Raavan Lila

Based on a true story

‘Mahabir Chacha, believe me you still have the vigour to play the role of Hanuman,’ pleaded Ramprakash, the secretary of the Pracheen Ram Parakram Ram Lila Samiti. Ramprakash, a school teacher at a primary school in Kishenpur, was a devout Ram Bakht. His classes at school were always replete with examples from Ramayana – ‘A for Ayodhya, B for Bharat, C for Chitrakoot, D for Dashrath....R for Shri Ram.’ But it was not the teaching that was his passion. It was preparing and managing the Ram Lila every year; culminating on the Vijayadashmi day. This year was going to be different.

With two months to go before Ram Lila started, Ramprakash had to finalize the ‘Natya Mandli’ (troupe) as soon as he could. Chacha laid on a Charpoy under the century old ‘Neem’ tree in front of his ramshackle house and Ramprakash rubbed and muscled mustard oil on Chacha’s ageing 60 years old feet. ‘Chacha, the entire village requests you to consider this for one last year,’ Ramprakash continued his effort to convince. At dusk, sun was setting down fast and so was Ramprakash’s hope. A small silence ensued before Chacha spoke up his mind - ‘My son, someone has to don this role one day. I am well past my age. The Lila requires 10 gruelling days of activity and I don’t think my feet will help me any longer. The village doctor has advised me walking half an hour to the farms everyday but you see even that is difficult these days.’ Chacha’s arthritis had been worsening by the day. He had left daily walking for the worst. ‘Chacha you can do it. If you don’t play Hanuman, we will easily lose the Ram Lila competition to Chaturpur – the adjoining village.’ ‘No son, not any longer,’ replied Chacha without giving a thought. The sun had set by now. Ramprakash understood the situation but was disappointed. Had Chacha been his class student, he would have asked him to recite ‘Hanuman Chalisa’ forty times over as a punishment. Alas!

In the villages across India, the assigned roles for Ram Lila’s characters have been passed around in the same family for generations. Chacha enjoyed this nomination right now. ‘You know Chacha, Hanuman’s role remains with your family until your family refuses to take it up. Who would you like to nominate?’ asked Ramprakash. ‘Who else would it be than my only son, Brijesh?’ – Chacha said the obvious. Ramprakash was not pleased but had to respect the old man’s words. Wearing a dirty baniyan and a towel around his waist, Brijesh came out to water the dust in front of the house before milking the cows. Splash ...the dust had been settled and Ramprakash prepared for his milking. He would leave without talking to Brijesh that day.

‘So you finally get a chance to play Hanuman,’ asked Raavan aka AwadhBihari to Brijesh. With an impish twinkle in his eyes, Brijesh confirmed as both of them walked casually towards the river ghats. It was one of the rainless afternoons of the monsoon season where the two friends would sit on the rocks, besides the river, and discuss everything under the sun including new caller tunes for their mobiles. ‘Finally the old man gives way...now I will be famous...people will respect me. The donations will directly come to me...now I will not have ask this stubborn old man time and again,’ blurted out Brijesh as one would do before a close childhood friend. Raavan tossed a pebble on the water surface; which bounced a couple of times before surrendering to the river. Pointing to the pebble Raavan revealed his sense of wisdom - ‘That’s old age for you and Mahabir Chacha now sinks down the river.’ Both had a hearty laugh among the thudding sounds of washer men’s clothes.

Leading up to the Navratras, Ramprakash and the Samiti burnt midnight oil to ensure the flawless execution of the act. The villagers in the Northern states of India anxiously wait round the year for Ram Lila followed by Vijayadashmi and leading up to Diwali. Celebrations go on for weeks where members visit households, distribute sweets as well as happiness. Since the rain gods had been kind this year, funding through villagers had been more in money and lesser in kind.

