10 Hindu Gods and Their Favourite Prasad

We often hear that life is a journey—a trail of choices, turning points, and quiet realizations. But just as life unfolds through these moments, our rituals, too, carry layers of meaning that go far beyond the visible. In Hindu traditions, prasad—the offerings made to gods—might seem like simple food items, but they hold something much deeper. They reflect not just our reverence, but our relationship with existence itself. Through these offerings, we don’t just honor the gods—we align ourselves with the principles they represent. Each prasad is a quiet lesson about life, devotion, and the self—wrapped in taste, tradition, and truth.


Ganesha, the remover of obstacles and the god of beginnings, is offered the sweet modak—a dumpling filled with coconut and jaggery. But this isn’t just about taste. The modak represents the sweetness that should mark every fresh start. Life throws its share of hurdles, yet each time we begin again—be it a job, a relationship, or a personal goal—there is a choice: to carry the weight of the past, or to welcome the future with hope. Modak is that sweet hope. It reminds us that grace, optimism, and joy aren’t rewards at the end of a journey—they’re companions we must take along.


Shiva, the god of transformation, often receives bhang—a drink made from cannabis. It unsettles many, yet it reveals something profound. Shiva, in all his cosmic detachment, accepts an offering that’s wild, unrefined, even controversial. Why? Because life, too, is unfiltered. Bhang symbolizes surrender—not to intoxication, but to the truth that we are all imperfect, evolving, and messy. Shiva doesn’t demand purity; he embraces the raw. His prasad teaches us that there is strength in facing life as it is, not as we wish it to be. We heal not by becoming flawless, but by becoming real.


Panchamrit—a blend of milk, curd, honey, sugar, and ghee—is offered to Vishnu, the preserver. This offering isn’t complex, yet each ingredient holds its own essence. Together, they create harmony. In the same way, Vishnu’s message is one of balance—between action and rest, discipline and compassion, giving and receiving. Panchamrit shows us that we don’t need to erase our differences to live in peace; we only need to understand how they can exist together. It’s a quiet nudge to integrate—not dilute—our identities and emotions, and to find unity within complexity.


The image of Krishna stealing butter is more than a charming childhood story. His love for makhan (butter) and mishri (sugar crystals) captures the joy of being alive. This prasad reminds us that not all wisdom comes through seriousness. Sometimes, it comes through laughter, mischief, and innocence. In our rush to grow up, we often forget that childlike wonder is not something we outgrow—it’s something we must return to. Krishna’s offering urges us to reclaim the ability to enjoy small pleasures, to dance with life, and to love with freedom, not fear.


Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, is offered rice kheer—a dish both rich and simple. We often link her with money, gold, and abundance. But true prosperity is deeper. Kheer nourishes—it doesn’t just decorate. Lakshmi’s prasad teaches that real wealth isn’t just what fills your pockets—it’s what fills your heart and your home. Kindness, health, time, peace—these are all forms of wealth. To offer kheer is to say: may we not just earn, but also nurture. May our abundance serve others, and not just the self.


During Durga Puja, the goddess is offered bhoger khichdi—a warm mix of rice, dal, and spices. For a warrior goddess who slays demons, this might seem too modest. Yet that’s the lesson. Strength isn’t always loud. Durga’s khichdi reminds us that power often shows up as care, consistency, and nourishment. True warriors don’t just fight—they feed, protect, and restore. In honoring her with a humble dish, we remember that resilience isn’t about grandeur—it’s about standing tall in simplicity, and healing what’s been hurt.


Hanuman is strength in service, power in humility. His offering is the laddu—a sweet ball made from the simplest ingredients. What makes it special is intention. Hanuman didn’t become immortal through conquest. He became divine through devotion—unshakable, selfless, and pure. The laddu reminds us that sincerity is stronger than spectacle. That the smallest act, done with love, is greater than the grandest one done for applause. Hanuman shows us that devotion is not about proving your worth—it’s about knowing your place in something greater.


Rama stands for dharma—duty, virtue, and grace under pressure. His prasad, kheer, reflects that. It’s made from everyday ingredients—rice, milk, sugar—but the care in its making transforms it. Rama’s life was not easy. It was marked by sacrifice, silence, and steadfastness. But through it all, he remained composed. His offering reminds us that a life of principle may not be loud, but it is deeply fulfilling. Kheer, like dharma, is about quiet richness. About doing the right thing, even when no one sees. It teaches that strength doesn’t always need to roar. Sometimes, it just needs to endure.


To Surya, the sun god, we offer arghya—water, often with milk and flowers, poured in prayer. It is the most minimal of offerings, yet perhaps the most profound. Surya asks for nothing elaborate. Just acknowledgment. Arghya is gratitude in its purest form. In offering it, we recognize the light we receive—not just from the sun, but from people, moments, and inner clarity. Surya’s prasad tells us: you don’t have to give big to be grateful. A moment of mindful thanks can restore what days of striving cannot.


Shani, the stern lord of karma, is offered black sesame seeds and jaggery. Heavy and sweet—like life. Til represents the weight of consequences; jaggery, the redemption that comes when we learn from them. Shani isn’t here to punish. He is here to teach. His offering tells us that hardship isn’t the enemy—it’s the sculptor. We are all shaped by trials, but those who walk with truth and patience eventually find the sweetness that follows. Shani’s prasad asks us to stop fearing discipline and start respecting it. Because even the harshest winters prepare us for spring.

Prasad is not just about offering something to a higher power. It’s about becoming aware—of what we value, what we need to remember, and how we want to live. In giving, we receive. In offering, we reflect. These divine preferences—simple, symbolic, sacred—remind us that life’s deepest truths are often hidden in the ordinary. A sweet, a ladle of rice, a sip of water—they’re all mirrors. Of us. Of the divine. And of the life we’re still learning how to live.