by Manju Kapur
As they converge upon Ayodhya, a cordon is drawn around the city, roads are blocked, trains and buses denied entry, any leader suspected of creating trouble is carefully watched.
But there are always the fields and villages, always people to give food, water, rest, and show the way.
And likewise there are leaders to hide in the lanes of Ayodhya to mastermind the breaking of the cordon around the city, there are officials in the state police who feel it their duty to personally assist all those similarly inclined.
The kar sevaks declare that neither guns nor bullets can stop them. They prove this when in defiance of all barriers they climb the mosque, plant a saffron flag on the highest dome and claim it for their own. They are fired upon by the police, hundreds of them are injured, many are killed. Videos are made of this, and are later shown around the country as an example of the threat to Hinduism.
The government falls, and for the time being further crisis is averted, but only for the time being, promise the forces for Hindu Restoration in India.
Give us three places in India, that is all we want, Ayodhya, Varanasi, and Mathura where the Muslim invader built mosques on our sacred sites. If necessary we will bathe these mosques in blood. Why should Hindus give up their position of dominance in the only Hindu country in the world? If it is mosques the Muslims want, let them go to the many countries where Islam is the official religion, we are not stopping them.
*
The Sampradayakta Mukti Manch were doing what they could in the face of resurgent communalism. They prepared pamphlets, organised marches with other Left groups, and decided to go to the banks of the Saryu to talk directly to the people of Ayodhya to counter the growing rhetoric of religious fanaticism. As they planned their trip, Reshana suggested that Astha also come. ‘Between you and me I wonder if academics sometimes have the impact we desire. How I wish Aijaz was with us today. He could capture a crowd like no one else.’ She sighed and continued, ‘If you could give a small five-ten minute speech? I think it might make a difference to the women. If they realise they have some kind of voice, it will be a useful counter thrust to violence and aggression. After all they stand to lose the most. It’s worth a try.’
Astha agreed. Now that she was no longer teaching she welcomed brief respites from the house. And yes, any contribution to the cause was worth a try. In her association with the Manch she had been exposed to detail after detail of atrocities perpetuated in the name of religion. She had made paintings for this cause, she had been part of debates that worried about the far-reaching implications of fundamentalism, she had seen the spread of the worst kind of jingoistic rhetoric and it gave her both a platform and a focus around which she built her work. When she looked back it seemed amazing that she had come such a long way in two years. The detour she had taken between home and school had now become the road she travelled.
‘I hope it won’t be a problem, leaving your children‚’ Reshana ended.
It was a rhetorical statement, but Astha responded with a dry laugh, ‘Since when has the personal been allowed to interfere with the need of the hour?’
*
So far her mother-in-law had not commented about her activities. But Astha’s going to Ayodhya was a different matter.
‘You know I never interfere in whatever you decide to do. Today young people feel they must live their own lives. But there are times when it is necessary to listen to the advice of elders. What is the need to leave your family, and roam about like a homeless woman on the streets of some strange city?’
‘To protest.’
Mummy looked nonplussed. ‘But why go to Ayodhya?’ she returned after a pause. ‘You want to say something you write a letter to the newspapers. That is much better. People get to hear. You used to write.’
‘Long ago.’
‘This is all politics, you should not get involved. Besides have you thought about what you are going to protest? Lord Ram’s Janamsthan is in Ayodhya, is there any country in the world where the birthplace of their god is not honoured? Hindu tolerance does not mean you accept everything and anything. Is this the pride we have in ourselves?’
‘But Mummy, if the temple is constructed, thousands of people will die agitating over it. Why they could feed hundreds of poor children on the money they are collecting for the bricks.’
Her mother-in-law looked at her. ‘It is not a woman’s place to think of these things‚’ she said firmly.
Astha remained silent, her mind full of her husband. She had mentioned her trip as a possibility in a casual conversation with Hemant. Was this his way of letting her know he did not want her to go? He did not even have time for a discussion with her.
Meanwhile Mummy was repeating, ‘You know I never try and stop you from doing anything. Even when you neglect the children, and are busy in your paintings and meetings, I do not say anything. I am not the type to interfere. I am glad my daughter-in-law does not feel she has to sit at home. Till I have the use of my hands and feet I will help you, but it is my duty to point out that you are going too far.’
‘You won’t have to help with the children this time, I will take them‚’ said Astha wildly thinking of Anuradha’s sulky face, and Himanshu’s bewildered expression. ‘It is good if they are exposed to such things early.’
‘Exposing them to what? Filth and crowds? Don’t you care about your children or husband? But he is too good, he will say nothing. If you were living in the conditions Sangeeta is, you would better value what you have. I hope you never regret this.’
Astha was struck dumb. Her mother-in-law had never spoken so openly before. And where did Hemant have the time to notice what she was doing, let alone mind? But he had noticed, he had minded, and so had others. Mumbling something non-committal she retreated downstairs shaking with rage and hopelessness. With a mother like that, what chance that Hemant would ever support her? She dreaded trying to convince him and the possible scene. And because she dreaded these things, she became all the more determined to go.
