to the lush valleys found elsewhere in the Himalayas. From its heights, one may glimpse Lake Manasarovar lying to the left, its pure waters shimmering with natural beauty amidst the barren surroundings. The atmosphere here feels untouched by the corruption of the world, still as spiritual and solemn as it must have been in ancient times.
Close by stands a Buddhist monastery. But long before the birth of Gautama Buddha, these mountains were home to primitive tribes. Life here was harsh; men and women fought the cold, scoured the forests for food, and built their shelters against the punishing winds. The mountains were richer then, their forests teeming with life, so different from the bare slopes seen today.
Among these tribes lived a man so extraordinary that his people called him the Lord of the Land. His bravery was equalled only by his deep spirituality. Word of his mastery spread far and wide, his skill in archery, his strength with the trident, and his profound wisdom in the science of yoga. Sages from every corner of Aryavarta came to seek his teachings in philosophy and the mysteries of existence. The Warriors travelled for days to learn from his unmatched practices. Yet, despite his power, he preferred peace over war, solitude over conquest, and wisdom over wealth.
In the cold mountains, luxury had no place. His only protection against the freezing air was a tiger skin, and his home lay among the caves and forests of the peaks, where he lived with his people. When winters grew unbearable, the tribe would journey southwards into other parts of Aryavarta, where kings welcomed Him with reverence. To rulers and sages alike, he was the embodiment of perfect knowledge, the knower of both life and death. To preserve his detachment from worldly desire, he chose the path of celibacy.
The Princess of Devagiri
Fate was strange. Destiny was unshackled. It tested even the revered gods. It did not escape them as well. Even his iron resolve would soon be tested. During one of his journeys to the banks of the Ganga, he sat in deep meditation beneath the skies, his body still as stone. It was then that a young princess happened to see him. She was the youngest daughter of the royal family of Devagiri Kankhal, near the Ganga. Her father had long harboured resentment toward the mountain tribes, and the princess, barely sixteen, had never even heard of the great sage.
Now, seeing him sitting upon a rock, dressed in tiger skin, his long hair bound into matted locks (jata), she was overcome by wonder. In that moment, the princess of Devagiri fell hopelessly in love. As she watched the man in awe, a small Rudraksha bead slipped from his hair and rolled into the river. The princess waded in and picked it up, holding the sacred bead as if it were a priceless jewel. Her heavy gold ornaments and glittering gems suddenly felt worthless beside that one fallen fruit of the forest. She took it home, clutching it to her bosom.
When she entered the inner palace, her twenty-seven sisters stopped their chatter to look at her. Her face looked flushed. Seeing the Rudraksha in her hand, they gasped in fear and warned her that it belonged to the Lord of Lords, their father’s sworn enemy. They told her to abandon it at once and forget the man she had seen. But the young princess could not. All night she twisted and turned in bed, wondering how her father could hate someone so radiant, so divine.
The next morning, she went to the riverbank once again. This time, he sat among his tribesmen, smoking a chillum in quiet contemplation. The faint sound of anklets reached his ears, and for the first time, he turned. Before him stood a girl, radiant in her silks and jewels, her skin glowing in the sun, her eyes deep with innocence.
He asked her what she wanted.
Without hesitation, she said, “I want you to marry me.”
A shocked murmur ran through the assembled tribesmen. How could a royal princess speak so boldly to a wandering ascetic, a vowed celibate? But she was fearless, driven by love. He looked upon her, struck by her courage, her purity. His heart stirred against his will.
For a moment, the Lord of the Land, whose vow could not be broken, felt desire and tenderness mingle in his soul. But he knew the path she wished for could only lead to destruction. No mortal woman could share his life, no innocent girl could bear the fire that burned within him. So, with quiet firmness, he refused her plea. Her brave eyes filled with tears, but she did not argue further.
