Śiva of the South and the Deccan (Part 2.6)

This essay is part of “The Śaiva Streams: From Ritual to Realisation.”

This section explains that Śiva’s presence in the southern regions, especially the present day Tamil Nadu and the Deccan was not sudden or forced from outside. Sangam literature shows that Śiva (Sivan) was already a local, nature-linked, and inward figure who existed alongside other gods. Because people were already familiar with him, Śaivism could grow naturally through the Bhakti movement. The Deccan, as a cultural meeting point, took in and changed Śaiva ideas through ascetic practices, early liṅga worship, and pilgrimage sites. These regions together set the stage for Śaivism to later focus on personal experience and ethical devotion.

An Ancient Presence in the South

In the far south, where the three great seas meet, a quiet change was happening. Early contact with northern people led the Tamil kingdoms to adopt Vedic practices along with their own traditions. Ancient texts mention the Vedas, rituals like yajñas, Brahmins, and Sanskrit words, showing a mix of cultures. Kings held Vedic sacrifices, and Brahmins were important in society. The large collection of Sangam-era literature (300 BCE – 300 CE), found in the 19th century, gives us a clear view of how Vedic gods and styles shaped the southern culture.

While early Sangam anthologies like the Ettuthogai and Purananuru do not explicitly use the name 'Śivan,' they frequently worship this primeval deity through vivid, descriptive titles like Mukkannan (The Three-Eyed One) and Alamar Selvan (The Lord under the Banyan Tree). These texts maintained a clear distinction between this ancient ascetic force and his son, Seyyon (the Red One, or Murugan), who was celebrated as the indigenous guardian of the Tamil hills. Associated closely with mountains and forests, this early form of Śiva was gradually woven into the bedrock of Tamil literary and cultural memory.

Over centuries, devotional and philosophical currents in the Tamil South gradually contributed to the emergence of sophisticated systems such as Śaiva Siddhanta. The idea of cosmic consciousness, once only suggested in old stories, became a clear philosophy of Pati (God), Pasu (Soul), and Pasa (Bondage), thanks to the devotion of the later Nayanar saints. 

The Nayanars—the 63 Shaiva poet-saints—gave Śiva a deeply emotional and personal expression through powerful devotional hymns (Tevaram). This movement helped make Shaivism accessible to common people and laid cultural groundwork for later developments.

These devotional and theological developments would later interact closely with the ritual systems of the Śaiva Agamas. Later, people even depicted Śiva as the leader of the ancient Tamil Sangams, underscoring his deep roots in Tamil culture. Places like Kazhumalam (now Sirkazhi) were already important Śaiva centres.

Around 300 AD, the Bhakti movement helped organise Śaivism. Temples such as Chidambaram and Kanchipuram became major centres, where ritual, poetry, music, and personal devotion flowed together. Śiva, now known as Mahadeva, became central to devotion, with elaborate rituals and group worship.

The Deccan as a Meeting Ground

But what was happening further north, in the heart of the Indian subcontinent, the Deccan?

The ancient Deccan became a busy cultural crossroads, where travellers from the North brought Sanskrit chants and Vedic rituals to the South. These northern traditions mixed with strong Dravidian beliefs. Śiva worship did not replace local customs but included them, using symbols like the lingam. Before formal religious groups emerged, ordinary people built a shared spiritual world, marking early pilgrimage sites such as Śriśailam and Mahakuta.

This mix of cultures became part of the land and its people. In the Badami cave temples, artists combined diverse ideas in stone, placing northern figures like Lakulisha alongside southern images. This was not a strict religion with many rules, but a lively community spirit.

In these regions, the liṅga gradually evolved in meaning — from a cosmic symbol to the very heart of temple worship, and later into a deeply personal presence that devotees could carry in their hearts and daily lives.

This southern and Deccani soil prepared the way for later powerful expressions of Śaivism. The same spirit of integration and lived devotion would later inspire the 12th-century Veeraśaiva (Lingayat) movement in Karnataka, which emphasised personal experience, ethical living, and social equality.

Together, the Tamil South and the Deccan helped transform Śaivism from a philosophical current into a deeply felt, lived tradition — one that valued both inner realisation and heartfelt devotion.

From Rudra to Śiva (Part 2.5)

This essay is part of “The Śaiva Streams: From Ritual to Realisation.”

Earlier, we looked at the mysterious yogic presence in the Indus Valley and the fierce, complex Rudra from the Vedic hymns. Now, we see a major change after the Vedic period: Rudra slowly becomes Śiva, who is not just a force to fear or appease, but also an inner reality to discover. This inward turn marks one of the earliest philosophical foundations of Śaivism.

