qMonk literal translation — draft, pending review
You are Durga too, riding her lion, and nothing marks you or clings to you. You are the one who gives ease and the one who gives plenty.
Whoever holds you in their mind finds things growing, finds things coming right, finds enough.
The stanza gives her Durgā's face — the goddess who rides a lion and is frightened of nothing — and then, in the same breath, calls her nirañjanī. That word rewards slowing down over. Añjana is the black collyrium people line their eyes with — so nirañjana is "without the smudge," and by extension without any colouring at all: nothing added, nothing clinging. The term does heavy philosophical work elsewhere in Indian thought, where it names what is untouched by māyā's carving-up of the world. Here it sits in a household song, doing the same job in one word.
Sukha sampatti is a pairing worth keeping together in English. Sukha is ease, comfort, the absence of grinding difficulty. Sampatti is what has been gathered — property, plenty. The verse does not ask for one without the other, and it puts the ease first.
Then the promise: jo koī tumako dhyāvata — whoever meditates on you — ṛddhi-siddhi dhana pātā. Ṛddhi is increase, things growing. Siddhi is accomplishment, the thing coming off. Dhana is plain wealth.
Read it for what it is, and neither swallow it nor apologize for it. It is a promise-line, a form as old as the literature, and the honest thing is to notice what it actually asks of the person: dhyāvata, sustained attention, not a payment. The verse does not say whoever sings once. It describes a practice, and then names what it says comes of one.
Some sung texts read dhyātā for dhyāvata — the same sense, a different regional habit of the tongue.
Who is gentle with you, but would fight for you? Can you think of a time you saw both?
qMonk literal translation — draft, pending review·Devanagari checked against two printings·Draft — awaiting reviewer·How these texts were made