Last month, I spent a week in Kashi. An absolutely memorable week that seems to have changed me, transformed me. I have never been so hung over over one city before. (Although I do remember going on a bit about my travels in the Himalaya: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5).
When I came back, I absolutely had to write about one aspect, my last evening in Varanasi, when I went to the famous Ramlila of Ramnagar. It was an immersive experience that delighted me on every level. I have been day-dreaming about going back to Kashi at this time next year, negotiate some reasonable long-term lodgings and stay for the whole month. Wander around the city in the mornings... see the 56 Vinayakas, the Nava Durgas, the Panch Kroshi temples, the secret underground temples, the eight Bhairavas, the 12 Adityas... everything! In the evenings, I would head to Ramnagar to see the lila.
Today, as I write, the Ramlila is playing out its last day in Ramnagar. At this moment, perhaps the swaroops and other primary characters are in the palace-fort, being given a hospitable meal by Kashi Naresh, receiving their dakshina from him, before leaving the palace on adorned elephants.
I wrote about it, and the piece appeared in The Hindu’s Sunday Magazine earlier this week. This is a longer, more detailed version of that piece.
======
Ramlila, the dramatic folk re-enactment of the life of Rama is conducted across North India during the Dussehra. The entire culture has been designated an intangible heritage by UNESCO, and the most notable traditions are those observed annually at Ayodhya, Ramnagar and Varanasi, Vrindavan, Almora, Satna and Madhubani. Against the ten-day version at most places, the Ramlila at Ramnagar is an elaborate, protracted affair, and takes 30 to 31 days to tell. The folk narration is done by gaslight and without microphones. The crowds range from a few thousands to over a lakh on different days.
Patronised by the Royal Family of Varanasi, the Ramlila here is an extraordinary example of site-specific or environmental theatre. The 5 sq km of Ramnagar town are designated to be various locations: Ayodhya, Janakpur, Lanka and so on, and the performance shifts between these locations, sometimes moving to as many as three locations in a day.
Ramnagar’s Ramlila
“Chup 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 and their motivations, keenly anticipating the unfolding of a story they’ve been told and told again since childhood. That is the Ramilia at Ramnagar.
It was chance that my visit to Kashi coincided with the 31-day, elaborately-told Ramlila that unfolds here each year. I had heard so much about this spectacle, and although I’d seen performances in Delhi, it is understood that haven’t seen the lila till you’ve seen ‘Ramnagar ki Ramlila’. I dearly wanted to go, but I was a solo woman traveller... Ramnagar is 12km away and across the river... how would I go, would I be able to muscle my way through crowds, and if the lila ended late, how was I to get back? My hosts put me in the care of Shuklaji, automan and local guide, who would take me there, orient me and bring me back. It was perfect!
But the morning of the day brought worrying news. The previous day’s performance had been cancelled much to the consternation and disappointment of the thousands who had gathered –a thing that had never happened for as long as anyone can remember. Four of the five ‘swaroops’ – the children who don the five primary characters of Ram, Sita, Lakshman, Bharat and Shatrughna – were down with gasteroenteritis. They were in hospital, the newspapers said, and expected to recover by the evening, in time for the next performance.
So we went. We were early, and I had time to wander about the Ramnagar fort and palace-grounds for a while. As I made my way back, elephants were being brought around to the entrance. Kashi Naresh, the nominal ruler of Varanasi, is the patron of the Ramlila and takes close interest in it. In fact, the Ramlila here was started by his ancestor Udit Narayan Singh around 1830 and further honed by Maharaja Ishwari Prasad Narayan Singh, who ruled 1857–1889. He not only took the Ramlila out of the palace-fort into the main town but also commissioned scholars to compose dialogue in Awadhi. Even today, the selection and casting of actors for the main parts is done by the king, and the actors are chosen based on their fluency in Sanskrit, diction and throw. He also provides provisions and upkeep for the thousands of sadhus who come to see the Ramlila each year. Naturally, Kashi Naresh Anant Narayan Singh would be attending the festivities and it was just a matter of time before he and his family set out for the performance.
We trundled off deeper into the dusty town of Ramnagar, and I saw the various locations: here, the site for Ayodhya, over there, Lanka. Today was supposed to be the ‘Dhanush Yagya’, a thrilling episode where Rama strings the bow that wins him the hand of Sita but alas, with the previous day’s cancellation, the program has been rearranged. But Shuklaji consoles me: the ‘Asht Sakhi Samvaad’ or the ‘Conversation Amongst Eight Women’ and ‘Phulwari’, the garden scene where Sita first lays eyes on Rama are highly prized too! The women particularly flock on this day, I learn.