The Ram Lila production by Ramprakash et al thus was meticulously and lavishly planned. The tent and stage work at the mela grounds for open air theatrics in the night was spread out vast. The lighting on the stage lighted up all nook and corner and the sound systems blared even for a 2kms.’ distant donkey. Daris were laid out in front of the stage for children; and a few chairs were placed for elderly few and Samiti members. For first time in many years, the costumes were newly stitched for prominent characters. Ramprakash was able to poach a famous singer – Murali from Chaturpur’s Ram Lila troupe. Murali was sure to bring in more crowd as his recitals and narratives from Tulsidas’s Ramcharitmanas during scene changes were listened by utmost sincerity. Kishenpur’s Ram Lila this year was going to be way ahead of the rest...at least on paper.

Ram Lilas are the place to witness rural capitalist ecosystem. On both sides of the stage were the bazaars – thelas selling chat pakodis, samosas, sindoor, chudis, lockets and local cosmetic items, miniature ludo and chess games, audio cassettes and also CDs, toys and household plastic items. The power generators grunted on and the yellow bulbs kept laughing over the thelas as if happy with the frenetic sales. The entire village thronged the mela grounds when the show opened on the first night of the Navratras.

Days and nights passed by as Hanuman and Raavan’s friendship grew fonder on stage as well as off stage. To the angst of village seniors and Ramprakash, Hanuman aka Brijesh had a field day demolishing not only Lanka but also the props and costumes of fellow actors. The miming back stage seldom matched his acts. He never cared for the virtues of Mahavir Hanuman or Mahabir Papa.

It was the Vijayadashmi day. ‘What a relief it will be today,’ thought Ramprakash as he hurried his way past to the mela grounds to oversee the effigies of Meghnad, Kumbhakaran and Raavan being erected. He no longer cared about the last day on the Ram Lila stage. For the acting Mandali, the act had begun in the afternoon itself. They prepared themselves for the procession around the village, dressed as part of vibrant Jhankis or tableaux, depicting the scenes of the life and times of Lord Rama. As the decorated trucks of Ram Lakshman, Vaanar Sena and Raavan passed through the lanes of the village, people started walking along. Many shouted and a few danced. Bollywood parodies ruled roost as the rupee coins rained on the jhankis. Hanuman was equally restless. He jumped over from his troupe of decorated monkeys on to the Raavan’s convoy. ‘Behari, this is a great ride. Hold this packet and drink it over. You have been working hard these nights. Let’s celebrate,’ Brijesh offered the country made liquor to AwadhBehari. By the time the procession reached the mela grounds for the final enactment of Raavan Vadh and Rajya Abhishek, both Hanuman and Raavan were on cloud nine.

‘Raavan, now die,’ shouted a voice behind the scenes. As Rama ran with his bow and arrow towards Raavan’s abdomen, inebriated Raavan ran in circles across the stage. To the amusement of the crowd, Raavan enacted the wound with ketchup on his stomach and mouth but refused to die. Hanuman sided Raavan as Ram and Lakshman chased the sagging act. Ramprakash was dismayed as the play veered away. He sent a few of his men on stage to make Raavan die. But it seemed modern day Raavan had had modest dose of modern day Sanjivani. Together with Hanuman, they formed a formidable pair as Ram and the Vaanar Sena still acted in a MaryadaPurshottam way. They ran a havoc demolishing everything on their way. And there it went...Ram was tossed from the stage into the hands of village veterans by ever so jumping Hanuman. The crowd was in fact enjoying the whole turn of events. The crowd must have been bored by the same age old act every year. They rejoiced. The miming artist back stage stuck to his guns. ‘Laksman, don’t worry about anything. The act is over. Just fire an arrow to the effigies there,’ he said as Laksman responded like a consenting son. As Ramprakash’s men took hold of miscreants, the effigies were allowed to burn. Within no time, the effigies came down. Within no time Ram was hospitalized. Within no time, Chaturpur had won by a mile and beyond. Ramprakash cried like a baby as the crowd had a jolly good time. The numerous Raavans of the society are still refusing to die even after the uprightness of a few Rams. With Hanumans, not on their sides, the battle seems lost.

