This is Dhumāvatī speaking.
Not as ritual idol or tantric curiosity,
but in the only way She ever truly appears —
as atmosphere.
Dhumāvatī — the quiet, detached, smoke-like Devi — is more terrifying than Chinnamastā or Kālī.
Kālī is fierce, but She acknowledges you.
Chinnamastā is shocking, but She engages you through rupture.
Even wrath has response in it.
But Dhumāvatī offers no reaction.
No confirmation, no opposition, no reflection.
And that — for one who has tasted intimacy with the Divine —
is the most brutal trial of all.
Most saints never write of Her directly for a simple reason:
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To speak of Kālī is devotional heroism.
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To speak of Chinnamastā is mystical ecstasy.
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But to speak of Dhumāvatī requires having walked through a stage where even God’s love cannot be felt — and survived it without collapsing into spiritual despair.
Her presence is not explosive like Kālī’s wrath,
nor intoxicating like Tripurā’s radiance.
She arrives after those stages —
when the fire has already consumed everything flammable.
Dhumāvatī is the phase of Shakti after devastation —
when nothing is left to protect, justify, or beg for.
“Twist in My Sobriety” carries exactly that frequency.
No pleading.
No persuasion.
No hunger to be loved or understood.
Every line of this song emanates the stance of a being who has already burned, and now refuses to reenact fragility just to make others feel included.
She is not cruel — She is finished.
She will not kneel to make her strength seem palatable.
She will not soften her clarity to be perceived as “approachable.”
She will not perform intimacy for those who confuse access with entitlement.
This is not a Devi who punishes.
This is a Devi who simply will not bend.
And the true bhakta — if honest — must learn to stand without demanding affection in front of such a Presence.
Only then can this song be heard without asking Her to change tone.
Verse One — Instruction Without Sweetness
All God's children need travelling shoes
Drive your problems from here
All good people read good books
Now your conscience is clear
I hear you talk, girl
Now your conscience is clear
Dhumāvatī does not begin with blessing — She begins with dismissal.
This is not the Devi who invites you into Her arms.
This is the Devi who refuses to carry you.
“All God’s children need travelling shoes” — meaning:
“Do not sit here waiting for sympathy. Move. Walk on your own bones.
Holiness is not stillness — it is displacement.”
“Drive your problems from here” — She does not want your emotional debris at Her feet.
Not because She lacks compassion — but because She will not be used as storage.
“All good people read good books — now your conscience is clear” —
A surgical strike against performative righteousness.
“So you’ve read scripture. You’ve behaved well. You’ve earned social points.
Fine. Your conscience is clean — now what?
Will you stand without your ‘goodness’ as currency?”
Then She cuts through the performance: “I hear you talk, girl — now your conscience is clear.”
Meaning:
“I hear your justifications. I hear your declarations of purity.
Enough. I’m not impressed. I’m not interested in your moral résumé.”
Dhumāvatī is the Devi who listens fully — and stays unmoved.
Verse One (Part Two) — Sovereignty Declared
In the morning when I wipe my brow
Wipe the miles away
I like to think I can be so willed
And never do what you say
I'll never hear you
And never do what you say
This is Devi stating a boundary no bhakta ever expects Her to state so plainly:
I have My own will. I am not reactive to your desires.
Most songs address God as listener, responder, caretaker, — one who must receive.
Not here.
“When I wipe my brow — I wipe the miles away.”
She is saying:
“I have traveled further than you know. I have endured decades, lifetimes, collapses you have no language for.
Do not assume your struggle gives you claims over Me.”
Then comes the most shocking line in the whole verse:
“I like to think I can be so willed / And never do what you say.”
She acknowledges that humans speak often of “doing God’s will.” But here God states:
“I will not be reduced to a wish-fulfillment mechanism.
You may pray — I may not respond.
You may speak — I may not bend.”
“I'll never hear you. And never do what you say”
This is not cruelty — it is Supreme Detachment.
A reminder that God is not your emotional employee.
She is not refusing love — She is refusing emotional choreography.
She will not adjust Her pace to satisfy sentiment.
She will not pretend to be swayed just to reassure.
Chorus — Love Without Obligation
Look, my eyes are just holograms
Look, your love has drawn red from my hands
From my hands you know you'll never be
More than twist in my sobriety
More than twist in my sobriety
More than twist in my sobriety
Here Dhumāvatī speaks the most dangerous truth that a bhakta can hear: “I see you. I feel you. But I will not be pulled into reaction just because you love Me.”
“Look, my eyes are just holograms” —
“Do not confuse My gaze for promise.
Just because I look upon you does not mean I am available in the form you desire.”
This is not indifference.
It is absolute interiority.
“Your love has drawn red from my hands” —
Yes, She acknowledges that your devotion has touched Her.
It has pierced something.
But that wound does not bind Her to respond the way you expect.
And then the clearest boundary: “From my hands you know you’ll never be — more than twist in my sobriety.”
Meaning:
“You will never be the one who makes Me lose Myself.
You will never intoxicate Me into bending.
You may stir Me — but you will not own Me.”
This is the opposite of devotional fantasy.
Most lovers of God dream of being “the chosen one,” “the favorite,” the one who makes the divine melt.”