The Ambivalent Archer of the Vedas

During Vedic times, Rudra was a relatively minor yet exceptionally powerful deity. In the Ṛgveda, Rudra has only three full hymns dedicated to his appeasement—far fewer than Indra or Agni—reflecting a figure who was historically more feared than loved. He is considered a god of the Antariksha (space)—the volatile mid-region between the Dyusthana (heavenly realm) and the Prithvisthana (terrestrial realm).

He is called the mightiest of the mighty, father of the storm gods (Maruts), the celestial archer (Śarva), and lord of animals (Paśupati). Although he is linked to storms, wild winds, disease, sudden death, and the wilderness, he is also praised as a great healer and protector. He is both destructive (ghora) and kind (Śiva) at once. At this early stage, the word Śiva was just an adjective meaning "auspicious, kind, or gracious" and was not yet used as a name.

Hymns like Ṛgveda 10.92.9 explicitly highlight this delicate dual nature, balancing his terrifying power with his capacity for grace:

stomaṃ vo adya rudrāya śikvase kṣayadvīrāya namasā didiṣṭana |

yebhiḥ śivaḥ svavā evayāvabhir divaḥ siṣakti svayaśā nikāmabhiḥ ||

Here, Rudra is invoked as both feared and protective, the powerful "ruler of heroes" who can cause disease but also has the special power to heal and protect. By calling him Śiva ("kindly" or "auspicious") when he is calm, these early hymns set the stage for how he would later be seen in the Purāṇas.

The Upanishadic Elevation: Rudra as the Absolute

A decisive theological transformation occurs centuries later in the Śvetāśvatara Upaniṣad, likely composed between the 5th and 4th century BCE¹. For the first time in scriptural history, Rudra is elevated from a localised atmospheric deity and declared to be the supreme, non-dual reality itself:

eko hi rudro na dvitīyāya tasthuḥ

“Rudra is truly one; there is no second.”

The Upaniṣad changes Rudra into the absolute ruler of the universe, the inner Self (Ātman) in everyone, the creator of the cosmic seed (Hiraṇyagarbha), and the great seer who is both beyond and within the world. This is the first clear step in making Rudra the highest, non-dual principle. It lays the earliest foundation for later Śaivism, turning Rudra from a wild natural force into the main source of all existence².

Post-Vedic Synthesis and the Inward Turn

During the post-Vedic and early epic periods (roughly 200 BCE to 500 CE), the Mahābhārata and the early Purāṇas began consistently depicting this composite entity as Rudra-Śiva. Here, he ascends to the supreme triad as one of the Trimurtis, representing the destructive aspect of the cosmos alongside Brahmā (the creator) and Viṣṇu (the preserver).

More importantly, people began to see his destructive power in a new way. Instead of just fearing it as an outside force, they saw it as an inner fire that could remove spiritual ignorance (avidyā). His anger became meditative heat (tapas), the wild forests turned into the landscape of the mind, and the restless god was now imagined as Śiva, the supreme Yogi, sitting in perfect stillness.

This inward turn emerged alongside broader Upanishadic attempts to bring together diverse folk, tribal, yogic, and tantric traditions under the idea of a single, non-dual Brahman. As early bhakti (devotional) movements grew, people wanted a supreme God who was both personal and absolute.

Full Expression: Consciousness and Realisation

This evolution reached its peak in later medieval schools, especially in Kashmir Śaivism. In these teachings, Śiva is no longer tied to myths but is seen as Cit—Infinite Consciousness, the bright, self-aware base of all reality. He is not a distant god in heaven, but present in every moment of human life.

The whole universe is seen as the lively, moving expression (Spanda) of this one Consciousness, showing up in many forms but always connected to its source. Realisation is no longer about outside rituals or searching for something beyond yourself. Instead, it is the joyful and direct recognition (Pratyabhijñā) of your own true nature—a clear return to the truth: Śivo’ham (“I am Śiva”).

In the end, Indian spirituality’s ability to bring ideas together let the Vedic storm-god become the kind, non-dual source of all things. By being both a fierce destroyer and a radiant origin, Śiva reveals a living unity beyond all limits, inviting us to look beyond rituals and find the divine within ourselves.

---

Notes:

1. Gavin Flood dates its composition to the “5th or 4th century BCE, roughly contemporary with early Buddhism”. E.F. Gorski similarly places the text "probably in the late 4th century BCE.”

2. For followers of Śaivism, this text serves as powerful scriptural proof of Śiva's supremacy, showing that devotion to him is not a later sectarian invention but is deeply rooted in the ancient Krishna Yajurveda. It remains widely studied to understand how abstract metaphysical concepts are harmonised with deeply personal, devotional worship.

