by Manju Kapur
*
A little later, when Astha washed and went down she discovered that in the widow’s estimation there were seven thousand temples in Ayodhya.
‘Seven thousand? Are you absolutely sure?’ she demanded incredulously.
The widow looked at her sternly. ‘It’s Ram’s birthplace. There is a need for so many. When there is a festival like Ram Navmi, lakhs of pilgrims visit. Many temples double as dharmsalas. They charge one rupee to ten, and the pilgrims sleep wherever they can.’
‘So many temples. And they want one more.’ The figures startled her into being naïve, she knew the agitation had nothing to do with numbers.
‘Of course‚’ said the widow. ‘Ram was born right on the exact spot where the Babri Masjid is. You can even see from the pillars inside that there was a temple there. Eight pillars with Hindu carvings, mango leaves, goddesses, apsaras, kalash in black stone. Where did they come from? They built the mosque around them to mock us.’
‘Mock us?’
The widow glanced at her pityingly, and spelt it out. To remind us that they have the power to destroy our temples.’
‘I don’t think it’s quite like that‚’ began Astha when the widow interrupted. ‘Even now, Muslims living here really have their allegiance somewhere else. You will see during cricket matches they want Pakistan to win, this is not their soil.’
Astha knew it was useless to protest. Opinions like this, based on preconceptions, did not change. What did it take, a lifetime? A whole new history? What?
The widow seemed nice, even educated, she would not condone violence, no. Hers would be the gentle voice declaring ‘they’ were all the same, and these were words that would have a longer reach than any missile thrown.
Was it like this in Pakistan, Astha wondered. Did Muslims look upon Hindus with suspicion? Ah, but where were the Hindus in Pakistan? All dead or gone, leaving scars that rankled even now.
*
Reshana came, ‘Have you been waiting long?’ and didn’t wait for an answer. ‘They are escorting a fresh lot of bricks into Ayodhya, bricks wrapped in saffron, silk, cotton, with tikka on them, stamped with the name of Ram, as though they were an object of worship, bricks to build the temple, high hysteria around the whole thing. We have been trying to make sure our function tonight is well attended, but—’ her voice trailed off, a little hopeless.
Astha understood. As an artist the visual and symbolic appeal of saffron clad bricks would be far stronger than any appeals to reason and history. Still one had to do what one had to do.
Afternoon shaded into evening, as not far from the banks of the Saryu, on a platform in front of a mike a thin academic gave the history of the Babri Masjid.
The audience spread before him had been gathered through posters and advertisements, with the promise of entertainment and songs. Despite Reshana’s fears the turnout was large, though it was debatable whether they had come for the spectacle or from a willingness to be converted to a historical point of view.
There is no evidence, thundered the academic, punctuating the air with an excited fist, no evidence that Babur, busy fighting the Afghans, ever came to Ayodhya, let alone destroyed a temple.
Do you think Babur, founder of an empire in India, would have come here to build this little mosque? Yes, there is an inscription inside saying he ordered it, but the close set writing is of a much later style, carved to strengthen rumours of imperial destruction. The wooden beam below the arch is not a remnant of a temple, but put there by local masons, using local materials, unskilled in building arches. There are others like it in Jaunpur.
Brothers and sisters, I have not come from Delhi to bore you with historical details, only to show you that for every bit of evidence used to prove there was a temple to Lord Ram here, there is a counter-argument to prove there wasn’t.
History can be used to build or to destroy. We choose the lessons we wish to learn from it. For years Muslims and Hindus have lived peacefully together. It is the British who suggested that an ancient temple was destroyed so that Hindu would turn against Muslim. Brothers and sisters, we have seen what the British succeeded in doing. They believed in Divide and Rule. They ploughed rivers of blood through our country. The same dark forces threaten us now. It is politicians who are creating religious insecurities to get votes. Do not let them succeed.
