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By:

Rajendra Joshi

3 December 2024 at 3:50:26 am

Kolhapur’s Pilgrimage Paradox

Kolhapur: Even as the state government clears the first tranche of Rs 1,500 crore under an ambitious Rs 5,000-crore plan for the development of Kolhapur as a major pilgrimage centre, the ground reality for devotees tells a far less reassuring story. Each month, the temple’s donation boxes swell by an estimated Rs two crore, while crores more lie parked in bank deposits earning interest. Yet, for the thousands who arrive daily to seek the blessings of Goddess Ambabai, the journey to the...

Kolhapur’s Pilgrimage Paradox

Kolhapur: Even as the state government clears the first tranche of Rs 1,500 crore under an ambitious Rs 5,000-crore plan for the development of Kolhapur as a major pilgrimage centre, the ground reality for devotees tells a far less reassuring story. Each month, the temple’s donation boxes swell by an estimated Rs two crore, while crores more lie parked in bank deposits earning interest. Yet, for the thousands who arrive daily to seek the blessings of Goddess Ambabai, the journey to the sanctum begins with an ordeal—walking barefoot on scorching roads under an unforgiving sun. With temperatures in Kolhapur soaring past 40°C, asphalt and concrete roads leading to the temple radiate intense heat. For devotees—many of whom travel hundreds of kilometres—this translates into a painful trek, quite literally. The situation is particularly harsh for senior citizens, who are often seen hopping from one foot to another in a desperate attempt to avoid the burning surface. In such conditions, the absence of even basic protective arrangements raises uncomfortable questions about priorities in pilgrimage infrastructure. Stark Irony The irony is stark. While policy blueprints and financial approvals move through bureaucratic channels, immediate, low-cost interventions remain unaddressed. Simple measures—laying heat-resistant carpets along key approach roads, ensuring regular water sprinkling to cool surfaces, and erecting temporary shaded canopies—could significantly ease the devotees’ distress. Such steps do not demand massive outlays, only administrative initiative. As chairperson of the temple trust, the Kolhapur District Collector is uniquely positioned to catalyse this response. The summer vacation period only amplifies the challenge. Families flock to Kolhapur in large numbers, often combining visits to Ambabai temple with pilgrimages to nearby shrines such as Jyotiba. The surge in footfall transforms the temple precinct into a sea of humanity. Yet, the infrastructure has failed to keep pace. A similar concern was flagged last year as well, with limited, ad hoc relief provided by a few local traders who laid makeshift carpets for their customers. This year, however, little appears to have changed. Humane Pilgrimage The issue, therefore, is not merely administrative—it is collective. The responsibility to ensure a humane pilgrimage experience cannot rest solely with the temple trust or the municipal corporation. Traders and business associations operating in the temple vicinity, who benefit from the steady influx of devotees, must also step forward. Kolhapur has historically demonstrated remarkable civic spirit during festivals such as Navratri and the Rathotsav. Extending that ethos to provide shaded pathways during peak summer would be a meaningful gesture of reciprocity. Across India, leading pilgrimage centres have invested in visitor comfort—air-conditioned waiting areas, chilled drinking water, and clean sanitation facilities are increasingly the norm. In many cases, nominal user charges are levied, and devotees are willing to pay for such services. Kolhapur risks falling behind if it does not address these gaps with urgency. At its core, the issue is one of dignity. Devotion should not come at the cost of physical distress. Until basic amenities are ensured, the promise of transforming Kolhapur into a premier religious tourism hub will remain incomplete. For now, the pilgrim’s experience continues to echo a troubling refrain: first the searing heat beneath the feet, and only then, the grace of the goddess.

The Soul of Bharat on the Big Screen

Mumbai: April 4, 2025, my heart feels heavier than it ever has. The news hit me like a monsoon storm—Manoj Kumar, the towering legend of Bollywood, the man who painted patriotism across our screens, is no more. At 87, he slipped away at Mumbai’s Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital, leaving behind a reel of memories that flicker in my mind like a projector that won’t stop spinning. As a movie fan who grew up with his films, I’m not just mourning an actor—I’m grieving the loss of a piece of my soul, a piece of India itself. They called him "Bharat Kumar," and oh, how he earned that name.


