In the silence before creation… before time was born… there was only Shiva. Not a god of temples or rituals, but a force—raw, eternal, formless. The destroyer, the transformer, the stillness in chaos. He is Mahadev, the God of Gods. He wears the crescent moon—not for beauty, but to remind time who its master is. His ash-covered form holds the fire of galaxies. His eyes—closed in meditation—see the truth of all worlds. From the Himalayas, he watches not with pride, but with perfect detachment. He dances the Tandava, and with every step, stars collapse, and new universes take birth. He drank the poison of the cosmos—not to show power, but to save existence. He sits alone, yet is present in all. He speaks not a word, yet his silence births the wisdom of sages. Parvati is his Shakti—his other half, his balance. Through her, he loves. Through her, he creates. The Ganga flows from his hair. The damaru beats in his hand. And around his neck coils the serpent of ego—defeated, tamed. He is neither light nor dark. Neither male nor female. Neither creator nor destroyer—yet he is all of them, and beyond them. Mahadev is not worshipped. He is realized. When you close your eyes… when the world fades… and only breath remains… he is there. He is Shiva. The Adiyogi. The Mahakaal. The Eternal Witness. The Infinite Nothing… and Everything. Om Namah Shivaya…