Goddess Durga Is Not One
In this poignant essay, Nabarni Das explores how Goddess Durga transcends mythology, living within the resilience of her loved ones as she prepares for a life-changing transition to college.
Goddess Durga returned to Kailash in October 2nd, 2025. And this year, the goodbye lingered longer than usual.
The pandals were taken down. The lights dimmed. The dhak grew quiet, its rhythm folding itself into memory. Durga Puja always leaves behind an ache once it ends, but this time it felt heavier, more personal. This year, I leave for college. A new life awaits, one that may not leave room for celebrating this beloved festival the way I always have, with the same people, in the same streets, wrapped in the same familiarity. I wonder if, in the years to come, memory will replace participation, and nostalgia will stand where presence once did.
We often remember Durga Puja through what surrounds it—music spilling into the night, food shared between laughs, new clothes, crowded streets, family. These things matter. But as I grow older, as distance begins to feel more real, I find myself thinking less about the celebration and more about the Goddess herself. Perhaps this is what growing up looks like: missing not just the festival, but the people who made it beloved.
Durga was not created gently or ornamentally, and was never meant to be admired from a distance. She was born when Mahishasur, protected by a boon that made him invincible to all male warriors, terrorised the heavens. The gods failed. Power failed. So they created her—out of fury, necessity, and strength. Her very existence is resistance. For this reason, Durga Puja is often seen as a feminist anthem, and rightly so. But feminism, at its core, is about equality. About recognising strength wherever it exists. That is why I do not celebrate only women. I celebrate people. Because to me, Durga is not confined to mythology or marble idols. She lives and breathes among us. The Goddess is revered not only for her power, but for her endurance. The nine-day battle she fought was long and there was no instant victory, no spectacle of ease—only persistence. That is why I believe every person carries Durga within them. We all fight our own battles. Some are loud, some are quiet. Some are seen, many are not. And when we emerge from them, we are changed, more like her than we ever imagined. Her story is one of bravery and valiance, but also restraint. Unlike Macbeth, who allowed power to rot him from the inside out, Durga does not let violence hollow her humanity. Power does not corrupt her. She does not turn inward, consumed by dominance. Instead, she remains devoted to the people she protects.
The clearest embodiment of this kind of resilience in my life has always been my mother. She has handled everything from my childhood tantrums to my uncontrollable breakdowns with a steadiness I still struggle to understand. She absorbs chaos so others can breathe. She keeps going even when everything threatens to fall apart. I have never known strength that looks like hers, and it is from her that I draw my deepest inspiration.
Another is a girl I met, funnily enough, through an Instagram reel—our accounts tied together with Taylor Swift’s “Dress”, by the lyric “made your mark on me, a golden tattoo.” When we first spoke, I didn’t know how true that line would become. Some people do not pass through your life; they leave marks. Quiet, golden ones.
Truthfully, I have more men in my life than women, which may be why my interpretation of Durga exists across genders. My father’s strength lives in the quiet moments. He notices when I am upset and buys me sweets or ice cream without asking. He will sit with me for hours, explaining a concept I should have understood the first time, never making me feel small for not knowing. His patience is his power. His care is his courage.
There are men besides him who have shaped my understanding of companionship and authenticity. One, whom I met about a year ago after changing schools, exists perfectly in the lyric from “Funeral” by Phoebe Bridgers: “I have a friend I call when I’ve bored myself into tears.” With him, presence is enough. Silence is not heavy. Another entered my life in a place you would never expect to find me—a MUN. He is unapologetically himself, regardless of what the world demands. He finds himself and revels in it. Watching him has made me wish that one day, I might be able to do the same. And then there is a friend I met through a groupchat—proof that connection can begin anywhere. He would love to know that the lyric that reminds me of him is “Please don’t ever become a stranger whose laugh I’d recognise anywhere” from “New Year’s Day” by Taylor Swift. Some people become familiar in ways time cannot undo.
These are just some of the people who remind me that Goddess Durga thrives in them. That she walks around in their skin, lives in their choices, breathes through their kindness. And in doing so, they inspire everyone they come across.
To borrow words written long ago, words that still feel impossibly tender: “I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty years could ever contain.” – John Keats in his letters to Fanny Brawne
This is how I feel about these people. If we were butterflies, they are the ones I would stand by.
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