The Sights of Ganeshutsav in Mumbai and Pune
By Manu Shrivastava
It was as though both Mumbai and Pune had put on their finest robes, layered with colour, devotion and an unmistakable sense of belonging. Ganeshutsav had returned, and with it came a tidal wave of joy, reverence and theatre.
Streets shimmered with fairy lights strung across lanes, drums echoed with abandon, and the air was thick with incense, the heady aroma of modaks and the laughter of crowds.
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| The many shades of Ganeshutsav in Maharashtra |
For Maharashtra, this was not just another festival. It was history unfolding year after year, first sown in 1892 when Lokmanya Tilak introduced the idea of a Sarvajanik Ganeshotsav in Pune.
By bringing the idol from private homes into public spaces, Tilak turned Bappa into a rallying point for unity, binding people across caste and creed under one roof of devotion.
A century and more later, that spirit still beats in every lane — in the raucous music of Mumbai’s bylanes and the reverent processions of Pune’s Manache Ganpatis.
At every nook, children — some barely able to stand steady — were dressed as though they were part of a living tableau.
Little Aarav, not yet four, wore a crisp white kurta with a saffron sash tied awkwardly across his shoulder. His mother lifted him atop a pandal in Girgaon, balancing him nervously as his father clapped to grab his attention for a photograph.
Beside him, tiny Anaya, in a red paithani blouse and brocade lehenga, her hair tied with jasmine gajra, pressed her palms together, breaking into giggles as she tottered before the idol.
Parents eager to preserve these fleeting moments clicked away on phones, knowing that one day these images would become nostalgia.
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| Ganeshutsav brings joy to one and all |
In Pune’s Shaniwar Peth, 19-year-old Sakshi draped herself in a green navari, her long plait adorned with golden beads. Standing before the pandal, she folded her hands in earnest prayer, her anklets tinkling softly. Behind her, her friend Meenal, phone in hand, snapped her picture mid-bow.
A strange blend of the sacred and the social unfolded: devotion framed for memory, worship intertwined with art.
And on the streets, dances broke out. Some vigorous, pounding to the beat of the dhol, arms lifted to the skies in sheer abandon. Others slow, rhythmic, almost private, like the sways of young Rohit in Dadar, eyes closed, lips moving in silent chants as he danced as if nobody was watching.
What looked like celebration to the onlooker was, for him, a prayer in motion — a conversation with the divine masked in movement.
The grand mandals, meanwhile, drew seas of devotees. At Mumbai's Lalbaug, the queues snaked for kilometres, each pilgrim awaiting darshan of the fabled Raja.
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| The children enjoy the festival the most |
Housewives in simple cotton sarees, college students in jeans with saffron scarves, suited executives, migrant labourers — all stood shoulder to shoulder, united by faith.
Five-year-old Ishaan, perched on his uncle’s shoulders, craned his neck for a glimpse of the towering idol, whispering “Bappa” as if calling to a friend.
The moment the idol came into view, the crowd erupted, yet within that din lay the hush of reverence.
In Pune, at the Shrimant Dagdusheth Halwai Ganpati, the story was different but just as powerful. The golden idol, adorned with diamonds and flowers, shone under the lights as lakhs poured in daily.
Shubhangi, a schoolteacher from Baramati, stood misty-eyed, her palms folded tightly. “Every year, I come only once, but this one darshan gives me strength for the whole year,” she whispered.
Around her, cameras flashed, chants rose, but her gaze remained fixed on the idol — a private conversation amidst a public spectacle.
Yet, Ganeshutsav was not only about the grand, the public, or the loud.
In quieter lanes of Pune, another sight stirred the heart. Middle-class families, many carrying years of modest hopes and struggles, welcomed their Bappa home.
On Chaturthi morning in Rasta Peth, the Munots rode their motorcycle back from the market, their daughter clutching a small clay idol close to her chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
The father drove carefully whispering a prayer. There was no pomp, no ostentation. Just folded hands, teary eyes and whispered mantras as they ferried their deity home.
It was here that Ganesha’s identity as the God of the Masses gleamed brightest: no throne too humble, no lane too small, no family too ordinary for his presence.
Pune, steeped in its legacy of the Manache Ganpatis, retained its gravitas. The city bowed in respect before its revered first five, the Pahile Panch, in processions that were more about solemnity than spectacle.
Yet, in the same city, college youth like Aditya and Neha, both in jeans hastily covered by saffron shawls, danced unabashedly before smaller mandals, while elders looked on indulgently, remembering their own younger days.
In Mumbai, the sea awaited — the final custodian of the idols. Visarjans unfolded across ten days in waves, each one carrying its own meaning.
The one-and-a-half day visarjan saw smaller idols immersed quietly in neighbourhood ponds and wells. The third-day visarjan filled the streets with mini-processions of families and small mandals, while the fifth and seventh-day visarjans swelled the crowds at Juhu, Girgaon and Versova beaches.
By the tenth day, 6 September, the city surrendered completely to the sea.
At Girgaon Chowpatty, the sand was damp and cool under bare feet, clinging like memory as thousands streamed toward the waves. The salty spray hit the faces of devotees carrying idols, the air thick with camphor smoke from aarti plates held high.
Drums thundered, but above them rose the roar of the surf, swallowing chants as idols touched the water.
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| Dhol Tasha Pathaks fill the air with divine beats |
Little Divyanshi, sitting on her father’s shoulders, clutched a toy modak, her hair whipped by the sea breeze as she watched towering idols vanish into the waves. Her wide-eyed silence said more than chants ever could.
At Juhu, the tide rushed forward with each step, washing away footprints almost as soon as they were made. The fragrance of incense mixed with the sharp tang of the sea, creating an otherworldly air.
Men, women and children waded waist-deep, chanting louder with each push of the idol forward, until finally the waves embraced Bappa.
Many lingered, hands pressed to the chest, watching the horizon long after the idol had disappeared.
At Versova, fishermen carried clay idols on their shoulders, chanting in unison as they walked straight into the surf. The wet sand sucked at their feet, waves breaking against their knees, as conch shells blew in the distance.
When the idol was finally lowered, it felt less like an immersion and more like a reunion between the earth and the ocean.
Everywhere, tears welled up in eyes even as people danced harder, screamed louder, beat the drums faster. Every chant of "Ganpati Bappa Morya, Pudhchya Varshi Lavkar Ya" was both a farewell and a promise.
Ganeshutsav in Maharashtra is never just a festival. It is theatre, memory, devotion, identity — all rolled into ten days of unbridled expression.
It is toddlers teetering atop pandals for photographs, young girls in navaris praying while being photographed themselves, dancers conversing in sacred steps, and families ferrying clay idols on scooters, eyes moist yet hearts full.
It is the grandeur of Lalbaugcha Raja, the radiance of Dagdusheth Halwai, the discipline of the Pahile Panch, the humility of a clay idol strapped to a scooter seat, and the sea itself — salty, eternal, welcoming — embracing Bappa with open arms.
After all, Bappa isn’t just Maharashtra’s proudly very own. He is India’s most beloved — the one God who arrives as a guest, stays as family, and leaves only to promise he will return.
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