Kanakadhara Stotra
अङ्गं हरेः पुलकभूषणमाश्रयन्ती
भृङ्गाङ्गनेव मुकुलाभरणं तमालम्।
अङ्गीकृताखिलविभूतिरपाङ्गलीला
माङ्गल्यदाऽस्तु मम मङ्गलदेवतायाः।
मुग्धा मुहुर्विदधती वदने मुरारेः
प्रेमत्रपाप्रणिहितानि गतागतानि।
माला दृशोर्मधुकरीव महोत्पले या
सा मे श्रियं दिशतु सागरसम्भवायाः।
आमीलिताक्षमधिगम्य मुदा मुकुन्दम्
आनन्दकन्दमनिमेषमनङ्गतन्त्रम् ।
आकेकरस्थितकनीनिकपक्ष्मनेत्रं
भूत्यै भवेन्मम भुजङ्गशयाङ्गनायाः।
बाह्वन्तरे मधुजितः श्रितकौस्तुभे या
हारावलीव हरिनीलमयी विभाति ।
कामप्रदा भगवतोऽपि कटाक्षमाला
कल्याणमावहतु मे कमलालयायाः।
कालाम्बुदालिललितोरसि कैटभारेः
धाराधरे स्फुरति या तडिदङ्गनेव ।
मातुः समस्तजगतां महनीयमूर्तिः
भद्राणि मे दिशतु भार्गवनन्दनायाः।
प्राप्तं पदं प्रथमतः किल यत्प्रभावात्
माङ्गल्यभाजि मधुमाथिनि मन्मथेन।
मय्यापतेत्तदिह मन्थरमीक्षणार्धं
मन्दालसं च मकरालयकन्यकायाः।
विश्वामरेन्द्रपदविभ्रमदानदक्षम्
मआनन्दहेतुरधिकं मुरविद्विषोऽपि ।
ईषन्निषीदतु मयि क्षणमीक्षणार्धम्
इन्दीवरोदरसहोदरमिन्दिरायाः।
इष्टा विशिष्टमतयोऽपि यया दयार्द्र-
दृष्ट्या त्रिविष्टपपदं सुलभं लभन्ते ।
दृष्टिः प्रहृष्टकमलोदरदीप्तिरिष्टां
पुष्टिं कृषीष्ट मम पुष्करविष्टरायाः।
दद्याद्दयानुपवनो द्रविणाम्बुधाराम्
अस्मिन्नकिञ्चनविहङ्गशिशौ विषण्णे ।
दुष्कर्मघर्ममपनीय चिराय दूरं
नारायणप्रणयिनीनयनाम्बुवाहः।
गीर्देवतेति गरुडध्वजसुन्दरीति
शाकम्भरीति शशिशेखरवल्लभेति।
सृष्टिस्थितिप्रलयकेलिषु संस्थितायै
तस्यै नमस्त्रिभुवनैकगुरोस्तरुण्यै।
श्रुत्यै नमोऽस्तु शुभकर्मफलप्रसूत्यै
रत्यै नमोऽस्तु रमणीयगुणार्णवायै।
शक्त्यै नमोऽस्तु शतपत्रनिकेतनायै
पुष्ट्यै नमोऽस्तु पुरुषोत्तमवल्लभायै।
नमोऽस्तु नालीकनिभाननायै
नमोऽस्तु दुग्धोदधिजन्मभूत्यै।
नमोऽस्तु सोमामृतसोदरायै
नमोऽस्तु नारायणवल्लभायै।
नमोऽस्तु हेमामबुजपीठिकाये
नमोऽस्तु भूमण्डलनायिकायै।
नमोऽस्तु देवादिदयापरायै
नमोऽस्तु शार्ङ्गायुधवल्लभायै।
नमोऽस्तु देव्यै भृगुनन्दनायै
नमोऽस्तु विष्णोरुरसि स्थितायै।
नमोऽस्तु लक्ष्म्यै कमलालयायै
नमोऽस्तु दामोदरवल्लभायै।
नमोऽस्तु कान्त्यै कमलेक्षणायै
नमोऽस्तु भूत्यै भुवनप्रसूत्यै।
नमोऽस्तु देवादिभिरर्चितायै
नमोऽस्त्वनन्तात्मजवल्लभायै।
सम्पत्कराणि सकलेन्द्रियनन्दनानि
साम्राज्यदानविभवानि सरोरुहाक्षि।
त्वद्वन्दनानि दुरिताहरणोद्यतानि
मामेव मातरनिशं कलयन्तु मान्ये।
यत्कटाक्षसमुपासनाविधिः
सेवकस्य सकलार्थसम्पदः।
सन्तनोति वचनाङ्गमानसै-
स्त्वां मुरारिहृदयेश्वरीं भजे।
सरसिजनिलये सरोजहस्ते
धवलतमांशुकगन्धमाल्यशोभे।
भगवति हरिवल्लभे मनोज्ञे
त्रिभुवनभूतिकरि प्रसीद मह्यम्।
दिग्घस्तिभिः कनककुम्भमुखावसृष्ट-
स्वर्वाहिनीविमलचारुजलप्लुताङ्गीम् ।
प्रातर्नमामि जगतां जननीमशेष-
लोकाधिनाथगृहिणीममृताब्धिपुत्रीम्।
कमले कमलाक्षवल्लभे
त्वं करुणापूरतरङ्गितैरपाङ्गैः।
अवलोकय मामकिञ्चनानां
प्रथमं पात्रमकृत्रिमं दयायाः।
देवि प्रसीद जगदीश्वरि लोकमातः
कल्याणगात्रि कमलेक्षणजीवनाथे।
दारिद्र्यभीतहृदयं शरणागतं माम्
आलोकय प्रतिदिनं सदयैरपाङ्गैः।
स्तुवन्ति ये स्तुतिभिरमूभिरन्वहं
त्रयीमयीं त्रिभुवनमातरं रमाम्।
गुणाधिका गुरुतरभाग्यभागिनो
भवन्ति ते भुवि बुधभाविताशयाः।
Meaning:
अङ्गं हरेः पुलकभूषणमाश्रयन्ती भृङ्गाङ्गनेव मुकुलाभरणं तमालम्।
अङ्गीकृताखिलविभूतिरपाङ्गलीला माङ्गल्यदाऽस्तु मम मङ्गलदेवतायाः।।
Let us now walk into that humble hut — not of gold, but of grit and grace —
where a hungry little brahmachari stood, waiting with his begging bowl.
