Walk through Latur’s Dalit neighbourhoods on any afternoon, and you may still hear it. The thump of a dholki, the familiar greeting of “Jai Bhim,” and the voice of a man who has spent a lifetime going door to door. That man is Baban Ghodke. He stands today at the doors of concrete homes just as he once stood before tin-roofed huts, singing the songs of Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar, Mahatma Phule, Savitribai Phule, Ramabai, Buddha and the values of the Constitution. The houses have changed, the roofs have changed, the streets have changed, yet his footsteps remain the same.His story begins in Renapur, a small village in Latur district, where his father sold fodder and tamarind. Life was modest but steady until tragedy struck early. Baban was only six when his father passed away and the family was left adrift. With no land in the village, his mother moved first to Latur city and later to Mumbai in the hope of survival. In Mumbai, she carried water pots for middle-class households, 20 in the morning and 20 in the evening, earning just enough to feed her children. Baban’s schooling disappeared almost as soon as it began. He studied only till Class 2 in Latur before poverty pulled him out. “Hunger does not let you study,” he says without bitterness, as if stating a fact everyone understands.Yet something else was taking shape inside him, even in those difficult years. The first time he heard live music was during a performance by Sopan Kokate near Dayaram Road in Latur. The rhythm and energy of the singer and the way the crowd responded left a deep impression on the young boy. When he returned home, he began tapping rhythms on anything he could find. Flour tins and metal boxes became his first instruments. He did not have a tabla or a teacher, no formal training of any kind, but rhythm came naturally to him.Baban Ghodke and his family. Photo: Abhishek BhosaleIn Mumbai, he picked up music informally from his relative Dnyanoba Mhaske, a musician who taught him the basics of rhythm and melody. He learned by watching and imitating. In those days, he sang devotional songs like “Majhe Maher Pandhari” and songs of Vitthal from the Bhakti tradition. He had no idea that life was preparing him for a completely different path.After the family returned to Latur, Baban’s life took a decisive turn. He joined the Sanghamitra Gayan Party, a cultural troupe in the city that would forever shape his identity. The troupe was run by respected Ambedkarites of Latur: Dhammānand Baba Dhage, Ambadas Bansode, Bhagwanrao Pachpinde, Murlidhar Sirsath, Amrutrao Suryavanshi, Holikar and Tukaram Ubale. These men were not professional artists. They were schoolteachers and first-generation employees who spent their evenings spreading the songs and values of Ambedkar, often using their own money to organise programmes. They were pioneers of a cultural movement in Latur, and Baban speaks of them with deep respect.He becomes emotional when he recalls one particular memory. The Sanghamitra troupe had a programme in Hanumantwadi and it was raining heavily. The organiser was a committed activist, but so poor that he could not even offer tea to the artists. Seeing this, Bansode Sir and Pachpinde Guruji walked through the rain, bought milk with their own money and made tea for everyone. “That day,” Baban says, “I understood what commitment means. These men had nothing, yet they gave everything.”Before joining Sanghamitra, Baban lived a life he now remembers with pain. He was a Waghya Murali, going house to house begging for food and grain, performing ritual songs and dances in the name of God Khandoba. It was a life without dignity. Sanghamitra changed that. Through the troupe, he encountered Babasaheb not as a distant historical figure but as a liberator. He realised that caste was not destiny and that dignity was possible, that culture itself could be a tool of awakening. Overwhelmed one day, he went home, gathered every idol and religious object, and threw them into the Majara river near Latur city. His brother beat him, but Baban says that was the day he felt truly free. “Our family worshipped Hindu gods for generations,” he says. “But those gods never accepted us. Babasaheb made us human. How can I sing anyone else’s praise?”From that moment, he became a singer of social consciousness. He stopped begging and stopped performing as Waghya Murali. He began walking through Latur’s Dalit vastis such as Bodh Nagar, Anand Nagar, Vikram Nagar, Prakash Nagar, Holkar Nagar, Siddharth Society, Ramaji Nagar, Nath Nagar and Nalanda Society, carrying his dholki and his songs. He never waited for invitations. He went wherever people