Introduction

The story of the film Abhang Tukaram had progressed significantly. I was hooked to the screen as a rendition of Sant Tukaram Maharaj’s famous abhanga (meaning devotional poem) ‘Rajas Sukumar Madanacha Putala…’ started playing. The beautifully sung song showed Tukaram Maharaj, a saint of the Varkari tradition (a localised Bhakti tradition of Maharashtra), dressing a young boy as his worshipping deity Śrī Viṭṭhala. The kid posing like the deity stood barefoot, his hands on his waist. 

The sequence unfolds in slow and repetitive beats. Tukaram Maharaj gently plucks leaves from a nearby tree, making an ornament to adorn the child. Around them, bodies begin to move in a quiet rhythm, swaying along the banks of the Indrayani River. As the abhanga moves forward, Tukaram Maharaj sits before the child, holding chipli (a type of percussion instrument) with arms wide open. Śrī Viṭṭhala appears quietly, peeping from behind a tree, watching the saint with a tenderness that mirrors Tukaram Maharaj’s own devotion. 

As I watched, I became aware of my own stillness in the theatre, my body unmoving while the movie carried the devotional mood forward. The scene lingered, much like the feeling that settles in when a song ends too soon and you wish it would continue. 

The Alive Divine: Using the Lens of Adhyātma 

Just like that scene, the film as a whole stayed with me, long after the screen faded to black. It made me pause and ask myself what, exactly, had moved me so deeply. Was it the melody, the storyline, and the familiarity of Tukaram Maharaj’s words? Or, was it something else entirely that the film allowed me to see, perhaps clearly? I have read about the Varkari saints, heard their poetry rise in collective chorus during fieldwork, and analysed their works for writing articles. And yet, watching this film, I realised how partial my understanding of bhakti had been. It felt something essential, quiet, and under-theorised, had escaped me until now. Sitting with that discomfort, I started thinking: Weren’t the life stories of Varkari saints depicted in films before? Yes, they were. But what set the film apart is that it portrayed Śrī Viṭṭhala not just as a deity in a temple but as a real being watching over the saint. The audience could see Tukaram Maharaj conversing with this divine being. The film’s portrayal of the deity is striking not because of spectacle, but because of intimacy. The divine appears as a presence that enters everyday spaces. Presenting Śrī Viṭṭhala in such a way turned the deity from a matter of social construction into a lived reality. This is where Digpal Lanjekar’s direction and Yogesh Soman’s storyline take the film one step forward. They take it into the lived reality of the Varkari saints: beyond the boundaries of atheism, into the world of bhakti. But this is not the first time Lanjekar has attempted such a portrayal of the Varkari reality. He has also done it before in the film Sant Dnyaneshvaranchi Muktai, where Śrī Viṭṭhala inhabits the everyday lives of Sant Dnyaneshvar Maharaj (the pioneering saint of the Varkari tradition) and his siblings. 

During my doctoral fieldwork in the annual pilgrimage to Pandhapur, a fellow female pilgrim suggested that I watch old films about the Varkari saints.  She expressed disappointment with newer films, which generally lacked the flavour of adhyātma. Although I did not get an opportunity to watch the older movies, I understood what she was trying to convey after watching Lanjekar's directorial work. I will draw a comparison between this film and the other to explain the adhyātmika void. I remember watching the film Tukaram, released in 2012, directed by Chandrakant Kulkarni, when I was in school. It was the first time I became acquainted with the life of Tukaram Maharaj in detail. Many episodes associated with his life that are famous across Maharashtra were depicted in the movie, including the one where Tukaram Maharaj goes to the river Indrayani to drown manuscripts of his abhangas. Both films emphasise how abhangas lived among people and how they were etched into memory. The essence of the scene in both cases is similar, but its trajectory develops differently.  Lanjekar focuses on how the abhangas were woven into the rhythm of everyday lives. They were sung while shaping clay at the potter’s wheel, while the metalsmith raised and brought down his hammer, while hands remained busy with everyday work. In such a spirit of Lanjekar’s direction and Soman’s storyline, Śrī Viṭṭhala steps into the river Indrayani and makes the abhanga scripts float on water. Whereas in Kulkarni’s direction, there is no living presence of the deity, and the manuscripts fail to float. Here is where I argue that the lens used in Abhang Tukaram to look at bhakti is adhyātmika rather than secular. For Śrī Viṭṭhala, here, it is not mere belief; he is alive on screen as a real being with agency dictating the happenings of everyday life.

Another Shade of the Revolutionary Spirit 

Tukaram Maharaj is most often talked about as a revolutionary figure: a saint who revolted against caste-based discrimination, 'superstitious' practices, and much more. What is less discussed is another dimension of this revolutionary spirit, his support for Shivaji Maharaj’s movement of Hindavī Svarājya (a movement for Hindu sovereignty). Something brought into focus by this film. Lanjekar is already working on a series of eight films on the life and times of Shivaji Maharaj. His cinematic universe consciously weaves the world of Varkari bhakti with Hindavī Svarājya. In this film, Sant Tukaram Maharaj instructs Shivaji Maharaj that the protection and well-being of the prajā constitute the highest duty of a rājā. The bhakti saint does not withdraw from politics; rather, he helps shape the moral imagination of one of the most consequential rulers of Bhārata. Such a portrayal of Tukaram Maharaj thus becomes a crucial bridge between Lanjekar’s two streams of films: on the one hand, the films on Svarājya, understood as freedom from external rule; on the other, the cinematic exploration of bhakti, understood as liberation from the inner bondage of vāsanās (desires).

