Every year, as the summer sun beats down on Puri’s ancient streets, faith transforms the seaside town into an ocean of devotees. They gather shoulder to shoulder, chanting “Jai Jagannath!”, as the massive chariots of Lord Jagannath, Balabhadra and Subhadra roll forward, pulled by thousands of eager hands.
There is something about this sight—the sheer size of the chariots, the chants that echo through the lanes—that softens even the hardest hearts. No matter where you come from, the rath yatra welcomes you. But behind this moving festival is an army of quiet caretakers who make sure every pilgrim is fed, cared for and safe. Among them are the tireless volunteers of ISKCON and the Adani Group, who this year helped serve hot prasad to more than 20 lakh people.
For many devotees, the journey to Puri is anything but easy. Some walk for days from remote villages, sleeping at railway stations or roadside shelters. For them, a simple ladle of rice and dal served on a leaf plate is no less than divine grace.
Step into the bustling makeshift kitchens and you see how it all comes alive. Giant utensils are moved across the kitchen on a railway track-like arrangement, assisted by cranes. Volunteers, including monks and even corporate employees, serve with beaming smiles. There are no VIP queues. A barefoot farmer and a well-heeled donor sit cross-legged on the floor, sharing the same meal.
Bal Murari, an ISKCON devotee who has spent weeks organising the prasad seva, recalls a moment that still tugs at his heart. “An elderly couple arrived after walking over a hundred kilometres,” he says. “They had barely any belongings. When we served them food, they blessed us. Those blessings are worth more than gold.”
Among the crowd is Meera, a young teacher from Kolkata who has come for her first rath yatra. Exhausted from pulling the chariot’s ropes, she joins the queue at one of the many food counters set up across the city. “This isn’t just food,” she says, as a volunteer hands her a warm prasad box. “It is like Lord Jagannath himself is feeding us.”
Nearby, a group of police officers, drenched in sweat from crowd control duties, gratefully accepts prasad boxes, their fatigue eased by the gesture. The initiative extends beyond devotees to frontline workers, including municipal staff and lifeguards.
And while the streets brim with bhajans and cheers, another quiet story unfolds where the sacred sands meet the Bay of Bengal. Puri’s beaches, bustling with pilgrims eager for a holy dip, could turn unpredictable in seconds. Strong currents, hidden rip tides—the sea that blesses can also betray.
Standing guard here are Puri’s lifeguards, brave sons of the local Nolia fishing community who know every mood of these waves. They have inherited this wisdom from fathers and grandfathers who once fished these same waters.
“People don’t realise how suddenly the sea can turn,” says Harry Rao, secretary of the lifeguards’ association who has spent more than two decades patrolling these shores. “Our fathers and grandfathers taught us how the tides breathe. Now we use that knowledge to keep our pilgrims safe.”
During the rath yatra alone, these guardians handle nearly 500 emergencies, from near-drownings to heatstroke victims collapsing on the sand. This year, they have found new allies in the Adani Foundation, which stepped in to support the Puri Beach Lifeguard Mahasangha with safety gear, bright rain jackets and improved medical response.