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.

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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.

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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.