Most vacations were spent immersed in the village's charm. Summer's highlight was weddings, bringing children from far and wide for a joyful reunion. We'd while away the afternoons under the cool shade of mango orchards, weaving tales of adventure through vibrant outdoor games and gorging on the orchard's bounty.
Durga Puja, the second-longest vacation, stretched for 40-45 blissful days, a vibrant tapestry of festivals. It pulsed with the anticipation of Durga Puja itself, the tender bond of Bhai Dooj, the radiant beauty of Deepawali, and the sun-kissed reverence of Chhath Puja.
During Durga Puja, open-air cinemas, circuses, fairs, and folk theatre painted the village with exuberant colours. While other villages offered glimpses of these delights, folk theatre was our village's unique treasure. Skilled artists and an enthusiastic audience formed the bedrock of this tradition.
The theatrical season typically began with the chilling drama of "Sultana Daku." This captivating tale served not only to thrill and awe but also to impart a profound lesson. As the play concluded with the dacoit's hanging, a final twist unravelled: his last wish to meet his mother. The reunion proved tragic as the son, filled with remorse, bit his mother's nose – a symbolic act demonstrating how her misplaced pride in his stolen pen had fuelled his descent into banditry.
By the time Navratri arrived, the main theatre group, seasoned and ready, would embark on their magnum opus – the "Ram Lila." This traditional folk theatre brought the Ramayana epic to life, each episode unfolding against the backdrop of open grounds. Villagers, transformed into actors, breathed life into the legendary characters, captivating audiences with their poignant and powerful storytelling.
“Ram Lila" is a traditional form of folk theatre in India that depicts the life of Lord Ram, a central figure in the Hindu epic Ramayana. The term "Ram Lila" literally translates to "Rama's play." In a Ram Lila performance, the story of the Ramayana is enacted through a series of episodes, often performed during the festival of Navaratri, which culminates in the celebration of Dussehra. The performances usually take place in open grounds, and the actors, often local villagers, portray various characters from the epic.
My age was now ready to understand the nuances of the great epic. As the night fell, my grandmother took me along with her to watch the first show on the first day of Navratri. We were given the first row of seats.
With the thumping of Nagada, bells and conch, the red curtain was raised. The first scene was literally lifted from the photo of coronation of Sri Rama which was also being worshipped in our puja room. Sir Rama and Sita were sitting on a throne. Hanuman and Bharat were sitting on knees on the floor facing each other.
Next day, I went alone to watch “Ram Lila" a little earlier. I went backstage to see how they dressed up and do makeup. I saw the boy who was enacting the role of Ram. He was really very handsome with sharp features and big eyes. The boy seeing me of his age , smiled and encouraged me to talk. His voice was also very sweet like a small girl. His name was Baiju Goswami. The “Ram Lila" ended on the day of Vijay Dashmi; the tenth day of Navratri. I presented him with a pen before parting. He gave me a book of Hanuman Chalisa.
The years flew by like leaves on a winter wind. My visits to the village became as rare as fireflies in daylight, swallowed by the demands of adulthood and the seductive whispers of city life. Fifteen years passed in a blur of deadlines and traffic jams, leaving me a stranger to the slow, sun-drenched rhythm of my childhood home.
But fate, it seems, has a penchant for weaving unexpected threads. When my son, a miniature replica of myself with boundless curiosity in his eyes, was ready for his sacred thread ceremony, the path led me back to the village, and its beating heart – the Ram Lila.
The village, once a tapestry of woven bamboo walls and terracotta roofs, had succumbed to the city's siren song. Wide concrete streets now sliced through emerald rice fields, like scars on a canvas. Boxy apartment blocks, garish in their borrowed modernity, loomed over stooped mud houses, like children playing dress-up in their parents' clothes. Even the chirping sparrows seemed startled by the cacophony of motorbikes weaving through the lanes, replacing the rhythmic clanging of the blacksmith's hammer.
My son chanted Sanskrit verses with a sweetness that echoed the boy who once played Ram, memories flooded back, vivid and bittersweet. I, too, had walked this stage, bathed in the warm glow of firelight and the collective gasp of the audience. Yet, somewhere along the way, adulthood had draped a veil of cynicism over my eyes, rendering the rural drama childish, its magic faded.
Driven by a sliver of hope, I found myself drawn to the Ram Lila camp, its canvas tent a beacon in the fading dusk. The path narrowed, choked with debris and the acrid sting of stale alcohol. A group huddled in a tea shop, the stench of illicit brew clinging to the air. A staggering drunk erupted from the liquor shop, obscenities tumbling from his lips as he careened into a passer-by. My world, once painted in sepia tones of nostalgia, took on a harsh, discordant edge.
Disheartened, I found myself within the makeshift green room, a jumble of costumes and paint pots. My eyes landed on an old man, his wizened face etched with time, a sandalwood tilak on his brow. "Can you point me towards Ram?" I croaked my voice thick with unspoken fears.
He led me to a mirror where a boy, barely ten, sat applying kohl. He turned the spark of recognition in his eyes quickly dampened by a world-weary gaze. This Rama was a wisp of a boy, his voice raspy from cigarettes, his movements lacking the grace of the celestial prince I remembered. My heart sank the echo of Baiju's ethereal presence a stark contrast to this frail shadow. I was dazed no less than the “Kabuli Wala” of Tagore when Rahman after completing his long jail term met Mini readying herself for marriage.
Dejected, I turned to leave when the old man's voice rasped, "Baiju now becomes Ravana."
My gaze followed his outstretched hand to the street, where the fallen drunken man stumbled into view, his laughter harsh and grating,” Everybody laughs at a fallen man, nobody cares to lift him.” In that moment, I understood. The magic of Ram Lila wasn't confined to the stage, nor was it limited to childhood reminiscence. It was a constant dance between light and shadow, good and evil, a battle fought not just on the makeshift platform but within the hearts of men.
As the first notes of the Ramayana echoed through the dusty night, I realized that the magic of my childhood hadn't faded. It had simply moved on, its tapestry woven with new threads, darker tones blending with the light, reminding me that the dance of existence continued, even under the fading glow of firelight. The Ram Lila would go on, a testament to the human spirit's eternal struggle, a story as old as time, forever retold through the laughter and tears of generations.
inspired by a childhood course book story written by Late Radhakrishna
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