Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of Adideva: 25 Legends Behind His 25 Names by Deepa Bhaskaran Salem

When I was a child, someone told me that Shiva was a god who could wear ashes as perfume, dance in cremation grounds as if they were ballrooms, and yet be the tender husband who tied Parvati’s anklet when it came loose. That image has never left me. So, when I picked up Adideva: 25 Legends Behind His 25 Names by Deepa Bhaskaran Salem, I half expected familiar retellings. Instead, I found myself tumbling into twenty-five mirrors, each reflecting a different light, shadow, and silhouette of the one we call Mahadeva.

Deepa, who walks the path of Advaita Vedanta, isn’t just a writer here—she is a devotee, a guide, almost a storyteller by the temple lamp. She has worn many hats in life—management consultant, marketing leader—but in this book, she wears none of them. Instead, she kneels at the feet of Shiva and lets the stories flow through her. That surrender shows. The book isn’t packaged scholarship; it feels like prasad offered with both hands, fragrant and nourishing.

The idea sounds simple: twenty-five names, twenty-five legends. But in execution, it’s a banquet. Each story is told with clarity and reverence, but also with a keen sense of pacing. One moment you’re with Neelakantha, watching the poison rise like a dark tide, and the next you’re smiling at the tender playfulness of Uma Maheshwara. There’s the terrifying grandeur of Tripurantaka and the quiet wisdom of Dakshinamurti. There’s even the poignant human touch in Mrityunjaya and Matrubhuteshwara. These aren’t just stories; they’re moods. Navarasas, as the tradition calls them—love, anger, wonder, compassion—all shimmering like facets of a jewel.

Her writing is where the book truly sings. The prose is crisp, never wandering, yet sprinkled with Sanskrit verses that feel like sudden bursts of temple music. Photographs of murtis and intricate sculptures punctuate the narrative, so you’re never adrift in myth alone—you’re reminded that these legends live in stone, temple corridors, and pilgrim songs. Reading, I found myself pausing often, flipping back to look at an image again, as if to anchor the myth in the material.

One moment in particular lingers with me: the story of Ardhanarishwara. The way Deepa retells it, the union of Shiva and Shakti is not just divine symbolism but a mirror held to us—reminding us that we too are unfinished without balance, that wholeness is not found in extremes but in union. It made me stop, close the book, and glance at my daughter sleeping beside me. I thought of how often the world teaches her division, when perhaps what she really needs is the courage to hold contradictions within herself.

The structure of the book makes it perfect for slow savoring. Each chapter is self-contained, ending with references and sometimes verses that let you linger. It’s the kind of book you don’t binge; you sip. Read one story at night before bed, let it settle like incense smoke in your mind, and maybe share it with a loved one. That’s exactly what I did, and it transformed my reading into a small ritual.

Themes of dharma and adhyatma thread through every page, but never with the heaviness of dogma. Instead, they land as gentle nudges—reminders that devotion is not escape but a way to live with more clarity and tenderness. It’s here that Deepa shines: she shows how mythology is not a museum piece but a living current, still relevant in our frenzied, fractured world.

Were there moments that tested my patience? Perhaps a little—at times the depth of citations and Sanskrit verses might feel overwhelming for those uninitiated. But even here, Deepa has thought ahead: a glossary waits at the end, handholding the reader through unfamiliar terrain. It’s a minor bump in what is otherwise a seamless yatra.

For me, this book wasn’t just a reading experience—it was a homecoming. It reminded me of stories my grandmother whispered, but it also gave me tools to see them anew, with context, with history, with reverence. It’s a rare book that can delight a child, satisfy a scholar, and soothe a seeker, all at once. Adideva manages all three.

As I closed the final page, a line from the stories kept echoing: Shiva is not just a god to be worshipped, he is an enigma to be experienced. Maybe that’s the true gift of this book—it makes you want not just to know Shiva, but to meet him.

If you’ve ever wanted to step into the labyrinth of Indian mythology without losing yourself, if you’ve ever wondered why Shiva has a thousand names and yet remains unnameable, this book is your entryway. Read it slowly, read it aloud, and let the damaru beat linger in your chest long after the story ends.

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