From Handmade Murtis to Modaks in Tupperware: Ganesh Chaturthi Across Generations

Ganesh Chaturthi comes with a kind of warmth that seeps into the bones. Even the memory of it feels like incense—clove-heavy, comforting, sacred. It’s the smell that used to drift from my nani’s bedroom every August or September, depending on the moon, when the house would quietly rearrange itself into a temple. Her bedroom, just across from mine, would glow before sunrise—a diya by the window, bowls of haldi and sindoor on the nightstand, and at the center of it all: Bhagwan Ganesha, sculpted by her own hands and mine.

We didn’t always have store-bought murtis. Sometimes, we made Bhagwan Ganesha from dough and turmeric, sometimes from clay we shaped together, singing his name in soft off-key verses. Nani would hum while making modaks, her hands fast and precise, and I’d follow along, measuring rice flour wrong but always offered the first one anyway. We never had grand celebrations but we had joy. I think that’s what made it real. That quiet joy in service, the sweetness of rituals stitched between stories of how Bhagwan Ganesha was born of divine love and fierce protection—a son of Maa Parvati, created not from conquest, but from care.

In Hindu tradition, he is always worshipped first. Before any new venture, we whisper his name—Shri Ganeshaya Namah—because he is the remover of obstacles, the keeper of beginnings. But for many of us, especially here in the West, he’s more than that. He is the one we turn to when we are weary from explaining our faith, when we face stares for our tilaks, when mandirs are defaced, or when holidays fall on school days and are met with confusion instead of reverence. He becomes the bridge between our faith and our future. The small altar in the corner of a dorm room; the modak carried to class in Tupperware; the chant whispered before a job interview; and the promise that we are still connected, still anchored, still seen.

While Ganesh Chaturthi celebrations can be traced back to the Puranic era, the festival found new life during colonial rule, when it was revived by freedom fighter Lokmanya Bal Gangadhar Tilak. At a time when Hindu identity was under threat, celebrating Ganesh Chaturthi became an act of defiance—a festival that united people under dharma, art, and devotion. Bhagwan Ganesha became not just the remover of obstacles but the symbol of a people refusing to be silenced. That legacy carries through today, when a child in Kansas or London or Durban folds their hands before a hand-made murti, performing the same aarti their ancestors once did, miles away and centuries apart.

Even now, no matter how old I get, when I hear “Ganapati Bappa Morya”, my heart responds instinctively: “Mangal Murti Morya!” It’s reflex. It’s memory. It’s faith. 

And when I cook for my family—sometimes undercooking the rice or burning the coconut a little—I remember how nani never scolded me for it. She’d just laugh and say, “Ganpati doesn’t care. He only asks for love.” And I believe that. I always will.

When the time for visarjan comes, whether into a river or into a flowerpot in the backyard, it never feels like goodbye. It feels like an inward turning. A folding of divine presence into the quiet of daily life. As if Ganesha hasn’t left but simply moved closer—to sit behind the eyes, to wait at the edge of every new chapter, to walk beside us unseen.

He is not just the god of beginnings. He is the one who tells us we’re never starting alone.

Ganapati Bappa Morya.
Pudhchya Varshi Lavkar Ya.

Let him come again, not only next year—but every time we need the courage to begin.

The author, Abhimanyu Gupta, is a high school student, a CoHNA youth volunteer, and CYAN leader.