*
Astha was sitting in front, nervously waiting her turn, clutching in her cold palm the piece of paper on which her rehearsed points were written. She looked around to see the reaction of the audience. He may have been passionate, but he was still an academic. ‘Do you think they understand what he is saying?’ she whispered to Reshana.
‘It’s all we can do, though I doubt we are any match for organisations that have been working the fundamentalist rhetoric at the grass roots level for years.’
‘I think this speaker should appeal to their emotions, instead of talking about beams, arches and inscriptions‚’ said Astha.
‘He’s a very respected historian‚’ replied Reshana stiffly. ‘And he is showing the relevance of beams and inscriptions.’
Her tone annoyed Astha, Reshana was so easily offended. How come love for the people did not translate itself into tolerance for individuals? She looked around for a more congenial sight.
They were in front of a canal, next to a bridge. Across the modern park on the other side of the water lay the old town, its interspersed domes and spires clearly conveying its mixed heritage. It looked old and fragile in the yellowish rose of the falling light.
Finally the academic finished. ‘It’s your turn now‚’ whispered Reshana.
Astha got up. Her irritation had given her energy. When she spoke her voice was firm and clear.
‘Brothers and sisters‚’ she started, ‘In essence women all over the world are the same, we belong to families, we are affected by what affects our husbands, fathers, brothers and children. In history many things are not clear, the same thing that is right for one person is wrong for another, and it is difficult to decide our path of action. We judge not by what people tell us, but by what we experience in our homes. And that experience tells us that where there is violence, there is suffering, unnecessary and continuous suffering. When we look to righting wrongs committed hundreds of years ago, we look to the past. But that past cannot feed us, clothe us, or give us security. History cannot be righted easily, but lives are lost easily, pain and trauma to women and children come easily. Tomorrow your sacrifice will have been forgotten because the duty of life is towards the living.’
She saw some people nodding, and she ended by repeating that nothing except misery and suffering were to be gained by violence.
A song, followed by a street play, and the evening concluded with an invocation to Gandhiji:
Gandhiji was a devout Hindu – none more devout than he. But he knew the true meaning of religion. All men are brothers. Hatred between communities led to his death, and in listening to the voice of hate we kill him all over again.
The speaker was speaking in terms everybody could understand – Gandhiji, father of the Nation – love – hate – oneness. But were these strong enough to drown out – exploited for centuries – awake – defend – protect – Motherland – Ram – God, faith, and Love of Him?
In the middle of all this Astha looked up and saw someone staring at her. The woman caught in the act, went on staring instead of looking away. Then she smiled slowly, squirrel front teeth advancing slightly from the rest.
I wonder who she is, thought the one being stared at.
*
Later. ‘I really liked your speech.’
‘Oh, thank you. It was nothing much.’
‘It made sense. The basti women who are with me related to it.’
‘It was my first. I am not used to making speeches.’
A pause.
‘What is your name?’
‘Pipeelika.’
‘Pipeelika? Ant?’
‘Yes. My father’
s legacy. He liked the sound and he had a sense of humour. It does mean I have spent my life explaining it. Maybe it has affected me, I don’t know. What’s your name?’
‘Astha.’
‘Faith?’
‘Yes. I don’t know if I have been touched by it. The faith in my family centres around my mother and her swami.’
‘Don’t you have faith in anything?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps my brush.’
‘You paint?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I see?’
‘Any time.’
They arranged to meet the next morning. ‘Do you know the place?’ hinted Astha at parting. ‘I thought I’d see something of Ayodhya before my train leaves tomorrow night.’
‘Of course I know the place. I’ll show you around.’
*
She thought about her later. Her hair was like a halo round her face, springing away from it, black, brown, red, orange, and copper, her skin was a pale milky coffee colour. She liked the way she smiled, but she looked sad at the same time, why was that? Had she herself sounded interesting, why hadn’t she brought something nicer to wear, suppose she didn’t come to the park at ten like planned, why hadn’t she asked her where she was staying?
She tried shaking herself, if she didn’t come, she would see Ayodhya on her own.
