Navratri Day 5: Panchami – Upang Lalita Vrat and Skandamata Pujan

January 24, 2026

I wake up on the fifth day of Navratri feeling a little calmer than the first few mornings. The house smells like incense that has been burning since dawn, and the diyas flicker like tiny, patient eyes. It’s Panchami today. Somehow, it doesn’t shout for attention the way the first day did. It just quietly slips in, and you notice it without even trying.

Today is all about Goddess Skandamata. I’ve always found her image fascinating. She rides a lion—fierce, fearless—but in her lap, she cradles baby Murugan. One hand raised in Abhaya Mudra, telling you, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” And the two upper hands hold lotus flowers. The whole thing feels so… human. Strong and gentle at the same time. She became Skandamata after Parvati gave birth to Lord Skanda. Motherhood didn’t weaken her. If anything, it made her presence even bigger. That’s the part I love the most. The mix of power and tenderness.

Banana is offered today. Simple, nothing fancy. I’ve noticed every year that this small act feels surprisingly grounding. It’s not about grandeur or perfection. It’s about care, nourishment, and steady devotion. My little niece tried to sneak the banana before the puja started. I had to laugh. Even she instinctively knew it belonged to someone greater.

Grey is the colour for the day. I wasn’t sure about it at first. Grey? During Navratri? But then I realized it makes sense. It’s calm. It doesn’t fight with other colours. It balances. I wore my grey silk saree with subtle embroidery. Comfortable for the puja, and later, for Garba. My brother went for a grey kurta. He said he felt like it made him blend into the mood of the day rather than stand out. I get it now.

Astrology nerds say Skandamata governs Budha—the planet of intelligence and communication. Maybe that’s why my mind feels a little sharper today. I sat with my notebook before the puja, just doodling and jotting random thoughts. Normally, it’s chaos in my head, but today, ideas came slowly, clearly, like someone turned the messy volume down.

Saraswati Awahan also happens today. My little brother lined up his school books neatly near the altar. He didn’t study—he just touched each notebook, closed them gently, and whispered something. I caught him smiling when he offered his pencil too. It was funny, but it also felt… sacred. A small reminder that knowledge is something to respect, not just to use for marks.

Evening brings Garba. By now, I’ve gotten the hang of the steps—or at least, enough not to trip over my own feet. The Garbha Deep is at the center, flickering, steady, unmoving. Around it, people swirl in circles. My friends, some of them I hardly know, move together without talking. Hands clap, feet stamp, laughter mixes with music. There’s sweat and hair sticking to foreheads. There’s little kids squealing when they miss a step. There’s old neighbors grinning. Everyone moves, but the light stays steady. I love that part. Somehow it makes everything make sense, for a little while.

Costumes today feel special but not over the top. My saree had a mirror work border that caught the diya light perfectly. Long earrings bounced with each twirl. I noticed my mother adjusting her grey silk saree, fussing over the pallu like always. Bandhani in chiffon, georgette, Tussar silk—people had them all. The men in grey kurta-pajamas or sherwanis looked surprisingly regal. My brother kept asking me if his churidar looked okay. I told him yes, but I think he felt proud just being in grey.

There’s something in the fifth day that’s quieter than the others. You notice little things. The baby Murugan in Skandamata’s lap isn’t perfect—it’s like he’s moving a little, alive. The diya smoke curls differently today. Even the floor feels warmer somehow. By the time I sit down to rest after Garba, my legs ache, but it’s a good ache. Not tired, not restless. Content.

Chanting the stuti feels different too:

“या देवी सर्वभूतेषु माँ स्कन्दमाता रूपेण संस्थिता। नमस्तस्यै नमस्तस्यै नमस्तस्यै नमो नमः॥”

I mumble it quietly. My voice isn’t perfect, my pronunciation slips. But it feels honest. That’s what counts. I watch my family. Everyone’s eyes are soft, not focused on anything outside. Just there. Present. It’s weird how calm it is compared to the first day chaos.

By the end of Panchami, I notice a small change in myself. Thoughts are calmer. I’m not thinking ten things at once. Emotions aren’t jagged. Even when I glance at the chaos around me—the little kids running, the elders adjusting their sarees, the music bouncing off the walls—I feel steady. Balanced.

Skandamata doesn’t demand attention. She doesn’t need drama. She just sits there, fierce yet gentle, holding life in one hand and protection in the other. That’s what Panchami teaches me, every single year. Strength can cradle tenderness. Power can be patient. And sometimes, all the wisdom you need is just being present, noticing the little things, and trusting that it’s enough.