needed to hear the songs of Ambedkar, Phule, Savitribai, Ramai, Buddha and the Constitution. He sang in the rain, under leaking roofs, in muddy lanes, at funerals and at night‑long jalsas. He sang even when no one paid him because he believed someone had to keep the flame alive.His life has seen danger as much as devotion. Once, when the Sanghamitra troupe was travelling to Bitergaon, a village near Latur city, for a programme, they were attacked by shepherds who mistook them for sheep thieves. The artists were beaten and threatened. Only after they showed their instruments were they released. They reached the village late, bruised and shaken, yet performed the entire night. “That night,” Baban says, “we understood what it means to struggle for culture.”Among all his memories, one stands above the rest. The day he shared a stage with Wamandada Kardak, the legendary artist-singer whose songs shaped generations. It was at Shahu College in Latur during a Dalit Sahitya Sammelan (Dalit Literary Festival). For Baban, it was not a performance but a blessing. Wamandada’s songs shaped his worldview. One song, in particular, felt as though it was written for him:“Kes jevha maaze galu lagale, tevha jeevan mala he kalu lagale”(When my hair began to fall, life began to reveal itself to me).He also loves the work of Kanchandas Bhosale, especially the lines: “Bhima mi tujyach saathi, firlo mi deshodeshi… Payi pravās maza, bhala maza mi manashi…” He says these lines describe his own life of wandering, singing and struggling, yet always content in serving people.A gathering of the Sanghmitra Gayan Party in 1989. Courtesy: Vishwambhar BhosaleBaban has written more than 35 songs, all dictated to others because he cannot write. One of his most powerful compositions is about Savitribai Phule, capturing her courage and the humiliation she faced: “Navhata mahilela shikshan, shikshan dilan ga Savitrin ani Phulyani… Jata vargakade ga apmaan, shen fekte ga angavarti sarijan…” He believes Savitribai’s story is still not told enough. He also speaks about Pochiram Kamble, murdered during the struggle to rename Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar Marathwada University. For Baban, Pochiram represents the cost of asserting Ambedkarite identity.His family has lived with the consequences of his choices. After his mother died, the responsibility of the household fell on his wife, Madhumati Ghodke, who still works as a daily-wage labourer in Latur’s agricultural market, earning around Rs 500 a day. Their six children, three sons and three daughters, studied only till middle school. The sons now work as labourers and welders, and the daughters are married. Baban regrets not being able to give them more of an education, but he does not regret the path he chose. “I earned nothing,” he says. “But I planted ideas. That is enough.”He worries about the direction of Ambedkarite cultural work today. “Earlier, songs were for enlightenment. Now they are for money. People sing for benefits, not from the heart.” Yet he admits that many villagers still invite artists like him because they want to hear Babasaheb’s thought, not glamour. For him, Babasaheb is not the leader of any one caste. “Babasaheb is not just Mahar. He is Rashtrapita. He belongs to the whole country.” He is critical of those who take reservation benefits but hesitate to say “Jai Bhim.” “They take Babasaheb’s benefits but feel ashamed to take his name. I do not go to such houses. Nothing grows in soil that rejects seeds.”Today, age has slowed him. His teeth are gone, and his eyesight is weak. He cannot eat stale bread in the morning. But the fire in his voice remains. He still carries the same dholki his mother bought in 1975, saved for by collecting four‑anna and eight‑anna coins in a flour tin. He still walks into vastis and begins with a soft and steady “Jai Bhim.” He still believes a song can change the life of a Dalit.In a world where art often becomes a commodity and performers chase fame and followers, Baban Ghodke stands as a reminder of another kind of artist. One who sings at the grassroots level to awaken and not merely to entertain. His life is a testament to the power of cultural resistance, to the belief that a song can become a movement and that a single dholki can carry the weight of an idea that shaped millions. Whatever life remains, he says, he will spend singing Babasaheb’s message. And when the time comes, he hopes to leave the world the same way he lived in it, saying “Jai Bhim,” with a dholki by his side and a song of equality on his lips.Abhishek Bhosale is a doctoral researcher at the Department of Development Studies, SOAS University of London.