And from the barest depths of poverty, a gooseberry was offered — not for reward,
but from a heart soaked in selfless surrender.
And in that moment, something timeless was born.
There She stood — Lakshmi — not in the halls of kings, but summoned by sheer tyaga.
She, whose sidelong glance alone is enough to make the universe tremble with abundance.
Her glance — that sacred apanga —
when it touches the body of Lord Hari,
his divine skin erupts in goosebumps —
like pearls strung across a dark blue tamala trunk.
That thrill becomes his adornment — more than any crown or garland.
It’s not gold or jewels — it’s bhava, gifted by her presence.
Like a black bee drawn helplessly to a just-blooming lotus,
she, too, orbits Hari — not as a consort alone,
but as his breath, his glow, his unspeakable completeness.
And all powers, all riches, all glory — everything this universe can offer —
they gather shyly into the curve of her glance.
One flick of that glance, and they are yours.
Not because you earned it.
But because she decided to see you.
O Devi, O Mother of Mangalam,
if that apanga — that playful flicker of your grace —
ever brushes against my life,
then even the poorest hut can become a palace of golden rain.
मुग्धा मुहुर्विदधती वदने मुरारेः प्रेमत्रपाप्रणिहितानि गतागतानि।
माला दृशोर्मधुकरीव महोत्पले या सा मे श्रियं दिशतु सागरसम्भवायाः।।
Imagine this —
She, the goddess of the oceans, the embodiment of all beauty, all wealth, all tenderness —
is blushing.
Yes, Lakshmi herself. The One whom the world worships,
now stands before her beloved, Murari — Vishnu — and forgets her grandeur.
Why?
Because of love.
Because even Shakti melts when love is true.
Her eyes?
Like twin bees darting playfully around a full-bloom lotus.
Not still for a second. They move back and forth —
up to him... down in shyness... up again.
Caught in the dance of prematrapa — that holy mixture of love and sweet hesitation.
Those eyes, that movement — it’s not random.
It’s a garland being threaded from her glances,
as if her drishti itself is weaving flowers of rasa onto the form of Vishnu.
Like a bee that hovers again and again over a great lotus, unable to pull away,
so too do her eyes roam lovingly over Narayana’s face.
And in that movement — that trembling devotion-filled gaze —
is the power that blesses, nourishes, and transforms.
May that very Shakti — born of the ocean,
yet more cooling than the moonlight on its waves —
bestow her divine wealth upon me,
not just of gold or grain,
but the wealth of graceful love and tender sight.
This is not just about opulence.
This is the Kanakadhara that flows not from greed, but from karuna.
Where the goddess forgets her own glory, lost in the joy of glancing at the Lord.
And we — we blessed ones — stand nearby, praying that just one of those glances be spared for us.
आमीलिताक्षमधिगम्य मुदा मुकुन्दम् आनन्दकन्दमनिमेषमनङ्गतन्त्रम् ।
आकेकरस्थितकनीनिकपक्ष्मनेत्रं भूत्यै भवेन्मम भुजङ्गशयाङ्गनायाः।।
Now listen close…
There she stands — the eternal consort of Hari —
but today, her eyes are closed.
Not out of pride.
Not out of rejection.
But because the very sight of Mukunda — the liberator —
has flooded her being with such overflowing bliss,
that the senses simply surrendered.
She saw Him.
And that was enough.
Eyes closed. Smile deep. Rasa brimming over.
Like a yogini lost in samadhi,
she doesn’t blink. She doesn’t move.
Her heart becomes a temple of stillness.
Because in that moment, her entire being is chanting one truth —
'He is mine.'
That form of the goddess — with her eyelids half-lowered,
lashes brushing against the pupil like a curtain drawn over divine fire —
itself becomes a yantra.
Yes — a living, breathing ananga yantra —
where the formless god of love plays without words, without arrows.
She has seen her Lord.
And in that vision, she has seen all — joy, purpose, union, and liberation.
May that very silent, unblinking form of Lakshmi —
the one who reclines beside the Lord of Serpents,
the one who doesn’t even need words to bless —
be the source of all true fortune in my life.
Not just the outer kind...
but the wealth of inner stillness,
where the eyes of the heart close —
and the soul simply rests in love.
This is not ordinary stotra anymore.
This is rasamaya darshan — of Lakshmi not as a goddess, but as the very essence of fulfilled love.
No gesture, no movement — just that quiet joy...
And gold rains from the heavens.
बाह्वन्तरे मधुजितः श्रितकौस्तुभे या हारावलीव हरिनीलमयी विभाति ।
कामप्रदा भगवतोऽपि कटाक्षमाला कल्याणमावहतु मे कमलालयायाः।।
The setting shifts...
We now gaze at the sacred space between the arms of Madhusudana —
where the Kaustubha gem sits, radiant like the sun at dawn,
nestled against his deep sapphire-hued chest.
But what’s this?
Something more luminous than Kaustubha itself...
A necklace — not of pearls or diamonds —
but of Lakshmi’s presence,
woven out of her glances.
Yes — her kataksha itself becomes a garland.
Her form — made of shimmering, soft, harinila light —
wraps around his chest like a divine haaravalee (garland of grace).
But it’s not just an ornament —
it’s the very power that fulfills desires...
Even desires of the Lord Himself.
Let that garland of kataksha,
that cascade of side-glances cast from Devi’s lotus-eyes,
descend upon me — like cool moonlight on a fevered soul.
Let it bring mangalya,
not just as a word,
but as a force that transforms life from ordinary to sacred.
Because when the goddess who dwells in the lotus — Kamalaalaya herself —
chooses to look at you,
everything changes.
Fortune bows. Obstacles vanish.
And even Vishnu stands still,
stunned by the sweetness of her nearness.
