Bol Maari Ambe.

I’ve been dancing since I was four years old. Back then, Navratri was just about twirling around in a frock, clapping completely offbeat, and thinking I was the star of the garba ground. But the older you get, the more things change. Suddenly it’s not just about dance—it’s about outfits. Looking good becomes… important. Matlab ekdum “main heroine hoon” vibes. That’s when the real drama starts.

Weeks before Navratri, the whole house becomes a fashion studio. Chaniya trials, blouse alterations, messy rooms full of jewellery sprawled everywhere, mix-and-match accessories ka dukan. You’ll plan an entire “lehenga schedule”—Day 1 this, Day 2 that—only to panic when you’re actually getting ready and end up changing the whole plan. Then comes the pre-ground rituals: pass ka jugaad, matching bindis, eyeliner wings that never wing right, lipstick ka shade confusion, then taking photos while mom screams from the hall because “traffic lagega!” And bro, the traffic… it’s like the whole city is headed to the same venue, and low-key it is.

But let me tell you, the build-up starts even earlier. Like June se hi garba playlists blast karte hain, jaise warm-up chal raha ho. By the time September hits, it’s not just garba season—it’s garba obsession. Every conversation ends with: “Bas ab toh garba hoga.”

Finally, you reach the venue after fighting with parking, dust-proofing your lehenga, praying your hair doesn’t frizz. And then the music hits. For me, there’s no “warm-up round.” Jaise hi dhol bajta hai, bas full power on. I dance from the first beat to the last. Somewhere deep down, I feel like Mata Rani herself enters me when I dance, kyunki stamina ka logic toh aur koi samjhata hi nahi hai.

And oh—the people. Bright ghagras spinning, smart kurtas, kids learning steps, aunties giving you side-eye because you stole their spot in the circle—it’s a riot. I usually start from the outermost circle, testing the vibe, and slowly make my way into the innermost ring. And why, you ask? Simple. NSP.

NSP = Nain Sukh Prapti. For the uneducated, it’s the art of dancing and simultaneously staring at cute guys. Dekho, I’m a single girl with zero dating plans right now, so this is the only thrill I need. You spot someone, you exchange a smile or an eye-roll when he misses a step, and then you go home and debrief with your friends like it’s a full CIA operation. Sometimes you even end up teaching someone—this season I taught 10-12 random log, from kids to uncles, how to clap and step properly. Free coaching classes by Ambika, available 9 nights only.

But of course, the dream look you planned? Always gets ruined. Why? Sweat. Not the cute “glow” sweat. The “dripping down your back” sweat, the “eyeliner is now abstract art” sweat, the “hair so frizzy you look electrocuted” sweat. End result? You wash your hair daily, even though shampoo ka dukh is real.
And then school. 75% attendance ka tension is real, but who’s waking up at 6 after sleeping at 4? Sitting in class half-dead, pretending to understand Political Science while your brain is just replaying dandiya beats.

Bruises and injuries? Don’t even ask. I counted 13–15 this year alone. Random cuts, random bleeding, blue clots on my toes, cramps from dehydration, sore back, stiff neck, voice gone. Basically by the end of Navratri, I move like an 80-year-old. But still, every evening, I get up, get dressed, and go again.

Because beyond the pain, it’s also pure joy. The city looks alive—lights, music, laughter. Post-garba food runs for cold coffee or pizza, or sometimes Maggi at home at 5 am, pressing your own legs while uploading photos and searching captions. It’s like a mini-vacation, tucked right into regular life.

And now that it’s nearly over, there’s this hollow feeling. Like abhi 3rd October ke baad kya karein? The countdown to next year already begins. Because no matter how many bruises, how much sweat, how little sleep—I love Navratri. It wrecks me, but in the best way possible.

Okay bye, I’m off to catch two hours of sleep before tonight ruins me again.

As ever,

Ambika