How Shiva's Rage Improved My Quad StreNgth

February 25, 2025

They say when in Rome, do as the Romans do. And when in Ubud? Well, you do yoga. A lot of yoga. It’s practically a civic duty. So, despite not being a particularly devout yogi (unless you count my ability to hold a deep savasana for an unreasonably long time), I found myself signing up for a five-pack of yoga classes at the Alchemy Yoga and Meditation Center. The place was right across the street from where we were staying, an oasis of bamboo and floating incense, so I figured the universe was nudging me toward enlightenment—or at least toward slightly looser hamstrings.

One morning, I rolled into class half-awake, expecting the usual sun salutations and gentle reminders to “find my breath.” Instead, our instructor, Kim, greeted us with a story. She spoke of Shiva, the wild, ascetic god of destruction, and Sati, his devoted wife. Their love was fierce, cosmic, and, as it turned out, doomed. Sati’s father, Daksha, disapproved of Shiva’s untamed ways and staged a grand yajna (fire sacrifice), pointedly not inviting his daughter or divine son-in-law. Undeterred, Sati showed up anyway, only to witness her father publicly insult Shiva. Heartbroken and unable to bear the disgrace, she immolated herself in the fire, an act so dramatic that even the most intense vinyasa class paled in comparison.

Kim wove this myth into our practice, transforming our yoga mats into battlefields of devotion and destruction. As we moved into Warrior II, she told us that these were the very warriors Shiva unleashed in his grief and rage to destroy Daksha’s ceremony. My quads burned in solidarity. Moving through Utkatasana, or chair pose, she noted that this represented Sati’s unwavering stance—her steadfastness in love and belief. I tried to channel that strength, though my shaking thighs suggested otherwise.

We flowed through the session, each posture carrying an echo of the tale. As we melted into Camel Pose, Kim described Shiva’s devastation after Sati’s death, how he carried her lifeless body through the cosmos in mourning. My own backbend felt less like cosmic grief and more like an alarming creak in my lower spine, but I appreciated the poetry of it all.

By the time we reached Savasana, the pose of ultimate surrender, Kim whispered the story’s resolution. Shiva, after destroying Daksha’s ritual, retreated into isolation, withdrawing from the world. But Sati, ever devoted, was reborn as Parvati and once again sought Shiva, proving that love—and possibly yoga—transcends time and suffering.

Lying there, incense curling through the air, I realized that this practice, these movements, were more than just exercise. They were stories made flesh, mythology woven into muscle and breath. And maybe, just maybe, in that moment of stillness, I understood why the Ubudians did so much yoga.

Or at least I understood that I needed a coconut water and a nap. Enlightenment can wait.