This isn’t a hymn about riches anymore.
It’s about the source of all abundance — grace itself —
moving through the Devi’s glances like nectar through a golden vine.
कालाम्बुदालिललितोरसि कैटभारेः धाराधरे स्फुरति या तडिदङ्गनेव ।
मातुः समस्तजगतां महनीयमूर्तिः भद्राणि मे दिशतु भार्गवनन्दनायाः।।
Picture this:
A dark storm cloud builds in the sky — deep, intense, almost black —
its chest swelling with rain, its silence trembling with thunder.
That is the chest of Lord Vishnu, the Slayer of Kaitabha —
shimmering like a monsoon sky pregnant with power.
And then —
she appears.
Not as a gentle breeze.
Not as a mild glow.
But like a bolt of lightning tearing across that sky —
piercing, brilliant, impossible to ignore.
Her form — Lakshmi, born of the ocean, child of Bhrigu —
does not just decorate him…
she electrifies him.
Like lightning on a rain cloud,
she dances on his chest — radiant, wild, and full of Shakti.
This is not just beauty. This is majesty.
This is not just grace. This is commanding presence.
She is the Mother of all the worlds —
Matuh samastajagataam —
and her form is not delicate in this moment,
but mahaniya — awe-inspiring, sublime, the very essence of dignity and divine authority.
Let that form — that storm-born vision of Lakshmi,
who flashes like divine lightning upon the chest of the Lord —
bestow upon me bhadraani — auspiciousness that is bold, lasting, and undeniable.
Because when Bhargavanandini chooses to appear,
she doesn't sneak in with silence.
She strikes with light,
and your life is never the same again.
This is the Lakshmi of the storm.
Not just the goddess of coins and grain,
but the force that dances like lightning across the heart of Vishnu himself —
the one who arrives in your life not with a whisper, but with a resounding yes.
प्राप्तं पदं प्रथमतः किल यत्प्रभावात् माङ्गल्यभाजि मधुमाथिनि मन्मथेन।
मय्यापतेत्तदिह मन्थरमीक्षणार्धं मन्दालसं च मकरालयकन्यकायाः।।
Let’s start at the very beginning…
Before the bow. Before the arrow. Before desire itself had a face —
Manmatha, the god of love, was helpless.
He needed something, someone, some power to make hearts tremble.
Where did he find it?
He looked toward Vishnu — Madhumathini, the slayer of Madhu.
Not because Vishnu was vulnerable…
But because Lakshmi had already blessed him.
Yes — it was only after Devi glanced at Vishnu with that lazy, half-lidded, languid gaze,
that Manmatha finally found the spark of kama.
It was her glance that gave erotic power to the god of love himself.
So now, dear Devi, I ask —
if that one slow, graceful, half-closed gaze —
that mandaalasa, sweet and unhurried flicker of your eyes —
could create kama in the first place,
then why can’t it fall on me?
Let it land — not with a bang, not like lightning —
but like a soft feather resting on the flame of my life.
Let it transform me, charge me, melt my stubborn karma,
and unlock that same divine attraction in my being.
Even your manthara mikshanaardha —
that half-glance, almost too lazy to complete itself —
can cause oceans to bloom with gold.
So what could it not do for a bhakta’s dry fate?
This verse is a plea soaked in charm.
Shankara is not begging with folded hands —
he’s using poetry as a sacred key,
unlocking Lakshmi’s softest moods,
asking for the gentlest glance —
the same one that gave birth to love itself.
विश्वामरेन्द्रपदविभ्रमदानदक्षम् आनन्दहेतुरधिकं मुरविद्विषोऽपि ।
ईषन्निषीदतु मयि क्षणमीक्षणार्धम् इन्दीवरोदरसहोदरमिन्दिरायाः।।
He now bows low — not in pride, not in poetry, but in yearning.
O Devi,
You, whose glance makes Indra wobble in his throne,
You, who can gift the illusion of glory to gods,
like giving away marbles to children —
Even Vishnu, the slayer of Mura,
the eternal, the detached, the omnipotent —
finds more joy in you than in all the worlds he sustains.
You are not just his consort.
You are his Ananda Hetu —
the reason even God smiles.
And yet…
All I ask, O Indira,
O you whose eyes are twin sisters of the blue lotus’s deepest heart —
is this:
Not your full glance.
Not your full attention.
Not even a moment of conversation.
Just an ishat, a barely-there flicker.
Just the shadow of your glance.
A half-second of your eye grazing my existence.
Let that settle in me —
like a drop of honey falling into a dry throat,
like the sun touching a cold mountain peak.
Let that half-glance live in my heart —
and I need no palace, no kingdom, no wealth.
Because what gold can match the warmth of your awareness?
This is not flattery anymore.
This is raw bhakti —
a soul, stripped of ego, asking for the tiniest ripple from the ocean of Shakti.
And yet, in that half-glance, lies the power
to make beggars into sages
and dry lives into Kanakadharas.
इष्टा विशिष्टमतयोऽपि यया दयार्द्रदृष्ट्या त्रिविष्टपपदं सुलभं लभन्ते ।
दृष्टिः प्रहृष्टकमलोदरदीप्तिरिष्टां पुष्टिं कृषीष्ट मम पुष्करविष्टरायाः।।
He’s no longer just asking for grace for himself.
He’s making a case for all beings, all jivas, all types of seekers —
saying: Even the choosy ones… even the wise ones… they only reach heaven because of HER.
So what about me?
You see, O Devi,
there are those who claim to be wise —
the ishtas and the vishishtas,
the chosen ones, the specialists,
the ones who think they’ve figured it all out.
And yet — not even they can reach Trivishtapa —
the world of the devas,
without you.
Not without your glance —
a glance softened by daya,
made wet by karuna,
made real by your readiness to bless.
Even the highest heavens are easy for those touched by that glance.
So what am I asking, O Lotus-Dweller?
Not riches.
Not fame.
Just this:
Let your dristi — that joy-lit, lotus-core radiance —
fall on me.
Let it not just land,
let it nourish.
Let it bring me pushti —
not just physical well-being,
but the inner strength to walk through this life with clarity, contentment, and courage.
