Some snapshots of Love from the Shivananda Lahari

 Can’t you cut me some slack? 

“Is it not enough!?” —  
the weary plea of an exhausted lover, 
the trembling confession of a devotee who has loved too long without reply. 

 

नालं वा सकृदेव देव भवतः सेवा नतिर् वा नुतिः 
पूजा वा स्मरणं कथा श्रवणमप्यालोकनं मादृशाम् । 
स्वामिन् अस्थिर देवतानु-सरणा-यासेन किं लभ्यते 
का वा मुक्तिरितः कुतो भवति चेत् किं प्रार्थनीयं तदा ॥ ३३ ॥ 

 

Translation: 
“O Lord! Is it not enough to serve You just once? 
Is a single prostration not sufficient? 
Is praising You, worshipping You, or remembering You only once, still not enough? 
Even listening once to Your divine tales —  
is that too little, my Lord? 

Then why, my beloved, do You not turn Your glance upon beings like me? 
I have grown weary of chasing the unstable, fleeting gods of the senses. 
What have I truly gained from those arduous pursuits? Nothing. 

And even if Liberation — personified as Mukti — were to draw near, 
would she ever come close to someone as unworthy as me? 
Suppose she does — what then shall I even ask of her?” 

 

Commentary 

The verse opens like a lament, 
a heart-wrenching outcry of a lover who has poured all his devotion into a silence. 
It is the cry of Bhakti when effort meets exhaustion —  
when the soul, after countless rituals, pilgrimages, chants, and tears, 
whispers simply: “Is it not enough, O Lord?” 

 

The bhakta speaks with a childlike candor, 
his innocence shining through his weariness. 
Having tried every “method” — service, worship, remembrance, song, and surrender —  
he now turns his frustration into tender irony. 

He pleads not out of rebellion, 
but from fatigue born of too much love. 
The devotee, like a lover taunting his beloved, 
half-complains and half-entreats: 
“You, who are all-knowing and all-compassionate — must I still strive so much to win a single glance from You?” 

 

Then comes a confession: 
he has spent his life chasing the unstable deities —  
not gods of heaven, but the indriyas — the senses. 
They are the false gods of taste, touch, power, fame, and fleeting pleasure. 
Having worshipped them for so long, 
he now feels the futility of it all — the exhaustion of endless desire. 

Now, even the thought of Mukti (liberation) feels distant —  
as if she would never visit someone so late to wisdom. 
And yet, he wonders: even if she comes, 
what would he ask for? What remains to be sought, 
when desire itself has burned out? 

 

The Heart of the Verse 

This shloka captures the turning point of Bhakti —  
where longing ripens into surrender, 
where complaint dissolves into contentment. 

The devotee, drained of all lesser pursuits, 
finally stands bare before the Divine —  
with no argument left, no agenda, no demand. 

It is at that moment that the cry “Naalam vā sakṛdevā!” 
is not despair but awakening —  
the moment when the ego, exhausted of effort, 
melts into pure love. 

 

He no longer seeks reward; he only seeks rest —  
the rest that comes when longing itself becomes worship. 

Is this not sufficient for you, Shiva? 

Shloka 31, Shivanandha lahari 

नालं वा परमोपकारकम् इदं त्वेकं पशूनां पते 

पश्य‌न् कुक्षिगतान् चराचरगणान् बाह्यस्थितान् रक्षितुम्। 

सर्वामर्त्य पलायनौषधम् अति ज्वालाकरं भीकरं 

निक्षिप्तं गरलं गलेन गिलितं नोद्गीर्णम् एव त्वया।। 

“Is not this one deed alone enough, O Lord of creatures, to prove your boundless compassion? Seeing the living and the non-living thrown into panic, you took pity and swallowed the blazing, terrible poison — a terror from which even the gods fled helter-skelter. You held it in your throat and never let it escape.” 

This śloka permits several tones of address to *Śiva*, hence multiple shades of meaning: 

1) A challenge in devotion — “Is a single great deed enough to save the world? You drank the venom once; what of the beings today? How will you save them from the poisons of pain and suffering?” 

2) A hymn to humility — “See how perfectly modest you are, O *Śiva*! Although you saved the world, you never opened your mouth even once to boast.” 

3) A tender reproach — “Is your silence born of compassion — for fear that speaking may release the poison again? Should I rejoice that the saviour drank the venom selflessly, or lament that he has not spoken to me ever since?” 

4) A psychological reading — “O caretaker of beings, you swallowed the sorrows, confessions, and inner toxins that devotees bring — poisons so potent that their better faculties (the ‘gods’) scatter in panic. You contain them all, that none may be harmed.” 

