Between Bells and Roads: An Ashtavinayak Journey

I began at Mahad, where dawn still clung to the road. Varadavinayak appeared through the mist, pale walls warming under the first light. Bells chimed softly; incense drifted and lingered. I folded my hands, closed my eyes, and let the stillness settle—an unspoken promise at the journey’s start.

At Pali, Ballaleshwar felt intimate, almost protective. I slowed, tracing carvings with my gaze, imagining the hands that shaped them centuries ago. A child dashed past after a pigeon, and devotion made room for ordinary joy. Faith here didn’t interrupt life; it lived inside it.

Morgaon was different—alive with sound. At Mayureshwar, chants rose and fell like a tide. I found myself carried by the rhythm, heartbeat aligning with voices, the temple breathing as one with the crowd.

The climb to Siddhatek demanded patience. Each step to Siddhivinayak widened the view—fields unfurling, villages quiet, clouds smudged across a generous sky. Up there, the pilgrimage felt less like arrival and more like attention: to light, to wind, to the simple act of noticing.

At Theur, Chintamani hummed gently. Vendors arranged flowers in careful rows; pigeons startled the air. Between conversations and footsteps, I found brief pockets of silence—small pauses that felt complete.

Ranjangaon stood grand and grounded. Mahaganapati’s pillars held stories in stone. I ran my hand along the cool surface and felt time compress—centuries present beneath my palm, devotion continuous.

Ozar surprised me. Vighnahar moved fast, a river of intent and prayer, yet even there I discovered a shaded corner to sit and watch. Calm and motion coexisted without friction.

The final ascent to Lenyadri tested breath and resolve. Girijatmaj emerged from the mountain itself—steps uneven, walls ancient, light slipping in like a blessing. From the heights, the world stretched wide. I sat, wind easing what I hadn’t known I was carrying.

When the roads finally turned homeward, nothing outward had changed. And yet, something had. The mind felt quieter, the body lighter. I carried back the echo of bells, the curl of incense, the steady hum of tires on asphalt. The yatra offered no grand revelation—only a gentle reminder: presence is the pilgrimage, and attention is the prayer.