There she's twirling around in her bright yellow ghagra-choli. Her eyes closed, thick black curls kissing her cheeks as she clangs the tiny cymbals in her podgy, little hands. She half-opens an eye to peer if someone's watching her from the crowd. There aren't many gathered for the evening aarti and kirtan though, for it's a modest temple. Ramlalji, long hair tied in a ponytail, his flowing beard tremulous as he sings 'Main to yahan ki maalin hoon, koi phulwa le lo [I am the gardener's girl here, will someone buy my flowers]...' A long, thin line of vermilion runs up the centre of his brow. His voice soaked in betel juice, wrinkled fingers twinkling on the harmonium, the Pied Piper of Hanumat Niwas temple in Golaghat is playing. Everyone sways, eyes shut, to his tune. The little girl continues to dance, her feet pattering on the temple floor. Perhaps her fond parents have opened their eyes to see if their child has begun to keep time with the music or if she goes on with her artless performance. She does, and without a care. She is in Ayodhya, her second home. Ayodhya which is unconquerable, invincible. They are here on a holiday, staying in a house across the temple. Close by, as one takes a right turn from Hanumat Niwas, is the main bazaar called the Shringar Haat. Hindu and Muslim shopkeepers vend their goods together, their bright, well-lit kiosks calling the attention of happy, local buyers. The little girl, now flanked by her mother and father, moves towards the Saryu, which is on the left side of the bazaar road. There is granny as well, in her virgin-white, starched sari, pallu covering her neat, thinning hairline, a full-sleeved blouse with pockets on either side and a pair of Gandhi glasses making her look sterner than she really is. She looks happy today. They all are. It's Lord Ram's place -- bhagwan ka sthan. She beams at her grandchild. That is why they travel to the town as often as they can. The Howrah Mail takes about 15 hours to reach Lucknow from Amritsar where they hire a taxi to Ayodhya via Faizabad. Three hours plus, a bumpy ride and they are there. A small rest and they head for a dip in the placid and beautiful Saryu that murmurs timeless tales. It's been like this for as long as the little girl can remember. Granny, like all the grannies of the world, loves to tell a story. People go to Prayag to wash their sins in the Ganga. But on Ram Navmi, Prayag comes to wash its sins in the Saryu, she drones. The little girl giggles. Granny is kidding, isn't she father, she asks. Father is humming one of his favourite poems. Bula lo Awadh mein mujhe Ram Raghav, Basa lo Awadh mein mujhe Ram Raghav [Call me to Ayodhya O Rama, Give me a place in your Ayodhya O Rama]...' The hum blends with the whispering wind as their feet take them to Nageshwarnath temple, an encomium to Shiva. At the other end, towards Faizabad, is Tulsi Chowra, a small garden showing off an unusually muscular Tulasidas standing in stone. But granny's favourite haunts are Hanumat Garhi and Kanak Bhavan. The little girl darts up the long flight of stairs leading to the Hanuman temple. It is ancient, overlooking some glorious ruins. Her mother gestures to her to fold her hands and bow to the mighty monkey-god. They are simple people that come here, father says as they walk back. The building is falling to pieces, but their faith never falters... such is the strength of simplicity and he smiles down at his daughter. Muslims -- there is a considerable number -- own shops in the neighbourhood and they seem happy, at home... like everyone else. The little girl hasn't heard of the Ram Janmabhumi controversy. She's having a ball and is excited about seeing Sitaji ki rasoi just next to the Janmabhumi. Did Sita really cook here, father... but she was a queen, and didn't she have servants to do the cooking for her? The incessant, innocent prattle goes on. They stand in front of Kanak Bhavan, the Palace of Gold. The girl is a little disappointed. She had imagined it to be a magnificent building of real gold. The Golden Temple and Durgyana Mandir back home in Amritsar are more beautiful, she thinks. Inside the Kanak Bhavan, the sight of Ram-Sita-Lakshaman sitting on a silver throne returns the smile on her lips. Queen Kaikeyi gifted the palace to Rama and Vikramaditya is said to have reconstructed it in its present form, father recounts the lore of yore... The little girl's fantasy has frozen in a quarter century. Ayodhya in its present form is the new Tower of Babble. Pettifogging politicians, bickering bureaucrats, cunning historians have laid siege to the town from the left and the right. Cops and curfew haunt the new Ayodhya. Polemic passes off as prayer, with history-sheeters chanting it. Granny has passed away. And Ramlal's song lulled, perhaps forever. But the little girl is around. This time, they tell her another story. Ayodhya isn't Ram's land at all. She can argue because she isn't little anymore. She doesn't. Instead she smiles wistfully at those days of innocence, when she twirled in her bright yellow ghagra-choli without a care. Indeed this Ayodhya sounds very different from the town of her infancy. She fears Saryu's stories may go down in this mad riptide. Will Prayag muster its dreams and hopes to come once again to Ayodhya's river this Ram Navmi? Will someone dance to 'Main to yahan ki maalin hoon... again? The little girl isn't giggling this time. She has grown up. Click to read another diary from Bhavana Pankaj. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture!   Write a Diary!
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