When Stone Learned to Speak (Part 2.4)

From Vedic Chants to Temple Stone: The Evolution of Shiva Linga Worship (Part 2.4)

This essay is part of “The Shaiva Streams: From Ritual to Realisation.”

Vedic hymns were passed down by word of mouth and remained in people’s memories during the Vedic and post-Vedic periods. Over the centuries, as the Upanishads and Puranas began to influence devotional life, a new kind of devotion appeared. People wanted to see what they had only heard before, which helped them focus beyond just chanting hymns. This led to the worship of stone. What was once sung with love gradually hardened into a cold, unmoving stone.

In this section, we look at how the liṅga first appeared in stone, starting with early pillar-like icons and leading to the birth of simple village rituals, then moving to the Gudimallam icon and the later growth of grand temples. We trace how Śiva’s presence moved from words to physical form, and from open spaces to temple shrines.

Liṅga, Temple, and the Agamic Shift

Centuries ago, as Vedic culture faded, something unexpected happened.

The sounds of the Vedic chanting became still.

And in that stillness, the divine took form.

What people once called upon through chanting now stood before them: quiet, still, and present.

As the hymns faded into memory, stones began to carry a deeper, more lasting meaning.

What people once felt within themselves now stood quietly at the centre of villages and fields, and later in the innermost part of temples.

After the Vedic period, stone shafts or columns representing the liṅga began to appear across the region. Farmers poured milk over them to thank the gods for good harvests, and women walked around them, hoping for fertility. There were no inscriptions, royal patrons, or elaborate priests yet. There were only people and a simple stone that held their formless god. People still looked for the divine inside their loving hearts.

The liṅga was not a typical image of the divine. It did not try to look like a human. Instead, it stood as a presence: form without form, and formless within a form, a reminder of something endless that could not be contained.

The liṅga is generally represented as a cylindrical column with a rounded top, symbolising Śiva’s formless and endless nature, creative power, and the cosmic pillar of fire¹. It is often set on the yoni-pīṭha, a base that represents the union of masculine and feminine forces in creation.

A unique and powerful bridge between the formless and the formed appeared at Gudimallam in present-day Andhra Pradesh. Carved sometime between the first century BCE and the third century CE, this polished black liṅga stands nearly five feet tall. Here, Śiva emerges from the stone itself in clear anthropomorphic form.

Of course, this form was carved by human hands. And yet, what it expresses feels deeper than the act of carving itself. It is as if something long-sensed within was finally given a visible shape.

Gudimallam Linga - When Śiva emerged from the Liṅga

       (Pic courtesy: Wikipedia)

Śiva became the linga

In this icon, Śiva is shown with two arms, standing tall, and his matted hair flowing. He holds an axe in one hand and a small antelope in the other. A dwarf or yakṣa, an earth spirit, crouches at his feet. His eyes are wide, his posture is relaxed, and he is clearly erect².

In this singular icon, the abstract phallic form and the human figure exist together. The formless (arūpa) and the formed (rūpa) dissolve into one. Here, Śiva does not merely reside in the liṅga — Śiva becomes the liṅga. Gudimallam thus served as a rare bridge — moving beyond purely formless worship, yet remaining far more intimate than the heavily ritualised temple tradition that would later develop.

It is the earliest known human-shaped liṅga, clearly linking the phallic form to Śiva himself. Here, the god and the symbol are no longer separate. Śiva is the liṅga. Śiva does not create the world; he lets it reveal itself³.

The Temple Boom

From the fifth to the eighth centuries CE, a new wave of temple building changed the religious landscape, especially in southern and central India. The Lord who once stood quietly in open fields now moved into stone sanctuaries that were larger, grander, and more lasting.

Under the royal patronage of the Pallavas, Chalukyas, Rashtrakutas, and later the Cholas, grand temples rose across the landscape — at Pattadakal, Kanchipuram, Ellora, Hampi, and Thanjavur. Each one was larger and more lasting than the one before.

The liṅga moved from open fields into the dark sanctums of massive stone structures. These fixed liṅgas (sthāvara liṅgas) soon became the centre of elaborate Agamic rituals, daily pūjās, festivals, and a professional priestly class. Yet, at the centre of these large structures stood the liṅga, still silent and still unchanged.

Driven by pride, kings built enormous temples to surpass their rivals. Though these temples brought architectural grandeur and institutional power to Śaivism, they came at a high cost. The direct, intimate relationship that ordinary people once shared with the liṅga was gradually lost. What had been simple and personal gave way to ritual complexity, hierarchical access, and layers of mediation. The living presence of Śiva became increasingly distant — locked behind stone walls and elaborate ceremonies.