Extending the Discourse of Bhakti

Usually, interpretations of bhakti tend to concentrate either on the personal devotion that is limited to an idol of the deity or on its manifestations at the social level. Very few attempts succeed in joining these two domains together, and Abhang Tukaram precisely does that. The film depicts that bhakti is neither just a psychological or behavioural phenomenon nor simply a social movement. It is a personal relationship with a real divine being that simultaneously shapes the social sphere as well. The film depicts how bhakti was never separate from Tukaram Maharaj’s responsibility of upholding dharma in society. It shows how his personal relationship with Śrī Viṭṭhala translated into the revival of the vaidika wisdom, uniting people across caste, class, and gender, despite facing criticism from orthodox brāhmaṇas. This tension is articulated in a scene where Tukaram Maharaj explains that one can also arrive at the wisdom of the vedas through devotion towards Īśvara (God). Further, he distils the essence of the vedas: to surrender to Śrī Viṭṭhala and chant his name. As he speaks, many nod their heads in disagreement in the council of brāhmaṇas, which also includes his staunch opponent Rameshwar Bhatt. Yet the film does not freeze at the Brahmanical opposition to the bhakti saint. The film additionally showcases that Tukaram Maharaj’s opponents eventually recognise his spiritual stature, finally acknowledging the path of bhakti. In this arc, the film extends the pre-existing discourse around bhakti, especially in the domains of caste, hierarchy, and religious authority. 

Embodying the Role

The actors have done a remarkable job of recreating the world of Tukaram Maharaj. In particular, Yogesh Soman was highly successful in portraying the saint. It felt as though he was not merely performing the role, but living it. Soman embodied Tukaram Maharaj’s gestures and sentiments with remarkable sincerity, especially in the singing sequences and dialogue delivery. It was evident that, for him, this was not just a task of acting; it was something deeper. In an interview with Lokmat, a prominent media house in Maharashtra, he stated that he approached the role not simply as performance, but as sādhanā (spiritual practice). In this sense, the very process of acting acquired a new meaning, which translated into a performance of striking intensity and beauty on screen. The supporting actors also delivered strong performances and contributed effectively to the film’s world-building. The film, however, lost some momentum in the second half, where the pacing became noticeably slow and could have been tighter. That being said, the music and songs stand out as major strengths, successfully creating a powerful devotional and emotional atmosphere. Visually, the scenes are aesthetically composed and contribute to an immersive experience of the film.

Enlivening Awali

Awali, the wife of Tukaram Maharaj, is rightly portrayed as a significant part of his life. Though distraught by her husband’s absorption in Śrī Viṭṭhala, she firmly takes charge of the reins of her domestic life. While she is often irritated by Tukaram Maharaj’s conduct, the film also depicts her as a deeply caring wife, constantly anxious for his well-being. Awali detests Tukaram Maharaj’s relationship with Śrī Viṭṭhala; yet, ultimately, it is her love and reverence for her husband that turns her towards the very deity she dislikes. In a pivotal scene, she prays to Śrī Viṭṭhala to restore the abhangas sunken in the depths of Indrayani, worshipping out of profound concern for her husband. The movie beautifully portrays how her bond with Śrī Viṭṭhala, therefore, is mediated through Tukaram Maharaj. Further, Śrī Viṭṭhala and Rukmiṇī are shown as figures who interact with Awali, offering support in her prapañca (worldly and domestic life).  Love, irritation, care, and reverence coexist within Awali. She is torn between the dualities, held perfectly on screen by Smita Shewale, who gracefully traverses through the contradictions of multiple emotions. Awali’s rage while kicking river Indrayani, helplessness dealing with economic precarity,  anger while asking Śrī Viṭṭhala to save abhangas, and happiness as she recites Tukaram Maharaj’s composition are well portrayed in the film.

Filmmaking as a Responsibility

Films serve as modern-day mediums of storytelling. As Noel Carroll, in his essay ‘Power of Movies,’ points out, the reason movies are universally enjoyed and understood is that they rely on features that connect to basic mental and perceptual abilities shared by everyone. Hence, what is being shown in films becomes very important. How stories about the past, culture, and social realities are retold matters greatly because cinema has become a key medium through which knowledge is transmitted to younger generations and to audiences unfamiliar with these histories. Film, therefore, does not merely entertain; it produces narratives and circulates meanings. Eventually, shaping collective memory and public discourse. This concern finds a parallel in a scene in Govind Nihalani's 1984 film Party, which stages a discussion on the relationship between art, politics, and responsibility. This scene presents the tension between the idea of art for its own sake versus art as a tool for social and political change.  The core of the debate is the dichotomy between aesthetics and the political commitment of art. It is within this framework that Lanjekar’s work can be situated. His film is not simply an aesthetic exercise; it takes a clear political and ethical position by reproducing the lived reality of bhakti.

Lanjekar’s craft does not operate in isolation from social responsibility. His commitment to what must be shown and how is embedded within the film’s visual narrative. By portraying the divine as an active presence in everyday life, the film blurs the boundary between art for its own sake and art as a socially responsible act. In this sense, the film does more than represent bhakti; it animates it for the audience. For those who question how such films ‘change’ anything, the answer lies in this very intervention: it makes a statement that the divine can be experienced as real, present, and participatory in the everyday world. Hence, the film brings out the adhyātmika core of bhakti while holding onto its socio-political peripheral manifestations. When religious traditions such as bhakti are depicted, the responsibility of representation becomes crucial, as these portrayals inevitably shape public discourse. In this regard, Lanjekar and Soman succeed in handling this responsibility with sensitivity and depth.

Ultimately, the film is not merely concerned with who Sant Tukaram was as a historical figure. It is far more attentive to the kārya (task) entrusted to him by the divine, to his intimate and often demanding relationship with Śrī Viṭṭhala, and to the living presence of the Tukaram Gatha, the abhangas that continue to breathe through people’s lives. What the filmmaker achieved is a colour palette of bhakti which draws you into tears, translating into an experience that resists articulation.