Meet the Engineer Who Made Puri Rath Yatra Safer for Millions With a Simple Brake System
Every year in the coastal town of Puri, Odisha, an ocean of people gathers to witness something larger than life. The Rath Yatra — the grand procession of Lord Jagannath, Balabhadra, and Subhadra — isn’t confined to a single day or place. It begins much earlier: on rooftops where families watch the chariots being built, in crowded trains filled with pilgrims, in kitchens where prasads are prepared with care. Lakhs of devotees, some barefoot, some in tears, tug on thick ropes to pull three towering wooden chariots through the streets, their chants rising like waves.
But few know that for decades, this deeply spiritual journey carried an unseen risk.
These majestic chariots, each weighing over 40 tonnes, once had no brakes. Once they gained momentum, they wouldn’t stop easily. Even when hundreds tried to hold them back, they would roll ahead uncontrollably — sometimes by as much as eight to 10 feet. And in those moments, people got hurt. Feet crushed. Lives endangered. The joy of the yatra was shadowed by anxiety.
Ashwini Kumar Mishra, a retired engineer, saw this unfold year after year. And it troubled him deeply.
“If I, an engineer, can’t stop this danger… what’s the point of my education?” he asked himself.
And so, didn’t speak loudly about what was wrong. He simply began working on what could be right.
With no funding, no formal assignment, and no spotlight, Ashwini took it upon himself to change this. He began designing a brake system with what was available — sal wood logs and rubber straps. After months of trial and error, he developed a mechanism that could be lowered through a chain and pulley system to act as a brake when needed.
The rubber was cut in a specific pattern to grip the road, and the straps cushioned the impact, stopping the chariot without damaging its massive wooden wheels.
“Rubber doesn’t tear easily. And it acts like a shock absorber,” Ashwini explains, gently but with steady pride.
It was a simple solution. But one that worked.
And since that day — for the last 16 years — Ashwini and his small team have returned, year after year, to fit their brake system to each of the three grand chariots. They do it with precision. They do it without fanfare. And they do it without accepting a single rupee.
Each chariot weighs over 40 tonnes and is made freshly every year using wood like phassi and sal.
“This work of ensuring safety is a service,” he says. “And that, to me, is true devotion.”
He doesn’t speak of awards or recognition. There are no news clippings in his home. What gives him peace is the knowledge that today, the chariots stop when they need to — and people feel safer pulling them.
In a world often rushing towards the new and the shiny, Ashwini Kumar Mishra’s story reminds us that real impact sometimes comes from the most unassuming corners. From old hands that still build. From hearts that still care.
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