The first time I experienced the Waari, it overwhelmed me. The rhythmic beat of the taal and the mridang, the saffron flags stretching as far as the eye could see, the chants, the dust, the drizzle, the devotion, and the sheer movement of thousands of people walking with one purpose. There was too much to absorb.
The second time was different. I began to hear the rhythm beneath the noise. I noticed faces, conversations, acts of kindness, and quiet moments of faith that had escaped me before. Somewhere along the way, I realized the Waari wasn’t unfolding before me. It was unfolding within me.
People often describe the Waari as a pilgrimage to Pandharpur. I have come to see it differently. The destination gives the journey its direction, but the road quietly shapes the pilgrim long before the temple comes into view. Every step becomes an exercise in humility, discipline, service, and devotion. By the time we reach Pandharpur, it is no longer only the destination that has changed.
That is why the heart of the Waari is not an idol but the padukas of Sant Dnyaneshwar and Sant Tukaram. The saints left behind their padukas, not as sacred objects to be admired from a distance, but as footsteps to be followed. Realization cannot be inherited. Every generation must walk the road for itself. Only then do the padukas reveal what they have quietly carried for centuries, because some truths disclose themselves only at the pace of a human being on foot.
The Waari can be witnessed from the roadside, but it reveals itself only to those who walk. With every step, the journey uncovers a little more of itself and, quietly, a little more of us. As the body settles into its rhythm over hours and days, the mind gradually stops measuring time and begins inhabiting it. Attention deepens, conversation becomes unhurried, silence becomes comfortable, and the world reveals details that hurry never permits us to notice. Long before the temple comes into view, the road has already begun its quiet work.
Perhaps that is why the Waari has endured for centuries. It does not ask anyone to understand before they begin. It simply asks them to walk, trusting that understanding will arrive in its own time. Only after walking do you begin to understand why the saints chose to leave behind their padukas. The pilgrims are not merely following a procession; they are walking in the footsteps of the saints, discovering that spirituality is not something to be admired from a distance but something to be lived, one step at a time.
As we sang a few abhangs while waiting for the dindi, more people joined in, and before long the waiting had given way to traditional games and dancing, and among them was an elderly aaji whose infectious energy lifted everyone around her; her joyful singing and dancing became one of the most memorable moments of the day.
Among those walking with us were teenagers from our own group who embraced the journey with remarkable joy, discipline, and enthusiasm. Watching them on the road was quietly reassuring. Traditions survive not because they are carefully preserved, but because every generation chooses to live them.
For centuries, farmers, labourers, scholars, merchants, children, and the elderly have walked together. Wealth, status, education, and profession gradually fade away, not because they cease to exist, but because they cease to matter. Somewhere between the shared meals, the abhangs, the acts of service, and the endless road, the importance of the individual quietly gives way to the joy of belonging. The road never explained anything. It simply invited us to keep walking until understanding arrived on its own. Before God, there are only fellow travellers.
Every year, the Waari passes so close to where many of us live, yet very few of us ever step onto that road.
I have come to believe that the Waari calls whom it calls.
I no longer think the difference lies in the road. Perhaps it lies in the moment when the heart finally recognizes what has been waiting there all along. Perhaps it has always been there, quietly waiting for us to notice. The first step is still ours to take.
Somewhere on that road, another realization quietly appeared. I thought I was walking towards God. By the end of the journey, that no longer felt like the right question. It began to feel as though God had been walking beside me all along. I was only the one taking the steps. He was the one singing through the abhangs, dancing through the dindis, and carrying us forward.
By then, I had stopped trying to understand the Waari. I simply kept walking. The road had answered every question I had brought with me.
I’ll leave you with one of my favourite abhangs.
A personal note of gratitude
This walk was only possible because I was fortunate to be part of the Sunday Hikers family.