ଘଟ ସ୍ତଵଃ

May the lotus feet of Ambikā — charming and lovely with their tinkling anklets, forcibly placed on the head of Mahiṣāsura (who was in the throes of the joy of Indra's released garland) — prevail for my victory.

O Goddess, O wife of Tryambaka, Pārvatī, Satī, Mother of the three worlds, Śivā, Śarvaṇī, Tripurā, Mṛḍānī, Varadā, Rudrāṇī, Kātyāyanī, Bhīmā, Bhairavī, Caṇḍī, Śarvarī, Kalā, Śūlinī at the end of time — protect us who, bowing to your feet with undivided minds, are deeply troubled.

O Goddess, the one who prostrates to you even once — kings bow down to him, their crowns glittering at the footstool he sits upon, from birth onward. The one who worships you is worshipped by the hosts of gods; the one who praises you is praised; the one who meditates on you — lovely-browed women, tormented by Love's affliction, meditate on him.

Like those in frenzy, like those seized by planets, like those stupefied by poison, like those who have attained full intoxication, like those tormented by separation's anguish — those who meditate on the daughter of the king of mountains: they alone are the blessed ones. Those who have abandoned limiting conditions and whose minds are filled with pure Love meditate on them, (the lovely-browed ones).

Those who meditate on you, O Tripurā, in the heart even for a moment — though separated from the wealth of beauty and youth — they shine forth in the minds of large-eyed women as images painted on the sole wall of their hearts.

Shall I drink this one with my eyes? Or shall I enter her body with my own limbs? Or shall I swallow her suddenly? Or shall I become one with her? Whatever strange, confused fancies captivated by the beautiful Lalitā — a woman's mind makes a man do in this way: what is there that it does not do, O Goddess, in the heart of one in whom you dwell?

Just as the word 'Īśvara' has exclusive, invariable application to the Immovable One (Śiva), so the term 'Śakti' truly applies to you alone, O Mother of the three worlds. Yet, given that this is so, how do these petty afflictions manage to trouble even your devotees? And you too do not wipe them out in anger — O Goddess, this is a great wonder.

Those who meditate on you — O Bhavānī, seated on the white fully-bloomed lotus throne, stationed within the moon's disc, of moonlike lovely shadow, with the beauty of a tender lamp-flame, showering nectar — they become free of disease, and their enemies abandon them from afar.

Those who, with faith, meditate on your body — as if fashioned of the thick slices of the full moon, as if of flood-streams of nectar, as if of masses of waves from the milk-ocean, as if of lumps of nectar-mud, as if of snowflakes — they bear within them the wealth of prosperity, having dispelled the afflictions, suffering, and calamities hidden in their hearts.

Those who hold in mind — of a rosy hue like the young sun, suddenly flashing forth, piercing the five knots, deep red in deep passion, drowning the whole world in the ocean of passion — that restless you: deer-eyed women bear them in their hearts.

The one who meditates daily within on you, O Bhavānī — slender as a lotus filament soaked in lac-juice — him, women whose forms rival Kāma himself, of incomparable beauty, ardently worship with the lotuses of their eyes.

We praise you — the unmanifest Speech, white as frost, jasmine, and moon, bearing a garland of kadamba flowers hanging down to the feet.

Of one who thus meditates on you — stationed at the crown within the moon, of snow-white radiance, showering nectar upon the face too and upon the brahmarandhra, uninterrupted and beautiful and graceful and exceedingly serene — O beloved of the enemy of Love, speech flows everywhere.

She grants desired enjoyments, destroys enemies, kills calamities, burns mental anguish and physical disease, bestows pleasures, with force splits inner suffering, grinds the pain of separation from the beloved — what does the Goddess, meditated upon even once, not accomplish blamelessly?

The one who meditates on you, knows you, attains you, recites your name, visualizes you, contemplates you, follows you, apprehends you, honours you, praises you — and also the one who respectfully listens to your qualities, O beloved of Tryambaka — Lakṣmī never departs from his home, and victory runs before him.

O destroyer of demons, what suffering is not dissolved when you are remembered? O garland of the lotus clan, what glory is not proclaimed when you are praised? O honoured by the best of gods, what siddhi is not attained when you are worshipped? What yoga does the mind not accumulate by depending on you?

O Devī, those who stand in the jaws of the hard-to-resist God of Death — O Kālī, those firmly bound in the noose of the dense clouds of time — O Caṇḍī, those submerged in the ocean of grave and heavy sin — you protect them, release them, and ferry them across, merely by being remembered.

The dust of your lotus feet long prevails — sisters of the powder that captivates Lakṣmī — which, gathered at the forehead in the act of prostration, erases the ill-written letters inscribed by fate.

You fools! Why is the body unnecessarily tormented by austerities? Why are others' homes emptied through expensive sacrifices with great dakṣiṇā? If undying devotion exists, let the twin feet of the Goddess be served — then Lakṣmī, beautiful as an open lotus parasol, runs forward.

I beg of no one, I deceive no one, having abandoned all wretchedness. I serve no one. I dress comfortably, eat sweetly, enjoy beautiful women — because the Goddess, the wish-fulfilling cow of my clan, shines in my heart.

I bow to her whose locks are adorned with the crescent moon — to Bhavānī, the river of nectar that extinguishes the fever of existence.