A billionaire in the crowd as Mumbai bids goodbye to Bappa
At daybreak in Mumbai, amid pounding drums and showers of gulaal, Anant Ambani walked shoulder to shoulder with devotees at the Lalbaugcha Raja Ganpati visarjan. The Executive Director of Reliance Industries joined the sea of people at Girgaum Chowk on Anant Chaturdashi, the final and most emotional day of the 10-day festival. Chants of “Ganpati Bappa Morya” rolled through the lanes as the city prepared to escort its most famous idol to the sea.
Ambani’s presence stood out for its simplicity. He stayed within the crowd, not on a stage, moving with the procession as thousands surged forward for a last glimpse. Earlier in the week, he and his wife Radhika Merchant paid a quiet visit to the Lalbaugcha Raja pandal to seek blessings, a moment that quickly made the rounds on social media.
The immersion procession carried all the markers of Mumbai’s Ganeshotsav: Mardani Khel displays, dhol-tasha troupes, saffron flags waving from balconies, and families passing around prasad. By early afternoon on Sunday, the big community processions from Lalbaug had hit the main road—Lalbaugcha Raja, Chinchpoklicha Chintamani, Ballaleshwar of Bal Ganesh Mandal, Mumbaicha Raja of Ganesh Galli, and Tejukaya Ganapati among them—drawing relentless crowds as they inched toward the coastline.
For many, the draw is both spiritual and storied. Lalbaugcha Raja dates back to 1934, born from a promise kept. Fisherfolk and mill workers who lost a bustling market prayed for a permanent spot to sell their goods. When their wish was granted, they installed Ganesha in gratitude. That legacy—of a deity who listens—earned the idol its enduring reputation as the “navasacha Ganpati,” the one who fulfills vows.
Security, tradition, and the city’s massive operation
Mumbai turns into a finely tuned machine on Anant Chaturdashi. More than 21,000 police personnel fanned across key routes and immersion points to manage crowds and prevent bottlenecks. Traffic was re-routed through south and central Mumbai as processions moved toward Girgaum Chowpatty, Dadar, and Juhu—three of the busiest immersion beaches—while ward teams tracked the flow to avoid crush points.
Along the routes, first-aid posts, mobile toilets, and water kiosks lined the streets. Civic workers and volunteers collected nirmalya—flowers, leaves, and garlands offered to the deity—so it wouldn’t end up in the sea. Artificial ponds across wards handled smaller idols through the day and late into the night, part of a growing shift toward eco-friendly immersions.
The scale is staggering. Mumbai sees thousands of Sarvajanik (public) and household idols head for immersion on the 1.5, 5th, 7th, and 10th days, with the final day pushing the city’s systems to their limits. Processions can take 12–24 hours to reach the water, with volunteers forming human chains to keep lanes clear for emergency vehicles. The rhythm—drums, conches, chants—never really stops; it just moves, neighborhood to neighborhood.
The cultural texture is impossible to miss. Mardani Khel troupes showcased a homegrown martial art with synchronized lathi routines and sword drills. Dhol-tasha groups, many of them women-led, held the beat for hours, giving the processions an almost athletic cadence. Children on their parents’ shoulders waved at the larger-than-life tableaux; college students danced in bursts; senior citizens waited patiently for their moment of darshan as the idol passed.
For Mumbai, Ganeshotsav is as much about community as devotion. Local mandals spend months planning their idols, themes, and safety protocols; residents chip in for decorations and food counters; small businesses—from idol makers to flower sellers and sweet shops—see a vital seasonal uptick. The visarjan binds it all together: a farewell that’s also a renewal, sending Bappa home with a promise to return stronger next year.
Star sightings are routine at Lalbaugcha Raja, but the mood rarely shifts from reverent to chaotic. Volunteers and police form discreet cordons when notable visitors arrive, then break away as the procession rolls forward. In that sense, Ambani’s walk with the crowd fit the day’s tenor: faith flattening hierarchies, if only for a few hours, as leaders, workers, and families fold into the same moving prayer.
Behind the spectacle sits a sizable logistics plan. The civic body cleared immersion zones of debris, marked deep-water areas, and deployed lifeguards with rescue boats. Control rooms monitored crowd density and route timings. As the evening tide built, processions timed their final approach, and the chants took on that familiar, bittersweet note—“Pudcha varshi lavkar ya,” come back soon next year.
By nightfall, the city’s biggest idol neared the water, surrounded by a wall of sound and color. Drums slowed to a heavy thud; the air smelled of sandalwood and smoke. The final rituals were unhurried: aarti, offerings, a last round of chants. Then the idol tilted, slid, and disappeared beneath the surface. For a moment, the crowd fell quiet. And then the city exhaled—tired, grateful, already thinking about next year’s first prayer.
