The first showers of monsoon herald the arrival of many guests to the city of Pune. The lush green grass that sprouts overnight, the black snails that leave their shining trails on tar roads, herds of fat, fluffy sheep, their backs decorated with vermilion handprints, followed by their custodians; entire families of shepherds. But the most conspicuous guests are the Warkaris, pilgrims on their yearly Waari.
The Waari is an annual pilgrimage undertaken by thousands of people from Alandi and Dehu - the site of temples dedicated to the most famous Saint poets of Maharashtra, Dnyaneshwar and Tukaram - to Pandharpur, the abode of Lord Vithal, the patron deity of Maharashtra, a journey of some 221 kms covered in a span of 21 days.
Pune is the first major city along the Waari route, and it is in the city of Pune that the Waari really swells in numbers.
June brings the Warkaris to Pune in droves. You start seeing them everywhere, huddled around their bundles and suitcases at bus-stops, walking in ones and twos in the crowded market areas, their orange banners bobbing up and down, cooking frugal meals in blackened, dented aluminium vessels or gazing in wonderment as such things as the malls or multiplexes.
The Waari had fascinated me for years. Every year as the Warkaris poured into the city, they infected me with a restlessness that was not very easy to cure.
I wanted to know what makes thousands of people leave their everyday lives behind and undertake this arduous journey of 21 days year after year. The more I read about the Waari, the more I wanted to experience it personally.
Finally, a couple of years ago, I made up my mind to follow in the footsteps of the Warkaris at least for a day. I left my house at six in the morning, armed with my camera.
By the time I reached M G Road, the Palkhi procession was already well on its way. I had my first glimpse of the Waari over the collective shoulder-line of the spectators; a line of white Gandhi caps bobbing up and down, like so many egrets birds moving rapidly in a paddy field! There were bright orange banners fluttering gaily above the white caps, and the all pervading sound of cymbals, drums and the constant chorus of ‘Jay Jay Ram Krishna Hari’.
It was hypnotic! To the casual observer, at first, the Waari may appear as a very anarchic collection of a large number of people walking at random. But it is in fact, a much disciplined procession, where every movement, every stop, every break in the day is carefully structured and managed.
The Waari is composed of several hundred dindis. A dindi is a group of people doing the Waari together every year.
The dindis walk with the ‘Palkhis’ - the two silver palanquins bearing the ‘paduka’ or the footwear of Sant Dnyaneshwar and Tukaram.
The Warkaris themselves travel light. Most of them carry only a simple cotton sling bag on their person that typically carries some water, some peanuts and jaggery - a quick local pickme- up snack - and a change of clothes.
As I walked with the pilgrims, I began to have a faint idea of what makes the people undertake this journey year after year after year. It is their simple, unshakeable faith in their God that drives them.
The day was beautiful, cloudy with sporadic showers. My camera won me instant friends. People were eager to be photographed and posed for me without any hesitation. I was clicking a picture of a small boy, with his doting mother grinning broadly when I met Hausabai.
She told me that she had been doing the Waari for the last thirty years without a break! I asked Hausabai what makes her return year after year. She smiled serenely, showing her tobacco- stained teeth and said, “Ithuba bolavto, mi yete”.
(The Lord calls me, I come). The procession passed the race course. A few horses were being exercised on the turf. Many Warkaris gazed at the horses, their noses pressed against the wire mesh fence, their eyes full of wonderment. They reminded me of excited children staring at the display window of a toy store.
By the time I had reached the Hadapsar over bridge, it was time for the Palkhis to diverge. I positioned myself on the Hadapsar over bridge, my camera ready to capture the eddying currents of the human river flowing beneath me.
As I turned to walk back towards my car, I saw them - the couple that symbolized the essence of the Waari for me. They were old and clearly lacked the means to join any organised dindi.
They seemed to be walking in a trance, lost in some private thoughts of their own. I thought of my rucksack bulging with a bottle of water, packets of biscuits and apples, and felt a deep sense of shame.
On an impulse, I stopped by the couple and offered them the entire contents of my rucksack. The woman clutched tentatively at the apple, as if trying to gauge what is it.
The man said, “Do take it, it is an apple. It has been sent to us by the Lord Vithal.
"They smiled at me, a guileless, happy smile and walked on. The march of faith is meant only for those stout of the heart!