*
The argument started that night when they were getting ready to go to bed.
‘I have decided to go to Ayodhya‚’ she said.
‘As my wife, you think it proper to run around, abandoning home, leaving the children to the servants?’
Astha went into familiar distress. As his wife? Was that all she was?
She tried to interest him in the issue, pulling out a pamphlet from her bedside drawer, ‘Look at the stuff they are publishing. It’s so inflammatory but people fall for it.’
‘You should see the stuff they publish against India and Hindus in Pakistan. Why don’t you protest against that?’
‘I do protest. I happen to think that any religion that incites violence is bad, ours, theirs, everybody’s. Listen to this:
This is not a ‘new’ political struggle. It is the 77th attempt in the history to restore the Ramjanambhoomi, our heritage. Thus far over 300,000 kar sewaks have laid down their lives in the 400 years.
Pseudo-secularists want the mosque declared a national monument forgetting that Ram was an Indian and Babur an invader. It is a national dishonour if a symbol of invasion is so declared:
‘Now Ask Yourself!’
Can even the most tolerant, most reasonable and peace-loving Indian run away from his pride – the reason for his being? The time has come to fight for our threatened faith.
‘Hindus unite! Act as one.
Not against anyone!
But in defence of our motherhood.’
She watched as Hemant reached out and turned the Ramjanambhoomi Nyas pamphlet over in his hands. She liked his hands. They were so square, so competent, they smelled nice, they felt nice on her. His palms were soft and pink, his nails always short and clean. Why was it like this between them? She sidled next to him, and put her hands under his kurta, rubbing his soft stomach. ‘I do so wish they hadn’t planned it around New Year’s. I hate to leave you alone, but darling what to do?’ Plaintive, appealing, emph
atic.
Hemant grunted. ‘Say no, what else is there to do?’
‘But I have committed, it’ll look bad.’
‘They don’t own you.’
‘Just for two days. I’ll be back so soon, you won’t realise I have gone‚’ said Astha trying to be playful.
‘I won’t be here.’
‘Why?’
‘I have to go away.’
‘But you never said.’
‘I only knew of this today.’
She did not believe him. How would she leave the children? She would have to move them upstairs, and that too after her dignified statement of taking them with her. He was doing this to punish her.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Bombay. To see a dealer. It’s important.’
Astha did not ask how and why, and nor did Hemant elaborate. ‘What about the children?’ she asked a little forlornly. They had never been without both parents before, without her really, Hemant was frequently away.
‘That’s your responsibility‚’ he replied. ‘I have work to do, a factory to run, I can’t be both mother and father.’
She would have to be conciliatory with Mummy, she would have to sit down and explain why she was going instead of getting angry, she would have to tell the children she was leaving them with their grandmother, and hope the grandmother would not bad mouth her while she was away. She might as well have spared herself the worry of what Hemant was going to do, he was going to manage just fine.
*
That night she couldn’t sleep. Her mind refused to rest, roaming restlessly among the things that made up her life, her home, children, husband, painting, the Sampradayakta Mukti Manch. Was it too much for a woman to handle; was her mother-in-law right? But why? Her children were well taken care of, she had trustworthy servants, she had someone who cooked better than she, she had left her teaching. And yet she was chained.
Her thoughts grew darker and darker. Restlessly she tossed to and fro, looking for a position that would force her mind to imitate her closed eyes, and free her into sleep. Hemant snored next to her, and his impenetrability irritated her further.
Next morning, tired and bewildered, she got up, looked at her husband, who appeared fresh and lovely. He glanced at her, and she smiled, her lips stretched across her face, cracking her skull, but still her lips would stretch, and her eyes would look up at him.
*
Hemant left for Bombay, departing one day before she did, destroying the fantasy she had had that he might drop her at the station, and they could part tenderly with many expressions of I will miss you, hurry back, phone me when you reach.
‘You are also leaving?’ Himanshu asked, round eyes.
‘Yes darling, only for two days.’
‘But why?’
‘I have some work.’
But this explanation did not resonate the way the father’s did, and both mother and son felt a little unconvinced.
*
Next night, the train to Ayodhya from Old Delhi at 9.30 p.m. Both children insisted on accompanying her to the station. Mala was taken to escort them back. They left the house at 8.00 and at 8.30 were caught in a religious procession starting from a gurudwara.
Mother, son and daughter watched the green dial of the dashboard clock tick the minutes away as they waited and waited. For the first time Astha felt the impatience Hemant did in traffic, but there was nothing she could do, blaming the government did not come so easily to her, nobody to blame in fact, but God above who had made them Indians in an overcrowded land.
People darted in and out of the traffic, bumping against rickshaws, cars, buses, weaving in and out all over the road. From time to time cars, scooters and scooter-rickshaws inched forwards squeezing themselves wherever they could, but they could not squeeze themselves as small as people did.
‘Will Mama miss the train?’ asked Himanshu interestedly.
‘Don’t be stupid‚’ said Anuradha.
Astha clenched her fists. ‘I think I can see the traffic lights now‚’ she said after the car had crawled along for twenty minutes.
