An Independent Śiva Purāṇa and Śiva’s Reverence to the Man-Lion

Abstract

This article traces the history of a small independent Śiva Purāṇa that has circulated across South Asia for centuries. Rather than focusing on its theological and narrative content alone, this article also focuses on the text’s material manifestation in three distinct time periods: Medieval, Mughal, and Colonial. The first section considers its material and textual history with attention to manuscripts. The second section elucidates the value of this approach by considering one episode from the text: the Śarabha-Narasiṃha story. In the process of illuminating the Śiva Purāṇa tradition, this article uses this Purāṇic example to experiment with approaches to scriptural materiality through Pierre Bourdieu’s lens of a “double existence”.

1. Introduction

Today, much of the sacred literature that we encounter as readers and scholars, adherents and passive observers, is extremely layered. When we “read”, we take for granted the surface of a text as its face; we deduce its meaning as a mental journey shaped by an author’s intent and an audience’s reception. Typically, we do not attend to the process that shaped its presentation but accept that which is presented—the gift of scripture. We rarely notice let alone question the surface, because it is the product of our present circumstance and strikes us as natural given the technology at hand—a book or a screen; the digitized text abstracted from the page.

In their extant forms, the Purāṇas come down to us as medieval Hindu scriptures compiling legends and histories from and about an even older past.1 Their tradents have effaced any signs of historicity. Indeed, the traditional authorship of this genre is most often attributed to Vyāsa, literally “the Redactor”, “the Compiler”, or “Arranger”. For modern scholars, however, their composite form is an invitation to look beneath the surface and explore the process of this layering, sorting through piles of leaves and heaps of the discarded. Perhaps to an even greater degree than other scriptures, the Purāṇas invite such investigation. They take hold and they never let go.

The material history of sacred literature helps to supplement or parallel the literary, theological, liturgical, or poetic elements—behind the scenes as it were. This approach entails attention to textual processes and technological developments but also questions about the agency of scripture’s many collaborators and contributors. Scriptures have been shaped by priests, scribes, librarians, artists, artisans, trade works, warriors, theologians, orators, travelers, devotees, and on and on. These interconnected collaborators produce a nimble bundle. A bundle of palm leaves and paper pages, carried, studied, folded, and housed. Leaves, pages, and bundles become absorbed and reorganized, reimagined, and redistributed. This physical process, in turn, corresponds to a series of specific intersected parts—concepts—often in coded language and certainly bearing a wealth of content (cosmology, ritual, theology, history, poetry) within the Sanskrit text. These constitute the scripture that resides at the surface, continually borrowed, forged, and edited to align with cosmic pursuit. A pile of leaves both big and small, nonetheless.

In what follows, I reflect upon the material and textual history of a small pile of leaves that became a bigger pile, the Śiva Purāṇa. I explore some of its theological and narrative content as scripture but also trace the history hidden by its surface—that is, its material history. The material history of scripture does not strike the casual reader but offers a rich source for scholarship. This article explores this hidden dimension of the material text (or at least a small part of it) and reflects on its construction. To do so, I first consider shifts in its material forms with a focus on manuscripts, and I then turn to one episode that illustrates the value of this approach. In the process, I experiment with approaches to scriptural materiality through Pierre Bourdieu’s lens of art as a “double existence” (21).

The existence of a hidden (material) story behind (extant) scripture is not specific to Śaivism or even to Hinduism more broadly; it emerges within these timelines as “necessary accidents” (Bourdieu 1996, pp. 20–25) formed through the convergence of well-trodden ancient and medieval pathways of textual formation.2 Every work of sacred scripture includes its theological and narrative content as well as this hidden story of its manifestation. All the senses are employed and encroach the surface of the outward-facing scripture that feeds the spirit and curiosity of the engaged, devoted audience. Those who pursue any one religion or another see, hear, and orate the relationships of kinship: a religion in proximity and in context to others. Kinship and closeness mean borrowing, embracing, and creating friction. It means agreement and even rivalry. There will be competition, healthy and not, for wealthy ears and pockets. “The rules of art” (and to which I extend the “sacred” in scripture) are powerful in the right hands since the outcome is often reactive and not always known.

The forward-facing scriptures have been shaped by reactions to religious kinships—intersecting hands that shape and form the outward content. The content mirrors from within the community, their victories and struggles. For our purposes “the community” means those who follow the Hindu god Śiva (i.e., the Śaivas) and those who follow the Hindu god Viṣṇu (i.e., the Vaiṣṇavas). From a modern vantage point, these are two very separate traditions coexisting within Hinduism. They often share deities within architectural and sacred spaces. Sometimes this is out of necessity or “the accident” of circumstance and sometimes by design. One need look no further than the major monuments of Ellora (Verul) in the 8th century to discern a convergence of tradition, or a lesser-known, 11th century complex of temples at Anjaneri near Trimbakeshwar where temples reverberate with the landscape whether Vaiṣṇava or Śaiva (and Jaina too). These examples are in Maharashtra, a region important to my discussion of the Śiva Purāṇa, in as much as it is where my research began.