What had begun as simple, heartfelt offerings from ordinary devotees slowly became enclosed within huge temple complexes built of hard stone. The liṅga that once stood freely in the open now had to be approached by crossing gate after gate, passing through strict rules of purity, priestly mediation, and costly ceremonies.

As the stone temples grew larger and rituals became more elaborate, the same loving hearts that had once poured out Vedic hymns began to turn away. Many no longer sought Śiva in the grandeur of towering shrines. Quietly, they began turning inward — seeking the divine not in distant stone temples, but within the living temple of their own bodies and consciousness.

Thus, what had moved from the heart into stone now began its journey back — from hard stone toward the soft, living heart once again.

The divine had shifted from sound to form.

But something essential remained unchanged.

The ground was being prepared for a profound shift: from external ritual toward direct inner realisation.

It was still something to be experienced, not something to be possessed.

Temples rose, rituals expanded, and Śiva gained both form and grandeur.

Yet not everyone looked for him in temples. Some had already started to turn inward, searching for Śiva not in stone, but within themselves.

---

Notes

1. Readers who are interested may explore the story of the cosmic pillar of fire — the Lingodbhava — in this reflection: The Endless Pillar of Fire.

2. Another interpretation suggests that the figure represents the trinity—Brahmā at the base, Viṣṇu in the middle, and Śiva above. This view, however, is difficult to reconcile with established Vaiṣṇava iconographic conventions.

3. T. A. Gopinatha Rao describes this form of the liṅga in clear and unambiguous terms:

“Because it is established to be phallic in its nature, some may be inclined to consider Liṅga worship obscene and immoral. There is nothing in it to be ashamed of; the two great generative principles of the universe—Śiva and Śakti, or Puruṣa and Prakṛti, the father and mother of all creation, the energy and matter of the physical scientist—are symbolised in the form of the liṅga and the yoni.”

(See Bibliography)

 

The Hundred Names of the Storm (Part 2.3)

This essay is part of the series “The Shaiva Streams: From Ritual to Realisation.”

We first met the silent Paśupati in those forgotten seals of the Indus Valley Civilisation. In the Ṛgveda, that silence became a storm—Rudra. In the Śatarudrīya, the storm comes closer. It is no longer distant. It enters life and quietly bows. In the Śatarudrīya, often called the Rudram, the storm is no longer far away. It comes closer, touching every hidden part of life and quietly bowing.

The Śatarudrīya Turning Point

The Śatarudrīya does not praise Rudra from a distance.

It walks toward him—into forests, burial grounds, sickness, crime, and fear—and bows.

The Śatarudrīya is an ancient hymn, nearly three thousand years old. The word śata means hundred. Through a hundred names and forms, it calls on Rudra not only as the Howler of storms, but as a presence everywhere: in forests and fields, in sickness and healing, among ascetics and outcasts, and even among thieves and robbers.

The Śatarudrīya appears in the fourth Kāṇḍa (book) of the Taittirīya Saṁhitā, which is part of the Krishna (Black) Yajurveda. It is found as the fifth Praśna, or section, in that book. This placement is intentional. The Yajurveda focuses on rituals and sacred actions. The Śatapatha Brahmana in the Yajurveda explains that upon completion of the fire altar, Agni becomes Rudra. 

To prevent this "dreaded" form from harming the sacrificer, the Śatarudriya homa is performed, acting as an offering that turns his wrath into grace. Rudra is called upon during yajñas, or sacrifices, especially when protection is needed or when strong creative forces must be calmed and made favourable. The ancient seers put this powerful hymn at the centre of ritual practice so that even the wildest energies could be brought into harmony and directed toward well-being.

This hymn is less about praise and more about making peace. Again and again, the seeker says  namaḥ, meaning “salutations,” asking the fierce one to lower his arrows and bring well-being. 

Having made peace with the storm, the seeker now begins to ask—quietly and expansively—for all that sustains life: strength, clarity, nourishment, wisdom, and fulfilment. He repeatedly asks "cha me"—and for me, and to me—to grant both material prosperity and spiritual fulfillment.

In the Namakam—invocation—if we bow with awe and surrender, in the Chamakam—petition—we quietly share our wishes for health, strength, wisdom, rain, and fulfilment. 

The hymn describes Rudra as existing in everything: from high-ranking commanders and ministers to hunters, carpenters, and even thieves and dogs. This teaches that the Divine is present in all facets of society and nature, regardless of human moral judgments. 

The hymn dares to see Rudra in everything. 

He is called stenānāṃ pati (lord of thieves) and taskarāṇāṃ pati (lord of robbers). He is also spoken about as Girishanta (mountain dweller), Kshetrapati (lord of fields), Babhru (tawny-haired), Tryambaka (the three-eyed one), Nīlakaṇṭha (the blue-throated one who drank the poison to save the world), and appeased as Mṛtyuñjaya (the conqueror of death). This vivid depiction of Rudra no doubt leaves everyone in awe and wonder.

