Navaratri Special: An Ode To The Empress Of Bharat

O Mother, no throne in Bharat ever stood by its own might.

Kings may have wielded sword and sceptre, but above them glimmered the unseen crown, the crown that only the Mother bestows.

O Durga, you are not merely Mahishasuramardini, the destroyer of demons. You are Rajarajeshwari, Empress of the Three Worlds, the Queen of Queens, the silent arbiter of sovereignty.

When the dust of war settled, when the diadem was raised, it was to your sanctum that rulers went, trembling and grateful, to ask: “Am I worthy to sit upon your throne?”

Your presence stitched together the scattered thrones of India. From the delta of Bengal to the stone-pillared halls of the Cholas, from the hills of Mysore to the tribal forests of Bastar, your name was whispered as crown and covenant.

O Chandi, O Devkali!

Slayer of Raktabija, drinker of blood, Kuladevi of Raghukula, eternal guardian of Ram himself.

It was Ram, scion of Ikshvaku, who bowed before you in the forest’s silence, who raised your altar with trembling hands, who invoked you with thousand lotuses of his heart.

When the thousandth lotus was missing, he laid down his very eye in your honour.

Blessed by your glance, he marched into Lanka, and by your grace alone was Ravana slain.

Thus, O Devi, Durga Puja itself is Ram’s own creation, a festival born not of victory alone, but of your power that gave victory its shape.

O Ambaji, Kuladevi of Krishna!
Dwelling in the arid hills of Gujarat, your temple rose as lamp in the desert wind.

You guarded the Yadavas, and in later days the Solankis, Vaghelas and later, Rajput pride that turned to your shrine.

Even as Gujarat’s kings took sword and crown, they carried you in their heart, knowing no rule could stand without the Mother’s shadow.

O Rajarajeshwari, it was Rajaraja Chola, the oceanic king, who built in granite the hymn of his devotion.

The gopuram of Tanjore was no monument to his pride, but your eternal palace.

The bronzes that gleamed in lamp-light, the hymns that surged like waves in Tamil land, all bore your seal, O Mother!

You were the sovereign, the Empress, whose radiance lent gravity to his crown, whose shadow gave coolness to his empire.

O Viraja, mighty Mother of Odisha!
It was your wrath that gave Kharavela strength, the lion of Kalinga whose arrows carried your sanction across the land.

The soil of Kalinga drank not only the sweat of warriors, but your blessing, O supreme Rajarajeshwari, who transforms devotion into courage, whose gaze turns mortals into instruments of dharma.

O Danteshwari of Bastar!
Here you did not wait in marble halls or granite towers for kings to bow before you.

You came forth yourself, borne on the shoulders of your tribes, carried in palanquin, swaying through forest paths.

It was you who chose the ruler, who marked his brow with vermilion, who whispered, unseen yet absolute: This one shall wear the crown, that one shall not.

No throne in Bastar was inherited, no rajya claimed by birthright.

The king ruled only if your red mark, fierce as blood, burned on his forehead.

O Tripurasundari, jewel of the hills, Mother of the Manikyas!
Every coronation, every conquest, every law pronounced in court was first an offering at your feet.

You were the sovereign queen of Tripura, the Shodashi whose beauty is power, the tender one who blesses, the terrible one who commands.

No crown could glitter, no throne could stand, unless you, seated in crimson splendour, permitted it.

O Pampa Devi, when Vijayanagar rose upon the Tungabhadra, it was not mere fortress, but throne for your lotus feet.

Krishnadevaraya sang your praise as poet, as warrior, as son.

Each Navaratri, the empire bent as one in your worship.

And when the storm of invaders swept down, burning, desecrating, breaking stone and spirit, you, O Mother, stood unbroken.

The last great Hindu empire held its ground beneath your banner.

O Chamundi of Mysore!
When Vijayanagar fell, you merely shifted your throne.

On Chamundi Hills your temple rose like fortress of faith.

The Wodeyars dared not begin their reign without bowing before your gaze.

Mysore Dussehra was no spectacle of pride, elephants and gold, all but reaffirmation that you, O Chamundi, still reigned.

O Kamakhya, mother of blood and birth!
Upon the Nilachal Hills, you sit enthroned, and the land bends beneath your crimson gaze.

From your womb flowed the lifeblood of kings, the courage of warriors, the pulse of dynasties.

It was under your eyes that Narakasura was slain by Krishna.

No foe could stand, no army triumph, for the Mother herself strode with her warriors.

The waters of Saraighat ran red with the blood of invaders, Mughal heads offered at your altar, proof that Assam was unconquerable, for the Goddess reigned there.

O Bhavani of the Deccan!
It was your blessing that crowned Shivaji, not man nor priest, but your sovereign will alone.

In your presence, the sword shone not as the king’s, but as your own arm.

Through you, Swarajya was born.

When Sambhaji was chained and tortured, your strength coursed through him, and the flame of freedom blazed still.

Through Baji Rao, your storm swept north, your saffron flag unfurled atop the fort of Delhi, announcing to the world: Dharma endures, Swarajya rises, for the Mother walks with her sons.

O Durga, O Chandi of the East!
Where your puja became a festival without peer, where the beating of dhaks was thunder of your arrival, where the conch shells roared like oceans of devotion.

After Plassey’s thunder, Nabakrishna Deb enthroned you at Shobhabazar.

Chandeliers, silk canopies, British officers in pandals, yet through the mingling of conquest and display, you remained the only true Queen of Bengal.

For in every Kumartuli clay, in every artisan’s careful stroke, your eyes opened bright and terrible: The treasury may lie in foreign hands, but I alone rule the spirit.

O Bhadrakali, Boro Maa of Bengal!
When Jinnah’s mobs rained terror on Direct Action Day, you rose from Calcutta’s bloodied streets.

You stood in the alleyways, fierce-eyed, protecting hearth and home.

In secret whispers across Bangladesh, in Hinglaj’s desert shrine of Pakistan, in Sharada’s silent ruins of Kashmir, your devotees still call you.

Arise, O Mother, for your children await.

Kings rose and fell, empires swelled and broke, palaces were plundered, temples desecrated, banners burned to ash. Yet through it all, you remained.

You need no thrones, for mountains are your seat.
You need no armies, for the rivers march at your command.
You need no coronations, for the stars themselves form your crown.

It was you who whispered to Shivaji that Swarajya was her gift.
You who steadied the sword-arm of the Wodeyars of Mysore.
You who lit the lamp in Vijayanagar, who bled through Kamakhya, who reigned in Bengal’s pandals.

And today, though crowns and sceptres are cast aside, though kings are gone and republics rise, still you reign.

Arise, O Mother! Arise, O Durga!
Take back your land, defend your people, for Bharata is not a republic of men, but a civilisation of the Goddess.

O Devi, Mother of Mothers, you are Bharat Mata herself.

When Narendra Modi bows before you, he does not speak as a mere Prime Minister.

He stands as the chosen son of Durga, the vessel of your will in this age.

Through him, your command resounds once more, that India is not merely a state, but your eternal shakti made flesh.

The sceptre in Delhi’s new Parliament hall, the chants of Bharat Mata ki Jai, the offerings in temples, all are reaffirmations of your eternal power.

All power flows from you; all dharma rises at your behest; all survival, all triumph, is your gift.

Even in the age of machines and markets, when nations crumble and empires vanish like smoke, you endure.

O Devi, the eternal sovereign, the womb and weapon, the Queen who makes India herself endure.

You are the Empress of Bharatavarsha.
You always were.
You always will be.