2. Material Manifestations of the Śiva Purāṇa

I first encountered manuscripts of the Śiva Purāṇa in Pune, Maharashtra at the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute (hereafter, Bori). Many Western scholars begin their research of sacred literature there—a cosmogony of the vast universe of India’s material texts. It was an intriguing encounter since I only had limited exposure to printed editions and translations of this work. I discovered that, as when artists stride boldly away from illustrating or echoing canonical works of scripture in their art, the manuscripts at the institute similarly bore little to no resemblance to those printed editions I was familiar with.3

Printed editions of the Śiva Mahāpurāṇa—The Great Purāṇa of Śiva—for instance, first appeared in the late-19th and early-20th century. The Gaṇapatikṛṣṇāji Press in 1884 and the first Veṅkaṭeśvara Press edition in 1895 were both published in Maharashtra in Mumbai and defined by Ludo Rocher as “Class A,” comprising six sections or saṃhitā (Rocher 1986, p. 222). There was a second edition from Veṅkaṭeśvara Press published in 1906, part of what Rocher defined as “Class B” consisting of seven sections. This second work has proven to be the more dominant and most oft republished work to date. Indeed, it is exceedingly difficult to locate the Class A texts at all. The editors of the second Śiva Mahāpurāṇa chose a largely different set of manuscripts to work with while ignoring many of the prominent collection of written texts associated with Class A, even though they were readily available at well known, local libraries such as the Asiatic Society of Mumbai or the Bhandarkar Institute in Pune. However, the editorial correlation and emergence of scribed sources to those produced vis a vis the metal printing press is part of the material text’s larger story. As noted above, the “art” (i.e., “scripture”) is not illustrative, but evocative and illusive. It is, in any case, a literary gumbo—where the concepts of “text,” “manuscript,” and “scripture” form a mélange. The spiritual guidance expected of scripture gives way to a scribe’s practical concerns of pen on paper and limited space; and later, metallic letter on printed page.

Both Class A and Class B Śiva Mahāpurāṇas share two saṃhitā as has been documented by Hazra and Rocher: the Vidyeśvara-saṃhitā and the Vāyavīya-saṃhitā (Hazra 1985, pp. 280–81; Rocher 1986, pp. 223–26). These saṃhitā contain a primordial origin story of Śaiva scripture,4 the Veda and the Purāṇa along with other works. According to these texts, all scripture ultimately derives from Śiva himself through Viṣṇu—incarnated as the sage Vyāsa—at the end of the previous cosmic age (Dvāpara-yūga). This is little more than 5000 years ago according to traditional Hindu reckoning of time. Both Classes of text, in any case, also contain reference to a cosmic “abridgement” (saṃkṣipta or samāsa)5 of a vast body of Śaiva scripture that includes the Purāṇa and pays special attention to the arrangement of the Śiva Purāṇa.

Since the primordial scriptures were so vast they needed to be truncated so that they might be better understood by the average person. In both editions A and B, the reduction is described as consisting of twelve sections or saṃhitā. This is an ideal number that does not exist in the human world. However, it is here that the mélange breaks down and the texts, and thus scriptures, diverge after this. In the second case an addition is made in the form of a second reduction of itself. That is to say, in the Class B literature there is a scriptural reference to a second further reduction of scripture to make the Śaiva literature even more accessible! The text is reduced from twelve to seven, the manner of the printed text. Class A, on the other hand, remains true to the cosmogonic reduction alone (i.e., twelve saṃhitā alone) and does not introduce a secondary reduction.6 In this sense the writers and editor of Class B, whether scribal or printed seek simplification of the material output. They unsettle this cosmogonic arrangement to comingle with a material reality on the printing press. That is, these literary agents amend and control how the Śiva Mahāpurāṇa was composed and produced for the consumer.

What I find particularly intriguing about these justifications within the printed literature is not the unsettling of a perfect cosmogonic twelve directly from Śiva himself into an obtainable, printable seven but rather the unsettling of the text that occurs at the level of the manuscript. We may ask: Is there a complete manuscript together with all of these seven saṃhitās? Was the printed Śiva Mahāpurāṇa of Class B instead, manufactured in the early-20th century? It is difficult to say, since my research was not exhaustive. However, I have long suspected, following (Hazra 1985, p. 280) and others, that the redactors of the printed works at the very least drew from very late manuscript compilations. These appear to be disparate saṃhitās that get coherently bundled together. This is not to say the saṃhitā’s or their content was invented at the time of printing, but they were certainly bundled and packaged—inspired and influenced by commerce.7

The influence of commerce upon manuscript collectors (including military plunder) and their contribution to the formation of printed texts during the Colonial period cannot be understated. The identities of the redactors, furthermore, is also intriguing in as much as we find German and British scholars, collectors, and military agents at times interfering with the distribution and commissioning of manuscripts.8 For my part, I have verified numerous independent titles of saṃhitā in libraries across two countries: India and Bangladesh. What I have not found, by contrast to the printed works, is a coherent collection of seven saṃhitā; no coherent whole copied by a single scribe or scribal family as I have routinely seen with works like the Mahābhārata and the Bhāgavata Purāṇa.9 It highlights the instability of the bundle as a conceptual anchor for understanding text and scripture formation.

The story of the twelve becoming seven from not seven (i.e., no extant examples) is thus a curious blend of two kinds of redactions: one a cosmogonic redaction and the other a printed redaction—both are imagined and scriptural. This incongruent alignment can be unsettled further at the level of the material text—the manuscript. This is not because the manuscript is necessarily more “real” or closer to the original scripture than the twelve or seven saṃhitā bundles, but rather that there is no real correlation and so we should not look for one.10 The bundle, the pile, the cosmogonic organization, the redaction and the manuscript are circumstantial to scripture. Here too, “scripture” resides on the surface and maintains a double existence.

