Navratri Circus

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘦-𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘦-𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘵.

Navaratri, once about fasting, silence, and devotion, is now lost in shopping, noise, and spectacle. The true goddess still waits within us — in simplicity and quiet strength. Understand this and 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢.

---

1. 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐒𝐚𝐝𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

Once upon a time, Navaratri meant simplicity:

eating less to purify,

music and dance to express devotion,

silence to listen to the goddess within.

Today, malls announce “Navaratri Super Sale.”

Women rush for nine sarees in nine colours.

Credit cards sweat harder than the devotees.

The goddess Durga is invoked not in chants, but in the swiping sound of machines.

---

2. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰

Garba was once a circle — symbol of life, death, and rebirth.

Feet struck the earth in rhythm, reminding us of our bond with soil.

Now?

Stadiums hired.

DJs flown in from Mumbai.

Corporate sponsors paste logos across Durga’s backdrop.

Liquor, soft drinks, and fast-food stalls earn more devotion than bhajans.

Dance is no longer about circle and surrender.

It’s a selfie contest.

Instagram reels decide the goddess of the night.

---

3. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬

Every pandal is a battleground.

Not of Mahishasura and Durga.

But of local politicians competing for visibility.

Bigger idols = bigger votes.

Louder speakers = more attention.

Free food packets = silent election campaigns.

Durga is reduced to a mascot in the festival of power.

---

4. 𝐅𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

Our grandmothers fasted — fruits, water, and prayers.

It was a reset for the body, a spiritual discipline.

Today?

“Fasting specials” at restaurants: paneer butter masala without onion-garlic, fried sabudana vadas, and colas labelled “fasting-friendly.”

Calories triple, piety drops to zero.

Spiritual cleansing outsourced to Zomato delivery.

---

5. 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

Navaratri is no longer done at home.

It is “outsourced.”

Priests on-call with “express packages.”

LED screens for bhajans.

Pooja samagri kits delivered via Amazon Prime.

Devotion has become a subscription model.

---

6. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬

Urban middle class wants “grandeur.”

What do we get instead?

Traffic nightmares around pandals.

Noise pollution till 2 AM.

Schoolchildren forced to study with headphones on.

Stray dogs going mad from cracker blasts.

Durga meant “protector of dharma.”

Today she is forced to witness dharma broken every night in her name.

---

7. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐬

Beneath all the glitter and noise, something precious slips away.

The inner stillness Navaratri was designed for.

The connection with food, body, and nature.

The collective intimacy of small neighbourhood rituals.

The children learning meaning — now replaced by children learning costume reels.

We celebrate the goddess outside, but forget the goddess within.

---

8. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬

And so, the Navaratri of today is:

Nine nights of lights, shopping, and Instagram.

Nine nights of traffic, food stalls, and political banners.

Nine nights of exhaustion, not meditation.

A 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬.

Where Durga herself would probably look down and ask —

“Were you worshipping me?

Or entertaining yourselves in my name?”

---

---

---

𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢 𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬

– a dialogue with Madhukar

It was early morning when the family reached Yelmadagi.

They had driven down from Bidar, the old essay folded neatly in Appa’s bag — “Navaratri Circus,” read aloud more than once during the ride, Ajji nodding and sighing at certain lines, Amma biting her lip in thought, the children silent in ways their parents could not quite read.

The mud track to Madhukar’s off-grid homestead was still wet from last night’s dew. Fields stretched out golden, dotted with trees, and the air was raw with the smell of earth and woodsmoke. Roosters crowed somewhere behind a wall of neem.

They arrived in the kind of hush that comes after long travel: dust on their feet, questions in their hearts. Ajji walked slow but steady, her saree tucked just above the ankles. Amma carried a small cloth bag of fruits — the habit of never going empty-handed. Appa looked for a place to put down the thermos. The Son, phone in hand, glanced quickly at the signal bar and frowned. The Daughter, by contrast, tilted her head upward, staring at the pale light climbing the tamarind trees.

Madhukar came out of the house barefoot, his kurta loose, hair carrying the trace of ash from the morning fire. He greeted them without hurry, as if arrivals should be absorbed, not rushed. He ushered them to the verandah, where a charpai and a low wooden table waited.

Inside, a clay pot simmered quietly. He had been steeping Mother Simarouba Kashaya since dawn — a bitter, earthy drink made from leaves that healed, strengthened, and cleansed. He poured it slowly into brass tumblers, the steam carrying a fragrance that was sharp yet grounding, halfway between neem and forest rain.