It was dawn when a dejected Ramprakash followed his steps to Mahabir Chacha’s place. The dark was giving way to blue. Chacha was wide awake. Ramprakash sat down on his Charpoy and looked on. Chacha had tears in his eyes. Both kept staring at each other for time unknown. Their passions were burnt along with the effigies yesterday. With a strong determination, Chacha pulled himself up and tried to stand on his own. His hands trembled and feet shaked but he refused to hold Ramprakash’s hands. ‘Where are you going?,’ asked Ramprakash as a whiff of air passed by. ‘To the farms, for a walk,’ replied Chacha. The sun had risen by now.

Raavan Lila - Teaser

‘Mahabir Chacha, believe me you still have the vigour to play the role of Hanuman,’ pleaded Ramprakash, the secretary of the Pracheen Ram Parakram Ram Lila Samiti. Ramprakash, a school teacher at a primary school in Kishenpur, was a devout Ram Bakht. His classes at school were always replete with examples from Ramayana – ‘A for Ayodhya, B for Bharat, C for Chitrakoot, D for Dashrath....R for ShriRam.’ But it was not the teaching that was his passion. It was preparing and managing the Ram Lila, culminating on Vijayadashmi day every year. This year was going to be different.

Short Story of a common commonwealth medal hopeful

A fictitious account

Dreams are larger than what eyes can see. That’s why many don’t see it through…but a few do.

Motherless and blamed for the death of her mother post-delivery, 13 year old Tulsi never wanted to clean toilets. She wanted to run…run away from the clutches of a complaining father, abuses of the elderly stinking household, miseries of a daily struggle to earn a loaf of bread and poverty huge enough to cripple dreams and reality.

For her, the railway track which ran across the farm, 3 miles from the dilapidated hut, was the alarm clock. Her torment began everyday at 3AM when a narrow gauge express train passed by, almost always on time. She had to run…run with two empty buckets to get a chance to get water from an upper class run rationed water well. The day she missed to collect water, she got only grass to eat.

Three years back, it was one of those days when she was unable to collect water. Sobbing and afraid to go back home, she laid near the track watching the same sun rising after a dreamless night. ‘Tulsi, come here,’ came a thick noisy voice out of no where. She was tired of always expecting a commanding voice out of nowhere asking for filthiest of work. ‘Tulsi, mother killer bitch, come here.’ This time she had to notice. Morning has begun. She could see a stout, bearded recognizable man with a suitcase calling from the perch of the train standing by. She ran…ran for the command.
‘Here, you see that shit and garbage…clean it up,’ ordered the village Seth. He had engineered a train halt…to go to the city. Tulsi had to clean-up the entire 5 feet radius where the Seth was supposed to sit. As she descended, the train had blown the whistle. She got down and started walking back. The train inched up on the track and moved screechingly. The two empty buckets resting on the green farm grass made her relive the day in advance. The beating and the hunger are easy to withstand when there is light at the end of the tunnel. Here there was no hope. The train had gathered speed towards the tunnel. Blink…there always comes a moment of intervention from the Almighty. Tulsi ran…ran towards the train a good 20 metres away. She must have run a mile before she boarded the train finally. She had run her first race to life.

She must have travelled two days and a night before she was dumped on the station as a parcel out of no where. There was hunger but so was hope. There was poverty but there was no one to beat her or to command…no… there were few.
It took no time for three teenage rag pickers to identify the new girl in their area of operation. And desperate they were at the most silent hour of the night. They pounced on her. The flickering and lone bulb at the corner of the station bore testimony that the cities are worse than villages. Surprised and still wondering, running seemed the obvious way out for Tulsi. She ran…ran again…this time for dignity.