To demonstrate the elusive nature of these incongruous relationships and to articulate the hidden narrative of scripture, I want to explore new aspects of a text I have referred to as the “independent Śiva Purāṇa” (Fleming 2018; Fleming 2009, p. 68), which in my view is a foundation for many aspects of the Mahāpurāṇa. In printed form it does not appear independently at all but as the first of a collection of six saṃhitā in a Mahāpurāṇa. In its printed form it is known as the Jñāna-saṃhitā. The printed collection to which it belongs Rocher classifies as “Class A” and dates to the late 19th century from Mumbai. These include the Gaṇapatikṛṣṇāji’s Press in 1884 and Veṅkaṭeśvara Press in 1895 mentioned above (Rocher 1986, p. 222).

The divisions of this earlier work are different in tone and scope and generally less embellished with Tantric and other “late” influences as a whole that tend to creep into the embellishments of the Class B editions. Indeed, at a granular level, whole verses and content from this early edition finds its way into the later work. The Jñāna-saṃhitā is certainly an example of this since its verses are found spread across at least three saṃhitā of the later-printed Class B (the Rudra-, Śatarudra-, and Koṭirudra-saṃhitā). I will talk directly of this independent Śiva Purāṇa below. It is important to note for the sake of comparison and context that the two different Classes of the Śiva Mahāpurāṇa are often said to share two saṃhitā with one another (Rocher 1986, pp. 223, 226). These are the Vāyavīya-saṃhitā and the Vidyeśvara-saṃhitā; however, they are not identical. One important omission from the Class A text, for instance, is reference to the reduction (saṃkṣipta) of the text by Vyāsa. That is, there is no additional reference to Vyāsa reducing the cosmogonic twelve saṃhitā derived from Śiva down to seven. For example, the Vāyavīya-samhitā of Class A only contains a reference to the creation of cosmogonic twelve saṃhitā (see especially vv. 1.46–52).11 This omission is curious and raises questions about the ratification of the Class B texts in the early-20th century. It seems possible that the account of Vyāsa wielding his cosmic editorial powers (his name literally means “redactor”) is a very late embellishment. The reduction of the Śaiva scripture into seven saṃhitā happens to coordinate with a new edition (1906) and points to a late embellishment introduced with the printing press rather than at the hand of a scribe on a more ancient manuscript.

The independent Śiva Purāṇa, which only in printed form appears as the Jñāna-saṃhitā is not included within the group of cosmogonic twelve saṃhitā, even when these twelve are cited within the Class A edition of the Vāyavīya-saṃhitā (Hazra 1985, pp. 280–81; Rocher 1986, p. 222). This text then, even within the printed editions, stands as something of an outlier to the Śiva Mahāpurāṇa tradition. There is considerable manuscript evidence, nonetheless, in which this work circulated independently and without attachment to scribal units or larger Purāṇic works. Indeed, I have only encountered one manuscript—Bori ms. 165 of 1895–98—where the work appears compiled into a larger scribal unit, although it only contains four sections, not six or seven. However, even this is unclear. While the text self-describes as a “prakaraṇa” or “section” of the Śiva Purāṇa (folio 135 recto), the other parts self-identify as “khaṇḍa.” Both designations are curious in as much as the printed Śiva Mahāpurāṇa refers to its divisions as saṃhitā, a connotation that evokes comparisons to the Vedas (e.g., Ṛgveda-saṃhitā).12 This may indicate that the writers of our independent work had humbler aspirations and considered the text supplemental. However, it may simply be that, as Hazra has speculated (Hazra 1985, pp. 280–81) the loftier aspirations of the text itself were late developments.

The independent work appears in a second printed edition of the Śiva Mahāpurāṇa also published in Mumbai in 1884 by Ganapatikrsnaji’s Press, a year before the Veṅkaṭeśvara Press edition where it does not appear at all (Rocher 1986, p. 222). Variations in both these early editions circulate in the early-20th century through other publishing houses; however, the Veṅkaṭeśvara edition is the more prominent overall and mirrored by other houses (such as Nag Publishers). The primary difference in the two is that the Ganapatikrsnaji’s Press edition contains six saṃhitās. It is here in this edition that the independent work takes the title of Jñāna-saṃhitā (“Compilation of Knowledge”) whereas in manuscripts it typically refers to itself as only the “Śiva Purāṇa” in chapter colophons or takes the title Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa (“Description of the Section of Knowledge”) in the final colophon of any given manuscript.

It appears that in the printed editions alone, the editors feed into an exaggeration and self-aggrandizement in scriptural terms. That is, they give the text a Vedic-like status. The alignment of Śaiva-followers at times with the Veda is certainly seen historically (Sanderson 1988; Hazra 1985). Is it possible that both printed works from Mumbai extended this scriptural status to all of the sections of the Purāṇa? This is uncertain, without an exhaustive search of manuscripts, though appears to be the case across multiple collections in regionally diverse areas. The question as to who decided that these disparate saṃhitā constitute a whole Purāṇa thus remains open.

