CHAPTER I - Shakti Emergent

 

CHAPTER I

Shakti Emergent

The peaks of Kailāsa rose around her like a crown of white fire, each ridge carved by time into sharp hymns of stone. The air here was thinner than anywhere else in the world—so pure it seemed to ring when she inhaled it. Above, the sky was an untamed blue, so vast it pressed upon the mountains as if heaven itself leaned close to listen.

At her feet stretched the stillness of Mānasa Lake, its waters fed by glaciers that wept silently from the snow-bound cliffs. The lake’s surface caught the morning light and broke it into a thousand fragments, as though even the sun scattered petals in her honor. Its touch was glacial, yet when she stepped within, it welcomed her like a long-forgotten embrace.

Around the banks, wildflowers defied the altitude—blue poppies, saffron crocus, tiny white edelweiss clinging to cracks in stone. Their fragrance mingled with the sharp resin of Himalayan juniper carried by the wind. The air was alive with contrasts—ice and bloom, austerity and abundance.

The silence was not emptiness. It throbbed with subtle presences. A herd of wild yaks grazed in the distance, their dark coats shaggy against the bright snowfields. Snow partridges scattered when her anklets chimed, and above her, lammergeiers traced lazy circles, their wings casting shadows like fleeting omens across the water. Even the stones seemed awake—Kailāsa was no mute mountain, but a listening god, a throne of eternity.

Parvati let the water rise to her shoulders, the chill cutting into her skin until it yielded to warmth—an inner fire that belonged to her alone. Every drop against her body felt consecrated, as if to help her realize the truth.

And in an instant, from beneath the surface, her reflection rippled and reshaped. For an instant, she saw the young girl she once was — the sheltered daughter of Himavan, the mountain-king, who played among snowy slopes and listened to the songs of icy streams. The next moment, the waters showed her as she was now — the consort of Shiva, the austere ascetic whose presence could silence gods. And then, beyond both, she glimpsed something vaster: herself as Shakti, nameless and unbounded, not only wife or daughter, but the power that moved through snow, river, and wind itself.

As she sank deeper, she felt the mountain embrace her. Kailāsa was not only a peak — it was her father’s very body, the living Himalaya that had birthed her. The lake in which she bathed was no mere pool of glacial melt, but a reflection of her own womb, a vessel of creation where worlds could be conceived. The winds brushing her skin felt like her own breath spilling outward, as though life itself was an extension of her being.

She realized then that she was bathing not just in cold water, but in her own truth. This was her origin as daughter, her belonging as wife, and her endless becoming as goddess.

 

To Parvati, that the vastness Kailāsa had started to mirror her own solitude.

For Shiva wandered, as was his nature—seated in forests, blessing sages, dwelling by rivers and peaks, answering the cries of his devotees wherever they called to him. But Shiva was not only Mahādev, lord of all beings, keeper of the world’s balance. His absences were not only service but essence. He meditated because it was his very divine nature to dwell in bliss and maintain awareness of the entire cosmos. He embodied the supreme yogi, sustaining and activating the cosmic Kundalini energy. In his stillness lay movement; in his silence, the hum of creation. His continuous meditation granted him immeasurable yogic power to oversee the universe, to keep worldly affairs in harmony, and to serve as a guide for seekers striving toward inner peace and self-realization.

To the world, these wanderings and silences were acts of grace. But to Parvati, they carved long absences. Days became weeks, weeks into months, sometimes years, sometimes decades. And the vast slopes of Kailāsa, for all their sanctity, echoed with emptiness in his absence.

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Parvati revered the cosmic truth of her husband’s nature, yet she could not silence the more intimate truth of her heart: she was often alone. She, Shakti—the mother of existence, source of life’s power—yearned for companionship not of devotees, not of sages, not of gods, but of someone who belonged to her alone.

