Silencing the Din: Ganeshotsav’s tussle with Sonic Excess

A citizen-led push in Pune to ditch DJs from immersion processions may finally return dignity and discipline to Maharashtra’s most beloved festival.

In a country that rarely shies away from noise, the Ganeshotsav celebrations in Pune have become an annual experiment in testing auditory endurance. What began as a communal, cultural expression has over the years devolved into a cacophonous parade of decibel arms races. Yet, for the first time in decades, there are signs that this year’s immersion processions could proceed without their deafening DJ soundtracks. If so, Pune may set a much-needed precedent, not just for Maharashtra but for the rest of India in which public celebration and civic responsibility may finally learn to co-exist.

The change is not a top-down imposition of regulation, though authorities have long tried and failed to tame the festival’s sonic frenzy. It stems from a rare alignment of public sentiment, moral pressure and financial leverage. Pune’s Shrimant Bhausaheb Rangari Ganpati Mandal - one of the oldest and most influential in the city - has taken a principled stand. Its working president, industrialist Puneet Balan, recently announced that mandals who persist in hiring DJs will be denied advertising revenue and donations from his group. That financial pressure, estimated in lakhs per mandal, may succeed where noise pollution laws and police crackdowns have failed.

The larger context is as much about public health as it is about culture. For years, medical experts have warned about the permanent hearing loss and neurological damage caused by high-decibel DJ music blared during the immersion processions. The aural onslaught—often ranging from 90 to 120 decibels, louder than a jackhammer lasts for hours, drowning out not just conversation but reason. Local residents living along Tilak, Kumthekar, Lakshmi, and Kelkar Roads endure this barrage from early morning until late night during immersion days, often with little recourse.

This is not merely a local nuisance. India’s festival culture has seen the amplification of religious fervour, quite literally, over the last three decades. What used to be processions accompanied by dhol-tasha troupes, devotional bhajans or warkari chants has been increasingly supplanted by subwoofers blaring Bollywood remixes. The phenomenon is not limited to Ganeshotsav; similar complaints surface during Janmashtami’s Dahi Handi in Mumbai, Muharram in Lucknow and Durga Puja immersions in Kolkata. In nearly every case, celebration has slowly been eclipsed by spectacle.

This trajectory echoes trends elsewhere in the world. Rio de Janeiro’s Carnival, once a street-level celebration of Afro-Brazilian culture, has been largely commercialised and drowned in sound systems sponsored by beverage multinationals. New Orleans’ Mardi Gras too, has seen debates over whether noise and public drunkenness now define a tradition that once revolved around local music and neighbourhood camaraderie. In such examples, the question remains the same: when does cultural expression turn into public nuisance?

Back in Pune, the city’s municipal corporation, the Shrimant Dagdusheth Halwai Ganpati Trust and the police have tried to incentivise better behaviour through competitions rewarding the most ‘ideal’ immersion processions. But such carrots rarely work when the stick is missing. Police complaints of noise pollution are routinely ignored or go unenforced. It is not uncommon for DJs to continue playing even after being officially warned. A stronger approach, such as that taken by Balan by cutting off funding may finally force a cultural correction.

This correction need not entail a cultural loss. Elder statesmen like former MLA Ulhas Pawar and ex-Mayor Ankush Kakade have reminded Puneites that until the 1970s, processions had no DJs. The visual spectacle was provided by warkari bhajani mandals, lezim-dhol performers, and the simple grandeur of the Ganesh idols themselves. In fact, it was precisely this dignified simplicity that nationalists like Bal Gangadhar Tilak had envisioned when they promoted public Ganesh festivals in the 1890s in order to bring people together in devotion and discipline, not decibel contests.

The rising chorus of citizens demanding a DJ-free Ganeshotsav thus represents not the death of tradition, but a return to its roots. Already, social media in Pune has begun to reflect this sentiment, with residents voicing support for quieter, more culturally authentic celebrations. Whether this becomes a durable trend or merely a one-off success depends on whether other stakeholders - sponsors, civic bodies and political leaders - choose to reinforce or undermine it.

Of course, there will be pushback. The DJ industry that thrives for two weeks each year during festival season is unlikely to go quietly. Some youth groups argue that DJs are now part of the ritual, a way to express devotion through dance. Yet, just as the Dahi Handi tradition is now being questioned for its risk to human pyramids, so too must DJ-driven immersion processions be examined for their long-term social and health costs.

For a country that already lives in a constant state of elevated sound - from temple loudspeakers to traffic honks - the festival season need not be another excuse to abandon moderation. Pune’s small but significant experiment this year could remind the rest of India that joy does not require noise, and that culture can thrive in quiet strength.

If Ganpati Bappa truly listens to his devotees, perhaps this year He might finally get to hear them.

(The writer is a senior Pune-based journalist and political analyst. Views personal)