“He who drinks the poison of the cosmos and smiles is called Bholenāth, the Innocent Lord. Remember Him once, and He remembers you forever.”

1. The One Beyond Words

How do you blog about the un‑bloggable?
Shiva is ādi and ananta, without beginning or end, the stillness inside the cosmic drumbeat. Any sentence feels like trying to bottle the Himalayas in a teacup. Yet it is human to talk, so I write, because not writing would be like refusing to wave back when the Infinite casually says hello.

2. February 2020 – Safety Net in Shreds

I was two weeks away from joining ThoughtWorks. Resignation at EY tendered, notice period ticking, and COVID headlines climbing. Then an email: “Hiring freeze. Offer on hold.”
Pregnant wife (seven months). Renault EMIs. India entering lockdown.
That evening, panic drove me to the only open doorway, Shiva’s. I dusted off a little booklet of Śiva Aṣṭōttarā (His 108 names) and began to chant.

Result?

  • EY accepted my “never mind” and let me stay.
  • ThoughtWorks slotted a fresh start date for August.

3. 450 km, a Renault, and a Bellyful of Faith

With Bengaluru sealing up, we pointed the trusty Renault homeward toward Kerala. Seven‑month bump, masked checkpoints, not a single hitch. After 2 more months, our daughter arrived healthy, tiny fists flailing like Trishulas.

Work‑from‑home cheques rolled in, joy multiplied… and, honestly, the chanting subsided. Comfort is amnesia’s best friend.

4. The Comfortable Drift & the Quiet Shepherd

Pay raises, family dinners, endless diapers. I forgot the mantras; He, stubbornly benevolent, didn’t forget me. The mortgage shrank, parents smiled, and I began plotting bigger dreams, an overseas move so my daughter could chase snowflakes and maple leaves.

IELTS? Score unlocked.
Hundreds of job apps later: offers from Netherlands, Australia, Canada.
We chose Vancouver’s rain and Rise People’s codebase. The immigration stars lined up: BC PNP nomination, IRCC invitation… until paperwork karma struck, our agent missed our daughter’s name. Application rejected.
Two months left on my work permit, zero certainty.

5. Back to the Crescent Moon

Fear is an excellent alarm clock for the soul. I crawled back to the ashtōttara, but this time I levelled up.

  • I began reciting the Śiva Sahasranāma daily.
  • Installed a small black‑granite Śivaliṅga in our prayer nook, complete with copper abhiṣeka pot dripping like Ganga in slow motion.
  • Pulled an all‑night vigil on two consecutive Mahā Śivaratris, reading the Śiva Purāṇa by candlelight while the rest of Vancouver slept beneath drizzle.
  • Every Monday is now His day: strictly vegetarian meals, no onion or garlic, morning abhiṣeka, and one full chapter of Śiva Purāṇa before the first Teams meeting.

During the Monday evening meditation that follows, I swear Jira tickets resolve themselves in my head. The questions I carry in, parenting doubts, refactor dilemmas, float up answered, as if the damaru’s beat arranges my neural branches.

6. Grace in the Pink‑Slip Storm

While our new consultant, Marlene‑Jan, re‑stitched the PR forms, my company announced a downsizing that could have swallowed my badge number.
It didn’t. The axe swung, but my cubicle survived.

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Within weeks, our revised PR application flew through at record speed, fingerprints to COPR in what felt like one inhale of damaru beats.

7. Surrender vs Transaction

If there’s a takeaway tucked inside this roller‑coaster, it’s that Shiva is not an emergency hotline, He is the electricity powering the whole switchboard. My “conversion” wasn’t a one‑time thunderclap; it was a slow yielding:

Season of LifeMy HabitHis Response
Crisis #1Chanting 108 namesDoors open
ComfortForgettingStill protects
AmbitionOverthinkingAdds jet‑fuel
Crisis #2Sahasranāma, Śivaliṅga, Śivaratri vigilsLifts again

8. Today, in the Snow‑Tipped Pacific Northwest

Morning stand‑ups begin with a silent “Om.”
On the drive to the office (yes, in that manual Bronco that stalls when I get cocky), the Mahāmṛtyuñjaya mantra hums louder than the turbo whistle. Even the Vancouver rain feels like Ganga trickling from His matted locks.

My daughter’s bedtime story rotates between Goodnight Moon and tales of the blue‑throated Mahādeva. She thinks the crescent moon on His head is a cool night‑light; I think it’s a reminder that even waxing and waning is just play‑acting to Him.

9. Practical Rituals for a Pragmatic Programmer

  1. One Mantra, One Mug: Recite a name of Shiva while your coffee brews.
  2. Code Reviews = Self‑Review: Before critiquing a colleague’s PR, pause one breath on “Śiva Śiva.”
  3. Vibhūti in the Backpack: Tiny sachet, big reminder.
  4. Quarterly Shutdown = Darśan Trip: Patch the soul before burnout patches you.

10. The Map Is Made of Mist

Everything I cherish, citizenship papers, job titles, Git commits, even that bronzed Baby’s First Gear‑Shift photo, will eventually dissolve. Maya’s choreography.

What won’t dissolve is the echo of those thousand and eight names, the sweet paradox of a God who is both fearsome enough that Death fears Him and innocent enough to grant grace at the mere thought of Him.

My Ongoing Commit to the Cosmic Repo

I used to believe success was a staircase I had to sprint up before the next lay‑off or market crash. Shiva has shown me it’s an escalator, my only job is to quit flailing, stand firm, and let the belt do its quiet upward work.

So, dear reader, whether you’re debugging legacy code or life itself, give the Man with the crescent smile a nod. He’s already nodding back.

Om Namah Śivāya. May every breath remember whose air it borrows.