One unexpected area of the regional diversity of the pre-print transmission of this work can be seen in Ayelet Kotler’s recent article about a Persian translation of the Śiva Purāṇa held at the British Library (IO Islamic 760). This translation sheds some important light and details regarding the distribution of our exceedingly popular text. The translation and commentary were composed circa 1730 by Kishan Singh Nashat from the town of Sialkot in the Lahore district of the Punjab (Kotler 2025, p. 33). She argues that manuscripts of the Śiva Purāṇa potentially circulated within lay Śaiva communities there and where Persian-Sanskrit intertextuality flourished (Kotler 2025, p. 36). In her study she compares Nashat’s translation with extant Sanskrit manuscripts also held at the British Library, especially “IO Sans 2815” and which, in my view, correspond to our independent Śiva Purāṇa, the Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa since the references she provides the text for (1.1–2 and 7.1–14) are identical with manuscripts I have charted elsewhere and have studied in detail (Fleming 2007, p. 252). Similarly, like manuscripts of the Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa, these texts comprise about 75 chapters (adhyāya) each. The printed Jñāna-saṃhitā contains 78 chapters and contains the same content arranged slightly differently at the level of the chapter.13

While researching at the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute in Pune I was presented for examination with a Persian translation of the Śiva Purāṇa from Kashmir (Bori No. 822 of 1875–76) brought by the German scholar Georg Bühler. Consulting with Dr. Jayant Bapat and comparing this work with other Sanskrit manuscripts, we determined it to be based off the same source material. The presence of this Persian work reaffirms Kotler’s observation that this Hindu text was popular in the complex cultural and linguistic landscape of North India by the 18th century. This is especially the case in the Punjab and Kashmir regions where Śaiva communities have long had a major presence and have routinely negotiated Muslim and Sikh communities and governance.

There is, in other words, a rich history of manuscript distribution related to this independent Śiva Purāṇa. It circulated widely throughout the subcontinent in Devanagari and in other scripts such as Persian, Bengali, and Telugu (Fleming 2007, p. 252). The wide circulation of this work in multiple collections in deference to the larger works was unexpected. However, given that a major portion of it (chapters circa 38–59 or 25% of the entire text) pertains to the pan-geographic landscape associated with the cult of the jyotirliṅgas, this wide distribution makes sense (Fleming, forthcoming). It also makes sense that the text was broadly circulated because of its prominence as scripture within the Sanskrit scribal communities it represented. As we have seen with the Persian example there was a great interest in this work across a variety of cultural and religious environments where it could serve as a worthy representative of Śaivism.

Another example of Colonial interference with manuscript distribution is that of Alexander Walker a Lieutenant-Colonel of the East India Company. He was a well-known collector of Sanskrit manuscripts and is believed to have gotten his manuscripts as bounty of war or loot from the East India Company’s defeat of Tipu Sultan at Seringapatam in 1799 (Kelly 2024, p. 49). This loot included the independent Śiva Purāṇa and was later gifted by his son to the Bodleian Libraries at Oxford (Keith 1909, p. 15) (Cat. No. MS A. Walker 204) along with a collection of other Persian, Sanskrit, and Arabic works.14 The cultural prestige of military victory is not often considered within the distribution and spread of scriptural traditions but seems to be the case here. Furthermore, Tipu’s library itself is known to have been a massive collection of military spoils from his conquests as far away as the Deccan and Karnataka (Ehrlich 2020, p. 483). This is to say that the value of scripture is prestigious and has symbolic capital even outside of its religious bubble. Thus, with respect to the construction of texts we might consider “two modes of production” in an “economy of pure art” or in our case “scripture” (Bourdieu 1996, pp. 141–42). That is, the value and prestige is part of a work’s “double existence” and what has influenced, to a significant degree, the rise of this “prakaraṇa” to the level of “saṃhitā” in the printed edition. Thus, agents from the British and Mughal worlds of India saw the value that this sacred literature held for Hindus, especially Śaiva but also Vaiṣṇava communities.15 Their attempts to engage with it both positively as scripture and negatively as plunder and loot arguably fueled its rise as print. Ultimately, its rise to print had the opposite than intended effect since the 1906 Veṅkaṭeśvara edition comprising seven saṃhitās, excluded our text and became dominant with respect to distribution to the West and with respect to translation enterprises.

Hannah Domonique Kelly has noted in her dissertation on Alexander Walker some of his overtly invasive practices and especially at the level of interpretation of manuscripts in his own writing:

“[T]hese [manuscript] catalogues also represent the transformation of Indian cultural objects into objects of European discourse; and the substitution out of Indian manuscripts, and in of a supposedly scientific European discourse about these texts, as a locus of authority (Kelly 2024, pp. 236–37).”

Such transformative disruption of the internal “authority” within the Hindu communities producing the manuscripts is significant for understanding why our text was elevated, on the one hand, and may serve as an explanation as to why it later became ignored, on the other, although further investigation is required on this issue. Nonetheless, the manuscripts persist. Their lineage remains present on library shelves, both physical and digital, at the level of archive despite these setbacks into obscurity. It persists as material scripture across the subcontinent and indeed the globe as residual Colonial-era plunder.

It is possible to suggest that the independent Śiva Purāṇa is a victim of this transformative disruption and had its internal authority displaced after a considerable rise to prominence over a long historical journey going back to about the 10th century. While it has been described as a “greatest hits” digest of Purāṇic literature—a kind of anthology of earlier works (Kotler 2025, p. 42)—it is better thought of, in my view, as a source of Śaiva Purāṇic literature of the last millennium.

3. The Influence of the Man-Lion

In order to help offset the disruption of this text’s former agency, I would like to turn to examine some details of the independent Śiva Purāṇa’s sectarian and ecumenical content related to the story-cycle of Narasiṃha (Nṛsiṃha) or Man-Lion avatāra of Viṣṇu and the Śarabha manifestation of Śiva. This story appears in chapters 58–60 of our manuscript (see below). Here, we will investigate the Purāṇa’s correlation and alignment with the Śatarudra-saṃhitā of Class B.16 This saṃhitā, as with others in the Class, owe a considerable debt to the independent Śiva Purāṇa as their source text.17 It may be dated prior to the 11th century (Rocher 1986, pp. 223–26; Dandekar 1986, p. 11; Fleming 2007, pp. 18–19). As an earlier source, its stories represent preliminary stages of myth development. The text overall extols neutrality and limited rivalry between the gods Viṣṇu and Śiva for example. This is even true, in my view, of divine rivalry such as between the Man-Lion and Śarabha when compared to their later embellishments. The Class B story is dependent on this version and should be considered a later text (Rocher 1986, p. 225). In this way, the later version expands, extrapolates, and develops a more rigid theology and sectarianism. The text exploits tension and fissure between the two communities, for instance, by inciting excessive violence and divisive rhetoric between the gods.

