By Arun Kumar Singhal
Dressed in their best, little girls and even boys, usually no older than 8-9 years, move from one home to another on Ashtami, the eighth day of Navaratri festival, when Kanya Pujan (worship of young girls/boys) is observed. Some arrive by invitation; others come in the hope of being welcomed. They are received with reverence as embodiments of Goddess Durga, offered food, and given small gifts or some money as a mark of devotion.
Yet, watching them closely, one senses another, more innocent side to the ritual. For these little ones, the day is also an adventure, filled with excitement and the promise of something special to take home. There is an unmistakable eagerness in their eyes, a quiet calculation of how many more homes they might visit and what little treasures they might collect.
The sight becomes particularly touching when we see children from families with modest means. Behind their enthusiasm may lie an unspoken wish to gather a little more, not out of greed, but perhaps because such treats and small gifts are not everyday luxuries for them. What seems insignificant to an adult may mean a great deal to a child.
For a day, the world seems to belong to them. And perhaps the true spirit of Kanya Pujan lies not merely in worshipping the goddess in these little girls, but in recognising the childhood, innocence and hopes they carry within them.
I have often observed this ritual closely, struck by its subtle psychological dimension. Some little girls and boys eagerly move from one home to another, hoping to receive one more gift and return with a little more than they already have. At such a tender age, children begin to compare and measure what they receive, often unconsciously. One additional gift may make them feel more fortunate, favoured, or somehow ahead of others. Perhaps this is simply childhood expressing itself through curiosity and the joy of receiving, yet the desire for more can rarely remain untouched by comparison. A child’s circumstances may also shape the value attached to these small possessions. For some, what they gather may represent a rare experience of abundance, making the wish for more stem not from greed, but from the innocent desire to prolong a feeling of happiness that may not come their way every day.
The experience becomes even more touching when one visits temples on this day and sees groups of children from disadvantaged backgrounds, accompanied by their mothers, approaching people entering the temple for food or money, viewing the occasion as a special opportunity to receive something. The mothers often gently push their little ones forward, hoping that someone will notice them and offer something. It can be deeply moving, and at times difficult, to know how to respond to each person who approaches, carrying a request shaped by limited means yet filled with hope. Their presence gives the moment a deeper significance: what may appear to us as a small offering can mean far more to them, becoming not merely a gesture of generosity but a source of dignity, comfort and brief relief.
This reflection is not intended to belittle anyone or to question the spirit of a cherished tradition. It is simply an observation of moments that may pass unnoticed by adults but can leave an impression on a child’s mind. Such experiences are not confined to this occasion; similar situations in everyday life can also affect a child emotionally. When some children return home with more than others, or when a little child watches another receive something that he or she has not received, the difference may mean little to us, but it may mean a great deal to the child, particularly if from a family living in poverty.
I have observed this many times at temples on such occasions, overheard similar accounts from labourers working in the neighbourhood, and noticed such behaviour in children, particularly during the festive season. However, these experiences are not limited to festivals; they can occur on various occasions in everyday life. This particular reflection was prompted by a small group of young children from families with limited means, whom I saw talking among themselves and comparing their gifts as I walked down the street. Children may not always express their disappointment, but that does not mean they do not feel it. As a society, we must remain mindful of these small, often overlooked moments. The true spirit of Kanya Pujan, after all, cannot rest solely in the reverence shown to little children for a day. It must also find expression in our sensitivity to their feelings, our awareness of their circumstances, and our willingness to ensure that, at the very least, no child feels overlooked on a day meant to celebrate them.
(The author has been a Dehradun resident since the early 1970s. He is an economist and author who continues to be actively engaged in journalism, analysis and research, with nearly four decades. He also engages in social service in small, humble ways.)
