The Nine days

In most religions, the path to the divine demand fasting. But what does true fasting really mean? Is it simply keeping the stomach empty, or is it something deeper—within the mind?

This profound truth unfolded for me during this year’s Navratri: fasting is not about when you stop eating, it is about when you start paying attention. While the stomach can be forced to obey, the mind demands conviction.

I’ve observed Navratri fasts for years, always with sincerity, though not with strict adherence. This year, nudged by my wife’s casual remark that I hadn’t been observing the rituals correctly, I resolved to follow every day’s ritual strictly, with no shortcuts. I made divine promise — Any violation would mean an extra day of fasting as penance.

A few days before Navratri, I browsed social media for fasting recipes. Some looked more lavish than my usual meals. It felt like those recipe reels were made to generate more cravings than fasting. I shortlisted nine dishes, made a shopping list, and planned everything carefully. Everything seemed perfect—at least on paper.

Day One

Navratri 2025 began with enthusiasm. Rajgira rotis were on the menu for the first day. However, as I began making the dough, reality set in quickly. The rotis wouldn’t roll. They stuck, tore, and looked like maps of some unknown countries. Not even one turned out right. Frustration set in, followed by disappointment and anger. The kitchen felt like a battlefield I was losing. But amid the mess, a quiet realisation emerged: perhaps the real hunger wasn’t in my stomach, but in my restless mind. That’s when I understood—true fasting begins in the mind. It is the practice of training oneself to be calm, focused, and free from restlessness.

On the second day, I learned to be kinder to myself when the Sabu dana khichri recipe became sticky. My first instinct was self-criticism. But then I paused. If I could forgive others for their small mistakes, why not extend the same compassion to myself?

Day Three taught me silence. A colleague’s comment stung during the office virtual meeting. I chose restraint over reaction. Sometimes silence means not weakness; it means strength held gently.

On Day Four, lost in a heated office call, the samak rice khichdi burnt completely. I laughed at the absurdity and simply began again. In utter setback, I found the courage to restart.

On the fifth day, as I was returning from a nearby Durga Puja pandal, a beggar approached me. I had no cash. But instead of turning him away, I took him to a roadside eatery and paid for a meal through UPI. Happiness amplifies when shared.

Day Six became a lesson in patience. Stuck in traffic after a draining global work call, every red light tested my patience. Patience isn’t about liking delays—it’s about not letting them disturb your inner stillness.

Day Seven was our company’s year-end party at a five-star hotel, full of lights, music, and celebration. I wanted to join in, but I decided to stick to my commitment.

On Day Eight, I learned about surrendering in a way I didn’t expect. I had planned an evening puja at home, and everything was ready. But just before the aarti, the power went out and the house was dark. My plan fell apart. Then without thinking, I lit extra diyas. I realized that surrender isn’t about giving up, but about letting go of control.

By the ninth day, the mind had settled into a calm rhythm. The fast no longer felt like a set of rigid rules. Everything felt like absolute freedom. I realised that devotion is a relationship, not a transaction.

Day 10 – Dussehra

The final day arrived to break my fast. There was absolute clarity in my mind. I sat quietly, reflecting on these nine days, every dietary rule, every struggle, every quiet victory. Then, unexpectedly, a memory from Day Eight surfaced.

The last two days eighth and ninth were meant to be fruits only—no sweets, no grains. But that evening, while visiting the Durga Puja pandal with colleagues, I had casually eaten a Bengali sweet when a colleague offered it to me. At that moment, I hadn’t even thought about the restriction.

It was a small slip, but a violation, nonetheless. And according to my own divine promise, any violation meant an additional day of fasting.

The question was clear: Should I break the fast today or extend.

For a moment, the answer seemed obvious. Yes, I should honour. It felt right, almost necessary. But then my phone rang.

It was my brother. I knew immediately—my mother wanted to hear that her son had finally eaten after nine days.

For a humble, aging mother, divine promises don’t matter. What matters is simple and powerful—has her child eaten? Is he well?

I froze. How could I tell her I planned to extend the fast over a breach she wouldn’t understand? She would be heartbroken.

Caught between two truths—one to the divine, demanding perfection, the other to my mother, waiting with love—I realised lying would nullify everything. I followed my heart.

Before she could speak, I said gently, “Ma, I’m just going to eat now.” The divine promise could wait a day—because Ekadasi was the very next day, and I would honour it then.

Fasting is the first lesson in self-discipline. It isn’t about what we deny ourselves, but what we discover within. Thank you. Happy reading.

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