A Village Ram Lila

Immediately after India's independence, my childhood village was a picture of rural simplicity. Sparsely populated, it dotted with hamlets of humble huts and a few brick-laid houses. Bullock carts were the primary mode of transport, while a single horse-drawn "Tonga" ferried passengers to the distant railway station, ten miles north.

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.

Lakshman and Shatrughan were standing by the each side of the throne. A pundit was performing aarti. There was managal gaan from behind the screen. It was the famous “Sri Ramchandra kripalu…” After the aarti, audience were asked to come on the stage to take aarti. Everybody put some coins on the thali and bowed. Most of the villagers were prostrating. My grandmother sent me to do "pranaaming" and put a coin on the thali. I had a good glimpse of Sri Ram. He was of my age but very handsome.

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

Kalu : The Loyal Companion

I first met Kalu when he was a month-old pup. He had the strains of cocker spaniel and German shepherd, and his entire body was black except for his toes and mouth. After watching me for a while, Kalu got up and sat near my feet. My younger sister said, “Kalu does not sit with anyone, how he is lovingly sitting with brother." I noticed that Kalu had all the qualities of becoming a trained dog. The house had several pet dogs, and I felt that Kalu would be neglected. Despite my repeated requests, my sister did not give Kalu to me to raise. After that, whenever I came, Kalu would run to me. I also started bringing biscuits for him. The way he took biscuits from my hand very slowly and carefully showed his character.

By the time he was one year old, Kalu became famous not only in the locality but far and wide. No one could enter the gate without an escort. If someone came by mistake, they had to tolerate his anger. Postmen, vegetable vendors, plumbers, and milkmen were very cautious. The milkman, by compulsion, developed a friendship with Kalu by feeding him milk. For this, he had kept a bowl inside the gate. He would pour some milk in the bowl through the bars of the gate before daring to enter. Kalu was kept chained most of the time, which made him more ferocious.

Three years later, I took voluntary retirement and moved into my own 3-room unit in the backyard of our parental precinct. On the very first night, I woke up suddenly to a knocking sound. I saw Kalu sitting on the sill outside the closed glass window. Dark night, black Kalu – what a terrifying silhouette it made. He

was scratching the glass window to attract attention. This happened for two-three days. Finally, I opened the window and took Kalu inside. He lay down comfortably under my bed. I already had a dog named Kittu, who did not object to Kalu’s presence.

The day their favourite meal was prepared, their happiness and good manners were worth watching. They started giving exactly the same reactions as children do at home when their favourite food is being prepared. They played among themselves in some empty corner of the house and kept quiet when some known visitors came. As the time for dinner approached, their restlessness was visible. After being served, they ate the food from their bowl only, without fighting.

Kalu was ruthless with outsiders but very friendly with family and staff members living inside the precinct. He never forgot the timing and the sound of the milkman and his bowl of milk. Whenever I was moving inside the courtyard, he would escort me. He would recognize the sound of my vehicle from a distance of 500 meters.

He had learned two very useful commands. The first was “Go home”. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he would silently come to his place inside the house. How many times did Kalu have to leave a winning innings and return? The second

command was “Stay”. Whether he was playing, fighting, or trying to pick up a piece of bone, as soon as I said something, he would calm down and start looking at me. He wouldn’t touch the bowl of milk if the command of “Stay” was given.

Once, a big fish bone got stuck in his neck. In great pain, he came to me with his mouth open. I looked inside his mouth and saw that the fish bone was visible but very much inside the neck. With the flash of lightning, I made two finger scissors and removed the thorn stuck in his neck. More than I could praise myself, Kalu started jumping up and down and tried to kiss my mouth.

At the onset of winter, a Kashmiri shawl vendor came to sell clothes. I bought a shawl, and the vendor extended his hand to shake hands with me after the deal. Kalu’s teeth reached his hand first. Perhaps Kalu felt that the unknown Kashmiri had moved towards me with some wrong intention.

On the contrary, once my 3-year-old granddaughter was playfully jumping on my bed. She finally jumped off the bed. Tired of the sound of jumping, Kalu came out from under the bed at that moment. My granddaughter’s foot landed on Kalu’s body, and she screamed very loudly. Kalu was badly hurt, but he moved to a safe place without making any sound and started caressing his injury.

Kalu would have been a very good hunter. Rats and house lizards could not escape from him. He would patiently wait for hours at a hideout to watch the movement of rats. He would proudly bring the killed prey and place it near my feet. He used to hunt house lizards very cleverly. He would bark and make the lizard move to the open door. With the blink of an eye, he would push the door hard and make the lizard fall. Our house became rat and lizard free very soon.

He was always ready to play. If he wanted to play ball, he would hold any object in his mouth and bring it near my feet. After that, I would take him to the terrace and play ball for 10-15 minutes. After giving him a bath, if I forgot to tie the collar around his neck, he would bring it and keep it near my foot as if it was his ID.