To explore these variant differences further, I here employ Mahīpati’s manuscript of the independent text, called both the Śiva Purāṇa in its chapter colophons and the Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa in its final colophon (Bori no. 44 A 1879–80). I do not reference the printed Jñāna-saṃhitā of the Class A edition of the Śiva Mahāpurāṇa. However, it should be noted that they are identical for the most part with minor variants that I indicate as needed. Both printed and manuscript versions of the text may be referred to as the independent Śiva Purāṇa or even the “short Śiva Purāṇa” (Kotler 2025, p. 42).

In my view, employing this manuscript version of the independent Śiva Purāṇa helps to rescue the text, in part, from some of the duplicity of the early editing processes that occurred during the British Colonial period. As noted above (n. 14), this particular manuscript falls within the mid-18th century of the Mughal Period (1748 CE). It is striking that both Mahīpati and his father Dadopant worked in the service of the local Mughal authorities, likely in the capacity as accountant and scribe (Abbott et al. 1982, pp. xxiii–xxv). Such details demonstrate how this text could have made its way into the Persianized and multi-lingual environments that were emerging in South Asia and caught the attention of Persian writers.18 Though Mahīpati is said to have disavowed his secular work to pursue the hagiographies of Marathi saints by 1757, this did not occur until nine years after this manuscript was scribed. Though a devout Vaiṣṇava he was nonetheless knowledgeable of a range of Purāṇa and Epic literature (Keune 2021, pp. 131, 196). That such knowledge would have come through works he was commissioned or inclined to scribe, such as the independent Śiva Purāṇa, is plausible. In any case, the manuscript was copied during a fruitful period that captures the spirit of the text itself and speaks to the longevity of its transmission.

Before turning to the Narasiṃha-Śarabha story, it is useful to consider the opening two verses of the Purāṇa also pertaining to the Man-Lion. These verses open the text in printed and manuscript forms as well as across numerous scripts and languages (see above).

śrīgaṇeśāya namaḥ |

jagataḥ pitaraṃ śaṃbhuṃ jagato mātaraṃ śivāṃ |

tatputraṃ ca *gaṇeśānaṃ natvaitad varṇayāmy ahaṃ || 1 ||

Vāgīśāyasya vadane Lakṣmīryasya cavakṣasi |

*yasyāsti hṛdaye saṃvittaṃ Nṛsiṃham ahaṃ bhaje || 2 ||19

Greetings to Gaṇeśa!

I praise the father and mother of the universe, having bowed to Śambhu (Śiva) and Śivā (Pārvatī) and their son Gaṇeśa (1).

I worship that Man-Lion in whose mouth dwells Vāgīśā (Goddess of Speech), in whose chest resides Lakṣmī (the Goddess of Wealth), and in whose mind resides pure consciousness (2).

These verses provide a theological framework for the entire Purāṇa inasmuch as they offer praise to the family of Śiva and to an entourage of Vaiṣṇava deities linked to the Man-lion. In my view, positing this praise to the Man-Lion, one of the avatāras of Viṣṇu, sets a tone of ecumenism found elsewhere. Indeed, the jyotirliṅgas of Śiva begin to borrow the concept of avatāras from this scripture for the first time (cf. adhyāya 38–58) and indeed begin to experiment with this theological language and tone.

It is striking to contrast the above passage with its appearance in the opening passage of the Class B text, mentioned above—the Rudra-saṃhitā where it appears in chapter 1, verse 4. In the Class B work, it opens with some standard greetings and an introduction to the Rudra-saṃhitā itself:

śrīgaṅeśāyaḥ namaḥ |

śrīgaurīśaṃkarābhyāṃ namaḥ |

atha dvitīyā rudrasaṃhitā prārabhyate ||

Greetings radiant Gaṇeśa! Greetings radiant Gaurī (Pārvatī) and Saṃkara (Śiva)! Here begins the second division (of this Mahāpurāṇa), the Rudra-saṃhitā.

The text then continues to praise Śiva with more ślokas describing him, for instance, as the “sole cause of the creation, preservation, and destruction of the universe” (viśvoddhavasthitilayādiṣu hetumekaṃ—1.1) or similar superlatives. Indeed, the redactors insert three Śaiva-centered ślokas before arriving at our verse at 1.4 cited here:

vyāsa uvāca |

jagataḥ pitaraṃ śambhuñ jagato mātaraṃ śivām |

tatputrañ ca gaṇādhīśan natvaitad varṇayāmahe || 4 ||

Vyāsa said

We praise the father and mother of the universe, having bowed to Śambhu (Śiva) and Śivā (Pārvatī) and their son Gaṇādhīśa (Gaṇeśa) (4).

