Drums, Devotion, and Dilemmas: My Ganesh Festival Journey

Celebrating Chaos, Community, and the Clash of Sounds!

September 7th marked the start of Ganeshostav festivities, and while the internet buzzed with articles and listicles on various topics, I still felt compelled to share my own thoughts. This festival, unlike most, made me reflect deeply. I wouldn’t call myself religious, yet I’m also the girl who used to join her father on his weekly Saturday pilgrimages to seven temples at 7 a.m. — not because I was devout, but simply because it was fun.

For as long as I can remember, our household has celebrated Ganapati in our own unique way, not necessarily following tradition but creating our own. While most people associate this festive season with pandal hopping and visiting the Ganapati’s at people homes, my experience wasn’t exactly the same. Growing up in a family of 13, I never had to look outside for experiences or entertainment. Though it’s been a few years since we’ve become a nuclear family, we’ve still kept up the same traditions. However, recent losses in my larger family made me feel an unexpected urge to change things, though I didn’t dwell on it much at the time.

About a week before Ganapati was set to arrive, my sister asked me to join her at our shop — located right in the heart of the city, giving us a perfect view of the processions. Despite having never witnessed one, I brushed her off. But a couple of days later, while she was busy, I called her with a serious tone. “I’ve made a decision,” I said, and she, expecting something life-altering, waited eagerly. I simply said, “I’ll come with you to watch the Ganpati procession.” She just said, "Okay."

Cut to September 7th: We walked a road that seemed impossible — no vehicles in sight, a rare sight in Pune, even in the dead of night. When we reached the building, I had to push through the “Vanar Sena” (more on that later) just to get to the stairs. Overwhelmed by the crowd, I began to rethink my decision, but I pressed on, asking people to let me through to our establishment. As soon as I crossed the first floor, the sound of dhols erupted, sparking a frenzy. It hit me — I was on the verge of missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I hurried my sister to unlock the balcony gates so I could perch myself on the window, ready to take it all in.

I witnessed it all: the deep devotion radiating from each participant, the exhilarating adrenaline propelling them as they jumped with heavy dhols strapped around their waists. The volunteers moved with immaculate coordination, pouring their energy into engaging the children and weaving them into the vibrant tapestry of culture and festivities. The little ones, dressed as the Vanar Sena in homage to Hanuman, executed their Lezim steps with playful determination, their gada swinging with each lively movement. And then there was the flag dance, a breathtaking spectacle that sent goosebumps rippling through the crowd, igniting a palpable wave of excitement and unity.

I had never seen the festivities from this vantage point before. I knew Laxmi Road would come alive with the beats of the dhol, but I’d always associated festival celebrations with loud, chaotic DJ systems. This, however, was different. The Dhol Taasha Pathak, like the festival itself, is steeped in history. While the Ganesh festival was popularised by Tilak, the grand celebrations we see today took shape much later, in 1965.

So, here’s where things get interesting. Back in 1965, the Ganesh festival took a surprising turn. The police, in an attempt to keep the peace (or so they thought), banned all musical instruments during the processions. No drums, no dhols, no Tashas — just silence. Well, that didn't sit too well with a certain Dr. Vinayak Vishwanath Pendse, known to everyone as Appasaheb Pendse.

Appasaheb, being the rebel with a cause, marched straight to Laxmi Road with a tasha slung around his neck, cool as a cucumber. Without a word, he started playing — loud, proud, and totally defying the ban. It was a bold move, but instead of causing chaos, it sparked something magical. The crowd loved it! What started as a one-man musical protest quickly turned into a full-blown tradition, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Thanks to Appasaheb’s spontaneous street performance, the Dhol-Tasha Pathak became a symbol of celebration, resilience, and pure festival joy. Now, every year, the city pulses to the rhythm of those drums, and it’s all because one guy decided to stand his ground — with a drum in hand.

As the festivities unfolded, a thought crept in: I’ve spent my entire life in the heart of this city, deeply connected to its pulse, yet when I tried to find similarities between myself and the celebrations, the only thing I could come up with was my postal address. Was it now time to change that?

With that thought lingering, the next ten days found me mostly confined to my home, hesitant to immerse myself in the vibrant chaos of the festival. But three days before the Visarjan, I called my sister, declaring I wanted to explore the pandals near our house. Without a moment's hesitation, she agreed. So, we ventured out on foot, carefully navigating the bustling crowds. Aside from one particularly chaotic stretch, the experience turned out to be quite enjoyable.

Throughout the festival, my emotions felt suspended in limbo; I was torn about my feelings. This celebration is rich in history, not merely rooted in religious devotion but steeped in a spirit of unity and enthusiasm. As the final Visarjan day approached, I knew my emotions would soon be put to the test.

Visarjan is often marked by poignant farewells, with people shedding tears as they bid goodbye to the deity they've welcomed into their homes for eleven days. I get it. But for me, the tears come for a different reason — the overwhelming noise. Each year, we hope and pray for a better sound experience, yet loudspeakers and DJ systems persist, even despite the National Green Tribunal's ruling. Despite efforts to curb noise pollution during the Ganesh Visarjan procession, loudspeakers continued to blare at volumes exceeding the maximum noise limit set by the Bombay High Court and the NGT. The rising noise levels during the processions pose a significant health risk to citizens, prompting calls for restrictions or even a ban on DJs at these events.

The noise limit for the festival was set at 80 decibels (dB), but many areas surpassed this threshold, raising serious concerns among health experts. The rattling windows and constant fireworks for over 24 hours can hardly be described as joyous. Yes, the dhol-tasha was a brilliant touch, and I wouldn't change that part of the experience. But we shouldn’t need to channel the spirit of 1965 to voice our concerns for different reasons.

When it comes to passionate celebrations, there’s often no clear answer. Yet, when it involves protecting our health and our hearing, a solution is essential. Appasaheb Pendse bravely took to the streets with his Tasha to bring back the festival’s glory; now the question lingers: what can we do to reclaim that joy without sacrificing our well-being?