Gandhi in Ayodhya

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.

PS. Written for In[di]spire Edition 275: #GandhiReturns