Where the Goddess of Victory has watched over the Shivalik foothills for five and a half centuries.

Every pilgrimage to Jayanti Devi begins long before the sanctum. It begins on a winding metalled road that leaves the Mullanpur–Siswan highway and slips into a quiet patchwork of wheat and rice fields fringed by keekar, peepal and old mango groves. Cattle graze beneath the trees. The hillock rises ahead — modest, green, crowned by white parapets and the saffron-orange flag of Mata.

At the base, the temple gateway opens onto a covered passage of small shops. Coconuts in pyramids, red net chunnies on bamboo poles, garlands of marigold strung in the morning, brass bells, plastic bangles, audio cassettes (still!) of Devi bhajans, a small box of sacred kumkum tied in jute. You will buy your bhent here — perhaps a coconut wrapped in a chunni, a small bunch of flowers and a kalava sacred thread to bind your wrist after darshan.

Then the climb. Old accounts speak of one hundred and one steps; the present staircase, broadened over decades, has roughly three hundred and eighty in total. They are easy steps. Children scamper up, and elderly devotees rest in the shaded landings where stone benches have been provided by donors over the years. About two-thirds of the way up, you will pass a large rectangular water tank, a traditional feature of north Indian temples, hewn into the rocky face of the hill. Once it provided water for ablutions before darshan; today it is mostly a quiet pool reflecting the saffron flags above.

At the top, the platform opens out. The temple sits roughly six metres above its plinth, supported by four octagonal corner bastions and crowned by a small Mughal-style domical superstructure ending in an inverted lotus, kalash and finial. The sanctum is small — about nine feet by nine feet — and faces south-west. Through cusped-arch doorways you enter the small cubical chamber. The pujari signals you forward. There she is: the white murti of Mata Jayanti Devi, framed by three smaller pindis, draped in red, hung with marigold, lamps gently burning. The priest takes your offering, presents it, returns the chunni and prasad, places a tilak. He may ring the small bronze bell beside the murti. You bow. You speak whatever is in your heart.

After darshan, devotees are encouraged to circumambulate the sanctum (parikrama). Along the way you will receive the secondary darshans — Lord Ganesha, Lord Shiva, Goddess Lakshmi, Bala Sundari, and the local godling Lokda Dev — each in his or her own niche. Small balconies built into the platform offer extraordinary views of the lush green Shivaliks, the serpentine course of the Jayanti Rao below, and on a clear day the snow-line of the Dhauladhar far to the north.

Most devotees descend slowly, often pausing to take prasad — a simple, hot dhaam of pulses, rice and roti — at one of the two community langar halls run by the temple committees on Sundays and during festivals. The walk down is gentler. You re-emerge at the foot of the hill carrying a small portion of Mata’s blessings, often quite literally — a cone of prasad, a strand of marigold, a kalava knotted on the wrist. Devotees report that the visit quietens something within them; that the rest of the day, and often the rest of the week, feels lighter.