They say our childhood memories shapes the way you see the world? Well, mine was painted in the deep greens of Assam’s hills, the golden glow of temple bells, and the sweet, sticky taste of Kamakhya’s Peda (traditional Indian sweet made primarily from milk solids (khoya), sugar, and flavorings like cardamom).
As a little girl, my trips to Kamakhya Temple were less about devotion and more about the melt-in-your-mouth peda. I’d tug at my mother’s saree, whispering, “Take one more peda for me, ma!” while she muttered prayers under her breath and simultaneously rolled her eyes in exasperation. The goddess must have laughed at my priorities—her little devotee, bargaining for sweets instead of blessings.
I remember standing before her as a child, staring at the crimson-clad yoni that you could reach climbing down some small stairs, dimly visible as the garbagreha had no artificial lights, only the dim light of the diyas lit by the never ending stream of devotees. Honestly it was always an enchanting feeling to be there, a feeling of empowerment, a feeling of being in her divine presence – a temple soaked in blood, magic, and mysteries a temple of the divine Shakti.
But as I grew, so did my demands ( I mean prayers ;)) . The teenage me begged Maa Kamakhya for exam passing marks (just enough to escape parent’s scolding). Twenty-something me pleaded for my first crush to blossom, for a good job, then a compatible husband (preferably one who didn’t snore). Through every wish, big or small, I bargained shamelessly, only to break my promises the moment my wish was granted. And yet, it seemed she never scolded me, not once for my childishness. I’ve always felt there was something about Kamakhya which feels alive. She accepts you like a mother, who knows your flaws, your greed, your secret midnight cravings and loves you anyway.
They say when Shiva, mad with grief, carried Sati’s burning body across the earth, her womb fell here. And Kamakhya came out as a divine Shakti in her raw, untamed and wildest form. Ambubachi Mela, the most enigmatic festival of Kamakhya Temple, marks the annual menstruation of Goddess Kamakhya when for three days in June, the temple doors close as the earth itself is believed to bleed, the sacred yoni stone turning crimson and the Brahmaputra’s waters takes on a reddish hue, while an eerie silence descends upon the shrine—no prayers, no rituals, just the palpable thrum of raw feminine energy. On the fourth day, when the temple doors reopens, a tidal wave of devotees crashes through the temple doors as thousands scramble for the sacred Angodak (menstrual fluid) and Angabastra (red cloth), believed to hold divine blessings. The air crackles with mysticism as tantriks from across India gather to perform forgotten rites, chant potent mantras, and harness the goddess’s unleashed power during this liminal period when the veil between worlds is thinnest—some seeking boons through midnight rituals, others testing their dark arts, all drawn by Kamakhya’s unfiltered Shakti that neither judges nor discriminates, transforming Nilachal Hill into a surreal crossroads where the divine, the occult, and the devout collide under the monsoon skies.
This year I went back ,almost after 11 years —not as the peda-obsessed child nor as the desperate exam-pleading teen, but as a mother, holding my child’s hand. The temple hadn’t changed. The temple had the same fragrance of incense, the same clang of bells, the same old priest asking whether I wanted to do Puja. But I had changed. This time, I didn’t ask for anything ; no job promotions, no wish-list husbands… just immense gratitude for the pedas, the miracles, the unshakable love of a goddess who tolerated my endless negotiations.
As I stood there, my toddler babbling constantly in front of the idol, I felt deeply that Kamakhya is not just a temple for me. She’s home for every child of Guwahati who grew up on Kamakhya’s pedas, for every Assamese’s heart that carries her stories.
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