Like a drop of golden ghee falling into sacred fire,
let your drishti enter my being,
and let my life blossom like a pushkara —
a sacred lotus pond lit by the sun of your kindness.
This is the bhakta’s boldest moment yet.
He points out that even the most elite — the yogis, the pundits, the knowers —
need her.
So what about the humble seeker?
Surely a glance is not too much to ask.
And in that glance… there is everything.
दद्याद्दयानुपवनो द्रविणाम्बुधाराम् अस्मिन्नकिञ्चनविहङ्गशिशौ विषण्णे ।
दुष्कर्मघर्ममपनीय चिराय दूरं नारायणप्रणयिनीनयनाम्बुवाहः।।
Up till now, the bhakta was describing, admiring, requesting...
But here — he breaks.
No more poetic restraint.
Shankara lets out a cry — not for grandeur, not for himself —
but for that poor woman, that empty hut, that single gooseberry,
that sacred moment where poverty stood tall, and compassion bowed low.
O Devi…
This isn’t about wealth anymore.
This is about him — that poor, shivering little bird,
that akinchana vihanga shishu —
fragile, helpless, empty-handed,
yet still calling your name.
He has no wings left.
No strength to fly.
Just sits there — soaked in the sweat of past sins,
trapped under the heat of dushkarma,
lost in a world where even a grain of rice feels like a mountain.
And in that state… you see him.
So let the daya-anupavana —
the breeze of your compassion —
carry a dravinambudhara —
a rain of gold, a rain of food,
a rain of what he truly needs.
Not to make him rich.
But to make him seen. To make him safe.
Let your eyes — the eyes of Narayana’s beloved —
become a cloud, heavy with the tears of mercy,
ready to fall on this scorched little life.
Let your gaze wipe away the sweat of past karma,
drive it far, far away —
like dust scattered by a blessed storm.
And even if the world thinks he is no one…
You know.
You saw.
You responded.
This verse is a collapse into surrender.
No more clever phrases.
Just a broken cry of karuna.
It is the turning point where the gooseberry turns to gold,
where the child-saint’s song becomes a storm of compassion,
and the Goddess — no longer distant —
becomes a mother.
गीर्देवतेति गरुडध्वजसुन्दरीति शाकम्भरीति शशिशेखरवल्लभेति।
सृष्टिस्थितिप्रलयकेलिषु संस्थितायै तस्यै नमस्त्रिभुवनैकगुरोस्तरुण्यै।।
This is where the storm settles into stillness, and the bhakta rises again —
not as a beggar, not even as a poet,
but as a devotee who has now tasted the power of that divine glance,
and with folded hands, offers pure reverence.
This is a salutation, yes — but not just words.
It’s a bowing to the Shakti behind all names, all forms, all actions.
Let’s now enter this verse in Divya Rasa Vachanam style —
with the grace of a devotee who knows that he now stands in the presence of Taruni Devi,
the One who plays with creation like a child with toys,
yet whose name alone can break lifetimes of bondage.
She is called by many names.
Each one — a spark.
Each one — a secret key.
They call her Girdevata —
the goddess of speech, the source of Saraswati's tongue,
the power behind every mantra, every scripture, every whispered prayer.
They call her Garudadhvaja Sundari —
the enchanting consort of the one who bears the Garuda flag — Vishnu Himself.
But she is not just his beauty —
she is his Shakti, the pulse beneath the calm.
They call her Shaakambhari —
the mother who sprouted vegetation when the world was parched,
who gave food to famine,
and hope to the hopeless.
They call her Shashishekhara Vallabha —
the beloved of the moon-crested Lord,
whose glance softens even the Rudra within Shiva,
making him melt into compassion.
But beyond all these forms and titles —
she is Taruni — the eternal youthful goddess,
the one who plays at creation, sustenance, and destruction
like notes on a veena —
flawlessly, effortlessly, joyfully.
She is not bound to a temple.
She is not chained to a name.
She is the one guru of the three worlds —
Tribhuvaneka Guruh,
the inner compass, the hidden flame,
the mother of gods, the whisper of destiny.
To her, I bow.
Not to demand, not to ask —
but to offer.
To surrender.
For it is her play — her leela —
that lifts jivas out of darkness,
and weaves the golden thread of kanaka dhara
through even the most ordinary lives.
This is the pause in the storm,
the sacred stillness after the golden rain has fallen,
when all you can do…
is bow.
श्रुत्यै नमोऽस्तु शुभकर्मफलप्रसूत्यै रत्यै नमोऽस्तु रमणीयगुणार्णवायै।
शक्त्यै नमोऽस्तु शतपत्रनिकेतनायै पुष्ट्यै नमोऽस्तु पुरुषोत्तमवल्लभायै।।
This one is a garland of namaskaras, woven with full awareness of who Devi truly is.
Shankara is now not just praising her beauty or begging for grace. He is saluting her tattva, her deeper identity — not in metaphor, not in bhava alone, but in truth.
This is recognition.
And what does he recognize her as?
Not just a goddess...
But Shruti, Rati, Shakti, Pushti — the four pillars of all life, all experience, all reality.
Namo’stu, O Devi...
First, as Shruti —
not just the Vedas written in palm leaves,
but the living vibration that became the Vedas.
You are the womb of all dharma.
From you arise the fruits of every good karma —
like lotuses blooming in still water.
To you, the mother of righteous outcomes, I bow.
Namo’stu, O Devi...
As Rati, the sacred sweetness of union.
You are not just pleasure —
you are the ocean of Ramanīya Guṇas —
charm, character, grace, delicacy, kindness.
You are what makes the world fall in love.
To that beauty which is virtue, I bow.
Namo’stu, O Devi...
As Shakti, the unfailing force —
the current that powers all of creation.
You reside in the shatapatra — the thousand-petaled lotus —
the Sahasrara, the crown, the hidden sanctum of all beings.
You are the strength behind the silence.
To that core of power, I bow.
Namo’stu, O Devi...
As Pushti, the nourisher —
not just of the body, but of the soul.
