If I asked you to picture the world in the eyes of the ancient sages, what would the pillars holding the sky look like? In the heart of the Puranas, that answer was always a mountain. Sacred peaks weren’t just spectacular rocks but cosmic scaffolding. Each summit became a living metaphor—binding earth, heaven, and the subtle regions in between. It fascinates me how the seven mountains described in these old texts form the backbone of myth, offering blueprints for spiritual thinking, natural order, and human striving.

Let’s start with Mount Meru, which every child brought up on Hindu mythology learns is the axis mundi—the cosmic axis. What’s remarkable is how Meru unites the tangible with the intangible. Imagine a mountain whose crown gleams with gold, whose roots run deep through the underworld, and whose slopes house gods, serpents, and mystical beings. Is this a place, or is it a way of seeing the universe as fundamentally connected, every layer bonded to another? Meru is a map in allegory form. It’s not just the center of geography, but the axis around which all cosmic law revolves. One surprising nugget: the concept of Meru penetrates architecture far beyond India. Medieval pagodas in Southeast Asia were modeled on Meru’s multi-tiered design, viewing the building itself as a sacred ascent toward the divine.

“The mountains are calling and I must go.” – John Muir

From the navel of the universe, let’s move to Kailash—Shiva’s eternal home. Ask any pilgrim what it means to walk the kora, the circumambulation, around Kailash, and they’ll likely talk about silence, humility, and an overwhelming sense of presence. Kailash is so sacred that climbing its peak is forbidden. Even the thought of conquest is taboo, which upends the usual human urge to “scale heights.” Instead, the journey is in the circling itself. Have you ever wondered why Ravana, the demon king, tried to lift Kailash? The story isn’t just about brute strength but about the arrogance that comes from forgetting one’s place in the universe. His eventual defeat and entrapment beneath the mountain whisper a lesson: some powers are not meant to be mastered, only revered.

Do you ever think about the collaboration hidden inside mythic struggle? Mount Mandara stands as proof that even rivals can come together when the stakes are cosmic. In the “churning of the ocean,” gods and demons took opposite sides to use Mandara as a gigantic churner, hoping to extract the nectar of immortality. The story is chaotic, filled with setbacks and surprises—poison emerging before nectar, the need for a stabilizing tortoise beneath the mountain, the cooperation that follows conflict. Sometimes the greatest treasures appear only when old foes join hands. Aren’t there echoes of this in real-world science, politics, and art, where breakthroughs depend on combining competing energies?

“Mountains teach that not everything in this world can be rationally explained.” – Aleksander Lwow

There’s a humility in worship, which is perhaps why Mount Govardhan’s story feels so grounded. Unlike the remote peaks occupied by gods, Govardhan is a hill, not even a mountain by modern standards. Yet when Krishna raises it on his finger to shelter an entire village, the act moves devotion from the heavens to earth. This shift is radical—suddenly, the divine invites communal celebration, and miracles happen on your doorstep. I find it fascinating that even today, thousands of pilgrims walk the 21-kilometer path around Govardhan, emphasizing collective faith over private asceticism. What does it mean that a small hill became the fulcrum of such massive transformation in religious thought?

Have you ever considered the wisdom in restraint? The Vindhya range once grew so tall it threatened the passage of the sun. It took Agastya, the sage, to teach the mountain the grace of limitation. When Agastya asked the Vindhyas to lower themselves so he could pass to the south, they did so—and, faithfully, never grew again. This isn’t just myth; it’s a meditation on how power without pause becomes dangerous. You might ask yourself: when has stepping back created more balance in your life than pressing forward?

“Climb the mountain so you can see the world, not so the world can see you.” – David McCullough Jr.

Mahendra’s story turns the focus from cosmic drama to individual daring. Picture Hanuman, the monkey-god, standing poised on the summit, ready to leap over the ocean itself to reach Lanka. The odds are impossible, his mission urgent—yet Mahendra becomes the springboard for what appears unthinkable. There’s an unspoken power in beginnings; every leap starts with faith, no matter how vast the gap. Sometimes mountains are not just obstacles but launch points for courage.

Malaya is different from the rest. Famous for its sandalwood forests, its identity is softer, more fragrant. Yet, in the Puranas, Malaya is the birthplace of new understandings. Sage Agastya is said to have brought knowledge from Malaya to the south, carrying with him stories, rituals, and scientific insights. The mountain thus becomes a bridge, a source of cultural diffusion. Isn’t it curious that ecological abundance—sandalwood, herbs, rare plants—often signifies a mountain’s place in the spiritual landscape? The link between biodiversity and spiritual fertility is a thread we see across ancient traditions.

Why do these seven mountains continue to matter? Partly because they remind us that the land beneath our feet carries memory, myth, and meaning. In a world obsessed with the virtual and intangible, mountains remain the last outposts of solidity—anchors that remind us of limits, possibilities, and cycles. There’s also a psychological dimension; when faced with uncertainty, many of us imagine a “mountain” inside—something unmoving, a still point in chaos. The Puranas externalize this human need for stability in their geography of the sacred.

One less-talked-about aspect is how these peaks act as thresholds. Each mountain sits at a border: Meru between realms, Kailash between mortal and divine, Mandara between adversaries, Govardhan between heaven and earth, Vindhya between north and south, Mahendra between hesitation and action, Malaya between regions and streams of knowledge. Crossing a mountain in these stories is almost never just a journey through space; it’s a rite of passage, a metaphysical evolution. How often do our own challenges act as thresholds, requiring us to cross through difficulty into new states of being?

Here’s another angle: when the Puranas mapped the world, mountains functioned as mnemonic devices for teaching moral lessons. They are not just backdrops for myth but characters with agency. Meru demonstrates equilibrium, Kailash—detachment, Mandara—cooperation, Govardhan—faith, Vindhya—humility, Mahendra—resolve, Malaya—wisdom. Each summit is a teacher, its lesson encoded in story, ritual, and even ecology.

There are also intriguing cross-cultural echoes. The Tibetan and Bon traditions, for example, revere Kailash and Meru, infusing them with layers of meaning. Chinese and Southeast Asian cosmologies also reference a central mountain, sometimes visualized as a pagoda—a concept adopted from Indic models. Even the ancient Greeks had their own Mount Olympus, and the Norse, their Yggdrasil (the World Tree)—all serving as vertical connections between domains of existence. Isn’t it fascinating how these cultures converged on the need for a cosmic pillar?

“Somewhere between the bottom of the climb and the summit is the answer to the mystery why we climb.” – Greg Child

Let’s not forget the physical reality these myths conceal. These mountains are real, places you can visit, circumambulate, and touch. Yet, their spiritual weight transforms them from geography into a topography of the soul. When I think of pilgrims circling Kailash or Govardhan—clockwise and always with respect—I see more than piety. I see a procession that echoes the shape of the cosmos itself: cyclical, intentional, mindful. This way, myth and practice fuse, keeping tradition alive not just in words but in footsteps.

Our relationship with mountains in the Puranas is complex and layered. They are at once teachers, obstacles, bridges, and abodes. They challenge us to grow, to restrain, to leap, to listen, and to share. In a quiet way, they offer one of the oldest forms of environmental awareness: treating the land as sacred, not as a commodity but as a participant in the ongoing drama of creation.

Perhaps that’s the greatest lesson these ancient peaks have to give us today. In honoring their stories, we remember our place—not rulers of nature, but fellow travelers. And maybe, as we tread their slopes—real or symbolic—we’re invited to carry their wisdom a little further. After all, don’t we all seek a summit, some vantage point from which the world’s chaos resolves, if only for a moment, into something enduring and true?