Sant Tukaram, the 17th-century Marathi poet-saint, was no philosopher in a tower. He was a farmer who knew the weight of a plough, a family man who lost children to famine, a merchant who went bankrupt, and a wanderer of the inner world. From these ashes, he rose not as a preacher, but as a voice. His abhangs—soulful, rhythmic verses—still ring out across villages and temples, speaking of life as it is: full of loss, longing, love, and the quiet grace of surrender.

To understand life through Tukaram is not to decode doctrine. It is to hear a voice from the depths of the human spirit, clear and luminous, reminding us that the sacred isn’t far off in scriptures or rituals—it’s stitched into the fabric of our everyday struggle.

Life Begins in Suffering—but Doesn’t End There

Tukaram’s life was marked by relentless grief. He lost his wife and children during a famine. He was mocked and exiled by his community. His business failed. But rather than hardening, he opened. He took this suffering not as punishment, but as an invitation to look deeper.

“He who clings to pleasure suffers when it departs. I have learned to be empty.”

He taught that pain is not the enemy; clinging is. And in letting go, he found not despair, but freedom. Tukaram doesn’t gloss over suffering; he walks right into it and finds God there.

God Is Not Distant—He’s in the Dust

Tukaram didn’t need a temple to worship. His God, Vitthala, wasn’t an abstraction or a judge sitting in the clouds. Vitthala was a friend, a companion, the rhythm in a song, the silence between two thoughts.

“Why search for God outside, when He resides within? Vitthala dwells where the heart is clean.”

To live according to Tukaram is to see the divine in the most ordinary things—in a pot of rice, in the sweat of labor, in the sound of a distant flute. He invites us to bring reverence to what we overlook.

The Ego Is the Greatest Illusion

Tukaram had no time for pride. He saw how the ego masquerades as identity—status, knowledge, even virtue—and how it traps us in endless performance. His poems cut through this with radical honesty.

“I have seen through this veil of ‘me’—nothing remains but You.”

In Tukaram’s view, life truly begins when we stop trying to be important. When we let go of self-centered striving, we fall into grace. The more we disappear, the more we become.

Devotion Is Not Ritual—It’s Raw, It’s Real

While many saints praised elaborate rituals, Tukaram stripped spirituality to its bones. For him, devotion was not about perfect Sanskrit or flawless ceremony. It was about truth.

“Let others wear fine clothes to please the Lord. I offer only my naked heart.”

This is what makes his vision of life so powerful: it doesn’t exclude anyone. No matter your class, language, or education, you can reach the Divine with sincerity. Devotion, to Tukaram, is a radical act of showing up—messy, broken, honest.

Let Go. Let Be. Let Love

One of the most profound teachings Tukaram gives is not in grand declarations but in a quiet sense of letting go. He constantly points back to surrender—not as defeat, but as liberation.

“My cart is light now. I have thrown away all but love.”

This is the essence of his wisdom: simplify. Let go of anger, ambition, possessions, even the need to be right. What remains is love—not sentimental, but deep, burning love that anchors us when everything else slips away.

Service Is Greater Than Knowledge

Tukaram didn’t put knowledge on a pedestal. He saw the futility of debates, the pride of scholarship. What mattered was action—humble, loving service to others.

“What use is knowing the Vedas if you don’t know how to be kind?”

To live like Tukaram is to wash the feet of a tired neighbor, to share your meal even when you’re hungry, to sing to cheer a weeping child. Life is not meant to be conquered or understood; it’s meant to be lived in kindness.

Keep Singing, Even in the Dark

Tukaram sang his poems under the open sky, often in poverty, often hungry, often ignored. But he sang. His abhangs are not just poetry—they are resistance. They say: I may be broken, but I will still sing.

“Even if no one listens, I will still sing Your name. For the singing is my breath.”

This is the deepest truth of his life: we are not defined by what we achieve or lose, but by what we keep alive inside us. Singing, for him, was a way of being. A way of saying yes to life, over and over again.

Nothing Is Wasted

Tukaram believed every moment, every loss, every error, is part of the unfolding. Nothing is wasted. Even pain has its place in polishing the soul.

“The stone suffers the sculptor’s blows—but emerges as a god.”

This is what gives Tukaram’s life its profound resonance: it offers not escape, but transformation. He doesn’t promise that suffering will end—but that it can become sacred.

A Life Like a River

Tukaram didn’t leave behind theories. He left songs. He didn’t demand devotion. He offered love. He didn’t flee the world. He sanctified it.

To live according to Tukaram is not to run from life, but to meet it fully—with open arms and an open heart. It is to know that life will wound us, but also wake us. That the soul, once stirred, will always seek the Beloved. And that the journey, however long, is holy.

“I asked for nothing. He gave me everything. Now I live in His joy.”

May we live simply. May we sing often. May we find God not above, but within. That is Tukaram’s way. That is life.

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~Sant Tukaram (1608–1649) was a revered 17th-century Marathi poet-saint and spiritual leader of the Bhakti movement in India. Born in the village of Dehu near Pune, he lived a humble life as a farmer and trader before devoting himself entirely to spiritual practice. Known for his powerful abhangs—devotional poems in praise of Lord Vitthala (a form of Krishna)—Tukaram emphasized love, compassion, humility, and inner surrender over ritual or caste. His teachings continue to inspire millions, offering a path of simplicity, devotion, and soulful living rooted in everyday experience.

Excellence Reporter 2025