She saw a yak in far distance – and thought of Nandi – Shiva’s dearest. And suddenly a memory came rushing to her from too long ago…

She had tried once, long ago, to secure her solitude. She had once asked Shiva to leave Nandi with her for company, so she might have someone to talk to in his long absences. Shiva had only smiled—not denying her, but not promising either. Then he asked quietly, with that calm in his voice – but half smile, or was it a smirk - “Are you sure you will enjoy his company?”

It was said not as refusal, nor as question, but as if he already knew a truth she had not yet grasped. Parvati, unwilling to press the matter, had let the moment pass.

In the days that followed, though Nandi obeyed her every need, told her stories of Mahādev, and the grand leelas he had been a part of. How he came in service for Shiva at Kailāsa - she saw the truth with her own eyes – and how his heart ached for his Mahādev. Every moment apart from Shiva was longing, every command Parvati gave pulled against the tether of Nandi’s devotion. She began to wonder then—whose love triumphed more for Shiva? Hers, the love of Shakti, his wife? Or Nandi’s, the love of his most faithful devotee?

And if that question had not been enough to trouble her, one morning drove it deeper. She had prepared for her sacred bath and told Nandi to guard the entrance— “Do not allow anyone to disturb me.” The bull had bowed, resolute, and taken his post. But that very morning Shiva returned from his travels. At the sound of his lord’s steps, Nandi forgot all else. He bowed lower still and stepped aside, letting Shiva through without hesitation.

Parvati had not minded Shiva disturbing her bath. What lingered was the realization that Nandi’s loyalty would never be hers. His love, his service, his being—was all Shiva’s. Not hers.

And it occurred to her now—perhaps Shiva had dropped her a hint that day, when he asked if she would enjoy Nandi’s company. Perhaps her husband had known, and she had been too deaf to hear it.

It was now that the thought settled in her: perhaps it was time she had someone all to herself. Someone whose laughter, whose devotion, whose very existence was not borrowed from Mahādeva, but born from her alone. Someone to belong wholly to her in these lonely slopes and shining beauty of Kailāsa.

Mahādev had thousands of followers — his Gaṇas — at his side. Fierce, loyal, unshaken, they guarded him, worshipped him, danced with him. They were not of ordinary flesh; they were beings of another kind, born from Shiva’s strange grace. To mankind, they often looked terrifying — strong and sinewy, yet without bones to anchor their frames, their forms flowing like living storms. Their purity was unmistakable, but the unprepared eye of mortals would see only dread.

He would extend his godhood not just to mankind, but also to the bhūtas, prets, wandering ātmas, rākṣasas, asuras, demons, and even to the animals that roamed the earth, giving the restless, the lost, and all creatures a place at his side. Parvati thought of her own wedding—how they had all come dancing in wild abandon, Shiva and his companions alike, their bodies smeared with ash, adorned not in silks but in bhasma. His followers had done his very “makeup” in the only way they knew—covering him in the same sacred ash they bore upon themselves—so that he appeared more fierce and terrible than regal. How she had longed for him to come as he often did: simple, radiant, majestic in his quiet way, perhaps even alone. But the customs demanded a bārat, and Shiva, with his arms always open, had embraced it fully—not with princes or courtiers, but with spirits, outcasts, and wanderers, all who danced out of sheer devotion.

And yet, their strange love, their unshaken devotion, he had received with joy. For to Shiva, it was always their hearts, never their appearance, that mattered. So guileless was he, so bhola, that to his gaṇas he was not just Mahādev, the great god of gods, but their Nath, their lord, their own. Parvati’s heart swelled with pride at this—her husband who in one breath was the infinite Mahādev, and in the next, the tender, trusting Bhole Nath.

While some gods offered blessings only to the brāhmins through ritual, or favored the vaiśyas for their wealth, or honored only the kṣatriyas for their power, Shiva placed no such boundaries. To him, caste, birth, and station were meaningless — a chāṇḍāla with pure intent was dearer than a king with pride in his heart. He welcomed anyone and everyone who came to him sincerely. Perhaps it was his third eye — for where others saw outer form, he looked past it, seeing directly into the essence of being.

