Raktarangini: The Spirit of Shakti

The city trembled under the weight of its contradictions. Towers of glass rose above crumbling houses, and under the glow of Pujo lights, hunger still stalked para lanes. The river remembered floods that swallowed homes, while headlines screamed of injustice—women silenced, youth jobless, workers discarded like husks. Kolkata, drenched in both colour and wound, waited. She came when the air smelled of shiuli and smoke. Raktarangini, clothed in a red that was not fabric but flame, walked barefoot through the streets. Her eyes blazed with the anger of centuries, her voice carried like the conch before battle. She was not an idol to be worshipped; she was blood and breath, the living defiance of the oppressed.
Beside her moved four who were not her companions but her very limbs. One bore the calm glow of sustenance. She walked through darkened bazaars and the empty kitchens of the poor, and wherever her shadow fell, rice filled the pots, lamps were lit, and mothers found strength to feed their children. She was the dignity of abundance, reminding all that survival itself was sacred. The second carried silence that cut sharper than sound. A girl in pale serenity, ink on her hands, her eyes bright with unfinished dreams. In her, knowledge rose like dawn, dispelling the night of ignorance. For every child denied learning, every woman denied a voice, she was the answer—the light that refused to dim.
The third strode like fire unbound. His youth was restless, scarred from clashes, eyes forever vigilant. In him burned the power of resistance, the courage to guard streets against violence, to defend those walking home in the dark. His rage was not destruction but shield—the blade that carved out space for dignity. And when whispers spread of cruelty inflicted in the city’s own sanctuaries, his fury flared brightest—against a world that failed to keep its daughters safe even where healing was promised. The fourth radiated laughter, soft as fruit ripened in the sun. Round-faced and tender, he offered sweetness where bitterness reigned. In his presence, wounds eased, and hearts remembered compassion. His was the power of gentleness, reminding the weary city that joy, too, was strength.
Together they circled Raktarangini, fragments of her eternal essence—prosperity, wisdom, protection, and compassion—threads woven into one red fire. The people began to follow. Women stepped forward, no longer shrinking. Students raised their voices in streets choked with fear. Rickshaw pullers, daily-wage workers, and hungry children joined the tide. Kolkata did not simply celebrate her, it rose with her. And when the drums of Dashami roared, the river called for her immersion. But Raktarangini did not step into the water. She stood on the ghat, wind lashing her crimson form, her four companions beside her.
The city knew then: she would not be washed away. She was not clay. She was their blood, their fight, their unbroken spirit. Raktarangini was not departing. She rooted herself in Kolkata—in every woman who rose against silence, in every worker who refused exploitation, in every youth who marched for dignity, in every voice that defied fear. She was no longer only worshiped; she was lived. She was the fire of resistance, the courage of justice, and the unbreakable will of women leading the way toward a city reborn.

O Kolkata, born by darkness and daylight,

Your Sati-scented flames recall her fame.

She walks a Shakti, fearless in the night,

Not words bound, but fire, breath, and name.

Anna-devi moves, with hands that feed,

Vidya-lakshmi dawns where ink is light,

Raktā-scorii guards each step in need,

Dayā-svarūpā heals with laughter bright.

No visarjan shall claim her crimson form,

For she is not of mṛtti, but of agni;

She dwells in strī-śakti, in protest storm,

In hearts that burn yet never shall expire.