 
Vishnu - the ideal lover 

बाणत्वं वृषभत्वमर्धवपुषा भार्यात्वमार्यापते

घोणित्वं सखिता मृदङ्गवहता चेत्यादि रूपं दधौ ।
त्वत्पादे नयनार्पणं च कृतवांस्त्वद्देहभागो हरिः
पूज्यात्पूज्यतरः स एव हि न चेत्को वा तदन्योऽधिकः ॥ 82 ॥

Viṣṇu, consumed by love for Śiva, seeks in every possible way to draw closer to his dearest Beloved. 

He strives to become indispensable to Him, inseparable from Him, ever within His sight, and forever immersed in the bliss of His presence. 

When Śiva resolved to destroy Tripura, Viṣṇu eagerly became His arrow. 
When He saw Śiva walking barefoot across the harsh, snow-clad mountains, He became Nandī, the faithful mount. 
Longing to dwell in the most intimate nearness, He even took form as Pārvatī — also called Āryā — His divine consort. 

O Śiva! 

He sought You desperately as the boar, delving through the depths of earth. 
He protected You as a friend — in the episode of Mohinī and Bhasmāsura. 
He played the mṛdaṅga when You performed Your Tāṇḍava. 

And thus, in unending longing for You alone, He took on countless forms and roles. 

At last, Hari offered even his own eye at Your feet — both literally, in the Sahasra–padma–arcana episode, and mystically, in ceaseless meditation upon Your Pāda through his Ājñā upon the Sahasrāra. 

In that moment, He became half of Your very being. 

Who then, O Lord, could be more worthy of worship and veneration than He? 
Is there another who could surpass Him in devotion? 

Suicide in love - a new phenomenon? 

नतिभिर्नुतिभिस्त्वमीश पूजा- 

विधिभिर्ध्यानसमाधिभिर्न तुष्टः । 

धनुषा मुसलेन चाश्मभिर्वा 

वद ते प्रीतिकरं तथा करोमि ॥  

Śloka 89 Shivananda Lahari 

O Īśa! 
Neither by prostrations nor circumambulations, 
neither by hymns nor rituals, 
neither by worship, meditation, nor even deep absorption —  
are You ever appeased. 

How then shall I please You, O cold-hearted One? 
How may I move You to speak with me, 
or at least, to cast a single glance my way? 

Tell me, my Lord — speak! 

Perhaps there remains one last way to please You, 
a way I have not yet attempted. 

Shall I bring You the long, agonising bow and arrow? 
Or would You prefer the clumsy, bloodstained hammer? 
Or perhaps, a swift and simple boulder will suffice? 

Tell me, tell me, O Beloved —  
which method delights You most, 
and I shall do that! 

Ah, Śiva! 
Your ways are cruel — yet in their cruelty lies a tenderness that melts the heart. 

 

Love in Jibe? 

अशनं गरलं फणीकलापो 
वसनं चर्म च वाहनं महोक्षः । 
मम दास्यसि किं किमस्ति शम्भो 
तव पादाम्बुजभक्तिमेव देहि ॥ ८७ ॥ 

Śivananda Lahari Verse 87 

 Meaning: 

O Lord Śambhu, 
Your food is poison, 
Your ornaments are coiled serpents, 
Your garment is but the raw hide, 
And Your mount is the mighty bull. 

What, then, can You ever offer me, O Śambhu, 
from among these austere possessions? 
Grant me only this —  
pure, unwavering devotion 
at Your lotus-like feet. 

 

Commentary: 

This verse is a masterpiece of Nindāstuti — the art of praise through seeming reproach. 
Here, the devotee, overwhelmed by love, speaks with tender irony and affectionate exasperation. 

It is not disdain that moves him, but prema-bhakti — that intimate love which permits playful complaint. 
In his loving frustration, he mocks the Lord’s simplicity: 
“Your food is poison, Your jewels are serpents — what can You possibly give me?” 
Yet in that very mockery lies the highest praise — for who but Śiva, the supreme renunciate, can turn poison into nectar, poverty into majesty? 

The bhakta desires nothing of material worth. 
With Śiva beside him, what could there possibly be left to ask? 
Indeed, even to ask for Śiva’s presence feels tainted with a trace of self-interest —  
for it would mean claiming the Beloved for oneself. 

And so, in the purest surrender, the devotee seeks not company, not comfort, 
but only the fire of longing itself —  
to love endlessly, to yearn without end, 
to burn in the sweet agony of parābhakti across aeons (kalpas). 

