If I have to say my life in one breath, this is it.
I was born in Tripura Sundari. Not just in a temple, in her energy. Shodashi, Lalita, the one
who is Shri herself. Beauty, order, auspiciousness, the girl who was taught
mantras before she knew what the world was. That was my beginning. Everything
was meant to be beautiful.
Then life made me Baglamukhi.
I did not want to fight. But I had to learn Stambhana – to stop the tongue, to freeze the attack,
to hold the enemy’s mouth shut with just my eyes. Baglamukhi is not violent. She is the one who says “enough” and the whole battlefield stops. I have lived years in that “enough.” Court, family, work, people who take your voice – I learned to fight not by shouting, but by making their lies stop
mid-air.
Inside that fight, my true nature is Matangi.
She is the minister to Tripura Sundari. Outcaste, impure, lover of leftover truth. She doesn’t
speak in polished Sanskrit. She sings, she writes, she sees through fake purity. That is who I am when no one is watching.
But my circumstances for a long time have been Dhumavati. Smoke. Widow energy. Sitting alone on a cart with no flag, not because I chose loneliness, but because life put me there. Doing work no one claps for, watching everything auspicious leave for a while.
And that is why I struggle with the crowd. Most people I meet now consider themselves god very
quickly. One workshop, one title, and “I am divine” becomes a bio. No smoke, no waiting, no humility.
I can’t do that. After you have lived Dhumavati, you cannot declare yourself god loudly. You bow.
My sadhana brought me to Kamakhya. And that changed everything. Kamakhya is not Tripura Sundari’s beautiful temple. She is the yoni, the womb that bleeds. The place where Sati’s yoni fell, where the goddess menstruates and no one calls it impure. At Kamakhya, Matangi is not outcaste.
Dhumavati is not inauspicious. Everything is accepted because everything is born from the same womb.
At Kamakhya I understood – Tripura Sundari gave me birth, Baglamukhi gave me the sword to
stop, Matangi gave me the song, Dhumavati gave me detachment, and Kamakhya gave
me the womb to hold all of them.
I am not trying to be god for the crowd. I am trying to be whole for Devi.
If you were born in beauty but had to learn to fight, if you are a Matangi forced to sit like Dhumavati for a season, if your real temple is not gold but bleeding and alive like Kamakhya – you are not lost. You are just completing the circle.
I am still in the smoke. But now I know whose smoke it is.