C hup raho!! Saavdhaan! ” hollers a frail man from the stage. That command for silence is the cue that ‘samvaad’ or conversation is about to take place on the raised platform. The crowd quietens and pitches its collective ears forward, straining to hear the dialogue. Surely, without microphones, the voices wouldn’t carry beyond a 100 rows, and the gathering is several thousands strong. But it doesn’t seem to matter: everyone is following the action closely, already familiar with each line, intimate with the characters, keenly anticipating the unfolding of a story they’ve been told and told again since childhood. That is the Ramlila at Ramnagar.
I’d seen dramatic folk re-enactments of Ram’s life in Delhi, but apparently, you haven’t seen the lila till you’ve seen ‘Ramnagar ki Ramlila’. This is a unique, protracted version that takes 30-31 days, a much-documented participatory tradition performed under gaslights, without mikes. I was in Varanasi during the ‘lila month’, and of course I had to go. My hosts put me in the care of Shuklaji, auto-man and local guide.
However, the morning brought worrying news. Shockingly, the previous day’s performance had been cancelled — this had never happened for as long as anyone can remember. Four of the five ‘swaroops’ — the boys who don the five primary roles of Ram, Sita, Lakshman, Bharat and Shatrughna — were down with diarrhoea. They were in hospital, the newspapers said, adding hopefully that they were expected to recover in time for the next performance.
The maharaja
So we went. I wandered about the Ramnagar fort and palace-grounds, and saw elephants being brought around to the entrance. Kashi Naresh, the nominal ruler of Varanasi, is the patron of the Ramlila. In fact, the Ramlila here was started by his ancestor
Udit Narayan Singh around 1830 and further honed by Maharaja Ishwari Prasad Narayan Singh (1857-1889), who took the Ramlila out of the fort into the main town. Today, the 5 sq. km. of Ramnagar town has locations designated as Ayodhya, Janakpur, Lanka etc, and the performance shifts between these sites. Even today, the audition and casting of the main characters is done by the ‘maharaja’.
Two of the asht sakhis before the performance in Ramnagar
Today’s episodes are ‘Asht Sakhi Samvaad’ and ‘Phulwari’ , the garden scene where Sita first lays eyes on Ram. We settle into the front rows and the crowd slowly swells. Mats and sacks are laid out, some bring folding chairs, and some, with great foresight, carry steel dabbas, which do double duty for snacks and as a low stool. It’s warm, and almost everyone buys a palm-leaf fan. There is uncertainty in the air. If the swaroops are still ill, this could be a washout again. “We came yesterday as well,” Tulsiji, next to me, says, “I live near the fort but many walk hours to get here. Everyone was disappointed!”
Worship and pragmatism
Thankfully, it’s only a three-hour delay. I saunter around, eating jalebis dipped in jaggery (a delicacy only served during the lila). The Ramlila is famous for ‘niyamis’ — these are regulars who ceremonially attend every day of the lila. The niyamis first take a ritual dip in the waters, wear new clothes, and walk with what’s almost a swagger. I see an array of forehead markings, and one point of pride are the staffs they carry — ornate, worked wood with inlay and handles of silver and gold. In yet another piquant practice, the niyamis come armed with ittar , and it is customary to smear your acquaintances with a touch of perfume. The cost of a small vial could go up to a lakh, and the kinds of ittar you carry (a different one each day, if you can afford it) says much about your status. Shuklaji meets a friend who brandishes a small sheesha of scent. I am honoured with a dab — it turns out to be an ambergris-based fragrance that I revel in all evening.
Finally, Kashi Naresh arrives to rousing chants of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ , and so do the swaroops : Ram-Lakshman are bedecked with sequins and sparkling stones. Their limbs are smeared with sandalwood paste, lightly scored through to form lines and whorls. The scene is the Asht Sakhi Samvaad where Ram and Lakshman walk through the streets of Janakpur, setting the town abuzz with speculation. The boys (all the swaroops are under 16) look regal and impassive as they walk through the crowds.
On stage, the eight women (played by young men, as is every part) hold forth, exclaiming over the beauty and grace of the two young men from Ayodhya. Interestingly, although the actors broadly know their parts, each line is prompted by Vyasji, the director. He stands behind the actors, with a helper shining a torch on the book he holds open. He mutters the dialogue sotto voce and the actors pick up each line, declaiming them in a curious sing-song fashion.
The elders congregate for the lila.
To one side, below the platform, the swaroops sit, poised and calm. The villagers attending them fan them continuously. It’s a curious mixture of worship and pragmatism: worry for the sick boys who still have IV catheters embedded in their veins as well as reverence for the gods they represent. What prompted the actors to perform when their bodies are so frail? Sheer mind over matter? The age-old compulsion that the show must go on, but also because this is a tremendous responsibility.
From Ganesh Chaturthi, when they’re cast in their parts, till the lila culminates 40 days later on Ashwin Poornima, the boys remain in character. No one addresses them by name, and even among themselves, the Ram swaroop gets all the respect that is due to the oldest brother.
Now, the scene shifts to an antiquated Gomteshwar temple some distance away. We settle down in the temple precincts; Shuklaji finds me a spot that lets me see both the shrine and the made-up ‘garden’ outside where the romantic encounter will take place. In the audience, Kashi Naresh sits in a prime spot, unimposing but upright, his white kurta and cap gleaming in the falling light.
Sita arrives on a palanquin. I come to realise that time takes on quite a different meaning in rural India. The assembled crowd has taken the three-hour delay completely in its stride. Shuklaji tells me the performance, which begins at 5 p.m. everyday, takes a flexible break at dusk, so that everyone — from maharaja to performers — can do their ritual sandhya vandan or twilight salutation . Small wonder then that when Sita disappears ‘off-screen’ into the sanctum for a good eight minutes to do her Girija pujan , everyone simply waits. The puja isn’t for show and neither is their devotion.
As the play progresses, the audience is rapt. Mobile rings are frowned upon, chatter is sternly shushed. Some just read the Manas by LED light, following events their own way. Soon, the swaroops stand for the final aarti . Within 10 minutes, the entire crowd disperses. Till the next day, when Shri Ram will string the Shiv Dhanush and win his bride.
The writer is a journalist with interest in travel, culture and spirituality.
