India’s Dussehra: From Mysuru’s Majesty to Kullu’s Spirit

Walk into any town or city in India in October, and you will feel it—the pulse of festivity, the air thick with the smell of incense and the sound of drums. Children tug their parents’ hands towards brightly lit fairs, elders whisper stories of Rama’s victory, and artisans put the finishing touches on effigies that will soon blaze into the night sky. But here’s the fascinating part: while the story of Dussehra is singular—good triumphing over evil—its expressions are as diverse as India itself. Travel from Mysuru in Karnataka to Kullu in Himachal Pradesh, and you realize Dussehra is not a festival but a journey, a canvas painted with local histories, rituals, and emotions.

If there is one city where Dussehra transforms into pure spectacle, it is Mysuru. The celebration here is known as Mysuru Dasara, a tradition dating back to the 15th century during the Vijayanagara Empire and later adopted with grandeur by the Wadiyar kings. The Mysore Palace, lit with nearly 100,000 bulbs, becomes a sight that feels almost unreal—like stepping into a fairytale.

The highlight? The Jumbo Savari, the grand procession where the idol of Goddess Chamundeshwari is carried on a golden howdah mounted on a decorated elephant. Folk dancers, musicians, tableaux showcasing Karnataka’s culture, and even modern floats join the procession, making it an amalgamation of history and modernity.

But ask a Mysorean, and they’ll tell you the real charm lies not just in the parade but in the way the city comes alive. Streets brim with markets, local craftsmen find eager buyers, and families reunite around festive meals. Mysuru’s Dussehra is less about watching and more about belonging—it makes you a participant in a tradition that has spanned centuries.

Travel north to Himachal Pradesh, and you find yourself in Kullu, where Dussehra begins when it ends elsewhere in India. While most regions celebrate on the day Rama defeated Ravana, Kullu’s celebrations start that very evening and last a full week.

Here, the spotlight is not on burning effigies but on processions of local deities. Hundreds of village gods and goddesses, carried in elaborately decorated palanquins, descend into Kullu valley to pay homage to Lord Raghunath, the presiding deity. Imagine this scene: drums echoing through the mountains, priests chanting, villagers in traditional attire dancing in devotion—it feels less like a festival and more like a divine parliament where deities meet mortals.

There is also an unmissable communal undertone. Unlike Mysuru’s royal-centered grandeur, Kullu’s Dussehra is a people’s festival, a reminder that faith is a living, breathing part of everyday life in the hills. The absence of Ravana’s effigies is symbolic—evil here is not external, but a reminder of the ego we carry within.

Head east, and Varanasi pulls you into one of the most dramatic storytelling traditions: the Ramnagar Ramlila. Dating back over 200 years, this Ramlila, patronized by the Maharaja of Varanasi, isn’t confined to a stage. Instead, it sprawls across the town, with different ghats and grounds becoming settings for episodes from the Ramayana.

For an entire month, locals transform into characters, and the audience becomes fellow travelers in Rama’s journey. Unlike TV serials or films, this Ramlila is raw, immersive, and community-driven. Standing on the ghats as the Ganga reflects flickering diyas, you feel the line between myth and life blur. In Varanasi, Dussehra is not a performance—it is lived faith, where Rama walks among the people once more.

Few know that the longest Dussehra celebration in India takes place not in Mysuru or Kullu but in Bastar, Chhattisgarh, lasting 75 days. Interestingly, Bastar’s Dussehra isn’t about Rama at all. Instead, it is centered on the worship of Goddess Danteshwari, the presiding deity of the region.

What makes it remarkable is the scale of tribal participation. Thousands of tribal communities from far-flung villages walk miles to join the festivities, bringing their local gods and distinct cultural practices. Chariots pulled not by animals but by hundreds of people, masked dances, and rituals rooted in ancient tribal lore make Bastar’s Dussehra feel like stepping into an alternate history of India—where the narrative of the Ramayana merges seamlessly with indigenous traditions.

If Mysuru and Kullu showcase spectacle and spirituality, Delhi’s Dussehra is about sheer drama. Across the capital, especially at the sprawling grounds of Ramlila Maidan, effigies of Ravana, Meghnad, and Kumbhkaran, sometimes as tall as 100 feet, are set ablaze. The crackle of firecrackers, the roar of the crowd, and the moment when the towering figure of Ravana collapses in flames—it’s catharsis in its most visible form.

For Delhiites, Dussehra is as much about entertainment as it is about tradition. Families picnic at Ramlilas, children wait eagerly for the fireworks, and the sight of evil being literally burned down resonates with the city’s fast-paced life. Here, the festival serves as both cultural nostalgia and urban release.

No journey into Dussehra is complete without Ayodhya—the birthplace of Rama. In recent years, Ayodhya has emerged as a cultural focal point, with its Deepotsav (festival of lamps) gaining global attention. Millions of diyas light up the ghats of the Sarayu River, creating an ocean of light visible even from the skies.

While Mysuru dazzles with processions and Kullu with divine assemblies, Ayodhya’s power lies in its sheer emotional resonance. Pilgrims walk barefoot through the town, children chant hymns, and the air itself feels saturated with devotion. In Ayodhya, Dussehra isn’t just a festival—it’s a homecoming of faith.

What makes Dussehra remarkable is not just its diversity but its ability to hold that diversity together. In Mysuru, it is about royal legacy. In Kullu, it is about communal faith. In Bastar, it honors tribal traditions. In Varanasi, it’s about storytelling, while in Delhi, it’s the thrill of spectacle. And yet, at the core, it is about the same timeless idea—that darkness, however mighty, cannot outlast the light.

In an age of technology and globalization, one might wonder—why do we still need these age-old festivals? The answer lies in the human need for stories and shared experiences. Festivals like Dussehra remind us that communities thrive not just on infrastructure and economy but on shared rituals and collective joy.

For the migrant worker in Delhi, the sight of Ravana burning is a memory of home. For the farmer in Kullu, carrying his deity to the valley is a link to his ancestors. For the artisan in Mysuru, carving idols is both livelihood and heritage. Dussehra is not about nostalgia; it is about continuity—the reassurance that despite changing times, the heartbeat of culture endures.

Traveling from Mysuru to Kullu, from Bastar to Ayodhya, one realizes Dussehra is less a festival and more a mirror of India itself—diverse, vibrant, rooted in stories yet always evolving. It teaches us that unity doesn’t mean uniformity; it means celebrating differences under a shared sky of meaning.

As the effigies burn, as palanquins descend the hills, as palaces light up and diyas float on rivers, one truth shines brighter than all—the story of Dussehra is not just about gods and demons but about us. About our hope that good will prevail, our need to come together, and our timeless love for stories that keep us human.

In the end, whether you are standing before Mysuru’s golden elephants or Kullu’s marching deities, you realize Dussehra isn’t just a festival you watch—it is a festival you live.

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