*
The next day as she hurried in a rickshaw to the meeting place, she saw her waiting under a tree. Immediately she felt stupid. A stranger she had hardly spoken to, to bother about her clothes, what was wrong with her? They would meet, they would part, she would catch the evening train home.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
They said nothing much as they walked through the small town. In every lane were shops crammed with representations of gods, pictures and figures, small, medium, large kalashes, bells for doing arti, prayer beads, green, yellow, black, blue with pearls, and the mandatory rudraksha in every possible size and colour from pale blonde to dark brown. This was a town of serious religious buyers judging from the number of shops.
‘We are near Hanuman Garhi, it’s on the way to the masjid, do you want to see it?’
‘If you think it’s worth seeing,’ said Astha, humble in her being guided mode.
‘It’s one of the biggest and richest temples here. Hindus and Muslims fought over it too, though that is not so well publicised.’
They climbed steps lined with beggars, mostly old people dressed in white or saffron, begging bowls in front, in which people were dropping money, coconuts, sweets, prashad. Overtaking them were eager pilgrims bounding up, shouting, ‘Jai Shri Ram, Jai Siya Ram’.
‘This is supposed to be the temple with the most steps,’ said Pipee, as they passed an old lady bent over her cane, her eyes on her bony, bare brown feet, with their spread-out toes. They could hear her murmuring Ram, Ram, with every step she took.
Inside Pipee hung back as Astha advanced towards the shrine flanked by huge donation boxes. A long line of devotees queued before the priest, clutching their offerings, boxes of sweets, coconuts, flower garlands, small thalis with tikka and incense. The priest, swift and practised, set aside their garlands and coconuts, deftly opened each box, dumped half the sweets in the bucket next to him, and returned the rest. The devotee then took a parikrama of the shrine, lingered in the courtyard and rang the bell while leaving.
If only I could feel like that, thought Astha, looking at the expression on some of their faces, coming to this temple would mean so much. Her eyes fell on the daan box. She opened her purse and took out five rupees, I wish I had something more in my life, I wish an end to this hollow feeling. She shoved the money in the box and rejoined Pipee.
‘Do you not believe?’ asked Astha as they passed through the inner courtyard, and down the steps.
‘No,’ she spat out. ‘I believe in nothing. I hate religion. You wanted to see, and I am showing you,’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Astha, a little alarmed, ‘that you are doing something you don’t want to.’
The woman drew a breath, and touched her arm briefly, ‘No, I’m sorry I was like that, it’s nothing to do with you. Come, let’s go to Kanak Bhavan.’
On the way, Astha hesitantly, ‘If you hate religion, doesn’t it upset you to come to places like these, where there is nothing but?’
‘Oh, who cares how upset I get?’ she said flippantly. ‘I have to come. We are based in a slum, and this kind of field trip works very well to sensitise women to communal issues, which in moments of crisis get totally out of hand. Besides I don’t like staying in Delhi much.’
‘Why is that?’
‘No particular reason. I live alone, I like to travel.’
Astha looked sideways at Pipee and encountered nothing but her hair.
*
In Kanak Bhavan a small guide greeted them.
‘Five rupees, I show you.’
And for five rupees they saw the room where Ram slept, where Sita played her sitar, where they played chess, where they bathed, where they dressed, the cupboard where those clothes were kept, where Sita got ready to receive Ram in the evenings, where Kekayi did Sita’s muh dekhayii when she came a bride into this house.
‘Wasn’t all this some thousands of years, BC?’ whispered Astha to Pipee, amazed that such anachronisms could be taken seriously.
‘Nothing here is archaeologically or historically accurate,’ whispered Pipee back.
The boy gauged what they were saying, though in English.
‘Who knows what is real or not?’ he said, smooth beyond his years. ‘What matters is the feeling of devotion,’
Astha felt ashamed of herself, and tipped him ten rupees as they climbed down the narrow stairs, into the main courtyard below, repeating her earlier wish for something, she knew not what.
‘I take it you are religious?’ asked Pipee, observing the size of the tip.
