Title: What We Learn from The Dance of Lord Shiva
Subheadline: A journey through the essence of dharma and devotion.
Word Count: 593 words
Keywords: Puranas, Krishna, Goddess, Sage, Vishnu, Mahabharata
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You won’t find my name in the scrolls or scriptures. I was a simple potter’s son in the village of Tillai, where the air smelled of smoke and sandalwood. But I remember the night Lord Shiva danced.
People come to Chidambaram today to see the temple. Back then, it was a dense forest—no gold roof, no chanting priests, no crowds of pilgrims. Just trees, and those who could hear the silence between the winds.
My father made pots for sages who lived near the water. They spoke of Lord Vishnu and Krishna, the warrior and charioteer from the Mahabharata, who taught Arjuna about karma and the soul. Another sage once told me about Parvati, the Goddess of love and endurance, who sat in meditation for years just to be near her beloved, Lord Shiva.
One morning, a traveler arrived, barefoot, dusty. He had ash all over his skin and wore tiger skin around his waist. His eyes looked ancient, though he was young. He didn’t ask for food or shelter. Just walked into the forest and sat under a fig tree.
"He’s mad," my father said, "or a god."
The sages whispered: "He is the Lord. He comes to test devotion and balance karma."
I didn’t know who he truly was, but something about him made me watch from a distance. For days, he stayed unmoving, silent. Then, one evening, as the sun fell behind the trees and the shadows stretched long and thin, the forest changed.
The ground trembled lightly. Not with fear, but rhythm. The air felt alive—as if the wind itself was listening. And there, in a clearing of light and dust, he rose.
He danced.
Not like the dances I had seen during harvest festival. This was the cosmos turning. One foot crushed the dwarf of ignorance, another rose in blessing. His arms moved like the skies—one held fire, the other a drum. Around him, the elements circled: wind, water, fire, earth, and space. The stars themselves pulsed with his movement.
I didn’t breathe.
Neither did the sages.
Later, they said this was Shiva’s Ananda Tandava—the Dance of Bliss. A moment when destruction and creation meet, when the balance of karma resets. It was devotion in motion. Dharma—duty and righteousness—not as words, but as action, alive in the world.
One sage, I remember him well, whispered near my ear, “What you saw tonight, child, is what the Puranas speak of. Even Krishna spoke of him—that the destroyer is not a villain, but part of the divine balance.”
That night, something shifted in me.
I no longer asked the gods for favors. I no longer feared karma as punishment. I began to serve with awareness. Sweep the floors clean of ants. Offer water not just to the sages, but to anyone who passed. I made my pots with slow hands, knowing even clay held spirit.
Years passed.
The forest became Chidambaram. A temple rose where he had danced. People came from all over Bharat to see the place where, once, bare earth had caught the feet of the infinite.
And me?
I remain a potter. Old now. Hair white, limbs stiff. But I remember.
I remember the night Lord Shiva danced—when dharma wasn’t taught to me in words, but carved into the rhythm of the world.
And that is what I teach my grandson now.
That dharma is not only in scriptures.
Dharma is also in when you listen.
In how you serve.
In the courage to hold space—for the divine to dance through you.
Title: What We Learn from The Dance of Lord Shiva
Subheadline: A journey through the essence of dharma and devotion.
Word Count: 593 words
Keywords: Puranas, Krishna, Goddess, Sage, Vishnu, Mahabharata
---
You won’t find my name in the scrolls or scriptures. I was a simple potter’s son in the village of Tillai, where the air smelled of smoke and sandalwood. But I remember the night Lord Shiva danced.
People come to Chidambaram today to see the temple. Back then, it was a dense forest—no gold roof, no chanting priests, no crowds of pilgrims. Just trees, and those who could hear the silence between the winds.
My father made pots for sages who lived near the water. They spoke of Lord Vishnu and Krishna, the warrior and charioteer from the Mahabharata, who taught Arjuna about karma and the soul. Another sage once told me about Parvati, the Goddess of love and endurance, who sat in meditation for years just to be near her beloved, Lord Shiva.
One morning, a traveler arrived, barefoot, dusty. He had ash all over his skin and wore tiger skin around his waist. His eyes looked ancient, though he was young. He didn’t ask for food or shelter. Just walked into the forest and sat under a fig tree.
"He’s mad," my father said, "or a god."
The sages whispered: "He is the Lord. He comes to test devotion and balance karma."
I didn’t know who he truly was, but something about him made me watch from a distance. For days, he stayed unmoving, silent. Then, one evening, as the sun fell behind the trees and the shadows stretched long and thin, the forest changed.
The ground trembled lightly. Not with fear, but rhythm. The air felt alive—as if the wind itself was listening. And there, in a clearing of light and dust, he rose.
He danced.
Not like the dances I had seen during harvest festival. This was the cosmos turning. One foot crushed the dwarf of ignorance, another rose in blessing. His arms moved like the skies—one held fire, the other a drum. Around him, the elements circled: wind, water, fire, earth, and space. The stars themselves pulsed with his movement.
I didn’t breathe.
Neither did the sages.
Later, they said this was Shiva’s Ananda Tandava—the Dance of Bliss. A moment when destruction and creation meet, when the balance of karma resets. It was devotion in motion. Dharma—duty and righteousness—not as words, but as action, alive in the world.
One sage, I remember him well, whispered near my ear, “What you saw tonight, child, is what the Puranas speak of. Even Krishna spoke of him—that the destroyer is not a villain, but part of the divine balance.”
That night, something shifted in me.
I no longer asked the gods for favors. I no longer feared karma as punishment. I began to serve with awareness. Sweep the floors clean of ants. Offer water not just to the sages, but to anyone who passed. I made my pots with slow hands, knowing even clay held spirit.
Years passed.
The forest became Chidambaram. A temple rose where he had danced. People came from all over Bharat to see the place where, once, bare earth had caught the feet of the infinite.
And me?
I remain a potter. Old now. Hair white, limbs stiff. But I remember.
I remember the night Lord Shiva danced—when dharma wasn’t taught to me in words, but carved into the rhythm of the world.
And that is what I teach my grandson now.
That dharma is not only in scriptures.
Dharma is also in when you listen.
In how you serve.
In the courage to hold space—for the divine to dance through you.