It was five to nine. There were the traffic lights visible at last, the end of the intersection was almost in sight, it was the last major light before the station.
Finally they reached. Station. Parking lot. Platform. They might as well have saved themselves all that anxious clockwatching. The train was one hour late. They hung around the platform, surrounded by standing, sitting, squatting, lying, waiting people. There was hardly any room to move. By the year 2010 standing room only in India. Make way, make way, squeeze in more, that year is lurking around the corner.
*
‘How long do we have to wait for that stupid train?’ complained Anuradha, while Himanshu clung to her. Astha felt his body through her sari, felt his arms around her waist, his hand resting on the bit of bare back between her sari and her blouse.
‘Do you want an orange?’ she asked.
He nodded. Astha reached into her sling bag and started peeling one.
‘I also want‚’ said Anuradha indignantly. Astha handed her half.
Announcement. The train was delayed another hour. The people on the platform stirred, rippled, and then settled down to waiting again.
‘Go home‚’ said Astha, ‘Mala take them home. It is getting very late.’
‘No, I’m not going, I’m waiting with you‚’ wailed Himanshu.
‘We will wait, it’s all right‚’ said Anuradha gruffly. She demanded some money to buy Stardust, and settling herself on her mother’s suitcase, began to read. Himanshu picked his nose, and looked vacantly at the train tracks beyond his feet.
At last the whistle, the clang, the arrival. The platform woke, and a huge beast sprang into motion. It pushed, it shoved, it jostled. Sharp cornered boxes and heavy suitcases were lugged onto the heads of coolies while the parcels and bags slung from its arms jut, poke, obstruct, protrude, and threaten with injury. Astha clutched Himanshu with one hand and dragged Anuradha along with the other, trying to keep up with the coolie looking for her compartment.
There was her name and berth number, pasted outside a second class AC coach. More squeeze and push till they reached the berth.
Finally. The coolie was paid, and Mala and the children sat around in a listless sort of way, listening to more announcements of delayed trains, before they all agreed that the family had seen Astha off and now they could go home.
‘Bye darlings, bye dearest ones‚’ she said, ‘I’ll be back before you know it, and I will phone, all right. Be good, don’t give Dadi any trouble.’
The children jumped off and led by Mala fought their way out of the crowd.
Eventually, three hours after it was supposed to, the departure whistle blew, and the train gave a little jerk.
Astha sank back into solitude. She laid out the pillow and sheets that an attendant had thrown at her, and settled down for the night, rocking with the quickening rhythm of the train, not yet wanting to close her eyes and go to sleep.
Next morning, and the U.P. landscape through the purple film plastered over the train windows. The land on either side was flat and dry, with patches of green fields. Uttar Pradesh, home to eighty million people, many of them leading poor, illiterate, and harsh lives, but ready to leave their fields, villages, and towns to converge upon the Babri Masjid, to protect their faith and motherland, something that would not have occurred to them before.
*
Faizabad, Ayodhya’s twin city, 11 a.m. The Sampradayakta Mukti Manch had made arrangements for the women to stay at a guest house they frequently used. Astha got into a rickshaw and gave the address.
‘Have you come to do Ram darshan at the masjid?’ asked the rickshaw wallah, as Astha put her feet on her bag to prevent it from falling on the road.
‘Yes‚’ she answered cautiously.
The rickshaw wallah nodded, it was the expected answer, Astha could see.
*
The guest house was a l
arge white washed bungalow set away from the road, in what used to be the Faizabad Civil Lines. A middle-aged lady came out to greet her.
‘Astha Vadera? The others from your organisation are out. They will be back soon.’
She was taken to a high-ceilinged, dark drawing room and served tea. The lady launched smoothly into a brief history of her life, she owned the house, she didn’t really need the money, running a guest house was a time pass, one must be active, her son and daughter were in America, she didn’t want to burden their lives. See, here they are, gesturing at pictures in ornate silver and wooden frames on the massive Burma teak sideboard.
A house, thought Astha, if my mother had a house, she too could have done something like this, instead of going to Rishikesh and losing herself in an ashram.
The widow got up, adjusting her sari palla around her head. ‘Your room is upstairs. Come.’
The uncovered staircase was next to the outer wall, and led up to five small rooms in a row. There was a verandah running the length, a nice view of the garden, in one corner were the bathrooms, in another, a bit of terrace to sit on.
‘Food to be ordered two hours in advance‚’ said the widow, unlocking the door of a small room, one little window, red floor, one bed, chair, table and cupboard.
As Astha sat there, eleven forty-five in the morning, the sense of adventure she had experienced in the train fell away. The room was neat, clean, without character and totally remote from everything that made up her days. She felt strange and dislocated. What would her children be doing? She missed them, she hoped Anuradha wasn’t fighting too much with Himanshu, she hoped that their grandmother wasn’t feeding them too much rubbish, but it didn’t matter, it was just two days, she hoped they weren’t watching too much TV, but then that didn’t matter either, it was just two days.
Tonight will be better, she thought, trying to argue away her depression, tonight at the function she would be where the action was, she would make her speech, feel the purpose of her visit more.