As a child growing up in the vibrant heart of Mumbai, my mornings began not with alarms or mobile screens but with the gentle hum of mantras, the scent of agarbatti curling through our modest home, and the soft ringing of the temple bell as dawn broke across the city. My grandmother, ever serene in her silk saree, would sit before the twin idols of Shiva and Shakti, her fingers counting beads, her eyes closed in prayer — lost in a world where the divine was not distant but intimately near.
I, impetuous and curious, would often dash in, drawn to the silent calm of the Shiv Linga — the cosmic stillness of the Lord of Kailash. I would fold my hands hurriedly before Shiva and turn to leave, but every time, my grandmother would gently pull me back.
“Don’t forget Ma Shakti,” she’d whisper. “You cannot worship Shiva without Shakti, my child.”
Back then, I didn’t understand. Shiva looked peaceful, powerful, and complete. Why did I need to bow to another?
And so she would tell me a story. The story of Rishi Bhringi — a tale that danced into my memory like sacred music and has echoed there ever since.
Rishi Bhringi was no ordinary sage. He was one of Shiva’s fiercest devotees, a member of the Ganas — the celestial attendants who lived at Mount Kailasha, serving the Lord with absolute loyalty. But Bhringi’s devotion, though deep, was incomplete. He worshipped only the masculine, only the unchanging, meditative Shiva. To him, Parvati — the goddess, the Shakti, the flowing, fiery essence of life — was a distraction. An attachment. An illusion.
One day, the sage ascended Kailash to perform his sacred pradakshina, the circumambulation that symbolises surrender, reverence, and spiritual unity. But when he saw Shiva sitting with Parvati — the eternal Ardhanarishwara — he made it clear he would walk only around Shiva, excluding Shakti.
Parvati, graceful yet fierce, decided to teach him a lesson. The next time Bhringi came, she sat on Shiva’s lap, her presence inescapable. But Bhringi, unwavering in his one-eyed devotion, transformed into a bird and flew only around Shiva’s head. When the divine couple merged into one — one form, half-male, half-female — the sage turned into a bee and tried to pierce a hole through their fusion, desperate to avoid the feminine.
That was the moment the goddess’s patience wore thin.
“If you reject Shakti”, she declared, “then you shall live without what she gives — your blood, your flesh, your vitality.”
With her words, Bhringi was reduced to a skeleton. Hollow. Weak. He could no longer stand.
The sage, humbled and broken, cried out to Shiva. And Shiva, ever compassionate, did not undo Parvati’s curse. Instead, he bestowed upon Bhringi a third leg — a symbol of balance, of understanding, of support. Not a negation of Shakti, but a reminder that without her, even the fiercest devotion crumbles.
This story, my grandmother would say, isn’t just from some ancient scripture — it lives in our world today. And as I grew older, walking Mumbai’s crowded lanes, breathing in its dreams and disappointments, I began to see just how true that was.
We are a generation of Bhringis. We worship intellect, ambition, technology, and logic — the masculine energies of Shiva. But we forget compassion, emotion, and intuition—the feminine grace of Shakti. We strive for progress but abandon peace. We race for success but forget to pause for love. And like the sage, we find ourselves skeletal—alive, but not whole.
Mumbai, my Mumbai, once rich with spiritual rhythm, now pulses with imbalance. The temples still stand, but the hearts are distracted. We chase after light but forget the warmth. Our youth drown in rave parties and screen-lit nights, seeking joy in illusions, stimulation in place of serenity.
And yet, just like Bhringi, there is hope. Shiva’s grace never dies. The universe, in its divine patience, always offers a chance to restore our lost balance.
We only need to remember.
To honour not just the god who meditates but the goddess who moves. To respect not only wisdom but also feeling. To walk not just with power, but with grace.
From my grandmother’s quiet prayers to the chaos of my city’s streets, this story has stayed with me. A sacred reminder. A timeless lesson.
Worship Shiva. But never forget Shakti. For without her, even divinity cannot dance. And neither can we.