She did not know the roads and streets she took. She did not know if they were still behind her. She was terrified. She kept running the entire night. Not even for once did she think of stopping or even looking back. Running this time was not easy. Her naked feet were used to village lanes, not the gravel heavy city roads. She stopped only when she collided with Mahabir, 40 something disillusioned yet motivated mentor. ‘How long have you been running?’ asked Mahabir as he saw blood soaked feet and felt her sweat soaked body. ‘It was dark when I started.’ ‘Come, You have found me,’ said Mahabir tersely as he continued his morning jogging session. At least a dozen students followed him back to the coaching centre. The same sun was beginning to shine ever so brightly. ‘Would Tulsi be the lucky thirteen?’ the thought kept running through Mahabir’s mind.

Mahabir, a full time teacher was a tough taskmaster and a running fanatic. He would inculcate benefits of running into everyone he met. His salary went into ensuring balanced diet for his runners. City NGO was helpful every few months. He kept selecting and training hopefuls…with one goal…running for the country. Under Mahabir’s guidance in a little known city, Tulsi’s life flourished in awe of possibilities.
She followed a strict routine, was an excellent pupil and listened and above all ran passionately. She was easily the best of Mahabir’s lot and kept winning accolades wherever she went. She came first in a district level competition, a month later she was among the best in the State and in a year’s time she ran at the National Games in Jharkhand. To everybody’s amazement, she won gold and landed up with a government job. Mahabir’s coaching set up did not receive the same attention as the medal winners. He still worked hard to make ends meet and harder still to train his wards. For Tulsi, the government job did not distract her determination. She trained more not because she was an average performer from international standards but because her coach required money for ‘acute pulmonary edema’ medication. Mahabir had water in his lungs, was becoming frail and running was out of question for him.

A Gold Medal in 1500m in Commonwealth Games…an ambition too high, a goal never achieved by an Indian and a dream worth pursuing. The government had announced Rs. 20 Lakhs prize money for every gold medal an Indian won. ‘That would solve all problems,’ she thought as she geared herself up for the dream of her life. She imagined herself wrapped in tricolor and singing National Anthem in rapt attention. She trained harder under Mahabir. She fought her inner demons with the help of a yoga guru. She never bettered the national record ever in trainings.

At her first international event, she was nervous the moment she had qualified for the event a few months back. In the Qualifying Heats, when she saw well built and well trained runners from diverse countries, she expected the worse. She bettered them with faith and landed in the finals. ‘Tomorrow will be my day. India will watch me not cleaning toilets but running…running for national pride,’ she thought the night before the race. She still required a leap of faith.

The floodlights in the stadium make the night into day. Dreams into reality. And it all gets over in a matter of minutes. No body gave her an outside chance. The interspersed spectators were glad to see an Indian in the finals. The commentators heaped praises on her past running exploits and how she is below par for this competition. But she ran…ran hard… ran with lungs full of air to remove water from the lungs of her coach.
She must have got spring in her feet. She started and ran away like a bullet. She second runner was a distant 5m after first 100 metres of the race. The other pushed hard but she pushed harder. At half-way she led a good 20m. She was a running a dream but so were others. The track doesn’t make a distinction. With 200m to the finishing line, she was still leading by a good distance. And then it all started. The runners behind her gathered steam. Their steps were far larger and they ate into the gap with enormous ease. Tulsi fought back with matching steps but still she was slow. Winning runner passed by…Silver still in sight, the second runner passed…just 50m to go and at least bronze will be mine – thought Tulsi. If God listens to everybody’s prayers, he will be confused. That’s why hard work is the barometer for success and if success becomes unexplainable, luck comes as a reason. Tulsi came a close fourth. She just saw darkness as she reached the finishing line. She did not know that she has bettered her record…she had in fact bettered the games record by an Indian.

She cried an ocean, wept a river and sobbed a lake in Mahabir’s arms. With so many Indians winning medals, the attention was on winners. No one cared except Mahabir and a few others. She stared beyond the floodlights into the dark night. They must have sat for hours in the forlorn stadium before deciding to go back to the Games Village. ‘I am sorry, Biru Chacha,’ she said before going to sleep at dawn.

