In my life, the words Pandharpur, Vitthal, kirtan, pakhawaj, and Warkari have always been closely associated with the concept of Ekadashi.

When I first heard the rhythmic beats of the pakhawaj as a child, I was instantly intoxicated by its magic. Since then, I began listening to solo pakhawaj performances while working, and whenever possible, I would go and experience live performances.

This must have been around 15–16 years ago when I began studying kirtan. At that time, I rediscovered pakhawaj, Vitthal, and everything connected to them in a whole new light. Through all of this—stories I had heard about Vitthal in various ways, the writings I had read, experiences of saints and their literature—a deep curiosity about the essence of it all kept growing in me. And then, I tried to quench that growing thirst in every possible way I could.

"Jai Jai Ram Krishna Hari"—a chant sung in the Naradiya kirtan tradition and also in the Warkari tradition—same chant, same words, but expressed so differently. Isn't that the true strength of art?

Even though my introduction to the world of kirtan happened through the Naradiya tradition, I’ve always been drawn to the communal singing of the Warkari tradition—and that draw remains. Just last month, I saw a Dashavatara performance that depicted the story of Bhakta Pundalik. In it, Vitthal says to Pundalik:
"Whoever comes to Pandharpur shall take your name before they take mine."
And that’s why we say — "Pundalikavarada Hari Vitthala."

With all these thoughts still fresh in my mind, one idea kept lingering — a couple of years ago, during a one-act play competition in Belgaum, I saw a third-grade boy playing the pakhawaj. That moment shattered my long-held illusion that no one plays the pakhawaj in Belgaum anymore.

After that, I started looking for that little boy, managed to get his number, but was never able to get in touch with him. Yet, the ideas of Vitthal's chant and the pakhawaj have continued to swirl in my mind ever since.

Every Saturday and Sunday, I travel to Belgaum, do a bit of work there, and then return to Pune.

This routine has become so regular over the past month and a half that the Friday and Sunday night bus journeys have now become second nature to me.

That Saturday morning, I reached Belgaum. I called up Raju Kawale Guruji. He said, “Come by, we’re here. If you come in the evening, you’ll get to see the Haripath. Otherwise, if you come in the morning, you can see the class in action.”

I thought about it for a moment and decided I’d go for the Haripath in the evening at 5:30.

At the foot of the temple lies a long road, and along the side of that road stands a half-constructed building. When I first entered that area, I noticed a lot of children sleeping there. Naturally, it struck me that perhaps these were the kids attending the camp. These thoughts were running through my mind as I made my way for the temple visit. Even after I finished the darshan and started descending, I still hadn’t made any contact. I came down, sat under a tree, and drank some water.

And right at that very spot, a man emerged — wearing a spotless white kurta and an immaculately tied dhoti. He stepped out and called out loudly, gesturing everyone to wake up. And in no time, around 200 to 250 kids came out of that room, rubbing their eyes and stretching. There were kids from about 2nd, 3rd, 4th grades up to 10th grade. All of them had just woken up and were still trying to fully arrive into the waking world.

Some parents had arrived there by then, and seeing them, a few kids created quite a commotion — “I want to go home, I want to go home!” While this was happening, the rest of the little ones were busy collecting their clothes that were drying, folding them neatly. Some wandered off into the forest nearby just for a stroll, while others simply went to drink water. And once again, the man — “Dada” — said, “Come on now, quickly go change your clothes.”

The greenery surrounding the place, the calm of the temple premises, and those children… Within just a minute, the kids who had gone in to change came out — now all dressed in white. Was everyone’s white the same? Not at all. But together, all their shades of white created a unified sense of whiteness. Meanwhile, preparations for the Haripath had begun. Some were setting up the microphone, others arranging the seat for the kirtankar (the storyteller). Just then, a bua (an elder saint) brought in a pakhawaj (a traditional drum), and I sat close, drawn in. He looked graceful and well-composed, but more than that, I was just moments away from hearing the rhythm of that instrument.

Now, at the foothills of Siddheshwar, a kirtan (devotional musical storytelling) for Vitthal was about to take place. In fact, this was a rehearsal, not an actual performance. On the guruji’s command, all the children stood in four neat rows. And as soon as the chant began, the children started dancing in rhythm — as if they already knew what to do, as if it came naturally.

Did everyone get it perfectly? Of course not. But did it matter? There was no public scolding, no one was told they couldn’t do it. For the next hour and a half, each child moved — dancing to the beat, to the chant — in the way they understood, the way they felt, the way they experienced it.

Some were learning by watching others. Some, perhaps already familiar with it all, instinctively knew how to adjust to the changing rhythm and steps.

Where I was standing, right in front of me was this little boy — and the energy, the passion with which he was doing everything — I was absolutely stunned watching him. Through him, that little child, I was experiencing what pakhawaj, what Vitthal, what all of this truly meant. I stood there, speechless, just watching him in awe.

Under the vast, clear white sky, amidst that green landscape, 200–300 children were chanting the Haripath, dancing in a trance-like devotion, calling out to Vitthal with full fervor — and all of this was happening in a camp barely ten kilometers from my home. I kept reminding myself of that fact again and again, almost in disbelief.

This is the 12th year of the camp. Naturally, the number of children increases every day, as parents continue to drop their kids off here. The children not only learn to take care of themselves and do their own work, but they also study selected chapters from the Gita, episodes from the Amritanubhav, and learn various devotional verses (padas).

Those who own a pakhawaj bring it with them to the camp, and they are given further training on the instrument. They are made to practice regularly. Yoga sessions are also held. In this way, the children go through a packed daily schedule for 18 continuous days — after which they return to their respective villages.

The sheer number of children participating from various villages and regions around Belgaum is astounding. And it is also deeply moving — as it gives a glimpse of who the future torchbearers of our culture are.

The entire village contributes to this camp in their own capacity, with their own strength. They have been doing this for over a decade — and with that thought in mind, this article cannot end without offering a full and heartfelt sashtang dandavat pranam (a deep, respectful bow) to every individual involved — those who are like gurus, like sages, who make this possible.

One more notable thing — the poster for this camp clearly mentions: “Children must not bring phones, and if brought, they will be confiscated.” In an age where we are constantly entangled in the web of social media and our phones, this camp offers children a chance to step away from all of it for 18 days, to receive pure education and experience pure joy.

Just thinking about it fills the heart — with pride for all those involved: the children, the teachers, and the parents.