The air in Erbil begins to shift as summer has just begun to loosen its grip. There’s a quiet hush in the mornings now, a softness in the breeze that hints at the coming of autumn. For most people here, it’s just another seasonal transition. But for me, this time of year carries a different kind of anticipation—one that’s rooted not in the rhythms of this land, but in the pulse of a tradition thousands of miles away.

There is no Durga Puja in Iraq. No pandals rise overnight. No dhakis beat their drums in frenzied welcome. No crowds gather to witness the Goddess’s descent. And yet, every year, I celebrate. Quietly. Personally. Reverently.

Durga Puja, for me, has always been a deeply personal ritual when I’m in Iraq. It’s not marked by grand festivities or community gatherings. It’s marked by memory, by reflection, and by the stories I carry with me—stories that echo across continents and time.

Echoes from Ancient Texts

The roots of this tradition lie deep within the fertile ground of Hindu scriptures. While the primary narratives in texts like the Devi Mahatmya focus on Maa Durga’s epic battles against evil, later Puranas, including the Agni Purana and Matsya Purana, subtly weave in the association of her journeys with specific days and their corresponding vehicles. These connections, often found in verses discussing auspicious timings and astrological influences, gradually solidified into a widely recognized practice.

The interpretation of these vehicles as harbingers of the future likely evolved over centuries, intertwining with the socio-economic realities of the time. In agrarian societies, where survival often hinged on the whims of nature, these symbols took on practical meaning.

• The elephant, associated with Sunday and Monday, became a symbol of prosperity and abundant rains – a blessing eagerly awaited.
• The horse, linked to Saturday and Tuesday, with its connotations of speed and warfare, was seen as a harbinger of conflict and unrest.
• The boat (Wednesday) carried a dualistic omen, promising a good harvest while also hinting at the dangers of floods.
• The palanquin (Thursday and Friday), often a symbol of royalty, took on a less auspicious meaning in this context, foreshadowing potential epidemics and widespread illness.

A Cultural Tapestry Woven with Belief

Back home, the arrival of Maa Durga is a spectacle of devotion and joy. But what has always fascinated me most is not just the celebration—it’s the whisper that precedes it. The whisper of her chosen steed.

Across India, particularly in Bengal where Durga Puja is the grandest of festivals, the announcement of Maa Durga’s arrival and departure vehicle, determined by the first and last days of the main rituals (Saptami and Vijayadashami), is met with keen interest. The local Panjika (almanac) becomes a focal point, its pronouncements sparking discussions and interpretations within communities.

Imagine families gathered, the aroma of festive cooking filling the air, as the head of the household reads out the prediction. A collective sigh of relief might follow if the Goddess is arriving on an elephant, or perhaps a moment of thoughtful contemplation if the chosen vehicle carries a less favorable omen. This tradition fosters a sense of collective anticipation and a shared understanding of the potential challenges and opportunities that the coming year might hold. It’s a way for people to connect with the divine and find meaning in the cyclical nature of time.

In the tradition I grew up with, Maa Durga doesn’t simply descend to Earth. She arrives with purpose, and she chooses a vehicle—a vahana—that carries symbolic weight. An elephant, a horse, a boat, or a palanquin. Each one is believed to hold an omen for the year ahead.

It’s a detail that might seem whimsical to some, but for those who follow the tradition, it’s a moment of quiet revelation. The steed she rides on Saptami, and the one she departs on Vijayadashami, are not just modes of transport. They are messages.

A Celebration of One

Here in Erbil, there is no Panjika to consult in the local market. No priest to declare the Goddess’s chosen steed. But I still seek it out. I read, I listen, I connect with those who hold the tradition close, even from afar.

And this year, I learn: Maa Durga arrives on an elephant and departs in a palanquin.

The elephant’s promise is one of abundance and prosperity—a blessing of harmony and rain. The palanquin, regal yet ominous, whispers caution, foreshadowing trials of health and endurance. Together, they mirror the duality of life—hope interwoven with challenge, blessing tempered with vigilance.

And when I absorb this, I pause. I reflect. I light a lamp. I let the symbolism settle into my bones.

Durga Puja, in this corner of the world, becomes a solitary celebration. But it is no less powerful. In fact, it is perhaps more intimate. There is no noise to distract, no crowd to follow. Just me, the stories I carry, and the Goddess who arrives each year, wherever I am.

The Journey Beyond Borders

This year, as the world continues to wrestle with uncertainty, I find myself thinking more deeply about Maa Durga’s journey. Her chosen steed may offer glimpses into the future, but her presence offers something greater: resilience, courage, and the unwavering power of righteousness.

Even in Erbil, where her name is not spoken aloud in the streets, she arrives. She arrives in my thoughts, in my rituals, in the quiet corners of my home. And she reminds me that faith is not bound by geography. It travels. It adapts. It whispers.

So I celebrate. Not with fanfare, but with feeling. Not with crowds, but with conviction. And as I await the whisper of her steed once more, I know that wherever she chooses to ride, she rides with me.