One by one, he handed the cups — first to Ajji, who accepted with both hands, then Amma and Appa, then the children. The Son sniffed suspiciously, the Daughter smiled curiously.

“This is not tea,” Madhukar said with warmth, “it is older than tea. Mother Simarouba is a healer. Let her bitterness clean your tongue, and her strength wake your body.”

They sat together in silence for a few minutes, sipping the dark drink. The bitterness gave way to a strange calm. The morning felt fuller, their questions heavier, their presence more rooted.

And thus the dialogue was ready to begin.

---

---

Ajji: You wrote that Navaratri has become a circus. I felt hurt. Why use such a harsh word?

Madhukar (gently): Ajji, I did not write it to insult the festival. I wrote it to shake us awake. A circus is dazzling, noisy, entertaining — but empty inside. That is what our nine nights are turning into. The devotion has not gone, but it is buried under glitter and commerce. By naming it, I wanted us to see what we have lost — the quiet, the fasting, the stillness.

---

Amma: But what is wrong in people selling sarees, food, jewellery? They also need to live. If they earn during festivals, isn’t it good?

Madhukar (clarifying): Earning is not wrong, Amma. What matters is the balance. When a festival becomes only about buying, the centre shifts. Earlier, trade was a side note — lamps, flowers, simple food. Now the market has swallowed the meaning. The saree sale has become the goddess; the discount replaces the devotion. I am not against people earning. I am saying: let the trade remain in its place, and let the essence of Navaratri — cleansing, reflection, togetherness — come back to the centre.

---

Appa: Dandiya nights are full of music and joy. Isn’t that a good thing? Children feel happy. Why call it fake?

Madhukar (smiling): Joy is beautiful, Appa. Dancing together is beautiful. But today’s dandiya is not the old circle of rhythm and surrender. It has become a stage of competition — disco lights, sponsors, selfie contests. Real joy is free, it humbles you, it connects you with others. Manufactured joy is exhausting; it leaves you emptier than before. I am not saying stop dancing. I am saying — dance without the noise, without the DJ, without the cameras. Dance to feel, not to be seen.

---

Son: But reels and selfies are harmless. We just capture memories. Why so serious?

Madhukar (compassionate, but firm): Beta, I know it feels harmless. But think — when every memory is captured, you stop living the moment. The phone eats the experience. Tomorrow when you look back, you will remember the photo, not the feeling. That is why I worry. Festivals should live in your breath and your body — not just in the cloud.

---

Daughter: I like dressing up. Bright colours, bangles, all that. Is that wrong?

Madhukar (softly): No, kanna, dressing up is not wrong. Colours have always been part of our tradition. What matters is the reason. If you dress to honour the goddess, it uplifts you. If you dress only to collect likes, it empties you. The same act can be worship or vanity. What I ask is — don’t lose the worship inside the vanity.

---

Ajji: In my days, fasting meant fruits, water, silence. Now we see “fasting thalis” fried in oil, delivery apps offering “fasting combos.” What has happened?

Madhukar: You are right, Ajji. Fasting was never about fancy food. It was about discipline, cleansing the body and calming the mind. But today it has been flipped into a feast. People eat more calories while claiming to fast. We have lost the purpose. If we can bring back simple fasting — just fruits, water, or light meals — we will feel the old clarity again.

---

Amma: And these politicians! They use pandals for votes. Is it really so wrong if at least the village gets free food or roads?

Madhukar: Amma, yes, sometimes good comes from it. But let us be honest — the goddess is being used. Free food today becomes vote tomorrow. It is not devotion, it is strategy. True service is quiet, without banners, without speeches. What we see now is theatre, not seva. When politics and piety mix, the goddess becomes a campaign poster. That is dangerous — for religion and for democracy.

---

Appa: So, what should we do? We cannot stop malls or politicians. We are just one family.

Madhukar (clarifying patiently): You don’t need to stop the world, Appa. Just reclaim your corner of it. In your house, decide how you want to live Navaratri. Keep it small, keep it honest. Fewer lights, fewer purchases, more stories, more silence. Invite neighbours for a simple gathering — no speakers, no banners. When ten homes do it, a community forms. Change begins from the ground, not the mall.

---

Daughter: Can we keep our bright clothes, but sit and sing together at home? Maybe one night of silence too?

Madhukar (warmly): That is the most beautiful start, kanna. Wear your colours. Dance if you want. But do it in your home, with song and with stillness. Let silence enter at least one night. That silence will teach more than a hundred speakers.