These many names gradually took form as the Ekādaśa Rudras—eleven significant expressions of the same force. In later traditions such as the Śiva Purāṇa and the Śaiva Āgamas, these are understood as different faces of one energy: some fierce and protective, others compassionate and transformative. 

They remind us that the storm is not one single roar, but eleven powerful expressions working together within the cosmos and within our own hearts—to dissolve what no longer serves and make space for the auspicious.

Each Anuvāka (section) of the Śatarudrīya follows a rhythmic structure, and there are eleven such sections—later associated with the Ekādaśa Rudras. The 8th Anuvāka in the Namakam section, is generally considered the most important, as it contains the beeja mantra Om Namah Shivaya and highlights Rudra's role as the benevolent protector who carries us across the ocean of worldly life (saṃsāra). 

The Rudram ends with the most famous and effective ṛc (pronounced as ruk) Mahamrutyunjaya mantra.

tryàmbakaṃ yajāmahe sugándhiṃ puṣṭivárdhanam.

urvārukámiva bándhanānmṛtyórmukṣīya mā́mṛ́tāt.

We worship the three-eyed One (Śiva), who is fragrant and who nourishes all beings. Like a ripe cucumber detaches itself from its binding with the climber without any effort, may He liberate us from death for the sake of immortality.

A very intriguing anuvaka in Chamakam is the 11th Anuvāka. It is the powerful conclusion of the Chamakam prayer. It is unique for its mathematical structure, using an arithmetic progression of odd integers (1 to 33) and even integers (4 to 48) to symbolize a complete offering of the universe to the Divine. While the odd numbers symbolize the different divine energies and the 33 categories of deities, the even numbers represent the structured layers of the physical world, human life, and earthly requirements. It acts as a final summary request, asking Lord Rudra to grant the devotee everything from basic food and health to spiritual liberation and intellectual clarity.

You can find a deeper look at these hundred names and their meanings on a separate page: The Hundred Names of Rudra. I have also left the names of the books I referred to in the Bibliography page for further reading. One work that deserves special mention is Sri Rudram and Purushasuktam by Swami Amritananda, published by Ramakrishna Math. What makes this book particularly valuable is not only its clear explanation of each line, but also the inclusion of traditional commentaries by scholars such as Vishnusuri, Sayana, and Bhatta Bhaskara—allowing us to hear the hymn through many voices across time.

Even now, when I hear the Rudram in homes and temples on Monday mornings, I feel something move inside me. The early unknown stirrings of my energy, as I remember during the rudrābhiṣeka performed in my childhood home, are still there, but they feel closer and more personal.

As this vision deepened over time, a profound shift took place. By the time the Śvetāśvatara Upaniṣad was written, a change had quietly taken place. The storm-god had become Maheśvara, the Great Lord. The arrows that once struck outward now turned inward—toward the self. The roar softened into Om. Rudra became Śiva — Satyam (eternal truth), Śivam (auspicious), Sundaram (beautiful), Śāntam (peaceful), and Advaitam (non-dual). 

Śvetāśvatara Upaniṣad was the first to call the wild mountain god by a new name, Maheśvara, the Great Lord, the One without a second. This Upaniṣad can be considered as the earliest in the Śaiva tradition literature that would later emerge. This Upaniṣad introduced the world to the androgynous nature of divinity, presenting Śiva as both male and female principles.

Tvaṃ strī pumān asi tvaṃ kumāra uta vā kumārī

Tvaṃ jīrṇo daṇḍena vañcasi tvaṃ jāto bhavasi viśvato-mukhaḥ (4.3)

No matter our gender or age, the divine spark inside us is the same. In youth and strength, or old age and weakness, that same Spirit is there. It means that one single "Source" is born over and over again as every living thing we see.

The Divine is like water—rising as vapour, becoming cloud, falling as rain, and returning again to the ocean. Forms change, but the essence remains the same.

The Upaniṣad emphasises that we use Sāṃkhya to understand the prison (the Guṇas) so that we can use Vedānta to realise there was never a prison in the first place.

The blue throat that once swallowed poison now seemed to hold a river of wisdom. The third eye did not just burn anymore; it saw. The outsider had become the inner stillness that every heart quietly sought.

In this way, the storm did not disappear

It simply turned inward and found its home within us.

---

Notes:

You might wonder what the Krishna Yajurveda is. There is also something called the Shukla Yajurveda. The Yajurveda is mainly divided into these two sections.

• Krishna, or "Black," is a mixed collection of verses and prose.
  