We settle into the front rows and the crowd slowly swells. Mats and sacks are laid out, some bring foldable chairs, and some, with great foresight, carry steel dabbas, which do double duty for snacks and a low stool! I also lay out the felt ‘aasan’ I’ve brought for the purpose. (This was a recent acquisition at a charming shop near Dashashwamedh Ghat – a mat woven with kusha grass and this bright-red fabric for Rs 25.) 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 wash out again. “We came yesterday as well,” Tulsiji, next to me, says, “I live near the fort but many walk hours to get here. Nirash ho gaye... everyone was disappointed!”
Thankfully, it’s only a 3-hour delay. I saunter around, eating jalebis dipped in jaggery (a delicacy that’s only served during the lila), sample some excellent revdi and buy a cone-packet of makhana. The Ramlila is famous for ‘niyamis’ – these are regulars who ceremonially attend every day of the lila. I get to be on the sidelines of a pageant of what Shuklaji calls their “aan, baan, shaan”, in other words, their pomp and splendour. Typically the niyamis first take a ritual dip in the waters, wear new clothes (usually blazing white) and walk with what’s almost a swagger. I see an array of forehead markings indicating clan, or Saivite/Vaishnavite orientation. One point of pride are the staffs that they carry – ornate, worked wood with inlay and handles of silver and gold.
In yet another piquant practice, the niyamis come armed with bottles of ittar, and it is customary to smear your friends and 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 met a friend and my heart leaped for joy when the man we encountered brandished a small sheesha of perfume. I was honoured with a dab – it turned out to be an ambergris-based flavour that I revelled in all evening.
“Has the Maharaja come?” I ask. “Arre, madamji,” Shuklaji says scornfully, “Agar aaye hotey toh ’Har, Har, Mahadev!’ ka aisa gagan-bhedi utkrosh hota ke aapko pata chal jaata!” Had he arrived, cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ would’ve pierced the skies! Informed of the delay, the king has delayed his own departure.
Finally, he arrives, and so do the swaroops: Ram-Lakshman are bedecked with sequins, sparkling stones and heavy crowns. 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 look regal and impassive as they walk through the crowds, both real and theatrical. All the swaroops, even female parts, are played by boys under the age of 16. In fact, all parts in the lila are played by men. In recent years, the character of Soorpanaka alone has been enacted by a woman, I read later.
On stage, the eight women (young men in women’s garb) hold forth, exclaiming over the beauty and grace of the two young men from Ayodhya, wanting one of them to wed their princess. Interestingly, although the actors broadly know their parts, each line is prompted by Vyasji, the director of the performance. 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 then pick up each line, declaiming them in a curious sing-song fashion. leaving room for the prompts. To one side, below the platform, the swaroops sit, poised and phlegmatic. The villagers attending them fan them continuously. It is 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 onwards, when they’re cast into 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 amongst themselves, the Ram-swaroop gets all the respect due to the oldest brother.
Now, the scene shifts and we all make our way to an antiquated Gomteshwar temple some distance away. We hunker down around the temple precincts and Shuklaji finds me a spot that lets me see, without craning my neck, both the shrine and the made-up ‘garden’ outside, where the romantic encounter takes place. In the audience, Kashi Naresh sits in a prime spot, unimposing but upright, his white kurta and cap gleaming in the falling light. Finally ‘Janaknandini’ Sita arrives on a palanquin. There are exclamations of delight, and everyone cranes to get a better look... she is clad in red, in contrast to the four brothers who always don yellow. Her bearers shoo crowds out of the way, and the dedicated light man replenishes his ‘mashal’ or torch constantly with kerosene from a quaint, old-fashioned dispenser.
Sita and her companions make their way up the temple steps. I come to realise that time takes on quite a different meaning in rural India. The assembled crowd took the three-hour delay completely in its stride. Shuklaji informs me that every day, the performance, which begins at 5pm takes a flexible break at dusk, so that everyone – from the Maharaja to the performers – can do their ritual sandhya vandan. 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.
The Ramlila is punctuated by singing from the Ram Charit Manas by Ramayanis, a group of twelve men who narrate the story in verse. This is followed by the actors who then perform the re-enactment. The Ramayanis finish their verse and the samvaad begins. Ram and Sita meet in the garden, and there is a flare of attraction. Each hopes they are meant to be together. In the rapt audience, mobile rings are frowned upon, chatter is sternly shushed. Some just read the Manas by LED light, following events their own way.
