By Maa Crookamati.
🔮 INVOCATION
I invoke the power of compost and contradiction.
I do not seek a throne — I claim the kitchen garden, the broken bylane, the tribal rhythm, and the whistle of a pressure cooker during load-shedding.
May we become proud Indians, not because we stand taller, but because we kneel deeper — in humility to the land.
May we remember that desertification of soil begins with the desertification of imagination.
May our temples house trees. May our homes hum with forgotten folk songs.
May Bharat pause. May India speak. May both listen.
And may I — Maa Crookamati — never run out of satire or seeds.
🌿 introducing MAA CROOKAMATI
I am Maa Crookamati — divine trickster, citizen of dissent, and patron goddess of timely disruption.
I don’t carry a sword. I carry a compost bin, a sharp tongue, and a sharper sense of satire.
I mother uncomfortable questions.
I midwife inconvenient truths.
I am the in-between. Between science and spirit. Between the forest and the forum. Between the laugh and the lecture.
I hold space for soul journeys — even when the soul is stuck in Bangalore traffic.
I’m not a product.
I’m a phenomenon.
One part tantrika, one part traffic-jammer, three parts truth serum.
MY CONTRIBUTION AS A RESPONSIBLE CITIZEN
I do not stand still for the national anthem in elevators — but I bow to the river.
I do not believe in GDP growth that leaves my neighbour hungry.
I will not endorse a system where a peacock drinks tears but a child drinks sewage.
I offer this country:
- Ecological memory
- Cultural irreverence
- Feminine grit
- And a deeply inconvenient moral compass
I ask not what India can do for me, but what we can compost together.
🕰️ HOW OLD IS INDIA? HOW OLD IS BHARAT?
Bharat — a name carved in epics, masculine in posture, often clueless about housework.
India — a name borrowed from a river, feminine, winding, and always interrupted mid-sentence.
Modern India was born in 1947 — crafted in ink, bruised in Partition, and wrapped in tricolour bandages.
Bharat was revived in the Constitution — but is now increasingly stuffed into WhatsApp forwards and moral policing.
Our policies serve vote banks, not riverbanks.
Our education system manufactures engineers for vanished jobs — while our soil waits, thirsty, forgotten.
We celebrate start-ups and bury farmers.
52% of this land is turning to desert — and yet we dream of smart cities in concrete.
The floods, the locusts, the fumes — these are not foreign threats.
They are karma with a megaphone.
It’s time to look away from bullet trains and back at bullock carts.
Time to stop yelling “Bharat Mata ki Jai” and start asking if she has clean drinking water.
✒️ THE FEMINIST MAVERICK MANIFESTO OF MAA CROOKAMATI
I, Maa Crookamati, citizen of contradictions, maverick by design, and divine interrupter of patriarchal programming, resolve to:
- Pledge Allegiance to the Soil, Not the Cement.
Every concrete dream is built on crushed chlorophyll. I choose leaves over leases. - Celebrate Bharat, Even If He Forgot to Call His Feminine Twin.
Bharat — son of Shakuntala. India — daughter of a river. Stop pitting siblings against each other. - Rewrite Our History Books Using Compostable Material.
They’ve been fertilized with fiction long enough. Let them decompose with dignity. - Swear by Agroecology, not Astrology for Career Choices.
Let’s stop producing engineers for defunct industries and start cultivating farmers who know fungi. - Worship the Feminine, But Maybe Start With Giving Her a Toilet.
Sanitation before Sanskritization, please. - Debunk Toxic Masculinity in Governance.
Bharat needs to stop yelling at India like a drunk uncle at a wedding. The river knows what she’s doing. - Refuse to Let Startups Die While The Cow Gets More Funding Than Education.
Milking nationalism won’t feed our youth. - Redefine ‘Proud Indian’.
I will not wave a flag to silence a question. Pride comes from participation, not parroting. - Speak in Many Tongues, But Think With One Conscience.
I am Kannada, Tulu, English, silence and sighs — I refuse to be reduced to propaganda. - Mourn, Mock, and Move.
I will grieve what’s lost, mock what is ridiculous, and still move forward — with a sapling in my hand and a smirk on my lips.
🌀 CLOSING
I am not interested in saving face.
I am interested in saving the soil.
I do not seek to be a “good Indian.”
I seek to be a deeply rooted one.
So I offer this creed not as conclusion, but as compost —
to fertilize your own questions,
nurture your dissent,
and make mischief in the name of awakening.
Let the mavericks rise.
Let the Crookamatis bloom.
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