You are the snehini of Purushottama,
the consort of the Supreme,
and through you, even Vishnu becomes complete.
To you — the one who is Shruti and Shakti,
Rati and Pushti,
source and sustainer,
delight and discipline —
to you, O lotus-born, I bow in full surrender.
This verse is like a four-directional prostration,
acknowledging Devi not just as form, not just as grace,
but as essence itself.
And now, Shankara is no longer outside the temple —
He’s inside, lying on the floor, arms stretched wide,
touching all directions with one word:
Namo’stu.
नमोऽस्तु नालीकनिभाननायै नमोऽस्तु दुग्धोदधिजन्मभूत्यै।
नमोऽस्तु सोमामृतसोदरायै नमोऽस्तु नारायणवल्लभायै।।
it’s the climactic bow.
All the vivid visions, the cries for grace, the poetic depictions — they now melt into one quiet, powerful act of surrender.
No more arguments. No more requests. No more rasa-play.
Just namah... namah... namah...
Like waves falling at the feet of the goddess.
Like a heart that has finally understood: She is everything.
Namostu...
O Devi, whose face glows like a fresh lotus,
not just in color, but in coolness, in tenderness, in untouched serenity —
like dawn breaking silently over still waters.
Namostu to that face,
which holds the light that even a thousand suns could not imitate.
Namostu...
O She who rose from the milky ocean,
not as a jewel or a gem —
but as the very treasure of the Devas,
the one who made that churning worth it.
Namostu to that origin,
that divine emergence from the ocean of purity.
Namostu...
O sister of Soma and Amrita —
sister to the moonlight and nectar,
meaning: you too are cooling, you too are healing,
you too are timeless.
Namostu to that kinship with rasa itself.
Namostu...
O Vallabha of Narayana —
not just his consort,
but his beloved, his equal, his power, his pause, his purpose.
You are what makes even Vishnu a husband.
You are what makes even dharma feel gentle.
You are what makes bhakti bear fruit.
So today,
no requests.
No questions.
Just namostu.
Like a breath.
Like a heartbeat.
Like a soul that’s found its home.
Each namostu is a petal.
Together, they form the lotus that we now place at her feet.
नमोऽस्तु हेमामबुजपीठिकाये नमोऽस्तु भूमण्डलनायिकायै।
नमोऽस्तु देवादिदयापरायै नमोऽस्तु शार्ङ्गायुधवल्लभायै।।
Now the devotee is not just surrendering to Lakshmi the goddess of wealth, or beauty, or even compassion —
but to Lakshmi as the sovereign of the cosmos, the empress seated on a throne of gold-lotuses,
the one whose very smile holds together the trembling balance of heaven, earth, and heart.
Namostu...
To the goddess who sits not on thrones of gold,
but on the golden lotus —
born not of luxury, but of divine purity and power.
Her seat itself is sacred.
Her very presence makes that lotus shine from within.
She does not just decorate it —
she makes it a mandala of grace.
Namostu...
To the queen of the entire Earth-plane —
Bhumandala Nayika.
Not just of wealth, but of destiny.
She moves silently behind kings and saints,
choosing where the rains fall,
when the crops bloom,
and where the winds of fortune turn.
She is Bhu-mata and Raja-mata rolled into one.
She lifts the humble and humbles the proud —
and all with one whisper of her will.
Namostu...
To the one whose daya extends even before the devas knew to pray.
She does not wait for rituals.
Her compassion is older than heaven.
Even the gods bow to her — not for riches, but for restoration.
She does not bless like a merchant.
She rescues like a mother.
Namostu...
To the beloved of Sharnga-Ayudha —
the wielder of Vishnu’s bow, the protector of dharma.
But behind that bow...
stands her glance.
Behind every avatar’s justice...
stands her grace.
She is not just beside Vishnu.
She is within him,
the soft heartbeat behind his thunder.
This verse is a coronation and a surrender in one breath.
Shankara sees her as she truly is —
not just the bestower of gold,
but the sovereign of all direction,
the hidden mother of devas, earth, and destiny.
नमोऽस्तु देव्यै भृगुनन्दनायै नमोऽस्तु विष्णोरुरसि स्थितायै।
नमोऽस्तु लक्ष्म्यै कमलालयायै नमोऽस्तु दामोदरवल्लभायै।।
Now the bows are coming like heartbeats — soft, rhythmic, surrendering.
No cleverness here. No poetic detours.
Just a direct salutation, one after another, to the One behind all names.
Every name in this verse is a lock, and Shankara knows which key opens each —
but he doesn’t unlock them for himself.
He just lays them at her feet.
Namostu...
To the Devi,
who is not a concept or symbol,
but the living daughter of Sage Bhrigu —
Bhargavi, the child of penance,
born not from fire, but from tapasya —
a divine blossom sprung from the roots of silence.
Namostu...
To she who rests on the chest of Vishnu,
not as an ornament, not as a shadow,
but as his very heartbeat.
While Vishnu holds the universe,
she holds his center.
Where she rests, there is peace.
Where she departs, even the Lord appears incomplete.
Namostu...
To Lakshmi,
the one who resides in the lotus of all hearts,
the one whose presence makes a space sacred.
She does not knock before entering —
she blooms into the lives of those who wait in silence.
Namostu...
To the beloved of Damodara,
he whose waist bears the mark of a mother’s rope,
who once played in Vrindavan but now rests in Vaikuntha —
and beside him, always,
is her gaze —
calm, complete, and ever watchful.
This verse is not a plea.
It’s a benediction,
as if the poet himself has vanished,
and only his folded hands remain,
bowing again and again,
like waves touching the shore
of the Goddess who gives without being asked.
नमोऽस्तु कान्त्यै कमलेक्षणायै नमोऽस्तु भूत्यै भुवनप्रसूत्यै।
नमोऽस्तु देवादिभिरर्चितायै नमोऽस्त्वनन्तात्मजवल्लभायै।।
This one glows with a quiet radiance, like the evening lamp offered at the feet of the goddess.
By now, Shankara’s heart has been emptied — emptied of need, pride, even poetry — and what remains is only gratitude.