An hour more, and it is done. The swaroops stand for the final aarti, a white firecracker is set off to indicate finis. Within ten minutes, the entire crowd disperses. Till the next day, when Shri Ram will string the Shiv Dhanush and win his bride.
When I came back, I absolutely had to write about one aspect, my last evening in Varanasi, when I went to the famous Ramlila of Ramnagar. It was an immersive experience that delighted me on every level. I have been day-dreaming about going back to Kashi at this time next year, negotiate some reasonable long-term lodgings and stay for the whole month. Wander around the city in the mornings... see the 56 Vinayakas, the Nava Durgas, the Panch Kroshi temples, the secret underground temples, the eight Bhairavas, the 12 Adityas... everything! In the evenings, I would head to Ramnagar to see the lila.
Today, as I write, the Ramlila is playing out its last day in Ramnagar. At this moment, perhaps the swaroops and other primary characters are in the palace-fort, being given a hospitable meal by Kashi Naresh, receiving their dakshina from him, before leaving the palace on adorned elephants.
I wrote about it, and the piece appeared in The Hindu’s Sunday Magazine earlier this week. This is a longer, more detailed version of that piece.
======
Ramlila, the dramatic folk re-enactment of the life of Rama is conducted across North India during the Dussehra. The entire culture has been designated an intangible heritage by UNESCO, and the most notable traditions are those observed annually at Ayodhya, Ramnagar and Varanasi, Vrindavan, Almora, Satna and Madhubani. Against the ten-day version at most places, the Ramlila at Ramnagar is an elaborate, protracted affair, and takes 30 to 31 days to tell. The folk narration is done by gaslight and without microphones. The crowds range from a few thousands to over a lakh on different days.
Patronised by the Royal Family of Varanasi, the Ramlila here is an extraordinary example of site-specific or environmental theatre. The 5 sq km of Ramnagar town are designated to be various locations: Ayodhya, Janakpur, Lanka and so on, and the performance shifts between these locations, sometimes moving to as many as three locations in a day.
Ramnagar’s Ramlila
“Chup 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 and their motivations, keenly anticipating the unfolding of a story they’ve been told and told again since childhood. That is the Ramilia at Ramnagar.
It was chance that my visit to Kashi coincided with the 31-day, elaborately-told Ramlila that unfolds here each year. I had heard so much about this spectacle, and although I’d seen performances in Delhi, it is understood that haven’t seen the lila till you’ve seen ‘Ramnagar ki Ramlila’. I dearly wanted to go, but I was a solo woman traveller... Ramnagar is 12km away and across the river... how would I go, would I be able to muscle my way through crowds, and if the lila ended late, how was I to get back? My hosts put me in the care of Shuklaji, automan and local guide, who would take me there, orient me and bring me back. It was perfect!
But the morning of the day brought worrying news. The previous day’s performance had been cancelled much to the consternation and disappointment of the thousands who had gathered –a thing that had never happened for as long as anyone can remember. Four of the five ‘swaroops’ – the children who don the five primary characters of Ram, Sita, Lakshman, Bharat and Shatrughna – were down with gasteroenteritis. They were in hospital, the newspapers said, and expected to recover by the evening, in time for the next performance.
So we went. We were early, and I had time to wander about the Ramnagar fort and palace-grounds for a while. As I made my way back, elephants were being brought around to the entrance. Kashi Naresh, the nominal ruler of Varanasi, is the patron of the Ramlila and takes close interest in it. In fact, the Ramlila here was started by his ancestor Udit Narayan Singh around 1830 and further honed by Maharaja Ishwari Prasad Narayan Singh, who ruled 1857–1889. He not only took the Ramlila out of the palace-fort into the main town but also commissioned scholars to compose dialogue in Awadhi. Even today, the selection and casting of actors for the main parts is done by the king, and the actors are chosen based on their fluency in Sanskrit, diction and throw. He also provides provisions and upkeep for the thousands of sadhus who come to see the Ramlila each year. Naturally, Kashi Naresh Anant Narayan Singh would be attending the festivities and it was just a matter of time before he and his family set out for the performance.
We trundled off deeper into the dusty town of Ramnagar, and I saw the various locations: here, the site for Ayodhya, over there, Lanka. Today was supposed to be the ‘Dhanush Yagya’, a thrilling episode where Rama strings the bow that wins him the hand of Sita but alas, with the previous day’s cancellation, the program has been rearranged. But Shuklaji consoles me: the ‘Asht Sakhi Samvaad’ or the ‘Conversation Amongst Eight Women’ and ‘Phulwari’, the garden scene where Sita first lays eyes on Rama are highly prized too! The women particularly flock on this day, I learn.
 |
| Bhajans by the roadside |
We settle into the front rows and the crowd slowly swells. Mats and sacks are laid out, some bring foldable chairs, and some, with great foresight, carry steel dabbas, which do double duty for snacks and a low stool! I also lay out the felt ‘aasan’ I’ve brought for the purpose. (This was a recent acquisition at a charming shop near Dashashwamedh Ghat – a mat woven with kusha grass and this bright-red fabric for Rs 25.) 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 wash out again. “We came yesterday as well,” Tulsiji, next to me, says, “I live near the fort but many walk hours to get here. Nirash ho gaye... everyone was disappointed!”
