The Ringan’s riderless horse gallops; pilgrims throw themselves into its dust as devotion becomes visible
On the road between Alandi and Pandharpur, the day begins long before sunrise. At four in the morning, the air still carries the scent of overnight rain and marigold, and a single voice breaks the darkness with the call “Dnyanoba Mauli Tukaram.” A thousand voices rise to complete it before the line has even ended. This is how each day of the Wari begins, not with instruction, but with sound moving across sleeping fields.
It is no coincidence that this landscape echoes with such profound spiritual energy. Maharashtra has long worn its identity proudly as Santanchi Bhumi, the sacred Land of Saints. For over seven centuries, this soil has been sanctified by poets, mystics, and social reformers who preached the egalitarian message of Bhakti, dissolving caste and class
barriers in the eyes of Lord Vitthal.
Each year, during the month of Ashadh, this identity bursts into vibrant life. Lakhs of warkaris dressed in white walk behind the two principal palkhis (palanquins): the Sant Dnyaneshwar Maharaj Palkhi, setting out from Alandi, and the Sant Tukaram Maharaj Palkhi, setting out from Dehu. Yet, the grandeur of the Wari extends far beyond these two streams. Across the length and breadth of Maharashtra, devotees travel in numerous independent palkhi processions dedicated to saints such as Sant Nivruttinath Maharaj, Sant Eknath Maharaj, Sant Namdev Maharaj, Sant Muktabai, Sant Sopankaka, Sant Gajanan Maharaj, and many others, all converging on Pandharpur. Together, they cover hundreds of kilometres, transforming the state into a moving, breathing temple.
By six in the morning, the procession is in motion. The silver palanquin is carried like a heartbeat at the centre of a moving river of saffron flags. Around it move the dindis, organised groups of forty to several hundred pilgrims, each with its own flag-bearer and musicians on tal and mridang, their rhythm carrying the unmistakable weight of tradition passed down over generations. Among the pilgrims are women who walk this route for decades on end, with a tulsi vrindavan balanced on their heads without a hand to steady it, while the men walk alongside carrying saffron flags, veena, and other musical instruments, their voices rising in bhajans.
Meals are taken standing, often shared before they are asked for. Along the route, village families press leaf-plates of poha into the hands of passing pilgrims, declining payment. It is a powerful reflection of the ethos instilled by Maharashtra’s saints: a quiet system of mutual care that sustains the Wari, where food, water, and assistance are offered freely to strangers as an offering to God Himself.
Past noon, the column slows. Word travels quickly through the crowd, and the Ringan happens. Across the entire pilgrimage, only a select few such ceremonies take place, making each one an eagerly awaited moment rather than a routine halt. At the centre of every Ringan is the Maulincha Ashva, the riderless horse believed to carry the very soul of the saint. In a Gol Ringan, the horse gallops along a wide circular path as pilgrims chant and play their instruments, while in an Ubhe Ringan, warkaris form two long-standing lines and let the horse run through the corridor between them.
As the horse moves, the atmosphere transforms entirely. Pilgrims throw themselves into the dust it has crossed, considering it sanctified; children are lifted to touch the same ground; and the rhythm of the drums quickens until thought gives way to feeling. For those few minutes, thousands move as one with no stage and no observers, only devotion made visible.
By evening, cooking fires light the halting ground, and tea is shared freely among strangers who no longer feel unfamiliar. For many warkaris, stepping onto this ancient earth is a reminder of the enduring truth taught by the saints of Maharashtra: “Vitthal is not found only at the end of the journey in Pandharpur, but within the act of walking itself.”
That, perhaps, is the truest lesson the Wari offers, and the reason it continues, unbroken, across generations, drawing the faithful back to the dusty, blessed roads of the Land of Saints year after year.
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