The Birth of Arunachala
Long ago, Brahmā (the creator) and Viṣṇu (the preserver) stood in heated debate.
Who was supreme?
The space around them vibrated with tension—a sky pregnant with thunder.
Suddenly, the heavens tore open.
From that rupture shot a pillar of fire, a Jyoti Sthambha—endless, blazing.
Its light swallowed stars.
Its heat made the earth tremble.
It stretched beyond sight, down into unknown depths.
Shaken, the gods stood breathless.
Brahmā’s pride hardened his voice: “I will find its summit.”
Viṣṇu, composed, lowered his head: “Then I will find its base.”
Viṣṇu took the form of a boar (Varaha).
He plunged into earth—churning through layers of soil, stone, even molten depths.
Years stretched like centuries.
His body weakened—but still, no base appeared.
Brahmā became a swan and flew upward—through clouds, beyond stars, into darkness above.
Aeons passed.
Still, no summit.
When both returned, spent and subdued, Viṣṇu spoke quietly: “I could not find the end.”
His defeat was marked by humility.
But Brahmā, clutching a ketakī (screw‑pine) flower, claimed falsely:
“I have seen the summit. This flower saw it, too.”
In a crack of cosmic sound, the pillar trembled.
From its blazing heart emerged Śiva—vast, ash-smoothed, utterly still.
The air cooled in his presence.
The gods shuddered, awed by the weight of silent majesty.
He looked at Brahmā:
“You lied. From this moment, the ketakī flower will never be used in my worship.”
The flower drooped; Brahmā’s face fell with remorse.
Śiva turned to both:
“This pillar cannot be measured. No top, no bottom.
It is the Self—boundless, endless.
No seeker, no matter how powerful, can find me from outside.
I am the fire at your own heart’s core.
Bow… and let illusion burn away.”
As his voice resonated, the fiery pillar cooled—solidified.
It became Arunachala—the sacred mountain, still, silent, immovable.
Not a mere hill—but Śiva incarnate in stone, the living Agni Lingam.
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Much love,
David