• Shukla, or "White," presents its mantras and explanations in a clear and organized way.
  
• The Krishna Yajurveda is more common in South India, while the Shukla Yajurveda is found more often in North India.
• The Shukla Yajurveda includes the Vajasaneyi Samhita, and the Krishna Yajurveda is known for the well-known Taittiriya Samhita.

Both texts serve the same purpose: they give the hymns and instructions that Adhvaryu (priests) need to perform Yajñas, or sacrifices. The main difference is in how the rituals are ordered and presented.

Rudra: The Howling God (Part 2.2)

This essay is part of “The Shaiva Streams: From Ritual to Realisation.”

After sitting with the silent ancestor from the ancient Indus world—whose presence survived only in seal, posture, and dust—it feels deeply moving to finally hear a name: Rudra. This section follows the transition from archaeological presence to Vedic articulation, as the unnamed force of earlier times enters the hymns as Rudra. Fierce, untamed, and ambivalent, Rudra embodies storm, disease, healing, and wilderness. Here, we explore how fear, appeasement, and reverence shaped the earliest Vedic relationship with the god who would one day become Śiva.

P2 When the Storm Was Named: Rudra in the Ṛgveda

When the Vedic hymns first speak of him, they do not introduce a gentle god. They encounter a storm: a wild, unpredictable presence who inspires both fear and a rare kind of awe. These hymns are not merely songs of praise; they are intimate petitions, asking this powerful being to soften, to spare the village, and to bring healing instead of harm.

Before stillness became Śiva, thunder first spoke as Rudra.

In the Ṛgveda, Rudra emerges as the Howler—fierce guardian of the wilderness, lord of storms, disease, and unexpected grace. He carries terror and compassion in the same breath. The Vedic seers seem to experience him as ghora and śiva at once: terrifying, yet auspicious.

The ancient invocation captures this paradox beautifully:

oṃ aghorebhyo'tha ghorebhyo ghora-ghora-tarebhyaḥ

sarvebhyas sarva-sarvebhyo namaste'stu rudra-rūpebhyaḥ

My salutations to those who are not terrible, to those who are terrible, and to those beyond both terror and gentleness. Everywhere and always, I bow to all forms of Rudra.

At this stage, he is not yet the meditative yogi we later recognize as Śiva. He is raw cosmic force, wild and untamed—the earliest Vedic voice of that fierce energy which Shaivism would, over centuries, gradually turn inward and quieten.

This movement between fear and blessing finds one of its earliest and most beautiful expressions in the Ṛgveda:

imā rudrāya tavase kapardine kṣayadvīrāya pra bharāmahe matīḥ |

yathā śam asad dvipade catuṣpade viśvam puṣṭaṃ grāme asminn anāturam ||

— Ṛgveda 1.114.1

We offer these praises to the mighty Rudra, the braided-haired one, the destroyer of heroes, so that peace and health may bless both bipeds and quadrupeds, and all beings in this village may remain nourished and free from disease.

They called him kapardine, the one with matted, braided hair—a detail that quietly foreshadows the ascetic iconography of later Śiva. They feared his arrows, yet still turned to him for protection, healthy children, flourishing cattle, and the well-being of the entire settlement.

Respect grew from fear. Over time, affection grew from trust.

Even now, when I remember those sacred mornings in our old Malleswaram home, when swamijis would come to perform rudrābhiṣeka, the resonant chorus of Rudra chanting would fill every room. That childhood echo still lingers within me.

It is the same wild force that once roared through Vedic hymns—now softened, interiorized, and made intimate through centuries of devotion.

In this way, the storm found its voice.

And soon, that voice would deepen into something even more expansive: a hundred names carrying both thunder and tenderness in the great Śatarudrīya hymn.

The Silent Ancestor (Part 2.1)

People likely sensed Śiva’s presence long before they named him, sang his praises, or created sculptures in his honour.

P2 From Harappan Stillness to Vedic Memory

This essay starts the Shaiva streams by looking at the earliest archaeological signs of a sacred presence, long before Śiva was named or became part of myths. By studying the Indus Valley seals, especially the Paśupati figure, we consider whether there was a pre-Vedic spiritual sense focused on stillness, mastery, and inner presence. Without claiming a direct link, this section helps us see how later Shaiva ideas might have grown from older, non-ritual traditions.

The earliest references to Shaivism may be traced to the archaeological excavations of the Indus Valley Civilisation (IVC). In the early twentieth century CE, British excavations in the Punjab region and parts of present-day Pakistan uncovered some of the world’s earliest major urban centres—Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro. These cities were great contemporaries of the civilisations of ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia.