I remember the first time I saw ‘Upkar’ (1967). I was a kid, sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to our old TV. Manoj ji played Bharat, the farmer who gave everything—his dreams, his love—for his country’s soil. That song, “Mere Desh Ki Dharti,” wasn’t just a tune; it was a heartbeat, pulsing with pride and sacrifice. I’d hum it walking to school, feeling like I, too, could be that noble, that selfless. He won a National Film Award for that one, and rightly so—it wasn’t acting; it was living.

Then there was ‘Shaheed’ (1965), where he brought Bhagat Singh back to life. I’d sit there, popcorn forgotten, as he roared defiance against the British, his eyes blazing with a fire that could’ve lit up the darkest colonial night. It wasn’t just a film—it was a revolution on celluloid, a call to remember the blood that bought our freedom. Manoj ji didn’t just play the martyr; he became him, and every time I watch it, I feel that lump in my throat, that sting in my eyes. It’s no wonder it snagged three National Awards—his passion was a gift to us all.


Oh, and ‘Purab Aur Paschim’ (1970)—how do I even begin? He directed and starred as Bharat again, this time wrestling with the clash of East and West, showing us the beauty of our roots while the world tried to pull us away. I’d laugh at Saira Banu’s antics, then choke up when Manoj ji stood tall, singing “Hai Preet Jahan Ki Reet Sada.” It was a blockbuster, sure, but it was more—it was a love letter to India, penned in his signature hand-over-face style. That move, mocked by some, was his shield, his quiet strength, and I adored it.

And who could forget ‘Roti Kapda Aur Makaan’ (1974)? He directed and starred as Bharat—again, because who else could?—tackling poverty, injustice, and the gut-wrenching struggle for the basics of life. I’d watch, fists clenched, as he fought for the everyman, his voice cracking with raw emotion. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a mirror to our society, a cry for change. Seven Filmfare Awards across his career, they say, but this one felt like it carried them all—his heart bled through every frame.


Then there’s ‘Kranti’ (1981), the epic that had me on the edge of my seat. Manoj ji as the freedom fighter, leading Dilip Kumar and Hema Malini through a storm of rebellion—it was grand, it was gritty, it was everything Bollywood could be. “Zindagi Ki Na Toote Ladi” still echoes in my ears, a reminder of the battles he fought on screen, battles that felt so real I’d dream of joining the fight. He didn’t just direct that film; he sculpted a monument to resilience, and I’d cheer like a fool every time he outsmarted the British.


As I sit here, flipping through these memories, I can’t help but feel cheated. Manoj Kumar wasn’t just an actor or director—he was family. Born Harikrishan Goswami in 1937, he carried the Partition’s scars from Abbottabad to Delhi, turning pain into purpose. He gave us over 50 films in a career spanning four decades, snagging the Padma Shri in 1992 and the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2015—honors that felt too small for a man who gave India its cinematic soul. His last role in ‘Jai Hind’ (1999) might’ve flopped, but it didn’t dim his light in my eyes.


I’d read how he met Bhagat Singh’s mother before ‘Shaheed’, seeking her blessing—can you imagine the weight of that? Or how PM Lal Bahadur Shastri urged him to make ‘Upkar’ after the 1965 war, handing him “Jai Jawan Jai Kisan” like a sacred torch? That’s who he was—a man who didn’t just entertain but carried a nation’s dreams.


Manoj ji, you weren’t just “Bharat Kumar” to me—you were the uncle who taught me pride, the friend who shared my anger, the poet who sang my hopes. Your films weren’t movies; they were my childhood, my rebellion, my tears. I’ll miss you like I miss the India you dreamed of—flawed, fierce, and forever ours. Rest in peace, sir. Om Shanti.

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