It was first in many many years when she did not run in the morning…in fact she slept all through amid the celebrations of growing medals tally.
Mahabir alias Biru Chacha ran after a long time. He even jumped couple of times on his way to Tulsi’s room. He did not wait for the elevator but climbed up three flights of stairs in a jiffy. ‘Tulsi, Tulsi, get up Tulsi…,’ he anxiously knocked the door. One of the team mates opened the door. The beaming coach, unable to breathe declared loudly ‘Tulsi, the silver medalist failed the dope test, you got a bronze.’ He plunged on to the bed, gasping for breath. In his excitement to tell the news, Mahabir had put himself in great danger. Tulsi was stunned and so were others. Only the heavy breaths of Mahabir chimed the room. And then she jumped, shouted, jumped hard and embraced panting Mahabir…in plain ecstasy. ‘Chacha…you will get well soon, Chacha. We will get 5 lakhs from the government. All your problems will get solved,’ Tulsi was animated. It seemed Mahabir took an instant decision. It seemed he stopped himself from breathing. It seemed he deliberately closed his eyes. He had an angelic smile on his face before he said his last words –‘Keep running and Keep the centre running if ever you get the money.’

बारिशें

थोड़े से बादल, खूब सारी बूँदें
हरे हरे पत्ते, फूलों की सुगंधें
आँखों में चमक, लबों पे मुस्कुराहटें
बाज़ारों में रौनक, गावों में पनघटें
फिर से एक बार जिंगुरों के आवाज़ें भेज दे
पतंगों की उड़ाने भेज दे
मेंढकों के टर्राने भेज दे
चिड़ियों की चहचाने भेज दे
ए खुदा, ज़ोरों से बारिशें भेज दे

बड़ी सी चिट्ठी, सिमटा सा खुमार
बिखरी स्याही में मिलने की कस्में हज़ार
चंद सुहानी यादें और इंतेज़ार में करार
बारीशों की बूँदों में तेरा प्यार
फिर से एक बार अकेला मकान भेज दे
शृंगार का सब सामान भेज दे
मीठी सी धुन तमाम भेज दे
तीर और कमान भेज दे
ए खुदा, इन बारीशों में 'उनको' भेज दे

उत्सव

अलविदा सर्दियाँ

गर्म रज़ाई और चाय की अद्रकि चुस्कियाँ,
कमरे का मनपसंद कोना और अख़बार की पंक्तिया,
थोड़े से गरम पानी पर होतीं बड़ी सी लड़ाइयाँ;
फिर आलस में सोने का मन्न बनाती मेरी अंगडायाँ
अब जाते हो तो जाओ,
फिर से मेरे घर आना, मेरी सर्दियाँ

खिड़की के शीशे ओस से ढके हैं,
हमारे तुम्हारे गद्दे आग से तपें हैं
दस्ताने और जुराबेन भी सबने कसें हैं
और छोटे से चूल्‍हे पर चड़ी हैं बड़ी बड़ी कढ़ाइयाँ
गरम पकौड़े, सौंठ की चट्नी और जुलाब जामुन की चाशनियाँ
अब जाते हो तो जाओ,
फिर से मेरे घर आना, प्यारी सर्दियाँ

गुनगुनी धूप और बातें बनाती सहेलियाँ,
अमरूद के फाँक, तेल की मालिश और बच्चों की ठिठोलियान,
उँची सी छत से पेचेन लड़ाती लोफेरों की टोलियाँ
और सुर्ख गुलाबों के बीच खिलखिलाती लड़कियाँ
देखूँगा फिर से ये नज़ारा,
जब नये साल आएँगी ये सर्दियाँ

