Chhat Puja

By Riya Yadav

An ode to love, light, and the eternal rhythm of nurturing

As the golden sun sinks into the horizon, its last rays shimmer upon the quiet river like threads of melted gold. The ghats glow with the light of a thousand diyas — fragile flames that hold within them centuries of faith. Women, draped in vermilion and saffron, step into the sacred water. Their faces reflect both fatigue and grace, their palms folded toward the setting sun. This is Chhath Puja — where devotion is not loud, but luminous; where the heart of the festival beats in the rhythm of the river and the warmth of a mother’s love.

Chhath Puja is a story older than time — a whisper between the Sun, the giver of life, and the Mother, the nurturer of life. Both sustain, both protect, both burn silently to keep others alive. The Sun watches over the universe, pouring warmth upon the cold corners of existence. The Mother mirrors that same light, holding her children close, feeding them love, shielding them from darkness. In this sacred dialogue between the celestial and the human, Chhath Puja stands as a bridge — where the devotion of the mother meets the compassion of the Sun.

The rituals of Chhath unfold like poetry. On Nahay Khay, the body is cleansed, the home purified — a return to simplicity. On Kharna, hunger becomes holy, and silence becomes song. As the sun sets on Sandhya Arghya, baskets of fruits, sugarcane, and thekua are lifted toward the glowing sky — humble offerings carrying boundless gratitude. Then comes Usha Arghya, when the rising sun is greeted with folded hands and tear-bright eyes. It is not just the dawn of a new day — it is the dawn of hope, healing, and faith reborn.

In the quiet strength of women who fast without water, one sees the mirror of the Sun — steady, selfless, radiant. Their devotion transcends the physical, becoming an energy that connects earth and sky, family and future. Every mother standing in that river is both a devotee and a deity — a keeper of warmth in a world that can so easily grow cold.

The river itself becomes alive with meaning. Its gentle ripples echo the lullabies of generations, its waves carrying prayers for children yet unborn. When the Sun’s first rays touch the water, it is as if the universe blesses the mothers — acknowledging in them the same eternal light that fuels creation.

For what is the Sun, if not the first mother of the world? Its warmth awakens sleeping seeds, its rays feed the oceans, its glow stirs life into motion. And what is a mother, if not a sunlight made human — burning, glowing, giving endlessly without asking in return? Both cradle life; both teach the language of quiet endurance and infinite love.

As the final diya drifts down the river, its flame trembling but unyielding, the meaning of Chhath becomes clear —that love is not in words, but in warmth;that faith is not in asking, but in giving;and that the Sun and the Mother are two reflections of the same divine light.

In the end, when dawn spills across the river and the sky blushes with gold, it feels as though the world is being born again — nurtured once more by the tender hands of the Sun, and by the endless, selfless heart of a mother. 

By Riya Yadav