Written by: Daya Atreya
Edited by: Shivani Panigrahy
At thirteen, I proudly told my family priest that I am not religious, I am spiritual. But at twenty, I found myself on the steps of the temple of Mahakal at Ujjain. So, what happened?
Having grown up in a religious household, I was raised among hymns and shlokas. I would sit for hours in my grandmother’s lap as she would teach me the Gayatri Mantra while narrating a mythological tale for the day. And soon enough, they turned into personal interests of mine. Although I wasn’t becoming religious, the tales had begun to induce a very strong sense of spirituality within me.
So at thirteen, having listened to a gazillion tales by then, I found myself evidently affected by a tale of Adipurush – a title for Lord Shiva. It is believed that the whole purpose of the birth of Adishakti – female equivalent of Lord Shiva – was to aid the Adipurush in maintaining peace and order in the universe. She was the meaningful connection that was larger than himself- she was his spirituality. Thus, they had the suffix of adi– ‘half’, to establish that neither of their purposes on earth would be fulfilled without the other. But, the only shortcoming was that Adishakti couldn’t complete such a huge responsibility, in one single lifetime. So, Lord Brahma declared that Adipurush will indeed meet his Adishakti but would only be able to stay together until she fulfilled her purpose. He would then have to wait for lifetimes until he met her again, but in a different form so that she could aid him to fulfill his other responsibilities. Thus, the Adipurush essentially always had to stay half, so that humanity could remain whole and in balance.
Till date, every time I recount this tale, my heart clenches. The unimaginable pain that must have plagued the Adipurush to fall in love eventually, despite knowing that his days with her were numbered. The inhumane strength it must have taken to endure the loneliness that engulfed him after her departure, while he consoled himself that he would find her again- that he would have to love her just the same because in both of their balance depended the balance of the entire mortal mankind. He was essentially a hero, but he also had responsibilities that lay beyond the realms of being a hero – the trickiest task of all.
But, Lord Shiva isn’t actually a quintessential “hero”. On one side, he captures the force of flow of Ganga into his matted hair so that her arrival doesn’t disturb the balance of the Earth. On the other, he stands as the gatekeeper of the purity of the afterlife. He is universally given the title of ‘the God of Gods’ – Mahadev. So, I don’t just see a hero- I see divinity with a touch of mortality. Someone that yearns for his soulmate and craves to have a purpose beyond his responsibility for others. And the only time when these two opposite ends of a spectrum share a common ground is when Shiva takes the form of Mahakal– ‘God of Death’ – taking upon himself the sins of every mortal that travels across the threshold between life to afterlife. And somehow, to be the carrier of sins which aren’t his own, yet to wear the title of ‘conquerer of death’ with an equal amount of pride as his other titles, is the most heroic yet the most humanly brave thing to be done simultaneously. This form of Shiva is what is honored in the temple of Mahakal in Ujjain.
Bathed, worshiped and rubbed on with ash, the lingam of Mahakal exudes a fierceness whose energy is unmissable. Goosebumps littered my skin as cries of Har Har Mahadev resonated through the small hall of the temple leading up to the lingam. My eyes welled up as I neared closer to the shrine. But amidst this orchestrated chaos of devotion, I see a peculiar sight. A woman in rags, carrying her child on her back, chanting to herself – Om Mrityunjaya Namah – victory over death.
I watch her lips turn dry and herself running out of breath from her constant chanting, and I am unable to take my eyes off her. She immediately catches me and before I can apologize, she smiles at me through her tears, sharing that she has come to thank the Mahakal for giving her child back to her from ill health, for not taking his soul past the threshold to afterlife.
However, on hearing her, my insides drop. Suddenly, envy knocks on my doors of devotion. For, I am reminded of how similar prayers of mine had gone unanswered in the past. I am reminded of how Mahakal turned his back on me that one day. The day my 82 year old Alzheimer-ridden grandmother remembered the number of hours until she got widowed, the day I found myself rubbing turmeric on my grandfather’s feet and realized that he would no longer flinch at all. So, when the priest positioned my grandmother’s forehead near my grandfather’s dead feet and had his cold feet rub the red auspicious vermillion off her forehead, I knew that no hero would want anyone to experience this. But, I also realized that day that maybe heroes aren’t meant to always save us; maybe they are also meant to teach us how to save ourselves.
While it remains to be a mystery to me why most of us need saving to realize that we can save ourselves, I see how my perception of a hero has evolved from that of the one who does the heroic deed to the one who inspires people to do theirs. So, it took me quite some time until I could look at Mahakal as a “heroic” form of Shiva, again. And it wasn’t until I stared at his ash-smitten lingam at Ujjain- proudly wearing its cape of a hero as well as the reasons why it had to take it off.