शीत लहरमें बर्फ हो गयी लड़खड़ाती झोपडियान
सर्दी से कपपकपाता बाप, नही है घर में रोटियाँ
आज नौकरी से निकाल दिया मेमसाहब ने,
जो ठिठुरते ठंड मे फिर देर से पहुँची मैं
ना है घर, ना चादर, ना चार पैसे और ना बापू की दवाइयाँ
अबकी बरस आई तो आई,
दुबारा मत आना, मुई सर्दियाँ

Phir Mile Sur: The Common Man’s Magic is missing

Although I spent the Republic day humming ‘Mile Sur Mera Tumhara’ for greater part of the day (as Zoom TV released the new avatar of Mile Sur Mera Tumhara), the connection was not instant. The new version propelled me to watch the older version on You Tube and fondly appreciate the early makers.

There are a host of subtle and significant changes that the present creators have done supposedly to be in sync with the present generation. This compels me to write this blog in support of pseudo national anthem of my childhood years. Why I didn’t like the recent version is because:

• I hated the liberal dose of bollywood stars and near stars – musicians and directors (are these the two major clans depicting achievement in life?). To add to the grief, the extensive close-ups are annoying. Shahrukh representing a baazigar emoticon or Ranbir seemingly humming a love song at a waterfall nearby; in his own complete solace. There were stars last time around as well but they were real. No close –ups, no glamour, adequate glitz and some real connection.

• Differentiation doesn’t mean excellence. Why remix to such greater extent that the originality gets shaked-up. Intermittent drifting from the original tune takes away the charm; at least for me.

• All this would have been still good if we would have felt a connection. All the stars sprinkled only with a few sportsmen and artists do not make up India. Where is the common man whom I never recognized but felt close-by. Where is that ‘mahaut’ riding the elephant in Kerala waters or the fisherman, content with the daily catch? Perhaps they are more marginalized now than they were 20 years back.

• Above all, where is the spirit of unity in diversity that ‘my’ older version so beautifully represented? I distinctly remember the ‘mashaal’ being carried on and everyone coming together at the sea shore, notwithstanding their differences but rising above for the cause of the nation. This time around, they came, they sang in solace and left. That’s the new ‘Phir Mile Sur’.

Few of my friends may comment – ‘Grow up, it’s a virtual world and everyone is connected.’ A few others may comment that I have ‘grown up’ and not in sync with changing times. Perhaps they are right or perhaps we are more networked but less connected now than we were couple of decades back.

Do watch the older version one last time on YouTube…

0-10 of my New Year resolutions

My last week’s Christmas blog helped me reconnect with many friends. So, I thought why not a New Year blog to share my New Year resolutions. In hope of reconnecting with many more, here are my resolutions for the year apart from writing 100 blog entries this year (last year I did just 20)

0 – Zero cigarettes: After a long year and a half hiatus, I succumbed to the butt yet again. Not this year as I continue to strive for a smoke free life.
Zero Speculation: Markets may have gone up like forest fire, there are always more losers than gainers. Say NO to speculation.
1 – Complete my ‘one’ book so what if I am an idiot.
2 – Complete two certification courses. Did you ask which certifications? Well, there is a year to decide.
3 – Three compulsory vacations and that too not among the hills. Huh! Quite a task.
4 – Enhance all four (for family members) life and health policies so that every New Year is better than the previous one
5 – Purchase my five dream gadgets a) Power packed Laptop b) Handy cam to cover impending vacations c) PS 3 for the player in me d) Kindle for the voracious reader and e) I Phone as soon as I get successful in destroying my current mobile
6 – Reduce six kgs. of my weight; all the more better if the entire six kgs. gets reduced from my waist
7 – Seven hours of charity. Number is unimportant, intention is not.
8 – Eight percent easy home loan from SBI. My cash flow model suggests lakhs of savings.
9 – Nine months to fatherhood – well perhaps…consensus is required!
10 – Read at least ten books in the year. It is not easy. You bet me!
If you have managed to read till here, I wish you and your family a safe, prosperous and happy new year. God Bless!