Devi – The Story of a Girl

Today, Dhanuka looked beautiful. It was the day of Navami, during Durga Puja. She wore her best attire — a faded red skirt and a radiant pink blouse. Her black hair was oiled and curly. As she gazed at the clay idol of the Goddess, her large eyes sparkled with admiration at the divine attire. Lowering her head, she bowed before the Devi.

 
The village priest, in full-throated voice, sustained the ancient cadence of Sanskrit hymns in praise of the Mother:
 
“To the Goddess who rescues the distressed and the destitute,
To She who removes the suffering of all,
To Narayani, the Mother Divine — I bow in reverence.”
 
“You, O Supreme Lady of the Three Worlds,
Dispel every obstacle, destroy every foe.
Thus it is ordained, O Devi —
By you alone must my enemies be vanquished.”
 
“Grant me fortune, grant me health,
Grant me the highest bliss, O Mother.
Bestow upon me beauty, grant me victory,
Give me fame — and destroy my foes.”
 
He touched sandal paste to her forehead. Carrying a flame, he moved among the devotees offering anjali. The little girl pressed her palms tight, lowered them to touch the warmth of the rising flame to her head. The ritual done, the crowd drifted out in joyous noise. A man on the side was distributing prasada. Dhanuka received her share. Her eyes gleamed with delight.
 
Yet by the time she reached close to home, the glow on her face had dimmed, and her steps faltered — like evening birds trembling in rainwater. Her brief hour of joy had ended. Now returned the daily world, where no holiday was meant for her. She would have to dust the entire house, wash the utensils, join in cutting vegetables — whatever her hands could manage. Of course, at the feast she would not be allowed to sit at the first round. She, like her mother, grandmother, and aunts, would eat only at the last plate, after the men were finished. Perhaps, after the grandfather had done eating, he might toss a laddu her way.
 
Sighing deeply, Dhanuka pressed her bare feet upon the threshold and stepped inside. Lifting her skirt a little, she entered the kitchen. And there she was struck as if by thunder. Her mother, in the last stages of pregnancy, lay collapsed upon the earthen floor, her limbs splayed like a broken bow. From her forehead streamed rivulets of blood, soaking the ground. Bundles of vegetables and sacks of rice lay scattered, turning the kitchen into a scene of calamity. The mother had tried to call someone, but no sound emerged. She had fallen — yet it seemed it was not the fall itself that terrified her, but some other dread, deeper and unspeakable.
 
Dhanuka screamed and ran into the street, calling for her father and grandmother together in one breath. Soon a trembling crowd of women gathered around the half-conscious mother, their anxious voices flooding the smoky-dark kitchen.
 
Then arrived the old midwife — short, stout, glossy-black like night itself. Her hair streaked with age, her face marked by past epidemics, her temper naturally harsh. She assumed command swiftly, while the terrified child circled in a corner, ignored by all. Dhanuka was the eldest of her mother’s three daughters. This time the woman of the house had hoped — perhaps she would bear a son, to honor her husband and her in-laws. A son felt inevitable, destined, a debt to family honor.
 
Clutching the wall, the little girl tried to glimpse what was unfolding inside. It seemed to her that a small child had entered the room, but the press of bodies made it impossible to see.
 
“Child! Child!” one woman’s voice cried out.
 
“Ah, wretched fate,” another woman shrieked, clutching the infant. “Your family is cursed again!” Tears ran from her eyes.
 
The others, too, were wet-eyed. In her mind, Dhanuka tried to summon the serene face of Ma Durga she had seen in the morning’s light. She had been praying secretly for days: “Mother, let me play with the baby. Let me adorn it with flowers, as the priest adorned you. Let it remain close to me.”
 
Then, all sound fell silent. Murmurs hushed to whispers. A heavy silence, ominous and thick, filled the room. Dhanuka caught snatches of phrases scattered in the air. She longed to see her mother directly. But then she heard her mother’s sobbing voice: “Ah, is my womb cursed to give birth to nothing but daughters?”
 
A fat woman grabbed Dhanuka by the collar and shoved her out, muttering curses: “What are you doing here, you wretched child? Get out!”
 
Dhanuka staggered onto the street, despair gnawing at her heart. Over the household had fallen a shadow of mourning that felt eternal.
 
By evening, a small crowd gathered before the house. Someone whispered: “The time has come. Bring it.”
 
From her hiding place, the child watched. A small bundle wrapped in cloth was brought out, cradled carefully by a man. In the stillness, an owl called from the trees. The midwife, with a ghastly smile, ordered the man: “Quickly now.” Her tone was not request but command.
 
That night was Navami night. The darkness was absolute. The small group walked behind the pandal, where a pond lay still and dull. By its banks they dug a shallow pit. Shadows flickered across their faces. When it was done, they vanished swiftly into the night.
 
Only Dhanuka remained, hidden in the bushes, watching until the last act was complete.
 
In the morning, the priest finished his surya namaskar and entered the pandal to clean the altar for the final rituals of Vijaya Dashami — the day of immersion.
 
As he approached the idol, he suddenly screamed aloud: “O Lord, save me!”
 
There, at the feet of the Goddess, upon the very altar, lay the newborn girl — naked, her tiny body smeared in mud, her lips slightly parted, eyelids closed beneath basil leaves. Her little fists had clenched the air in silent defiance.
 
Someone had adorned her with flowers, laying her right at the feet of Durga.