‘I gave because I want something.’
‘He’s not a wishing well.’
‘He will do for one.’
‘What did you wish for?’
‘There are many hollows in my life, and I wanted them filled.’
Pipee fell silent, and Astha wondered about her empty spaces, with eyes like that, there could be many. ‘Are we going to the masjid now?’ she ventured as they left Kanak Bhavan.
Pipee sighed, ‘We should have gone there first, but I always find it so depressing.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’
*
They walked up Ramkot, the slight incline that led to the mosque. The way was lined with temples. Temples, houses, houses that doubled as temples, temples that doubled as dharamsalas, all needed for the lakhs of pilgrims that descended on holy occasions. Ramnavmi, Diwali, Navratra.
‘It makes me sick the way Ram is being associated with Hindu-Indian-nationalism. It was terrible when the locks of the masjid were opened some years ago. The Muslims were not even given a hearing, considering this is waqf land. Millions of pilgrims poured in to see statues they believed were placed there divinely because God wanted his birthplace back. People will believe anything.’
‘We did a play about it,’ put in Astha.
‘Really?’
‘With Aijaz.’
‘You knew him?’
‘He came to our school. He put together a brilliant piece about the Babri Masjid. Then I never saw him again.’
‘His life was short.’
‘Yes. That’s why I am part of this group.’
‘The S double M?’
‘Is that what you call it?’
‘When I call it anything. I prefer never to think about it.’
‘Why? Don’t you think they do good work?’
‘It’s so elitist, and Aijaz was nothing if not one of the people. Now they sell art in his name.’
‘I did something they sold.’
‘You are part of their core group?’
Astha laughed dryly. ‘Hardly that. I c
an barely make it to a few meetings. But the Manch was happy to have my canvas, I was happy to sell it, and the cause benefited, surely.’
‘I wonder. Preaching to the converted. Working through songs, art, literature.’
‘But that was what he himself did, I saw him, and he was very effective.’
‘There is now such strong feeling about Hindu manhood, pride, valour, protection of the motherland, redressing the wrongs of history, that I wonder whether any street play, song or poster can make a point beyond general entertainment.’
‘There were lots of people last night.’
‘Of course they were there. They know how to promote themselves all right.’
‘If you think like this, why are you here? Why did you bring your women?’ challenged Astha.
‘To attend the picnic,’ said Pipee facetiously before lapsing into silence, leaving Astha to wonder how much to tread in these murky waters.
She turned her gaze to the bare feet of the women in front. It was not necessary to walk barefoot so far from the shrine, but for these women the very hill was sacrosanct, and their bare feet honoured a faith Astha could never have.
If she did, she would not be throwing money around, wishing for elusive fulfilment. Faith would do it. She too would walk barefoot up Ramkot not minding the stones, the heat, the germs, the piss of dogs, the shit of monkeys, the spit of people. Wearing no skin of dead animals to pollute the purity of the place, no leather, no shoes, no belt, no bag, no wallet.
By this time they had reached the top. The nicest thing about the mosque was its location. On the highest spot in Ayodhya, it overlooked the town, with its collection of spires, domes and houses crowded together. Beneath them swayed the trees, a mild calm breeze blew about, a breeze that seemed to suggest that there were many ways to worship.
In a mosque built in 1528 there was now a Hindu image. Was this not enough to make it a temple? Courts had declared that Hindus had the right to worship here. But now the worship had extended beyond the deity, so that the shape of the enclosing structure had become an obstacle to faith, and every barefoot pilgrim a warrior.
At the entrance they stopped to take off their shoes. Outside bhajans were blaring on loudspeakers, declaring that the name of god is more effective if all can hear. Inside, under the central dome, hardly visible under a mound of flowers, were the images flanked on either side by men in khaki armed with guns. In front of them a line of devotees streamed past, stuffing money into large donation boxes. Pipee refused to join the line while Astha, made uneasy by the guns, hurried past the little figure that had suddenly appeared on the night of December 22nd, 1949.