Page 66 of The Legend of Meneka
I am looking at neither a deva nor a sage.
Heis here.
Shiva.
CHAPTER 25
Iremain frozen.
Fear and shock coil inside me, panic close to spilling over.
The stories rush through my head.
Shiva is here. He who with a single glance burned Kandarpa, god of desire, to ashes for disturbing his meditation. Shiva, who forced Vishnu, the Great Lord of Preservation, to shed his incarnation in the mortal realm when the time came to return to his abode. Shiva, who in his form as Nataraj once danced the violent dance tandava, and shattered maya, the greatest illusion of nature that incessantly separates each soul from the infinite cosmos.
He is here.
Shiva is here.
My breath resounds in my ears. Disbelief paralyzes me.
Lord of Destruction. Lord of Yoga. Lord of Dance.
Lord ofDance.
Tears fill my eyes, and though the trees and the forest become mere blurs, he reflects in my sight unblinkingly. I am crying, because although I did not call him through prayer or devotion, he has come for me, to rescue me, to absolve me. He is here in the flesh, even though I have never been worthy, and I do not know now what to ask him, or what to say at all.
Shiva opens his eyes.
He smiles, and there is so much kindness, so much understanding and compassion in his gaze that suddenly, I forget my every worry. My tears warm my skin. They splash on my hands and my bare arms,and the gold scratches I have endured heal as though there is still magic inside me.
I don’t realize I am sobbing, my cries soft.
I don’t realize that I stumble toward him and sit by the tapasvin fire.
I only know that I am finally bleeding all my pain out, healing myself because of his very presence. I only know that I am no longer alone, for he has come for me when he would not come even for his most ardent followers. My own devotion to him is nothing compared to the other disciples’ arduous calls. I can recall my distraction at the hermitage during my prayers to him. I can recall asking others to deviate from his path.
A part of me thinks that I should offer him prayers, or ritual, or flowers. If I had my magic, I would create those, transforming the woody clearing into a rich garden.
Another part of me thinks, what will Shiva care for any offering I can make? He is the Innocent One. He transcends division. He does not distinguish between pain or pleasure, between an orchard or a crematory. It is because he saw no difference between poison and elixir that the devas propitiated him to drink the halahala during the Churning of the Oceans. They knew that of all beings it would do Shiva alone no harm.
Through the blur of my tears, I see his throat now, the poison swallowed millennia ago still caught in it, turning his dark skin a deep blue. Halahala that he holds in his throat, neither swallowing it fully lest it poison him nor spitting it out lest it poison the world. Halahala that even now is in Kaushika’s meadow, existing as a few uncaught droplets, a danger to all the realms. It reminds me of Kaushika and my friends. It reminds me of all I’ve lost.
Fresh tears tremble in my eyes.
“Lord,” I whisper. “Om Namaha Shivaya.”I bow down to Shiva.
Shiva smiles again. “Child of gods. Meneka. Daughter.”
Daughter.
His voice is quiet, calm. It rustles like the softest wind. It coils its way into my heart, comforting me. My tears stop of their own accord.
“I am lost,” I say.
Shiva shakes his head. “Never lost, as long as you have yourself.”
I think whether I have myself at all. Pieces of it. Shards only. That is all I am left with.
