It is sheer
coincidence that three
Muslims are being beaten up at Seoni in Madhya Pradesh when I run into Gandhi
on the bank of the Sarayu at no other place than Ayodhya, the birthplace of
Gandhi’s beloved deity. I thrust my phone into my pocket and stare at Bapu. He
smiles at me. The smile is warped as if it is prised out forcefully from a
heart that actually wants to weep.
“The Sarayu is
a river of sorrows,” he says as he gestures to me to sit down beside him on a
step of the ghat. The river reeks of filth more than sorrow. But I decide to
say nothing. I wish to listen to the Mahatma. Or just sit beside him feeling
his silence within my being.
“Hey, Ram!” He
says softly with a sigh.
I wish to ask
him if Ram is there in the same place as Bapu, wherever that is. Do they meet
and talk? What about others like Krishna and Jesus and Muhammad? Do they all
live in the same place or have they divided that place on religious lines? I
can’t bring myself to ask anything of the sort. I look at the profile view of
the Mahatma as he sits staring at the vacuum where once stood a Masjid. A Mandir
will soon rise in the vacuum in yet another instance of history trying to
avenge a past mistake. Or an alleged mistake.
“I wish I had
Nehru’s sense of humour,” Bapu says still looking at the Sarayu, at something that
was floating in the putrid water, something that looked like a corpse. “‘Bapu
ji,’ Nehru told me the other day, ‘they killed you only once. I’m being killed
again and again on a daily basis now. Killing me again and again has become the
national pastime in that country.’ And Nehru laughed and turned to Jinnah saying,
‘They don’t hate you as much, lucky chap.’ Jinnah took a gulp of his favourite
Jannat whisky and said, ‘You deserve it, man. Both of you were naive to imagine
a single sickular nation of diverse religions and cultures and languages and
what not.’ He said sickular, you
know?” Bapu looks at me and I just nod gently not knowing what to say or do. I
can’t bring myself to smile though I find Muhammad Ali Jinnah’s poaching on the
Hindutva lexicon-turf quite funny.
“Was I wrong
to advocate a unified nation of diverse beliefs and cultures?” Bapu asks looking
at the floating corpse-like object in the Sarayu.
“Divisiveness
is useful to create power blocs,” I venture trying to sound intelligent.
“Jinnah will
share his Jannat with you if he hears that,” Bapu says. “He usually doesn’t
share it with anyone except Jesus.”
“Jesus!” I
gasp. “You mean you’re all together there in that place?”
Bapu turns to
me and laughs lightly. “Do you think there is religion in heaven?” His smile appears
naughty.
I imagine
Hitler and Elie Wiesel raising a toast to each other at a dining table. My
phone rang just then. The call is shelved to the top corner of the phone by the
Internet screen which I had not closed when I ran into the Mahatma at the ghat.
The image of the three young men at Seoni being lashed by the guardians of the
trending nationalist morality begins to loom large between the wine cups of Hitler
and Elie Wiesel. I answer the call ignoring Hitler, Wiesel and their cheers.
When the call is over, I look at where Bapu had been sitting. In his place now sits
the corpse that was floating in the Sarayu. The corpse gives me a faceless
grin. The grin has a religion, I sense.
We will respect him, garland him, deify him; but will kill him again and again even if we meet him in our dreams.
ReplyDeleteIndeed.
DeleteSo Gandhi has not changed at all in your post... I thought a few decades of remaining embroiled in the politics of the Gods he would have become wiser. Anyway. :)
ReplyDeleteWorldly wisdom is of no use in paradise! 😛
Delete