Title: The Untold Power Behind The Dance of Shiva (Tandava)
Subheadline: Where divine will meets human challenge
Word Count: 590
I was just a temple apprentice, sweeping floors and quieting bells long before sunrise. My name is Dev, and you won’t find me in any scripture. But I was there—on the night the world trembled beneath the feet of Lord Shiva.
It began with a question. Not mine. Ravana’s.
He was the mighty king of Lanka, born of a rishi father and a rakshasa mother. Brilliant. Fearless. Righteous in parts, arrogant in others. That night, he crossed the Himalayas, not with an army, but alone, playing his veena to honor Lord Shiva. He believed his devotion was unmatched. That if anyone could move Shiva, it was him.
But mountains don’t shift for music alone.
When the gates of Kailasa—the abode of Lord Shiva—remained closed, Ravana’s pride turned sour. He grew bold. Reckless. In his fury, he tried to lift Mount Kailasa itself.
And for a moment, he did.
The ground cracked beneath us. My master dropped his prayer bowl. I ran outside and saw earth bending like silk under pressure. Then, silence.
Then... the scream.
It wasn’t from Ravana. It came from the sky, as if the heavens themselves were afraid. Lord Shiva had pressed His toe—not His foot, His toe—down. The mountain dropped back into the earth, pinning Ravana’s twenty arms and crushing his pride altogether.
It was then that Shiva began to dance.
They call it the Tandava—the cosmic dance of destruction and creation. But this wasn’t some rage-filled fury. No. It was precision. Purpose. Every step told a story.
With each movement, universes shook. But not from anger—Shiva’s Tandava reveals balance. Where Ganesha—his beloved son—brings wisdom, the dance balances chaos. Where Krishna teaches duty on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, Shiva dissolves ego on the fields of consciousness. Where Hanuman leaps in service to Lord Rama during the Ramayana, Shiva dances to remind us that even gods are bound by dharma—the sacred order that holds all things together.
Ravana—trapped, broken, but not yet destroyed—realized this.
For a thousand years, he sang hymns of devotion to Lord Shiva, not for power, but for forgiveness. His pride had collapsed under the mountain, yes—but his spirit clung to something deeper: faith.
And Lord Shiva heard him.
In time, Shiva did not kill Ravana. He did not banish him. He granted him a powerful weapon—the Chandrahas, a celestial sword. Because destruction is never the final step. Transformation is.
That’s what I saw in the Tandava—not an end, but a passage. A path from ignorance to awareness. From pride to humility. From chaos to dharma.
Years passed. I stayed at the temple longer than I planned. And each time I washed the Shiva linga, I thought of that night.
Faith is not asking for blessings. It's surrendering the ego. Duty is not glory, but balance. As the Upanishads teach, we are not this body, nor the roles we play. We are that which dances behind our doubt.
That night, I didn’t just witness a god move.
I learned why he moves at all.
And I’ve never stopped listening.
Title: The Untold Power Behind The Dance of Shiva (Tandava)
Subheadline: Where divine will meets human challenge
Word Count: 590
I was just a temple apprentice, sweeping floors and quieting bells long before sunrise. My name is Dev, and you won’t find me in any scripture. But I was there—on the night the world trembled beneath the feet of Lord Shiva.
It began with a question. Not mine. Ravana’s.
He was the mighty king of Lanka, born of a rishi father and a rakshasa mother. Brilliant. Fearless. Righteous in parts, arrogant in others. That night, he crossed the Himalayas, not with an army, but alone, playing his veena to honor Lord Shiva. He believed his devotion was unmatched. That if anyone could move Shiva, it was him.
But mountains don’t shift for music alone.
When the gates of Kailasa—the abode of Lord Shiva—remained closed, Ravana’s pride turned sour. He grew bold. Reckless. In his fury, he tried to lift Mount Kailasa itself.
And for a moment, he did.
The ground cracked beneath us. My master dropped his prayer bowl. I ran outside and saw earth bending like silk under pressure. Then, silence.
Then... the scream.
It wasn’t from Ravana. It came from the sky, as if the heavens themselves were afraid. Lord Shiva had pressed His toe—not His foot, His toe—down. The mountain dropped back into the earth, pinning Ravana’s twenty arms and crushing his pride altogether.
It was then that Shiva began to dance.
They call it the Tandava—the cosmic dance of destruction and creation. But this wasn’t some rage-filled fury. No. It was precision. Purpose. Every step told a story.
With each movement, universes shook. But not from anger—Shiva’s Tandava reveals balance. Where Ganesha—his beloved son—brings wisdom, the dance balances chaos. Where Krishna teaches duty on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, Shiva dissolves ego on the fields of consciousness. Where Hanuman leaps in service to Lord Rama during the Ramayana, Shiva dances to remind us that even gods are bound by dharma—the sacred order that holds all things together.
Ravana—trapped, broken, but not yet destroyed—realized this.
For a thousand years, he sang hymns of devotion to Lord Shiva, not for power, but for forgiveness. His pride had collapsed under the mountain, yes—but his spirit clung to something deeper: faith.
And Lord Shiva heard him.
In time, Shiva did not kill Ravana. He did not banish him. He granted him a powerful weapon—the Chandrahas, a celestial sword. Because destruction is never the final step. Transformation is.
That’s what I saw in the Tandava—not an end, but a passage. A path from ignorance to awareness. From pride to humility. From chaos to dharma.
Years passed. I stayed at the temple longer than I planned. And each time I washed the Shiva linga, I thought of that night.
Faith is not asking for blessings. It's surrendering the ego. Duty is not glory, but balance. As the Upanishads teach, we are not this body, nor the roles we play. We are that which dances behind our doubt.
That night, I didn’t just witness a god move.
I learned why he moves at all.
And I’ve never stopped listening.