This is one of the most heart-melting verses ever composed on the nature of supreme devotion —  
where love asks for nothing but the chance to love still more. 

Bhakti is Necessarily Feminine 

अङ्कोलं निज-बीज-सन्ततिरयस्कान्तोपलं  सूचिका

साध्वी नैजविभुं लता क्षितिरुहं सिन्धुः सरिद् वल्लभम् ।
प्राप्नोतीह यथा तथा पशुपतेः पादारविन्द द्वयं
चेतोवृत्ति रुपेत्य तिष्ठति सदा सा भक्ति रित्युच्यते ॥ 61 ॥

“Just as the river rushes towards her beloved ocean, 

as the climber clasps the sturdy tree, 
as the lover embraces her Lord, 
as scattered seeds return to their parent aṅkola tree, 
and as a needle is drawn irresistibly to a magnet —  
so may my mind be drawn to Śiva, 
the Lord who rules even the wild instincts within me. 
And when He places His sacred lotus-foot 
in the still lake of my mind, 
all its vṛttis — the waves of thought —  
come to rest. 
This, indeed, is Bhakti.” 

It is profoundly significant how Ādi Śaṅkara employs feminine imagery and grammar throughout this verse: 
santati (stream), sūcikā (needle), sādhvī (devoted woman), latā (creeper), sindhu (river), and vṛtti (mental wave), 
set in deliberate contrast to the masculine: 
aṅkola (tree), ayaskānta (magnet), vibhu (the all-pervading), kṣitiruha (supporting tree), vallabha (beloved), and Śiva. 

The symbolism is unmistakable. Bhakti arises only in the dynamic play between the feminine and the masculine — between Śakti and Śiva, the yin and the yang. 

The Feminine — desirous, seeking, vibrant, and restless — moves, flows, and surrenders toward the Masculine — still, silent, self-absorbed, and complete. 

Where masculine tendencies dominate — the yang principle of detachment and discipline — the path of Bhakti seldom appeals. Such minds naturally incline toward Jñāna or Yoga, 
while the hearts attuned to feeling and surrender find their fulfilment in Bhakti, 
where longing itself becomes liberation. 

Punning Sarcasm in love 

Śloka 69 Shivananda Lahari 

“I have no jaḍatā (sloth), no paśutā (animal nature), 
no kalaṅkitā (stain of crime), nor kuṭilatvam (crookedness). 
Yet, O Splendour-Crowned One, You still do not make me Your own! 
Had I even one of these flaws, You would perhaps have embraced me by now, would You not?” 

What a wondrous verse — at once tender, teasing, and tragic.  Here, the devotee’s love spills over into irony; his longing turns into gentle mockery.  It is love that has exhausted all reverence and now dares to complain. 

Possible Puns and Hidden Meanings 

1. Śiva’s Affinity for Tamas 
   Śiva, the Lord of dissolution, is not easily moved by pure sattva alone. 
   As Rudra, He governs tamas — the power of darkness, stillness, and destruction. 
   To please Him, one must embrace the totality of being, not merely its light. 

2. 
   

2. Śiva’s Ornaments as Symbols 
   The devotee, in his sarcasm, points out Śiva’s love for these very “flaws”: 

1. He wears the elephant’s skin (jaḍatā, symbol of heaviness and inertia). 

2. He holds the deer (paśutā, symbol of wild instinct). 

3. He adorns His brow with the moon, which bears a stain (kalaṅka). 

4. He wears snakes — the crooked (kuṭila) movers. 
   Everything that society rejects, Śiva glorifies. 

5. 
   

3. Śiva’s Compassion for the Fallen 
   The Lord is ever generous to the rākṣasas — Rāvaṇa, Bhasmāsura, Tāraka, Andhaka, Jalandhara, the Tripura brothers —  
   all beings tainted by tamas and transgression. 
   And yet, He seems indifferent to His pure, sāttvika devotees. 
   “Must I, too, become wicked to earn Your grace?” the devotee laments. 

4. 
   

4. The Lord of Outcasts 
   Śiva, in His infinite compassion, wears even the rejected as His ornaments —  
   the poor, the shunned, the vilified, the broken —  
   making them His gaṇas, His divine retinue. 
   To be blessed by Him, one must often descend — not in spirit, but in ego —  
   to the level of those He loves most: the humble and the flawed. 

 

Thus, this verse is a love-driven irony — a devotee’s ache disguised as complaint. 
It is the cry of one who has offered everything pure and still feels distant, 
only to realise that Śiva’s embrace is reserved not for the perfect, 
but for the utterly human.