The Sun’s Secret Life in Myth and Practice

Written by Aishwarya V

You know that feeling when you step into the warm embrace of the sun on a cold day? It instantly lifts your mood and feels like life itself returning to the body, while your dullness seems to be burning away. The sun plays such an important role in our lives regulating our activities, mood and body functions (including hunger).

For thousands of years, the Sun has been at the center of all religions and spiritual practices because we’ve understood that our planet and everything on it derives its sustenance from the Sun. We have personified it to inspire awe and reverence, worshipped its qualities, and spun intricate tales around it. Ancient solar myths from African, Siberian, and Australian traditions speak of the sun’s emergence, disappearance, return, and even the destruction of excess suns when their power became overwhelming. The sun was understood as something that moves, travels, and must be regulated for life to continue.

In Indo-European thought, the sun journeys across the sky in a chariot drawn by horses, completing its daily passage from horizon to horizon. This imagery appears vividly in Indian iconography, where Surya rides a chariot harnessed by seven horses—symbolising the seven chandas (metres of the Vedas). Elsewhere, the same idea takes different forms: the hundred-oared solar ship of Surya in the Rig Veda, the golden boat of Saulė in Baltic mythology, and the golden bowl of Helios in Greek lore. Archaeological evidence of solar boats appears across Bronze Age Europe, and even earlier in Neolithic and Mesolithic rock carvings. Across geographies, the message is consistent: the sun carries life by moving.

The earliest visual depictions of Surya riding his chariot appear in India around the early centuries BCE—on the Buddhist railings of the Mahabodhi Temple at Bodhgaya, in the Bhaja caves, and in the Jain caves of Khandagiri. These images closely resemble depictions of Helios on Greco-Bactrian coinage, suggesting a shared symbolic language across cultures.

In the Indian tradition, Surya is not merely a celestial body but Atma Jagatah—the one who awakens the soul. If you’ve ever moved through suryanamaskara and wondered who you are bowing to, mythology offers layered answers.

One such story features Hanuman as a child. Seeing the rising sun as a ripe mango, he leaps to eat it, driven by hunger and innocence. Indra strikes him down in fear, Vayu halts the winds in protest, and the cosmos slips into imbalance until Hanuman is healed and blessed. This is not just a playful tale. In yogic symbolism, the sun represents wisdom and illumination, and Hanuman’s leap reflects the seeker’s raw hunger for knowledge. Later, Hanuman becomes Surya’s student, flying backward each day to face his teacher—because the sun never stops moving. Learning, the story reminds us, demands effort and constancy.

Another myth from the Markandeya Purana explores solar intensity in relationships. Surya’s wife, Sanjna, overwhelmed by his relentless brilliance, creates a shadow double and retreats into the forest to meditate. Only after Surya’s radiance is reduced—literally shaved down by Vishwakarma—can their relationship be sustained. Even the sun, the myth suggests, must learn moderation.

These stories point us inward. In Hatha Yoga, the body is understood as a system of polar forces: Ha (sun) and Tha (moon). Pingala Nadi, flowing along the right side of the body, governs heat, digestion, willpower, and action. This “inner sun” resides in the solar plexus. When it is weak, we feel lethargic and unmotivated. When it burns too hot, we become restless and reactive. Yoga is not about amplifying solar energy endlessly, but about balancing it with its cooling counterpart.

This is why suryanamaskara traditionally honours twelve aspects of the sun, the Adityas. Each round acknowledges a different quality—from Mitra, the gentle morning sun, to Bhaskara, the illuminator. As you move through the sequence, you meet different expressions of sun within yourself.

The next time you practise, or simply feel sunlight on your skin, remember this: in these traditions, the sun is not a distant god. He is a teacher who keeps moving, a force that must be moderated, and a companion who returns each morning without fail. Yoga, in this sense, is a way of aligning with the rhythm that holds the universe together.