We see that it is Vyāsa, the primordial redactor of the Śiva Mahāpurāṇa who is assigned the variant of this verse. Missing, however, is the verse praising Narasiṃha and his entourage. Though redacted out, the two versions align again in the next verse—the chapter continues to relate the gathering of sages in the Naimiṣa forest and extols the worship of Śiva. Many verses of this Class B chapter are directly drawn from the Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa and, indeed, a separate study is needed to bring attention to the extent of this alignment.20 While on its own the above omission is not that significant, when taken with other redactional decisions (symbolized by Vyāsa’s presence) extant in the text, this is noteworthy. The omission is a marked change from the tone of the source text. In my view, the presence of the avatāra as a framing verse, lowers sectarian tensions and invites a follower of Viṣṇu, such as the family of Mahīpati, entry into a reading of the text. Removing this Vaiṣṇava frame raises tensions and has the potential to alienate a non-Śaiva reader.

The Vaiṣṇava presence in the text is significant and draws heavily on Epic themes and a Viṣṇu-centered universe (Fleming 2007, pp. 12–22, 101–24; Fleming 2009, p. 54). One place where we see evidence of this is in the three chapters immediately following the long jyotirliṅga-story-cycle: chapters 58–60. These three chapters represents an early iteration of the Narasiṃha-Śarabha encounter.21 However, the earliest strictly Vaiṣṇava account of Viṣṇu appearing as the therianthropic deity can be traced to the Epics (e.g., Mahābhārata 12.326.73; Harivaṃśa 1.41.39–78). There, the Man-Lion’s archetypal defeat of the demon Hiraṇyakaśipu is mentioned. Indeed, such was the popularity of the god’s battle with this demon, that the encounter emerged in sculpture from the Gupta Period onwards. Examples can be found throughout India as early as the 4th century CE (Meister 1996, pp. 291–301; Bakker 1997, pp. 136–41). With the popular rise and growth of this story-cycle, basic elements of it begin to be appropriated into Śaiva-centered narratives within a few centuries as if drawing from a similar well of theological ideas. It is not entirely clear what impelled these early redactors to engage so directly with an emerging Vaiṣṇava mytheme. However, it is plausible that the communities were closely aligned—living in proximity and sharing material of community—architecture, scribes, patronage structures, etc. Śaiva groups, though sometimes isolated as “outsiders,” sought alignment through their stories and theology. These theological impulses may also echo themes of Vaiṣṇava-Śaiva syncretism alluded to in the Mahābhārata (See, Sanderson 2015, pp. 169–89; Johnson 1998, pp. ix–xli).

The cycle of stories about Narasiṃha and his encounter with Śiva’s Śarabha form occurs in chapters 58–60 of our independent Śiva Purāṇa.22 While chapters 58–59 present a straightforward Vaiṣṇava retelling of Narasiṃha’s battle with Hiraṇyakaśipu, it is in chapter 60 that the Śaiva theologians make their presence known and a relationship between Viṣṇu and Śiva is established. After the gods fail to cool the anger of the Man-Lion, Śiva is called. However, the two deities have only a momentary encounter and no physical contact at all. Having vowed to the gods his protection and having assured them that he will be able to pacify the Man-Lion’s fury, Śiva takes on the form of the Śarabha and goes to visit the Man-Lion (Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa 60.53–55):23

yathāgataṃ yathājagmuḥ śrūyatāmṛṣisattamāḥ

śivo ‘pi ca vicāryaiva śārabhaṃ rūpam adbhutam || 53 ||

dhṛtvā jagāma yatraiva* sthito ‘sau nṛhariḥ svayam |24

dūrataśca tadīyaṃ vai dṛṣṭvā rūpaṃ bhayaṃ karam || 54 ||

uvāca vacanāt* te ‘dya rakṣitā devasattamāḥ |

jayajayeti śaṃbhuṃ** vai namaskṛtya vyalīyata || 55 ||25

Listen, O best of sages, to how they came and how they left. Śiva, having thought about it, took up the extraordinary Śarabha form and went precisely to where that one himself stood. In the distance, Narasiṃha saw that fear inducing form (approaching). (53–54)

He said: “Because of your words the excellent devas are protected today! With the cry “Victory, victory!” He praised Śambhu (Śiva) and vanished (55).

There are some minor discrepancies between printed editions (Class A) of the Jñāna-saṃhitā and manuscripts of the Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa that are worth mentioning. In the printed editions it is Śiva and not Narasiṃha who is the subject and who disappears after their encounter. However, the manuscripts that I have consulted have Narasiṃha vanishing and Śiva (Śambhu) as the object of praise.26 This makes the most sense especially as Śiva is said to vanish (antaradhīyata) again later in verse 59 in both the printed and manuscript versions. This interpretation is indeed confirmed by the unknown commentator of my printed edition. He makes a detailed clarification of this line, arguing against his ambiguous text that it is Narasiṃha who praises Śiva and then disappears rather than the other way around. Such examples point to the greater need for a more rigorous printed edition as exists currently with a mind to source-transparency which was generally lacking (Rocher 1986, pp. 59–67).

What is important here is that there is no violent encounter between the deities. Any expression of tension or fear is dissipated when the Man-Lion departs. Thus, the theologians are not asserting a strong sectarian position here. Instead, we see some respect and praise on the part of both (later Śiva praises the Man-Lion). In this way, with respect to its treatment of Narasiṃha, the Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa paints a similar portrait to the one found in the early Skandapurāṇa as discussed and translated by Phyllis Granoff (Granoff 2004, pp. 122–26). There the Man-Lion, in the form of a lion-cub, confronts Śiva only with one smack of his paw.

