BAPPA...HE LISTENS

 

Bappa..... He Listens

Raju Kaka, the celebrated Ganesha idol master artist as they called him, sat alone in his workshop, the creator and the creator in dialogue. This was the place where he had been working since almost 30 years now, a legacy handed down to him by his father. Every monsoon season was spent in the workshop crafting one of the finest idols. The Ganapati Festival had begun, and the streets outside were bursting with color and sound, the drums echoing through narrow lanes, children and adults dancing with energy, and families carrying idols with pride and devotion. The atmosphere inside the workshop was a stark contrast to the outside, a pin drop silence and everything was still as if time had forgotten its duty. The shelves that once held rows of clay Ganeshas were nearly bare. Only a few remained which were unsold and some chipped. Raju Kaka glanced around slowly. One idol had a broken tusk, another had a crack across its belly. A smaller one had lost its crown in the rush of packing. 

Sitting in one corner was a fairly large idol, placed on a wooden base near the window. It was his favorite. Crafted with extra care, painted with soft strokes, subtle colors and eyes full of kindness. “They did not choose you, Bappa,” Raju Kaka said softly, brushing a bit of dust off the idol’s shoulder. “I thought you were the one who would go first.” The idol didn’t reply, all it did was smile. Raju Kaka had spent so many hours talking to it while shaping its form, that silence felt familiar. He sat down beside it, legs folded, and his back slightly arched. “You know, Bappa,” he began, “these days people want the biggest idol. Not the one with the softest eyes or the most peaceful smile. Just the biggest. They want to show off. Loud music, flashy lights, big crowds. Is that what devotion looks like now?” He paused, listening to the distant beat of drums outside. “But not everyone is like that,” Bappa seemed to tell Raju Kaka. “Some come here with quiet voices and folded hands. They tell stories as how their grandparents started the tradition ofgetting my idol and celebrate by singing aartis and bhajans every morning, how they were taught the art of making modaks. Have you not noticed, they ask for small idols, the ones they can place in their living rooms. They don’t want noise. They want memories.” Raju Kaka nodded in agreement. 

He stood up and walked to the broken idol with the chipped trunk. He touched it gently, as if it were a wounded child. “I wish people cared more about what happens after the visarjan,” he said. “They throw you in the water and forget. Some don’t even wait for the proper rituals. Just dump and go. You deserve better, Bappa. You are not just decoration.” He returned to his seat and wiped his face with a cloth. The air smelled of clay, paint and incense. “I still remember when I was a boy,” he said. “My father used to make idols too. He always said you listen better, than most humans. I think he was right.” He chuckled softly. “You never interrupt. You just stay, you are always there even when everyone has left.”

Outside, someone burst a firecracker. Raju Kaka didn’t flinch. “Do you think people will change?” he asked. “Will they remember why they bring you home? Not just for selfies and sweets, but for peace, for wisdom, for that feeling of being protected?” He looked at the idol’s eyes again. “You always look calm. Maybe that’s your answer.” His voice grew firmer as he looked at the idol’s calm face. “You know what hurts, Bappa?” he said, his fingers tightening on the shoulder of Bappa. “People spend lakhs on decorations, on DJs, on fireworks that choke the sky. But ask them to sit quietly for ten minutes and chant your name with deep devotion, they get restless. They want spectacle, not silence. They want noise, not meaning. But life isn’t a parade. It’s a slow walk. It’s discipline. It’s waking up every day and doing the right thing even when no one’s watching.”

He stood up and paced the room, the evening light casting long shadows behind him. “They forget that you are the God of beginnings, of wisdom, of patience. You’re not a party mascot. You’re a reminder, to pause, to reflect, to clean the mess inside before looking at the dirt outside. But no one wants that. They want instant blessings, instant fame. They want you to fix their lives while they keep breaking rules. And I am tired, Bappa. Tired of making idols for the people who don’t understand what they are bringing home.”

"But Raju if you stop making my idols then how will people learn what is right. Your art gets them closer to me. Isn't it? Let them delve deeper and experience what the connection is. Don't stop." Bappa seemed to say.  

 

The sun began to set, casting a warm orange light through the dusty glass panes of the workshop's large window. Raju Kaka lit a small diya in front of the idol and placed a single marigold beside it. “Even if no one buys you,” he said, “you’re still my Bappa. You’re still here. You’ve heard my stories, my worries, my dreams. That’s enough.” He hugged the idol just the way a friend hugs another.

"Let your devotion be gentle, like the shaping of clay, and your prayers steady, like the rhythm of breath. Celebrate me not in noise, but in meaning. Remember, I am the remover of obstacles—but only when you are willing to walk the path with patience, humility, and truth. Honor the beginning by honoring the journey. And when the festival ends, let the spirit remain. I am always listening." 

The day was bidding goodbye, Raju Kaka sat beside the idol, humming "Sukh Karta Dukhharta Varta Vighnachi " a classic composition by Sant Samarth Ramdas. The broken idols, the unsold ones, they weren’t forgotten. Not in this workshop. Not by him. And in that quiet space, filled with clay and memory, it felt like Bappa was listening.