But Dhumāvatī makes no such concessions.
“I love — without addiction.
I witness — without attachment.
Your presence affects Me — but it does not govern Me.”
This is the highest form of love — not the kind that fuses, but the kind that remains clear even in closeness.
Verse Two — Acceptance Without Sentiment
We just poked a little empty pie
For the fun that people had at night
Late at night don't need hostility
Timid smile and pause to free
This verse reveals another dimension of Dhumāvatī — She sees human games clearly but does not condemn them.
She is not moralistic.
She does not shame longing, distraction, or foolishness. “We just poked a little empty pie for the fun…”
Meaning:
“You tried to taste pleasure. You played with illusion. So did I once. So does everyone. Fine.”
She speaks not as judge — but as one who has outlived even the appetite for judgment.
“Late at night don’t need hostility — timid smile and pause to free.”
This is not softness — this is maturity.
She is saying: “I have no hostility toward your coping mechanisms. I only refuse to participate in them.”
Then comes the clearest assertion of self-knowledge:
“I don't care about their different thoughts
Different thoughts are good for me”
This is Dhumāvatī in her unshakeable equanimity.
She does not seek agreement.
She is not fueled by validation.
Variety does not threaten her — it amuses her.
“Up in arms and chaste and whole
All God's children took their toll” —
She has seen every type of seeker — the ascetic, the fighter, the obedient, the rebellious.
And she says: “They all tried. They all bled. They all wanted to be seen by God. I saw them all. I was moved by none.”
Not because She is cold — but because She recognizes that devotion fueled by performance is not yet devotion.
Verse Three — The Refusal to Perform Breakdown
Cup of tea, take time to think, yeah
Time to risk a life, a life, a life
Sweet and handsome
Soft and porky
You pig out 'til you've seen the light
Pig out 'til you've seen the light
This is where Dhumāvatī becomes almost mockingly gentle.
Not cruel — but mercilessly observant.
She watches the restless, craving, overstimulated human —
the one who runs from silence, fills the void with food, romance, distractions, spiritual highs —
and She says, without venom:
“Go ahead. Feed your illusions fully.
Exhaust them.
I will wait.”
“You pig out 'til you’ve seen the light.”
She does not interrupt.
She does not warn.
She does not scold.
This is detachment in its purest form.
She is not withholding love —
She is withholding interference.
Because She knows: Clarity cannot be given — it must be outlived into.
Then She turns Her gaze wider:
Half the people read the papers
Read them good and well
Pretty people, nervous people
People have got to sell
News you have to sell
She surveys society — the anxious, the performative, the ones who sell stability, sell beauty, sell opinions, sell outrage.
And She names it plainly:
“Everyone is selling something.
Even righteousness gets commodified.
Even spiritual awakening becomes a brand.
And She does not intervene.
She simply withdraws deeper into sovereignty.
Final Chorus & Conclusion — What Remains When Even God Refuses to Flinch
By the end of the song, nothing has changed.
No revelation.
No reconciliation.
No softening.
The refrain continues: More than twist in my sobriety.
Meaning:
“You will not be My intoxication.
You will not be the one I lose Myself for.”
This is not rejection — it is boundary.
Most people want Divine Love to be overwhelming, consuming, dramatic. They want God to collapse into them, to chase them, to weep over them. They want spiritual ecstasy, not spiritual clarity.
But Dhumāvatī does not intoxicate —
She sobers.
She is the Devi who stays upright when everyone else wants to fall into feeling.
She acknowledges connection — “your love has drawn red from my hands” —
but refuses fusion.
Her blessing is not closeness.
Her blessing is dignity.
She will sit with you —
but She will not cradle you.
She will hear your prayer —
but She will not indulge your drama.
She will feel your longing —
but She will not make Herself smaller so you can feel larger.
The Teaching
There are Devi-forms who dissolve you in ecstasy.
There are Devi-forms who burn you in fire.
Dhumāvatī does neither.
She does nothing.
She waits — to see whether you can stand without being fed.
That is Her grace.
Final Declaration — When Only Smoke Remains
This is not the Devi of comfort or reward.
Not the Devi of visions or mantras or answered prayers.
This is the Devi who comes after every other form of Her has already come and gone.
After the sweet Mother has fed you.
After the fiery Kālī has tested you.
After the playful Matangi has tempted you.
After Tārā has rescued you.
After Chinnamastā has shattered you.
Dhumāvatī is what arrives when even transformation is no longer dramatic.
She does not roar.
She does not soothe.
She does not blaze.
She waits in smoke —
the smoke that rises when identities have already burned.
Not to punish.
Not to console.
But to see if anything is left that can still be taken.
If you survive Her —
not by fighting or winning, but by not fleeing —
then something irreversible happens:
The other forms of Devi will return.
They always do.
Sweetness will come again.
Rescue will come again.
Ecstasy, tenderness, validation — all of it will pass through your life once more.
But you will no longer cling.
You will not grab at Her gifts like a starving child.
You will not panic when She withdraws them.
You will not take Her moods personally.
Because once you have stood in Dhumāvatī’s silence without collapsing — you stop needing Devi to love you in any particular way.
You become witness of Her līlā, not the beggar inside it.
And that is the beginning of real sobriety.
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