One day, I was changing the old castor wheels of my computer table. When I extended my hand to put the last roller, it was nowhere to be seen on the floor. I called out to Kalu, whose rattling noise was coming from the other room. He came running. I pointed to the roller already fixed to the table and asked him enquiringly. Kalu immediately about-turned, verbally danced to another room, and came out with the roller in his mouth, placing it near my feet.

After my glaucoma operation, I returned home with a bandaged eye. As soon as I got down from the car, Kalu started escorting me. He sat very close to the bed. My brothers and sisters came to see me. As soon as anyone came too close to me, Kalu would start growling. As long as I had a bandaged eye, Kalu would keep an eye on me and stay next to my bed at night. After this, whenever I returned after staying in the hospital for a few days, Kalu would take care of me in the same way. He would escort me to the toilets, dining table, sitting chair, and the bed.

I went to Australia to be with my daughter for six months. During those days, Kalu stayed with my sister. He could not tolerate neglect at all. Whenever something like this happened, he would quietly go to a nearby park and sit alone, and would come back after much persuasion. It is said that he had reached a state of withdrawal. He had even stopped barking, let alone biting. In my absence, everyone had to take special care of him.

He was already 10 years old. At last, the day came near when he had to go to the next world. In his last days, he preferred to stay outside the house. Whenever I used to sit outside, he would come and sit near me. We buried him under the Ashoka tree near the gate.

PS: Researchers at Michigan State University have discovered that dogs often take on the same personality traits as their owner. 

  

My Foster Mother

A Pilgrim’s Odyssey

Indian temples and places of pilgrims gain importance and reverence in order of their location; more tough is the path- more valued is their worship and more possibility of reaping rewards from such pilgrimage. Temples and places of pilgrimage in the tough terrain of the North have equally god number of worshippers.

My friend Ashok, when he became a senior citizen, opted for the life of a pilgrim. It seemed that the Gods were also with him. He always found the way to pilgrimage paved for him. While going to Puri, his next berth traveller in the train was from Ram Krishna Mission. The later arranged for his stay at Puri for free. When he went to Trivandrum, his taxi driver was from his village. He took him to his home and to all places of worship without asking for any payment. At Hardwar, he stayed at a lodge operated by a person who was his class mate in school.

In his journey to Amarnath Caves which was at an attitude of around 4000 meter and 150 KM from Srinagar, he had no such assistance and had to be of his own. It was a nightmare when terrorists attacked and all the pilgrims fled away helter and skeltor. Terrorists fired point blank on the crowd. Casualties were high.

After dark, Ashok moved out from his hideout. He saw an array of tents pitched on a far off terrain. As the night progressed, temperature stared falling rapidly. He had one blanket with him. He was very tired and shivering with cold when he reached first tent. He slipped into the tent. There were several people already sleeping inside the tent. He did not bother for food though he was very hungry and slept a good sleep.

Dawn arrived, painting the snow with a pale rose. Voices jolted him awake. Soldiers, their faces grim, huddled above, their conversation slicing through the thin canvas. "How the hell are there thirteen bodies when we brought in only twelve?" one exclaimed.

Ashok's heart lurched. He looked around, counting the sleeping figures. Twelve, he confirmed, a tremor running through him. A gasp escaped his lips, drawing the soldiers' attention. Their eyes widened as they saw him, the thirteenth man, and the one who defied the count. A ripple of awe ran through them.

He continued his journey, forever marked by the chilling night in the Amarnath tents, carrying the memory of his near-death experience and the whispers of the soldiers' awe as his most precious souvenir.

Summer Daze and a Slingshot's Sting

Naren was nine years old then. During summer vacation, he often went to the mango orchard with his friends. They played different types of games. It also included targeting green mangoes with stones. Even after trying hard he could drop 1-2 raw mangoes. One day 2-3 tribal boys came to that garden. Before the children could understand anything, they aimed the slingshot at a crow sitting on a branch. The stunned crow upturned but still held the branch. The second shot hit the crow. The crow fell down from the tree with a thud. They put the injured crow in a half-filled bag and started walking for the next kill. Everything happened in the blink of an eye. Naren saw the charisma of slingshot for the first time.

Naren also became interested in making a slingshot. Who knows how many times he made slingshots, aimed at tree fruits and birds but never got success? He was so young that it was probably not within his power to make a slingshot properly and take powerful aim.