The Indus Valley, or Harappan Civilisation, was a major Bronze Age urban culture known for its advanced city planning. Cities like Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa had impressive drainage systems, standard building methods, wide trade networks, and a script we still cannot read. This civilisation thrived along the Indus River, covering parts of today’s Pakistan, India, and Afghanistan. Even with all these achievements, we know very little about their leaders or beliefs. 

We are left with a big puzzle: who were they, what language did they speak, and what culture did they follow? We still wonder why they left their well-built cities and faded from history.

Among the many artefacts found at these sites, one steatite seal stands out. It shows a person sitting quietly among animals. This image has sparked more debate than hundreds of other seals from the area.

Proto-Śiva (Paśupati) seal, Mohenjo-daro archaeological site. Public domain.

Who was this figure? Was it a shaman, a fertility spirit, a guardian deity, a ruler, or perhaps the first yogi? What we do know is that this is the oldest known image of someone sitting in deep stillness. Scholars continue to debate the figure’s true identity.

The figure sits in a pose similar to those used by yoga practitioners today, even after thousands of years. He seems to have three faces, with a possible fourth hidden at the back. From the side, you can see a sharp nose and full lips. So who is this figure, shown on several seals?

When Sir John Marshall, the British archaeologist who led the Mohenjo-daro and Harappa excavations in the 1920s, first saw this seal, he noticed its similarity to later Hindu iconography. In his important 1931 book Mohenjo-daro and the Indus Civilisation, he suggested that this figure was an early form of Śiva, or “Proto-Śiva,” and called it Paśupati, the Lord of Animals.

In Sanskrit, paśu means animal or living being. Śiva has long been called Paśupati, the lord or protector of all beings. This term comes from the Vedic tradition, though we do not know what the Harappans called this figure.  

Interestingly, paśu can also mean a bound soul, so Paśupati can also mean “Lord of Souls.”

Sir John Marshall proposed five reasons for identifying the seal figure with Śiva:

1. Tricephalic form

The figure appears to have three, possibly four, faces. Śiva is frequently described in later texts as having three, four, or five faces.

2. Horned headdress

The head is crowned with a pair of large, striated horns and a central fan-shaped, trident-like motif. Śiva’s emblem, the triśūla, later becomes a defining iconographic feature.

3. Yogic posture

The figure sits cross-legged on a platform, with heels pressed together and toes pointing downward. Śiva, revered as Ādiyogī, is traditionally depicted in a similar deep meditative posture known as mūlabandhāsana.

4. Surrounded by animals

The presence of wild animals—elephant, tiger, rhinoceros, buffalo, and deer—echoes Śiva’s epithet Paśupati, the lord of all creatures.

5. Possible ithyphallic symbolism

The figure has been interpreted as ithyphallic, and nearby finds include objects suggestive of phallic worship. Śiva is traditionally worshipped in the form of the Liṅga.

The fifth point is still debated. We cannot tell if the projection is an erect phallus or just a tassel from the figure’s waistband. The seal’s creators left no explanations, hymns, or inscriptions. All we have is a carefully crafted mystery.

The line drawings accompanying this text are meant to show how a cross-legged deity on a platform could, over time, evolve into the liṅga resting on a yoni pīṭha.

Could the Harappa deity have evolved into the modern-day Shivaliṅga? 
(Conceptual line drawing by the author)

We cannot say for certain whether this figure is Śiva or Rudra, nor can we prove a direct religious link. Still, the seal is important for understanding spiritual traditions beyond the Vedic tradition.

The seal suggests that before the Vedic ritual religion, the subcontinent already valued:

Inner stillness over sacrifice;

Mastery of instinct rather than domination through ritual;

A central figure associated with animals, wilderness, and ascetic power.

By looking at these changing images, we can see a clear Shaiva movement, shifting from form to presence. This is not a sudden invention, but a gradual process: from figure to posture, from posture to axis, and from axis to principle. 

This aligns far more naturally with later Shaiva ascetic traditions than with early Vedic fire-centred religion.

The Indus Valley Civilisation flourished from about 3300 BCE to 1900 BCE before slowly fading away. Climate change, prolonged droughts, and shifting rivers are now seen as major factors in its decline. Recent studies¹ show that Harappan communities experienced prolonged periods of water stress, placing significant pressure on their cities. The civilisation did not collapse suddenly; instead, it declined slowly, leading people to move gradually toward greener, river-fed areas.

There seems to be a gap of four to five centuries between the end of the Indus Valley Civilisation and the start of early Vedic culture. We know very little about this time. Often described as a poorly documented transitional period, it marks a shift from urban, brick-built settlements to a more rural, river-valley way of life.