When her father learned of her boldness, her audacity in proposing to his enemy, his fury knew no measure. To erase the shame, he announced a royal swayamvara, inviting princes from across Aryavarta to seek her hand. The land buzzed with news of the grand event, and word of it reached even His ears in the mountains.
He wandered down to the riverbank once more, gazing at the glittering waters under a dark sky. His heart, long untouched by emotion, felt the ache of loss. His friend and advisor approached quietly. Even in the dim light, he could see the storm behind those meditative eyes.
Then he heard it, the light tinkle of anklets. She had come to him one last time. Her voice trembled as she said, “If you do not come to save me, I will do what I must. You know my heart, and I know yours.”
Their bond was not a random act of emotion, a chaos that stirred without reason. Decades ago, a devotee Asura had asked the divine man for a boon. A boon of immortality. That which could not be granted. Tarak, the Asura, was cunning. He knew that the Lord vowed to be celibate. So he wished to die in the hands of his son. A boon which could not be denied. But the cycle of life, the rule of nature, could not be broken. Prakriti, the divine mother, had to intervene. She had to come and break the vow of celibacy of the Lord. The only way to do that was to tie the Lord in a life of attachment and attraction. This unveiled a series of events, like a domino effect.
On the day of the ceremony, the king ordered guards to keep out any “wild tribal vagabonds,” setting up even a mocking statue of her beloved in the hallway to ensure none would dare appear.
As the princess walked toward the altar, suitors fixed their lustful eyes upon her. Her heart, however, was elsewhere. Suddenly, turning away from the groom’s platform, she ran to the hallway. The guests gasped as she placed her garland upon the statue.
In stunned silence, the court watched the unimaginable: the princess of Devagiri had married a lifeless figure. Then a sound broke through the noise, the rhythmic beat of a damru, echoing through the hall. The crowd parted in awe as He appeared, radiant in his divine presence, holding the trident. His eyes met hers, and everything else faded away into nothingness around them.
Unable to find words for her overwhelming emotions at his silent promise, she lifted the garland from the statue and placed it around His neck. He took her hand, and amidst gasps and cries, led her away from the kingdom’s splendour to His abode among the snows of Mount Kailash.
In the mountains, their love blossomed beyond mortal measure. Her dance inspired his music; her laughter softened his silences. The god and his bride lived in joyous union. He planned to teach her the divine knowledge he possessed, but somehow felt she was too tender for it, not ready to understand the vastness of the Universe and the chaos that drove it yet. In his selfish desire to spend more time with her, he kept delaying her lessons. While she was deeply devoted to her husband, the princess struggled to find happiness in the nature devoid of luxury that she grew up in. Her heart longed to see the mother and sisters she had abandoned once.
But one day, news reached her that her father was conducting a mighty yajna, summoning all the gods, sages, and saints, yet pointedly excluding them. Naively, she resolved to attend.
He knew the dangers of showing up uninvited at the palace of someone as egoistic as her father and pleaded with her not to go, but her heart longed for her family. Yielding to her will, He sent His most trusted follower to escort her.
At Devagiri's Kankhal, the king met them with cold disdain. Before the gathered nobles, he insulted her divine husband and mocked her devotion. Unable to bear such humiliation, the princess threw herself into the sacred fire of the yajna.
The earth trembled, and the Lord’s grief erupted like thunder. In wrath and sorrow, He carried her burning body across the world, performing the terrible dance of Tandava. To save the world, the God of Preservation dismembered her body to stop his dance of wrath. Wherever parts of her body fell, those places became the fifty-one Shakti Peethas we venerate today. The story tells that he wandered for ages, mourning her, travelling personally to each place where her body parts fell and established temples in her name.
And thus, the story of Shiva and Sati, born of devotion, defiance, and divine union, echoes eternally in the chants of the mountains and the wind that circles Kailash. Until the next chapter of their eternal love was written again, by divine Fate.
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| Shiva Carrying Sati, Kalighat Style Painting. |