He bows again… and again… and again…
But this time, each namostu is offered not from longing — but from recognition.
He’s not asking anymore. He’s acknowledging her divinity in full bloom.
Namostu...
To the radiance itself — Kanti, not merely light,
but the glow that comes from inner balance, from truth, from divine presence.
That radiance is not harsh, not blinding.
It’s the soft shine in the eyes of a lotus-eyed goddess —
Kamala-akshana —
eyes that hold the calm of a thousand dawns.
Namostu...
To Bhuti — the very essence of all prosperity.
Not just wealth in coins —
but health, clarity, strength, knowledge, grace —
everything that makes life complete.
And more than all that,
to she who is Bhuvana-Prasuti —
the mother of all worlds.
Not figuratively.
Literally.
From her, even the lokas arise.
Namostu...
To the one who is worshipped by devas,
and not out of obligation,
but out of awe.
Even Indra, Brahma, Agni, Vayu…
they offer flowers at her feet,
for they know —
before the universe bloomed, she already was.
Namostu...
To the beloved of Ananta’s son —
to she who stands beside Vishnu,
in all his forms —
Narayana, Damodara, Vamana, Krishna.
Wherever he goes, she follows not behind him,
but within him —
as grace, as gentleness, as the smile behind justice.
This verse is like a garland of lamps,
offered silently during evening prayer,
as the heart bows in full recognition:
She is not someone to reach —
She is someone who has always been.
सम्पत्कराणि सकलेन्द्रियनन्दनानि साम्राज्यदानविभवानि सरोरुहाक्षि।
त्वद्वन्दनानि दुरिताहरणोद्यतानि मामेव मातरनिशं कलयन्तु मान्ये।।
This is the madhura-tama moment,
where the bhakta, no longer afraid to ask, says it clearly, openly, lovingly —
Let your praises live in my life. Let them shape me. Let them stay. Always.
This is where Shankara becomes not just a poet, not just a saint —
but a child speaking to his divine mother —
with tenderness, with need, with sacred entitlement.
O Lotus-eyed mother of grace,
whose glance alone creates sampat — abundance, not just of gold, but of meaning,
of health, strength, balance, and direction.
Every time I praise you, O Devi,
something sacred shifts —
my senses awaken with joy,
my world feels governed by dharma,
and my mind quiets like the sky after rain.
Let those vandanas,
those chants of your name,
those shlokas that rise like incense smoke,
become the royal companions of my life.
Let them dwell in me, night and day —
maam eva nisham kalayantu, O Mother —
not as duty, not as burden,
but as the heartbeat behind all my breaths.
Let every time I remember you
become a fire that burns away my karmas —
for your stotra, O Devi, is no ornament.
It is the weapon that dissolves sin,
it is the key to the lock of suffering.
You are not just to be praised in temples.
You are to be woven into my very being,
like the scent of sandalwood in wood,
like sweetness in honey.
So, O Maanye —
the one worthy of all respect,
make your praises eternal within me.
Let me not just sing them.
Let me become them.
This verse is the bhakta’s ultimate wish:
Not kingdom.
Not treasure.
Not even mukti.
Just this —
Let my life become a garland of your stuti.
यत्कटाक्षसमुपासनाविधिः सेवकस्य सकलार्थसम्पदः।
सन्तनोति वचनाङ्गमानसैस्त्वां मुरारिहृदयेश्वरीं भजे।।
Now we enter the heart of inner sadhana.
No more external praises, no more poetic metaphors — this is instruction through experience.
Shankara is saying: This is how it works.
If you want real wealth, real peace, real sampat — then here’s the method:
Seek her kataksha.
And not just once. Make a vidhi — a daily offering of body, mind, and words.
I don’t seek a throne.
I don’t seek pleasures or power.
All I seek is this:
Your kataksha —
that glance that doesn’t just fall, but enters,
like moonlight slipping silently into a dark room,
changing everything without breaking anything.
O Murari-Hridayeshwari,
Queen of Vishnu’s very heart —
to worship you is to touch the source of divine contentment.
And the path?
It’s not complicated.
It’s not some ancient ritual locked away in scriptures.
No — it is this vidhi:
Let my words speak only your praise.
Let my body bow only at your feet.
Let my mind rest only in thoughts of you.
Let vachana, anga, manasa —
speech, action, and thought —
become the three petals of the flower I place before you daily.
And in return?
You don’t just give a little.
You unleash all forms of sampat —
physical, emotional, material, spiritual —
without asking, without delay, without measure.
This is not mythology.
This is not theory.
This is experience.
So today I say it simply:
I worship you.
Because I’ve seen what your kataksha can do.
Because I know —
when you are with me,
everything else follows silently behind.
This verse is guidance disguised as praise.
It’s not just a chant — it’s a roadmap:
Body, speech, and mind offered to her,
leads to a life full of real wealth.
सरसिजनिलये सरोजहस्ते धवलतमांशुकगन्धमाल्यशोभे।
भगवति हरिवल्लभे मनोज्ञे त्रिभुवनभूतिकरि प्रसीद मह्यम्।।
This is no longer a shloka.
It’s a direct appeal to the Goddess — face-to-face, heart-to-heart.
No metaphors. No clever layering. Just naked devotion.
He sees her now, fully — in her beauty, her grace, her softness, her supreme power —
and with folded hands, he says just one thing: Be kind to me. Please.
O Sarasi-ja-nilaye —
O you who dwell in the heart of a lotus —
not just seated on it, but one with its stillness, its softness, its purity.
O Sarojahaste —
your hands hold lotuses,
but even more — they are lotuses.
They give, they soothe, they bless without hurting.
You are wrapped in the whitest cloth,
fragrant with sandal, decorated with garlands,
but none of that can outshine your smile —
that smile which has calmed the hearts of gods, sages, and worlds.
O Bhagavati —
O Supreme Mother, full of shakti and karuna —
O Hari-vallabhe, beloved of Narayana,
whose presence makes Vishnu himself radiant.
O Manojna —
You are the definition of what is lovable,
what is beautiful, what is irresistible.
O Tribhuvana-bhuti-kari —
the one who brings mangalya to all three worlds —
from heaven to earth to the hearts of those who sit quietly and call your name...
