Killing the evils

Totally Shakespearean. It has love, jealousy, greed, lies, betrayal, revenge, war, death and redemption. Ramlila, the 10-day play on the exploits of Bhagwan Ram, which takes place every fall during the Dusshera festival, is a mix of King Lear (exile), Macbeth (jealousy), The Merchant of Venice (swayamvar) and Henry VI (war). It ended last week on Jummeraat.

A few nights before it ended, I entered the green room of Luv Kush Ramlila, which takes place in the highly guarded August 15 Ground that faces the Mughal-era Red Fort. I found actors in different stages of make-up. Queen Kaikeyi was getting her eyes lined with kohl. Her wicked maid Manthara – the actor Sanjay Sharma dressed in a saree and showing his hairy midriff – was having chai. The sage Maharishi Vashisht was getting a snow-white beard pasted on his clean-shaven chin. The action was about to begin.

Bhagwan Ram – or Lord Ram, the hero of Ramlila – played by MBA student Bhaskar Joshi, was showing no stage fright. “Nowadays, brothers fight each other for family wealth and young people ignore their old parents,” said Joshi. “If they come to see Ramlila, they will discover the deep love between brothers and the unfailing obedience that children show to their parents.”

Ramlila is based on Ramayan, a fascinatingly complicated Hindu epic that has various versions in various languages. Its sub-plots have multi-layered ironies to invigorate the intellectual curiosities of pure atheists. In its grey areas, good is not always good and evil is not always evil.

To Hindus, Ramayan is as beloved as Lord Ram himself. The sweeping story has a simple core: On the eve of being anointed Ayodhya’s king, Prince Ram is unjustifiably exiled to 14 years in the forest. There, Lanka’s demon king Ravan kidnaps his wife, Sita. Ram invades Lanka, kills Ravan, rescues Sita, returns to Ayodhya and becomes the king.

“Our holy epics have relevance in today’s modern age,” said Vivek Gautam, who was portraying Ravan, the villain, as well as Dashrath, Ram’s father. ‘If you take in even a little of the values that are there in the Ramayan, your life may change for good.”

Gautam then left the green room, climbed the stage, transformed into Dashrath and delivered a thundering dialogue. Actually, he was lip-syncing to the voice of professionals, who were speaking the characters’ lines from an invisible enclosure adjacent to the stage. This was just the third night and we were in the early stage of the story. Ram was still to be exiled.

The final night of Ramlila is, of course, the most climactic. To portray the killing of Raavan, a huge effigy of the evil 10-headed Lankan king is set up in the ground. It is packed with firecrackers. Finally, the effigy is lit up – usually the character playing Ram shoots a burning arrow from his bow – and amid great blasts and sparks, Raavan is consigned to flames.

In Delhi’s Ramlila Ground, a few miles away from Red Fort, it is a tradition for the country’s Prime Minister to attend the killing of the evil king. This time, as in the last few years, the VIPs on the stage were Prime Minister Manmohan Singh and super Prime Minister Sonia Gandhi, who had her second public appearance after her mysterious surgery in the US.

The festive seasons hasn’t ended with Raavan’s killing. Soon, we’ll have Diwali, the festival of lights. But really, it’s during happy times like these that we should try to spare thoughts for those who aren’t happy.

On the final day of Dusshera, I had a very sad experience. (Listen, if you are having breakfast, don’t read further for what I’m going to say might spoil your appetite).

Except a discoloured cloth around his waist, he was naked. Flies were buzzing on his lips. Grey stubble was growing out of his chin. His hair was wiry; his skin was hanging loose from his bones. I came across this man at a pedestrian corridor in Aruna Asaf Ali Marg, the road that borders the new and the old quarters of the city. It skirts the Ramlila Ground.

Lying on the floor, a few steps away from the ticket window of Delite cinema, the man’s body was still. It was greased black with dirt as if he hasn’t washed for months. A rickshaw puller named Muhammed Abid joined me.

“Do you know him? I asked.

Shaking his head, Abid said, “He must be a laawaris. I don’t think he has family or friends.”

“Is he a beggar?” I asked.

Looking at the man with contempt, Abid said, “These people become beggars by choice. Can’t you see that his body is claimed by smack?”

All across Delhi, in backlanes and in subways, it is common to see homeless people – men, women and children – trying to sniff the fumes of heroine powder that they place on heated aluminum foils. Perhaps this is their only escape from hardships of the world.

The man had no flesh on his body. More flies had gathered on his eyes and lips. Some had started nibbling into a wound on his chest. Looking carefully at the flies, as if they could lead to a diagnosis of the man’s situation, Abid said, “He’s dying.”

Abid walked back to his rickshaw.

What is to be done? Should I call an ambulance? I wondered.

Suddenly, the man stirred. Turning a little, he lifted his legs and mumbled some inaudible words. His eyes remained closed. Flies refused to move away from his lips. The man mumbled again.

“Water,” he said.

I quickly got him a chilled mineral water bottle from Chor Bizarre, a fine dining restaurant at the nearby Hotel Broadway. The man held the bottle close to his chest. Perhaps he was too frail to open the lid. I wanted to help him but was scared of coming in contact with anything that his unwashed, possibly infectious, hands had touched.

The man stirred again and somehow opened the bottle. I watched him drink.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m not able to walk,” he said.

“What’s your name?”

“Thapa… Sh… Shyam Sundar Thapa.”

“Are you from Delhi?”

Thapa finally opened his eyes. The flies flitted around in excitement. “I’m from Nepal. My village is near Kathmandu. I came to Delhi 15 days ago from…” The eyes closed. The flies came back.

“Will you like to go back to your home in Nepal?”

He shook his head very slowly.

“But how did you end up in this state?”

Thapa again opened his eyes. He clasped his hands together as if in gratitude but said nothing.

While I was wondering how to walk away from him, he started speaking. “I’m very weak.”

I sat down by his side. Gently tapping on my arm, Thapa said, “Don’t worry. I won’t die.”

This morning as I’m writing this column, I wonder if Thapa is still alive. Once again we have killed the Raavan but when will we kill the greater evil of poverty and wretchedness?

Mayank Austen Soofi lives in a library. He has one website and four blogs. The website address: thedelhiwalla.com. The blogs: Pakistan Paindabad, Ruined By Reading, Reading Arundhati Roy and Mayank Austen Soofi Photos.