Thankfully, it’s only a 3-hour delay. I saunter around, eating jalebis dipped in jaggery (a delicacy that’s only served during the lila), sample some excellent revdi and buy a cone-packet of makhana. The Ramlila is famous for ‘niyamis’ – these are regulars who ceremonially attend every day of the lila. I get to be on the sidelines of a pageant of what Shuklaji calls their “aan, baan, shaan”, in other words, their pomp and splendour. Typically the niyamis first take a ritual dip in the waters, wear new clothes (usually blazing white) and walk with what’s almost a swagger. I see an array of forehead markings indicating clan, or Saivite/Vaishnavite orientation. One point of pride are the staffs that they carry – ornate, worked wood with inlay and handles of silver and gold.
 |
| The elders wait for the programme to start |
 |
| Staffs of many impressive kinds |
In yet another piquant practice, the niyamis come armed with bottles of ittar, and it is customary to smear your friends and 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 met a friend and my heart leaped for joy when the man we encountered brandished a small sheesha of perfume. I was honoured with a dab – it turned out to be an ambergris-based flavour that I revelled in all evening.
“Has the Maharaja come?” I ask. “Arre, madamji,” Shuklaji says scornfully, “Agar aaye hotey toh ’Har, Har, Mahadev!’ ka aisa gagan-bhedi utkrosh hota ke aapko pata chal jaata!” Had he arrived, cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ would’ve pierced the skies! Informed of the delay, the king has delayed his own departure.
Finally, he arrives, and so do the swaroops: Ram-Lakshman are bedecked with sequins, sparkling stones and heavy crowns. 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 look regal and impassive as they walk through the crowds, both real and theatrical. All the swaroops, even female parts, are played by boys under the age of 16. In fact, all parts in the lila are played by men. In recent years, the character of Soorpanaka alone has been enacted by a woman, I read later.
 |
| Two of the sakhis in conversation |
 |
| The swaroops |
On stage, the eight women (young men in women’s garb) hold forth, exclaiming over the beauty and grace of the two young men from Ayodhya, wanting one of them to wed their princess. Interestingly, although the actors broadly know their parts, each line is prompted by Vyasji, the director of the performance. 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 then pick up each line, declaiming them in a curious sing-song fashion. leaving room for the prompts. To one side, below the platform, the swaroops sit, poised and phlegmatic. The villagers attending them fan them continuously. It is 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 onwards, when they’re cast into 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 amongst themselves, the Ram-swaroop gets all the respect due to the oldest brother.
Now, the scene shifts and we all make our way to an antiquated Gomteshwar temple some distance away. We hunker down around the temple precincts and Shuklaji finds me a spot that lets me see, without craning my neck, both the shrine and the made-up ‘garden’ outside, where the romantic encounter takes place. In the audience, Kashi Naresh sits in a prime spot, unimposing but upright, his white kurta and cap gleaming in the falling light. Finally ‘Janaknandini’ Sita arrives on a palanquin. There are exclamations of delight, and everyone cranes to get a better look... she is clad in red, in contrast to the four brothers who always don yellow. Her bearers shoo crowds out of the way, and the dedicated light man replenishes his ‘mashal’ or torch constantly with kerosene from a quaint, old-fashioned dispenser.
 |
| The Gomteshwar mandir which serves as the backdrop for Phulwari |
The Ramlila is punctuated by singing from the Ram Charit Manas by Ramayanis, a group of twelve men who narrate the story in verse. This is followed by the actors who then perform the re-enactment. The Ramayanis finish their verse and the samvaad begins. Ram and Sita meet in the garden, and there is a flare of attraction. Each hopes they are meant to be together. In the rapt audience, mobile rings are frowned upon, chatter is sternly shushed. Some just read the Manas by LED light, following events their own way.
An hour more, and it is done. The swaroops stand for the final aarti, a white firecracker is set off to indicate finis. Within ten minutes, the entire crowd disperses. Till the next day, when Shri Ram will string the Shiv Dhanush and win his bride.