To you,
I offer no poetry, no reasoning, no performance.
Only this:
Praseeda mahyam —
Be kind to me.
Not because I deserve.
Not because I am great.
But because you are my mother,
and I… am simply… your child.
This verse is a soft cry,
like the final whisper at the end of a long prayer.
Not shouted, not argued — just surrendered.
And that’s exactly when Devi listens the closest.
दिग्घस्तिभिः कनककुम्भमुखावसृष्टस्वर्वाहिनीविमलचारुजलप्लुताङ्गीम् ।
प्रातर्नमामि जगतां जननीमशेषलोकाधिनाथगृहिणीममृताब्धिपुत्रीम्।।
No more whispers, no more sighs.
This is the shloka of majesty — a full-bodied, glowing salutation to the Mother of the Universe, who appears not just as beauty, not just as compassion, but as royal glory flowing in waves.
Now Shankara is no longer at her feet...
He is standing still, in awe, witnessing her cosmic presence —
not as a myth, not as memory — but as the living queen of all realms.
In the stillness of early dawn,
before the world stirs,
before prayers even rise —
I bow.
I bow to Her —
the Mother of all worlds,
whose form glows with sacred waters,
poured lovingly over her body
from golden vessels held by celestial elephants,
who stand in all directions — diggajas —
as if all of space itself offers her abhisheka.
Imagine it —
from the mouths of golden kumbhas,
streams of clear, divine waters descend —
not ordinary water,
but swargavahini —
the very current of the heavens.
Her limbs are soaked in that flow —
Vimala, pure,
Charu, elegant,
as if beauty itself is bathing in beauty.
And who is she?
She is Jagat-Janani —
the Mother of every form, every being, every prayer ever whispered.
She is the Grihini —
not just of a household,
but of the homes of all the lords of all the lokas.
Even Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva —
they go to her when they return from the business of creation, preservation, and destruction.
And she is the daughter of the Ocean of Nectar —
not just born from milk,
but from Amritam itself.
This is not just a mother.
This is the matrika of time, space, and joy.
And to her,
I offer my first thought every morning.
Let the day begin,
not with noise, not with worry —
but with a bow to the One who bathed in heaven and still chose to walk with us.
Start your day with her — and everything else will align.
कमले कमलाक्षवल्लभे त्वं करुणापूरतरङ्गितैरपाङ्गैः।
अवलोकय मामकिञ्चनानां प्रथमं पात्रमकृत्रिमं दयायाः।।
We’ve praised.
We’ve bowed.
We’ve seen her as the queen of the cosmos, bathed by heavenly elephants.
And now?
We come back, quietly, to the doorstep...
empty-handed, teary-eyed, completely real.
This is not poetry anymore.
It’s a confession of spiritual poverty.
Shankara lays down all titles, all intellect, all accomplishment — and stands there simply as a child of compassion.
O Kamale —
O Lotus Goddess,
O Kamalakshi-Vallabhe —
the beloved of the Lord with lotus-eyes,
you who dwell in softness, in stillness, in sacred bloom...
I don’t come to you with long chants,
or golden gifts,
or deep rituals.
I come with nothing.
No fame. No purity.
No hidden achievements.
Only this:
a heart that knows
that your glance is oceanic compassion.
That your eyes,
even when they don’t look directly,
cast waves —
tarangita apanga —
ripples of karuna so powerful
that even those drowning in their karmas
can float again.
So today —
O Mother —
just look at me.
Not fully.
Just a side glance.
Let that apanga fall,
not on kings, not on sages —
but on me,
the most unworthy, the most forgotten, the akincana.
Because if your daya is real —
if your compassion is not an act,
then this —
this poor, unpolished, broken heart —
is its first and most natural recipient.
I am the perfect vessel
for your unconditional love.
Not because I’m special.
But because I’m completely empty.
This is Shankara’s boldest plea —
not based on worth,
but on raw need.
He flips the script and says:
I don’t need to deserve your mercy —
your mercy needs someone like me to be true.
देवि प्रसीद जगदीश्वरि लोकमातः कल्याणगात्रि कमलेक्षणजीवनाथे।
दारिद्र्यभीतहृदयं शरणागतं माम् आलोकय प्रतिदिनं सदयैरपाङ्गैः।।
The heart now beats with both fear and faith.
This is where the devotee, standing at the edge of all that he has asked, all that he has surrendered,
finally says: I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m yours. Please, just don’t look away.
This is not a verse of formality.
It’s not even poetic anymore.
It’s a daily prayer, a plea from the gut, a cry from one who has no one else but Her.
O Devi —
O Queen of the world, Jagadishwari,
Mother of all beings, Loka Mata,
whose very body radiates mangalya,
whose limbs are a hymn of welfare,
whose eyes — Kamalekshana — are soft, endless lotuses...
To you, I come —
not once, not occasionally —
but every day,
because I have no one else to turn to.
O Jivanatha,
you who are the life-source even to Vishnu himself —
today, I stand here as a sharanagata —
not as a scholar, not as a saint,
but as a soul afraid of poverty,
not just of money,
but of love, peace, hope, direction.
My heart is daridryabhita —
not just empty,
but trembling with the fear of staying that way.
So I ask one thing —
not a treasure,
not a boon,
just this:
Let your compassionate glance,
your sadayam apanga,
fall upon me every single day.
Not once in a lifetime.
Every day.
Because every day, I struggle.
Every day, I lose faith.
Every day, I need your glance to steady me.
Look at me, Ma —
not because I’m worthy,
but because I’m yours.
This verse is the bhakta's final truth:
Behind all prayers lies one longing —
Please don’t forget me.
And with that side-glance,
Daridrya ends.
Not just in the pocket,
but in the soul.
स्तुवन्ति ये स्तुतिभिरमूभिरन्वहं त्रयीमयीं त्रिभुवनमातरं रमाम्।
गुणाधिका गुरुतरभाग्यभागिनो भवन्ति ते भुवि बुधभाविताशयाः।
Shankara doesn’t end with himself.
He turns outward.
