anima.

The kids played by the river. For that is how they had grown. 

The wisp bearded guru watched in stoic solitude with his legs crossed, as the seasons passed. 

He watched as the boys grew up;

From scratching their knees as boys, running around for no reason. 

To sturdy, young princes - sharp of intellect, resplendent of valour and strong of morals - through whose bodies ran liquid steel as they went to war. 

The guru had taught them all he could, about all he knew. 

And in this process of growth itself, he himself evolved having given his all - in tending to their feistiness, in his devotion for the truth that had rubbed off on them. 

And yet, all that had been bestowed upon them was Shakti, Durga, Kali. 

The boys were themselves just vessels, for channeling what was gifted to them. 

As they sunk under the surface of her many mysterious contours, the fire at their core kept their spine upright and perception focused - they started seeing something magical unfold. 

Each breath was filled with her laughter, Each word with her sweetness, Each movement with her grace and subtelty. 

They approached her shyly - the conscious teeter towards a woman whose glory adorns the cosmos. 

Into the catacombs, as more and more truth unfurled. 

Their sincerity would determine the depth of their arrival. 

A hint of weakness, Any lapse in judgement threatened to incur a wrath that would destroy everything - For they were wielding powerful magic. 

To remain standing faithfully, to steadily pass a thread through the eye of a needle in the middle of a tumultous, black thunderstorm - that was their experience of Shiva. 

Namaste.