Naren did not lose courage. Assisted by his friends, a special branch of guava tree was searched for. After some hard work, such a branch was found. It was broken, cut and shaped into a delta shaped slingshot. An old bicycle rubber tube was obtained from a bicycle puncture maker. Two ribbons of 10 inches each were cut from it. From the cobbler's shop,a piece of leather was acquired. A hole was made on both sides of a 3-inch wide leather belt to catch the bullet. Entire afternoon passed but neither the lace was tied properly on the sticks of the slingshot or on the holes of the leather lace. Finally he had to seek help from his uncle. He skilfully prepared a very strong slingshot. Small clay tablets were also dried in the sun.

The next day, Naren also went to hunt raw green mangoes, armed with a slingshot. Friends kept getting success. Naren was a complete failure. Defeated and dejected, he returned home and lay down on the wooden bench in the courtyard. Just then a 

group of sparrows came into the courtyard to pick grains. He silently fired a bullet from the slingshot while lying down. The bullet hit a bird's leg. The bird started screaming and circling at the same place. Naren felt as if he had committed a heinous crime.

In that moment, the thrill of the hunt morphed into the searing agony of regret. His heart heavy with remorse, Naren rushed to the wounded bird.  He saw or rather felt pain and fear in the little eyes of the sparrow. Somehow, the bird let him pick her up .He caressed her. He cradled it gently, offering water and tending to its injury. His younger sister, drawn by the commotion, also nursed and applied turmeric paste on both the legs. She added a final touch - a pink tilak on the bird's forehead. With a renewed burst of energy, the bird finally spread its wings, the pink dot a stark reminder of its ordeal.

Naren's slingshot met its fate at the bottom of a well that day. His weapon of conquest was replaced by a simple earthen bowl, brimmed with water and scattered grains. The orchard, once echoing with the sounds of stone-throwing, now resonated with the gentle chirping of birds drawn to Naren's newfound empathy.  Sometimes sparrow with little pink bindi also came with her flocks for morning snacks. Those few days used to become a big day for Naren.

The pink tilak became a silent symbol of Naren's metamorphosis, marking the transition from the pursuit of victory to the embrace of compassion. The boy who once sought conquest had learned the poignant cost of triumph, finding fulfilment in the quiet dance of empathy and understanding.

It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad World

The year was 1961, and I, a wide-eyed thirteen-year-old, had just landed in Ranchi, India, for college. The town, nestled amidst verdant hills, was known not just for its scenic beauty but also for its imposing mental hospital, rumoured to house over a hundred souls grappling with unseen demons. Curiosity gnawed at me, and one balmy afternoon, I convinced my friends to embark on a bicycle expedition to the gates of this enigmatic place.

As we pedalled down the dusty road, the hospital's silhouette loomed larger, a stark contrast to the vibrant green of the surrounding hills. A heavy metal gate barred entry, beyond which a long, winding pathway led to a monolithic building. But it wasn't the imposing structure that held our attention; it was the people.

Figures dotted the path, some tending to the lush garden, others lost in their own worlds, their eyes painted with a thousand unspoken stories. One man, his face etched with the wisdom of forty years, caught my eye. He wore a worn cap and

stood with one leg perched on a rock, gazing at the sky with a contemplative air. His pose, I realized with a jolt, mirrored the ancient sculpture of a "Thinker" by the great sculpture Rodin I had admired in my history book.

Drawn by an invisible thread, we edged closer to the gate, our whispered questions hanging heavy in the air. Suddenly, a hand, large and calloused, came out from between the bars and clasped mine. I looked up to meet the gaze of a man, his eyes crinkled with a smile that defied the confines of this place. His other hand held a half full bucket of water. He looked to be watering plants and shrubs.

I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. The grip, unexpectedly gentle, belonged to a man in his fifties, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"What are you doing inside?" he smiled and whispered his voice a gentle breeze through the leaves. "Come and see outside. It is great."

My heart hammered against my ribs. The man's grip was surprisingly strong, a silent invitation to a world beyond the iron bars. Just as fear threatened to consume me, a khaki-clad figure materialized, his stern voice cutting through the tension. The man released my hand, his smile fading into a wistful sigh.

I scrambled back to my bicycle, my friends' concerned voices washing over me like a tidal wave. The laughter that followed stung a reminder of my audacity, my naivety. The echoes of laughter from my friends were piercing the crisp air. Shame and relief warred within me, yet, even then, a seed of doubt had been sown. Yet, as I rode away, the man's words echoed in my mind, a cryptic message nestled within his smile.

Years passed, and the memory of that encounter lingered. Now, at sixty-three, I see the world differently. The man's "outside" wasn't just a physical space; it was a state of mind, a freedom from the shackles of societal expectations, a oneness with the world that eluded us in our pursuit of "one world, one society, one religion."

Perhaps, within the confines of that asylum, the man had found his own utopia, a world where the whispers of the garden were more comforting than the clamor of the outside. And maybe, just maybe, his invitation was a reminder that true freedom lies not in conformity, but in embracing the unique symphony of our own hearts.