“In order to force Viṣṇu, the doer of marvelous deeds, to abandon his lion form, he became a Śarabha, mighty peak of the Himālaya mountain. Of colossal strength, with sharp fangs, using his four rear feet he went over to the Man-Lion and calmly roared. The lion, seeing the Śarabha before him, was seized with great anger and struck him a blow. The Śarabha, struck by the lion, did not even flinch. Instead, it was the lion himself who was in pain from striking the mighty Śarabha with its adamantine body. Then Viṣṇu thought for a while and realized that it was Śaṃkara who had come. He bowed his head to Śaṃkara and began to praise him (Granoff 2004, p. 122).”27

Later in this same text Śarabha steps on the Man-lion:

“And then that most excellent Śarabha stepped on the lion with his feet. He caused Keśava to take on his divine form once more. The god who has the bull as his banner, having given Viṣṇu a boon, namely that he would slay the daityas, said to him, ‘Be as you were before,’ and vanished (Granoff 2004, pp. 122–23).”

Granoff argues that this is an early example of Śaiva theologians experimenting with the concept of the avatāra doctrine from a Śaiva perspective. Śiva did not typically take the role of an avatāra and this role was primarily taken by Viṣṇu alone, even as there was discomfort associating his animal forms with the concept. In this chapter of the Skanda Purāṇa, Śiva is the permission structure for the Vaiṣṇava avatāra, its source, rather than the avatāra itself (Granoff 2004, pp. 123–26).

I suggest that the writers and/or the theologians of the independent Śiva Purāṇa were also experimenting with the avatāra doctrine but were hesitant to fully embrace it. The story from chapter 60 arguably bears elements of this “early” form of the story-cycle and its religious outlook. Indeed, Śiva does not manifest as an avatāra but simply “takes up” the extraordinary form that seeks out Viṣṇu. Similarly, there is no extensive confrontation; indeed chapter 71 of the Skanda Purāṇa arguably highlights more tension than our text since Viṣṇu becomes angry at the site of Śiva’s special form and strikes him. Later Śarabha even steps on the Man-Lion to release his true form. Be that as it may, this tension is created in a mild and playful manner given that the Man-Lion is a lion cub and thus not really threatening to Śiva.

All of the Śaiva texts of this genre posit, to varying degrees, the idea of Narasiṃha’s anger in some form or other both mild and extreme. In most cases it is an issue or a potential issue—a problem to be solved. In the later versions within the Śiva Purāṇa tradition (Class B) and in other texts (e.g., the Liṅga Purāṇa I, 96) Viṣṇu’s anger gets dangerously out of control and is a threat to the entire universe. Granoff has explored a number of these later works in her study of this myth; however, I will limit my focus to examples within the Śiva Purāṇa tradition alone (Granoff 2004, pp. 116–26). To this end I will look to the Śatarudra-saṃhitā 10–12 of the Class B Śiva Mahāpurāṇa. As noted above, this text draws from the Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa with this story but diverges significantly in many respects.

The list below marks a number of early theological distinctions that are absent from the late version of the story:

• There is no significant, extended battle between Śiva and Viṣṇu.
• The Man-Lion is not killed.
• The Man-Lion is praised by Śiva and the gods.
• Śiva is not described as an avatāra.
• No gaṇas (followers) of Śiva do his bidding; he acts directly and alone.

The contrast to this list is striking in the Śatarudra-saṃhitā. The writers of this scriptural account, especially in chapter 12, went to great lengths to aggressively augment the original. There is technically no direct battle between Viṣṇu and Śiva, since it is Vīrabhadra, a gaṇa, who performs this role, acting in proxy.28 The emergence of this theological and cosmogonic relationship of the two, however, may point to an underlying impulse to have the deity Śiva remain unsullied by violence across both versions. This second Śiva—sometimes he is identical or has a blurred identity with Śiva—may also result from Śaivism being more comfortable with the concept of the avatāra than the earlier account. Indeed, the Śatarudra-saṃhitā specifically refers to Vīrabhadra as an avatāra.29 This language is absent from the earlier source. Whatever the cause and manner of expression, the emergence of this late Śaiva theology reflects a distinct change and rise in competitive hostilities between the two communities. In this late version the Man-Lion is spectacularly humiliated, skinned alive, killed, and mounted as a trophy for one of Śiva’s minions, Vīrabhadra.

vīrabhadro ‘pi bhagavān gaṇādhyakṣo mahābalaḥ |

nṛsiṃhakṛttiṃ niṣkṛṣya samādāya yayau girim || 35 ||

nṛsiṃhakṛttivasanastadāprabhṛti śaṃkaraḥ |

tadvaktraṃ muṇḍamālāyāṃ nāyakartvena kalpitam || 36 ||

Lord Vīrabhadra, the mighty leader of the gaṇas, skinned off the hide of Narasimha and taking it, left to the mountain. (35)

From then on, Śaṃkara, wearing the hide of the Man-Lion (as a garment), fashioned his jaw as the center piece of his skull garland (36).

The lack of references to Śiva’s gaṇas as well as the limited and inexplicit experimentation with the language of avatāras in the early versions make the above passage all the more poignant and striking. In the late redaction of the Śiva Purāṇa (Class B) then, gaṇas serve the purpose of abstracting or distancing Śiva from the impurities of the world while simultaneously exploiting hostile rhetoric towards Vaiṣṇavsim. In the early Śaiva myths of the Purāṇa, Śiva acts directly and only later does he emerge theologically buffered by his gaṇas. Particularly in the later materials, such “distancing” marks a theological distinction between Śiva and Viṣṇu: whereas the avatāras of Viṣṇu appear and act directly in the world, the gaṇas act as Śiva’s buffer.

