Why, among all our gods, Ganesha feels less like a distant deity and more like a friend
There is something wonderfully disarming about Ganesha.
He is, of course, a god. The remover of obstacles. The deity we invoke before beginning something new. The one we turn to for wisdom, good fortune and protection.
And yet, somehow, he does not always feel like a god who stands apart from us.
He feels close.
Perhaps that is why, when Ganeshotsava arrives, there is a different kind of excitement in the air. It is not quite the solemnity associated with a temple visit or a traditional puja. There is devotion, certainly. But there is also affection. Conversation. Laughter. Music. Anticipation.
It sometimes feels as though Ganesha has come home.
And perhaps that is the secret of his extraordinary place in our lives.
We don’t merely worship him.
We seem to like him.
There is something almost human about the way Ganesha is imagined. His large ears, his rounded belly, his elephant head, his gentle expression. He is powerful, but never intimidating. Wise, but never severe. Capable of removing obstacles, yet somehow approachable enough to be told about our smallest worries.
He has a dignity that does not require distance.
And that may be why children are drawn to him so naturally. There is nothing forbidding about Ganesha. He does not seem to demand that we first become worthy of approaching him.
We simply walk up to him.
And talk.
A protector who doesn’t frighten us
Most cultures have their powerful gods and protective deities. Protection is often associated with strength, weapons and the ability to destroy what threatens us.
Ganesha’s protection feels different.
Perhaps because he does not look like a warrior.
His strength is concealed beneath gentleness. His power does not need to announce itself.
He is the protector who makes us feel safe rather than afraid.
When life becomes uncertain, we often instinctively say, Ganpati Bappa, sambhal lena.
Look after things.
Take care of us.
Make the difficult path a little easier.
There is something profoundly tender about that relationship.
And then there is the friend
The word Bappa says something that formal theology cannot quite capture.
It is a word of intimacy.
Someone familiar. Someone whose presence carries reassurance.
In Mumbai, particularly during Ganeshotsava, that intimacy becomes tangible.
Ganesha appears everywhere—in grand public pandals, in modest neighbourhoods, in homes, offices and apartment buildings. Some idols are magnificent works of art. Others are deliberately simple.
But the scale hardly matters.
The relationship remains.
People stand before him and ask for health, happiness, success, a child’s future, a parent’s recovery, a new job, a marriage, a business to do well.
And sometimes, I suspect, they ask for nothing at all.
They simply stand there.
Because there are relationships in which words are not always necessary.
The city changes when Bappa arrives
Mumbai has its own relationship with Ganeshotsava.
For a few weeks, the city becomes louder, more colourful and, occasionally, more chaotic. Streets that ordinarily belong to traffic acquire pandals. Neighbourhoods that barely notice one another suddenly become communities.
People who may not speak to each other for the rest of the year find themselves standing together before the same idol.
There are lights and music and flowers. There are queues and crowds. There is food. There are arguments about which pandal is the best.
And there is that unmistakable sense that something has arrived.
Not merely an idol.
A presence.
That is perhaps why the farewell can be surprisingly emotional.
We know the idol is made of clay or some other material. We know the ritual of immersion is part of the tradition. We know that, physically, what returns to the water is simply the form we created.
And yet, when the procession moves towards the sea and thousands of voices call out,
“Ganpati Bappa Morya!”
there is a moment when the distinction between symbol and presence seems to disappear.
We are saying goodbye to someone.
Perhaps that is what makes Ganesha unique
There are gods before whom we bow.
There are gods whom we fear.
There are gods whom we seek to understand.
And then there is Ganesha—the god many of us seem instinctively to embrace.
He is simultaneously magnificent and familiar.
A deity with the head of an elephant and the warmth of a friend.
A remover of obstacles who does not promise that life will have no difficulties, but gives us the confidence to face them.
A protector who does not stand over us, but somehow seems to stand beside us.
Perhaps this is why generations have found it so easy to make room for him in their homes and in their hearts.
We don’t have to understand everything about Ganesha to feel something for him.
We don’t even have to be particularly religious.
There is an emotional simplicity to the relationship.
When things go well, we thank him.
When things go badly, we ask him to help.
When something new begins, we invoke him.
And when we don’t know what else to say, we simply say:
Bappa.
Maybe that is enough.
And that may be why, every year, when Ganesha arrives, millions of us do not merely welcome a deity.
We welcome someone we have missed.
Ganpati Bappa Morya!