He looks at you, me, all seekers, and gently, joyfully, boldly says:
If you chant this… if you sing to her like I just did… your life will change.
This isn’t a casual encouragement.
This is a blessing in shloka form —
a promise from one who has seen what Lakshmi’s kataksha can do.
Let me tell you this, clearly —
those who sing these verses,
who praise this Ramaa,
this threefold goddess —
essence of the Vedas,
Mother of the three worlds,
Beloved of Narayana —
they are not ordinary souls.
They may begin like you and me —
flawed, faltering, full of doubts —
but the moment they start chanting with feeling,
something shifts.
Their inner buddhi becomes clear.
Their intentions become sattvic.
And most of all —
they become recipients of a higher destiny.
Not because the verses are magic spells.
But because Ramaa hears them.
She hears them when they’re whispered in pain,
she hears them when they’re sung with devotion,
and she responds —
with grace that no karma can block.
Those who recite this daily,
not mechanically,
but with heart —
they grow in guna,
they rise in bhagya,
and they walk this world
with the silent strength of those who are truly seen by the Goddess.
This is not just an ending —
this is Shankara handing you the key.
He’s saying:
Here.
I did it.
It worked.
Now it’s your turn.
angam hareh' pulakabhooshanamaashrayantee
bhri'ngaanganeva mukulaabharanam tamaalam.
angeekri'taakhila-
vibhootirapaangaleelaa
maangalyadaa'stu mama mangaladevataayaah'.
mugdhaa muhurvidadhatee vadane muraareh'
prematrapaapranihitaani gataagataani.
maalaa dri'shormadhukareeva mahotpale yaa
saa me shriyam dishatu saagarasambhavaayaah'.
aameelitaakshamadhigamya mudaa mukundam
aanandakandamanimesham-
anangatantram .
aakekarasthitakaneenika-
pakshmanetram
bhootyai bhavenmama bhujangashayaanganaayaah'.
baahvantare madhujitah' shritakaustubhe yaa
haaraavaleeva harineelamayee vibhaati .
kaamapradaa bhagavato'pi kat'aakshamaalaa
kalyaanamaavahatu me kamalaalayaayaah'.
kaalaambudaalilalitorasi kait'abhaareh'
dhaaraadhare sphurati yaa tad'idanganeva .
maatuh' samastajagataam mahaneeyamoortih'
bhadraani me dishatu bhaargavanandanaayaah'.
praaptam padam prathamatah' kila yatprabhaavaat
maangalyabhaaji madhumaathini manmathena.
mayyaapatettadiha mantharameekshanaardham
mandaalasam cha makaraalayakanyakaayaah'.
vishvaamarendrapadavibhrama-
daanadaksham
maaanandaheturadhikam muravidvisho'pi .
eeshannisheedatu mayi kshanameekshanaardham
indeevarodarasahodaramindiraayaah'.
isht'aa vishisht'amatayo'pi yayaa dayaardra-
dri'sht'yaa trivisht'apapadam sulabham labhante .
dri'sht'ih' prahri'sht'akamalodara-
deeptirisht'aam
pusht'im kri'sheesht'a mama pushkaravisht'araayaah'.
dadyaaddayaanupavano dravinaambudhaaraam
asminnakinchanavihangashishau vishanne .
dushkarmagharmamapaneeya chiraaya dooram
naaraayanapranayinee-
nayanaambuvaahah'.
geerdevateti garud'adhvajasundareeti
shaakambhareeti shashishekharavallabheti.
sri'sht'isthitipralayakelishu samsthitaayai
tasyai namastribhuvanaikagurostarunyai.
shrutyai namo'stu shubhakarmaphalaprasootyai
ratyai namo'stu ramaneeyagunaarnavaayai.
shaktyai namo'stu shatapatraniketanaayai
pusht'yai namo'stu purushottamavallabhaayai.
namo'stu naaleekanibhaananaayai
namo'stu dugdhodadhijanmabhootyai.
namo'stu somaamri'tasodaraayai
namo'stu naaraayanavallabhaayai.
namo'stu hemaamabujapeet'hikaaye
namo'stu bhoomand'alanaayikaayai.
namo'stu devaadidayaaparaayai
namo'stu shaarngaayudhavallabhaayai.
namo'stu devyai bhri'gunandanaayai
namo'stu vishnorurasi sthitaayai.
namo'stu lakshmyai kamalaalayaayai
namo'stu daamodaravallabhaayai.
namo'stu kaantyai kamalekshanaayai
namo'stu bhootyai bhuvanaprasootyai.
namo'stu devaadibhirarchitaayai
namo'stvanantaatmajavallabhaayai.
sampatkaraani sakalendriyanandanaani
saamraajyadaanavibhavaani saroruhaakshi.
tvadvandanaani duritaaharanodyataani
maameva maataranisham kalayantu maanye.
yatkat'aakshasamupaasanaavidhih'
sevakasya sakalaarthasampadah'.
santanoti vachanaangamaanasai-
stvaam muraarihri'dayeshvareem bhaje.
sarasijanilaye sarojahaste
dhavalatamaamshuka-
gandhamaalyashobhe.
bhagavati harivallabhe manojnye
tribhuvanabhootikari praseeda mahyam.
digghastibhih' kanakakumbhamukhaavasri'sht'a-
svarvaahineevimala-
chaarujalaplutaangeem .
praatarnamaami jagataam jananeemashesha-
lokaadhinaathagri'hineem-
amri'taabdhiputreem.
kamale kamalaakshavallabhe
tvam karunaapooratarangitairapaangaih'.
avalokaya maamakinchanaanaam
prathamam paatramakri'trimam dayaayaah'.
devi praseeda jagadeeshvari lokamaatah'
kalyaanagaatri kamalekshanajeevanaathe.
daaridryabheetahri'dayam sharanaagatam maam
aalokaya pratidinam sadayairapaangaih'.
stuvanti ye stutibhiramoobhiranvaham
trayeemayeem tribhuvanamaataram ramaam.
gunaadhikaa gurutarabhaagyabhaagino
bhavanti te bhuvi budhabhaavitaashayaah'.
Other stotras