Yet Shiva loved them all the same. He had never cared for appearance. Where other gods adorned themselves with golden crowns, silver armlets, and silken robes, Shiva clothed himself in the rawness of existence itself: tiger skin at his waist, a venomous serpent curled about his throat as ornament, and upon his matted hair the most luminous crescent moon ever to grace the heavens. He saw beauty where others did not, and he gave love to those who sought him with sincerity, regardless of form.

It was only fitting, then, that such a god should be surrounded by a clan as unique as himself — Gaṇas whose shapes reflected the strangeness of their lord, and whose loyalty burned brighter than fire.

Parvati watched this with quiet thought. For so long, his followers had been countless, yet entirely his. Perhaps, she mused, it was time she too had a Gaṇa of her own — not to rival him, but to complete him. To stand at her side as his stood at his.

But hers would be different. If Shiva’s Gaṇas bore the stamp of his wildness, hers would carry the mark of her vision. Not terrifying to behold, but beautiful. Not beings that would unsettle mankind, but captivate them. She wished for her Gaṇa to be pleasing to the eye, radiant in form, enchanting in spirit — a child whose very presence calmed, drew love, and inspired devotion.

……...

And so, she paused in her bath. The icy water lapped at her waist as if reluctant to release her, but her heart tugged her to the shore. Half swimming, half walking, she rose from the shimmering lake and stood upon its bank, her wet hair clinging like strands of dark river to her back.

Her gaze fell to the earth at her feet — soft clay from the lakebed. This was no ordinary soil. Moments ago, the lake had mirrored her womb. To shape its clay was to shape life itself, as if she drew directly from her own essence.

She crouched low and gathered a handful of that sacred mud. With it she mixed the coolness of sandalwood paste, the golden brightness of turmeric rubbed gently from her own skin. Each element was intimate, hers alone — the lake’s clay as womb, the sandalwood as her calming touch, the turmeric as the glow of her own body. All of it drawn from her being.

Slowly, her hands began to move with a vision only she could see. Her fingers pressed, smoothed, and coaxed form out of formlessness. This was not mere sculpting; it was remembrance of her deepest nature — Shakti, the one who gives shape to what is unshaped, who calls the lifeless into life.

The figure grew beneath her hands: first the curve of tiny shoulders, then the roundness of limbs soft with innocence. She smoothed the cheeks, pressed dimples where laughter would one day bloom, and shaped a small chest that seemed already to breathe. The earth yielded to her touch with eager obedience, as if it too longed to become more than stone and dust.

When she looked upon her work, she saw not clay but a child — a boy, tender and whole, resting in the lap of her imagination. His body was earth, but his beauty was hers. His innocence reflected her longing. He was her son, shaped not by chance, but by vision, devotion, and the quiet ache within her heart.

And when her work was complete, Parvati leaned close. The clay child rested upon the bank, innocent and silent, still bound to earth. She touched her lips to his brow and breathed gently, exhaling not mere air but the pulse of her own spirit — the breath that animates worlds.

In that instant, the change began. The dull clay softened, shimmered, and transformed. What had been mud and turmeric now gleamed with life: skin warm and tender, still carrying the fragrance of sandalwood from her touch. His hair darkened into flowing strands of jet black, like the night. His eyes opened like two lotus petals kissed by dawn, wide and glistening with wonder.

At first, he stirred in confusion, small hands curling as though reaching for meaning in this new world. But the moment his gaze met hers, the bewilderment melted into calm — a peace so deep it seemed the lake itself grew still in reverence. For in that gaze, he recognized his source, his anchor, his first and only truth.

Parvati’s heart surged. It was unlike the love she bore for mountain, husband, or even creation itself. This was love distilled into its purest form: mother to child. She drew him close, her arms trembling not with weakness but with overwhelming tenderness.

Then, in a voice fragile yet filled with eternity, the boy would speak his first word, a single syllable that would bound them forever – and that the sound would pierce her very soul

“Ma…?”

In that instant, Parvati was no longer a goddess alone — she was now a mother.