What happened to the proto-Śiva, or the god shown on the seals, during this time? Did he vanish with the cities, or did people quietly bring him to new places as they moved? We cannot be sure. Still, it seems unlikely that people left their gods behind when they left their cities.

Trade routes disappeared, seals were forgotten, and cities broke down. But people kept living in villages, burying their dead, caring for cattle, and praying for rain and good harvests. Maybe they took their god with them. Their god likely changed too, taking on new clothes, listening to new prayers, and blending into new places.

Columnar stone objects resembling liṅgas have been found in Punjab, Haryana, and parts of today’s Uttar Pradesh. Stone rings, which may be early yoni pīṭhas, have also been found from this time of migration. Horned masks and bull figurines, coming directly from Indus traditions, suggest that people kept their old customs instead of leaving them behind.

Phallic stones placed at the edges of fields or under peepal trees, just where village Śiva liṅgas are found today, quietly show this continuity. They might remind us of women who poured water over smooth black stones long before the word Veda was known. No hymns were written, no teachings recorded. Only respect remained.

Eventually, some villagers learned to sing in Sanskrit and gave their god a name: Rudra, the fierce howler, the terrifying one. The god did not disappear; only the people changed. They stopped being city-dwelling Harappans and became villagers.

The cities broke down, the seals vanished, and history became quiet.

But when this presence returned, now as a song, it was called Rudra.

The name Rudra is usually linked to the Proto–Indo-European (PIE) root  rud, meaning “to cry,” “howl,” or “wail.” It also suggests wildness and untamed power. Some scholars connect the name to redness or intense brightness. Modern English words like ruddy and rude come from the same root. Even the word rudālī, for professional women mourners, may have come from this root.

Was Rudra a completely new god, or was he the Vedic people’s way of naming a presence they had inherited from their new home? But the continuity feels too strong to ignore.

This is where Part 2 begins, not with a sudden invention, but with a slow, silent evolution: from an unnamed meditating figure on a Harappan seal to the fierce but compassionate deity we know today as Śiva.

The ancient presence was never truly silent.

He was simply waiting for the right words, the right time, and the right hearts to hear him.

---

Notes:

1. Springer Nature, “Scientists finally uncovered why the Indus Valley Civilization collapsed,” ScienceDaily, December 14, 2025.

The Shaiva Streams: From Ritual to the Heart of Realisation (Part 2)

Now that we have finished Part 1 and are about to start Part 2, which examines Shaiva thought, Veerashaivism, and Lingayatism, I want to pause here for a moment. I want to explain why we started so far back with the Vedas, the Upanishads, and the early darshanas.

P2 Why Start from the Very Beginning?

A Gentle Pause Before Part 2

It might have been easier for me to begin with Basavanna and the Sharanas, but I chose a different path.

Let me tell you a story of a tree. A tree needs deep roots to stand tall and bloom each year. The roots quietly draw nourishment from Mother Earth and send it upward so the tree can live, grow, and flourish. The trunk receives its nutrition from the roots and sends it upward to the branches it has sprouted. The trunk may not always know how many branches it is supporting. Only a traveller will look at the branches, the flowers, and enjoy the fruits that the tree bears, and probably rest under the tree for some time before moving on.

In the same way, I see Sanātana Dharma, or the great tree of Indian spirituality, as the sustaining trunk that has supported and continues to support many traditions and systems of thought. Every spiritual tradition grows from earlier questions, struggles, and insights. If we do not understand what sustains our traditions and beliefs, we cannot fully appreciate their strength and beauty.

Lingayat philosophy did not suddenly appear in 12th-century Karnataka. Its focus on direct experience, equality, ethical living through work (kayaka), sharing (dāsoha), and the divine within each person becomes even more meaningful when we see the wider spiritual background it came from.

By taking our time to meander through the Vedic period and the darshanas in Part 1, we can see that Lingayatism is not an isolated or rebellious movement, but a brave continuation and sometimes a bold reawakening of the deepest questions India has asked for thousands of years:

Who am I?

What is true freedom?

How can we live with dignity, equality, and love, without walls between us?

So our journey into Lingayat philosophy was never delayed. Part 1 was an invitation to join the larger, older conversation that we all belong to.

In Part 2, we now turn to one of the most vibrant streams of that conversation: the rich and complex world of Shaiva thought, and the vision that later blossoms through Basavanna and the Sharanas.

This part traces the deep roots of Shaiva thought, from its earliest archaeological signs to its Vedic voices and its later growth. Here we begin to see that Shaivism is not a single, unchanging tradition. Instead, it includes many streams that gradually move from outer ritual to inner realisation.

With the foundation quietly laid, let us now turn toward Part 2 — the flowing streams of Shaivism, where the search for the Divine becomes more personal, more direct, and more alive.