---

Son (hesitant): But people will laugh. They will say we are boring, old-fashioned.

Madhukar: Let them laugh, beta. Every seed looks small, even ridiculous, before it becomes a tree. You are not boring — you are brave. The world does not change by applause; it changes by stubbornness in the right direction.

---

Ajji (sighing): So the goddess is not outside then, she is inside?

Madhukar (soft and clear): Yes, Ajji. The goddess outside is a symbol, a reminder. The true Durga is inside — your courage, your clarity, your restraint, your compassion. If we don’t awaken her within, the biggest pandal is still empty.

---

The family sits still. The morning has risen to full light. Each one carries away not arguments but clarifications, not rules but a sense of direction.

Ajji decides to tell her granddaughter the real story of fasting.

Amma resolves to call two neighbours for a silent night.

Appa says he will keep the pandal small this year.

The Son, reluctantly but sincerely, puts his phone down.

The Daughter promises to dance in colours, but without cameras.

And Madhukar smiles, knowing the circus outside may not end tomorrow — but inside this family, a beginning has already taken root.

---

---

---

𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢 𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬

– a poem for the Consumer Devotee

you wake up in the city

and the goddess is already

a discount banner,

a SALE in red letters,

nine sarees for nine nights,

zero cost EMI.

your Ajji remembers fasting

on fruit, on silence,

watching lamps dance in clay bowls.

now your Amma fights in a mall line

for a silk blouse,

swiping cards like they were mantras.

the gods are patient,

they don’t shout,

but the DJ does.

stadiums burn with neon,

garba is drowned in bass drops.

the circle once meant life-death-rebirth.

now it means

selfies, reels,

sponsorships from soda companies,

free entry with Pepsi cap.

the son laughs,

“come on, Appa,

this is fun.

this is new India.”

but the phone glows brighter

than the diya.

---

the pandal is bigger this year.

always bigger.

steel frames, LED walls,

louder speakers.

politicians shake hands in the name of Durga.

free laddus, free promises,

free votes.

Durga doesn’t need your votes.

but she becomes a backdrop anyway.

a stage prop

for men who wear white kurtas

and forget her

once the drums stop.

---

fasting?

you mean feasting.

sabudana vadas fried in oil,

paneer butter masala without onion-garlic,

“fasting combos” on Zomato.

three times the calories,

half the meaning.

Ajji’s thin hunger,

her body lighter,

her mind steady as a flame—

forgotten.

---

priests now work like event managers.

choose your package:

basic, premium, VIP.

express darshan in 20 minutes.

QR codes for blessings.

delivery boys bringing puja kits.

faith arrives with free shipping.

---

the city roars.

traffic locked at midnight.

kids study with headphones on.

dogs howl at the crackers.

the sick roll in their beds.

the goddess looks down

from ten feet high

and sees disorder in her own name.

---

the daughter loves her bangles.

the mirror loves her back.

she doesn’t know if she is praying or posing.

maybe both.

maybe neither.

---

the son shoots another reel.

music, lights, friends in costume.

thirty seconds of borrowed joy.

memories shrink into the feed.

when he is fifty,

he will remember the filter

but not the beat of his own feet.

---

this is Navaratri now.

a circus.

nine nights of neon devotion,

nine nights of traffic,

nine nights of exhaustion.

we once sat in circles,

sang without microphones,

ate little,

danced to touch the soil.

we once believed fasting was a fire

that burned greed,

not a thali delivered in foil.

we once built pandals with bamboo,

not politics.

we once knew the goddess

was inside.

---

but now,

we have consumer devotees.

you, me, all of us.

buying our way into holiness,

hiring priests like DJs,

measuring joy in likes,

worshipping the goddess

as long as she sells.

---

and yet,

a seed remains.

Ajji whispers stories to her granddaughter.

Amma says one night of silence might heal.

Appa wants to shrink the pandal,

make it small,

make it human.

the daughter says,

“i will sing at home,

even if nobody hears.”

the son says,

“maybe i’ll switch off my phone tonight.”

---

this is not the end.

the goddess waits.

not in the mall,

not in the stadium,

not in the pandal

sponsored by netas.

she waits

in the stillness

between two breaths.

she waits

in the hunger

of a simple fast.

she waits

in the silence

that is louder than the circus.

---

so dance if you must,

buy if you must,

scroll if you must—

but know this:

the circus ends

when the consumer stops being the devotee,

and the devotee remembers

the goddess is not for sale.

---

---

---