This is consistent with a broader pattern, evident within the Śaiva Purāṇa corpus, where sectarian concerns are increasingly highlighted—particularly with reference to the dominance of Śaiva avatāras over Vaiṣṇava avatāras (Granoff 2004, p. 132). Although both the independent Śiva Purāṇa and the Śatarudra-saṃhitā circulated as part of the Śivapurāṇa tradition from different periods, their writers’ approach to Narasiṃha, Viṣṇu, and Vaiṣṇavism differ dramatically. The independent text asserts a voice of fluid interaction similarly found in the early Skandapurāṇa in a landscape that its writers saw as growing divided between Śaivism and Vaiṣṇavism.

4. Conclusions

Communities of kinship and rivalry pattern the Hindu landscape often with discernment and purpose, making the landscape bend to the imagination of one god’s followers over another. This dynamic has been well explored in the topography of traditions, especially in the North, along with their vivid intersection of scripture (Bisschop 2006; Cecil 2020). Scripture becomes the guide-map of the pilgrimage spaces before cartography and its variegated forms—the digital landscape in the modern world.

Scripture is not just the Google Maps of the ancient world, however, but often relates stories of accomplishments, spiritual and material attainments—miracle tales and tales of conversion—cosmogonic realignments and sacrifices. There is pain and even rage—stories coming from beneath and on the ground. Religious kinships of community can be imbedded within the surface of scripture, even when places are named or theologies articulated. It is in this sense that we might speak of a “double existence.”

In discussing the Purāṇas as scripture, Greg Bailey highlights the idea of “five fundamental cosmogonic and cosmological topics” (Bailey 2017, p. 5). The topics were laid out in a 6th century lexicon by Amarakośa reflective of an imaginary ideal adhered to by storytellers and theologians alike. So naturally no text ever conforms to it (Rocher 1986, pp. 24–27).30 Indeed, cosmogony is a heuristic posture, imaginary, and often from a singular source. We learn details about which God ascends an ontological ladder, containing or agitating (designing) the universe along with the aspirations of an imagined follower. Bailey later clarifies and carefully employs a quote from James Liszka’s summation of “myth” as a counterpoint to the early Medieval rhetoric. Liszka states:

“[M]yths are not simply a window through which one views those values; however, they also provide a set of lenses which focus, invert, distort, obscure, and distance the culture of which the myth is a part[. M]yths are not merely a passive representation of cultural life; rather they are reflexive, in the sense that the cultural participants also view their own culture through the spectacles of myth (Liszka 1989, p. 181; Bailey 2017, pp. 86–87).”

In other words, cultural kinships have agency in the historical content of their own scripture and its distortion—the “myth.” This is an object looking back at its observer—a resounding “double existence.”

The Man-Lion story as it appears in the Śiva Purāṇa tradition is typically thought of and analyzed as an example of late sectarian rivalry and violence between two distinct devotional traditions Vaiṣṇava and Śaiva (Granoff 2004, pp. 118–19). However, our independent Śaiva text presents a more refined, moderate and complex institutional environment—one certainly with friction and modest rivalry but ultimately with close kinship ties and a shared pool of new ideas regarding the nature of the divine, a henotheistic relationship. Writers from both traditions drew on concepts like the avatāra doctrine as well as considered the fluid nature of godly and demonic rage. The results of this complicated theological landscape led to different kinds of responses. None are a facile reading of sectarian rivalry.31

With respect to the early Skanda Purāṇa Granoff states that through

“[S]tories of the Śarabha and the Boar incarnation we should see more than Śaiva sectarian efforts to discredit popular Vaiṣṇava cults. These stories may also be read as betraying a more fundamental hesitation on the part of our Śaiva author with the Vaiṣṇava doctrine of avatāras, particularly the animal avatāras. I would like to go a step further to suggest that the text shows us a complicated religious environment in which the boundaries between the divine and demonic were changing, where characters who are divine in one story are demonic in another, and where cult sites often preserve the names of characters who figure most prominently in lists of the demons (137).”

In my view, a similar perspective is found in the independent Śiva Purāṇa. This Śaiva-Vaiṣṇava story and the framing verse for the whole of the Purāṇa are dedicated to the Man-Lion, though it is later redacted from the Śatarudra-saṃhitā. This latter work is indebted to the Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa, the independent Śiva Purāṇa as has been shown elsewhere. This provides further evidence for the chronology of the two (Hazra 1985, pp. 261–62, 275–76; Fleming 2007, pp. 170–71; Kotler 2025, p. 42). Indeed, there are 21 ślokas that indicate this dependence. These parallels are spread out between chapters 58 and 60 and make clear the dependence of the Śatarudra-saṃhitā on our text.

At some point, more aggressive theological positions were asserted with the later parts of the Śiva Purāṇa, perhaps trying to assert a greater theological dominance, and attracting more followers or the like. However, the prolonged and long-term circulation of this story in its older material form via the Jñāna-prakaraṇa-nirūpaṇa is more telling. These institutional impulses of kinship never truly went away nor were they suppressed as witnessed by the manuscript evidence. It was not really until the time of the printing of the Class B text, during the colonial era, that our text became obscured and nearly forgotten. The Class A text, despite efforts to bring our text to light as the first saṃhitā of an imagined, cosmogonic Śiva Mahāpurāṇa, was never breathed new life in the age of print and digital media.

What is particularly salient about the constant circulation of this work into the modern era is that, while a sea of extreme sectarian literature arose around it, this work was nonetheless widely circulated and translated and kept more of an ecumenical stance within the broader Hindu cosmopolis and as it may have influenced and potentially inspired intersection with other cultural and religious communities, such as those adjacent to and impacted by Mughal governance and later as valuable religious plunder under British hegemony.