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.