Why a Muslim Devotee Remains Part of Lord Jagannath’s Rath Yatra

Every summer in Puri, Odisha, the air fills with chants, drums, and the thunder of wooden wheels as Lord Jagannath — the ‘Lord of the Universe’ — leaves his sanctum and travels through the city streets. This grand festival, the Rath Yatra, is one of the oldest and most iconic chariot festivals in the world, celebrated not just in India but across Nepal, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka wherever Jagannath’s worship endures.

But beyond the spectacle of the massive chariots and the sea of devotees pulling the ropes lies a story that few know well enough — the story of Salabega, a Muslim devotee whose faith in Lord Jagannath has outlived centuries and still shapes the Rath Yatra’s journey every year. His life is a timeless reminder that true devotion, like mustard flowers in bloom, knows no boundaries.

The Rath Yatra, which begins on the second day of the bright fortnight of Ashadha (June–July), carries profound symbolism. It is said that the Lord himself steps out of his temple so that all people — irrespective of caste, class, or status — can have his darshan. Thousands gather to pull the ropes of the colossal chariots, believing that even a single touch can wash away lifetimes of sins and bring the blessings of the Lord home.

Yet, while the festival is rooted in ancient Hindu tradition, it has grown into something greater: a living symbol of inclusiveness, echoing the very meaning of Jagannath — Lord of the Universe, the one who belongs to everyone.
Salabega’s story begins in the early 17th century. He was born to a Mughal Subedar who had forcibly married a Brahmin widow. As the son of a powerful Mughal officer, Salabega was raised in an orthodox Muslim household and later joined his father’s military expeditions at a young age. The path of the sword seemed to be his destiny — until a single moment changed the course of his life forever.
During a battle, Salabega was gravely wounded and lay on the brink of death. Desperate to save her only son, his mother whispered a simple plea: “Chant the name of Lord Krishna.” Despite his Islamic upbringing, Salabega did as his mother asked. Miraculously, he recovered. For him, it was more than survival — it was a door to a world he had never known.

Curious and deeply grateful, Salabega began to learn about Krishna and, in time, discovered that Lord Jagannath of Puri was worshipped as an incarnation of Krishna. This revelation ignited a spark that would burn in him for the rest of his life.
Determined to understand the power that had saved him, Salabega left behind his old life and travelled to Vrindavan, where he lived like an ascetic among Hindu sadhus. He learned to compose bhajans — devotional songs pouring out his longing, pain, and surrender.

Returning to Odisha, Salabega set out to fulfil his greatest wish: to witness the Rath Yatra in Puri and see the Lord’s chariot with his own eyes. But the journey was not easy. While travelling, he fell severely ill and feared he would miss the sacred moment for which he had waited so long.
Salabega prayed from his sickbed, pleading with Lord Jagannath to wait for him. Legend says that on the day of the Return Car Festival — when the Lord’s chariot was to come back to the main temple — Jagannath’s chariot mysteriously came to a halt near Balagandi on the Grand Road and would not move an inch until Salabega arrived. The place where the chariot stopped became holy ground for him.

After his death, Salabega was cremated right there — near the path he had longed to see the Lord travel. To this day, the mighty chariot of Jagannath pauses briefly by Salabega’s samadhi every year. In that silent pause, the festival remembers a devotee whose love was greater than all religious divides.
Salabega’s bhajans are sung to this day in Puri’s streets and temples. Verses like Ahe Neela Saila — “O Blue Mountain” — pour out his helplessness and total surrender before the Lord. His songs carry the timeless truth that the Lord accepts the heart’s call, not the label we wear.

The mustard flower (sarson phool) is a fitting symbol for Salabega’s bhakti. Mustard fields bloom abundantly during Basant Panchami — a festival marking spring and new beginnings in Hindu culture — and appear in Punjabi Sufi poetry as a sign of longing and hope. Just as mustard flowers do not choose where they bloom, Salabega’s devotion bloomed in the field of his heart, defying religious boundaries.
Salabega’s story is not just folklore; it is a living lesson that faith does not belong to one community or one tradition. Every year, when the chariot stops near his tomb, pilgrims are reminded that the Lord of the Universe does not discriminate. His wheels roll for all who pull the ropes of love and surrender.

In today’s divided world, this story is more relevant than ever. It reminds us that a heart that seeks the divine sincerely is never turned away — and that devotion, like a mustard flower, belongs to everyone under the same sky.

Salabega’s story proves that true devotion is not bound by name, birth, or faith. Each year, when Lord Jagannath’s chariot pauses by a Muslim devotee’s tomb, it quietly reminds us: love is the only identity that matters before the divine. Like mustard flowers blooming freely for all, bhakti knows no borders — it grows wherever the heart is ready. The chariot moves on, but the lesson stays behind for us all to remember.

If the Lord Himself waits for every heart, why do we build walls between ours?