Memoir: The Rathyatra of 1992

 

In 1992, a significant event occurred in our village that left an indelible mark on my memory. The Rathyatra from Somnath was set to pass through our village, and the excitement was palpable. For over a month, the entire village had been abuzz with preparations. Men, women, and children lined both sides of the road, their enthusiasm and devotion a sight to behold. The air was filled with chants of "Jai Shree Ram," and flowers were strewn about, transforming the atmosphere into a festive celebration.

As a child, I was swept up in the joy and excitement that enveloped our village. Though I didn't fully understand the significance, I shared in the happiness of those around me. The Rathyatra arrived in our village in the evening, and the day was marked by a sense of unity and shared devotion.

However, the euphoria was short-lived. About a month later, news broke that the disputed structure, known as the Babri Masjid, had been demolished. This event triggered a period of uncertainty and fear that rippled through our community and the entire nation.

I remember a friend who was preparing to sing a devotional song, "Payo Ji Maine Ram Ratan Dhan Payo," for a broadcast on Akashvani. However, the authorities instructed her to replace "Ram" with "Nam." We found this directive absurd and discussed how changing the words of a bhajan simply because of a demolished structure seemed unreasonable.

This incident marked a turning point in our lives. For many of us, it was the last time we felt proud to openly express our Hindu identity. The communal tensions that followed led us to stop wearing traditional symbols like the kalawa on our wrists and Teeka  on our foreheads. We felt compelled to adopt a more secular appearance, even though it conflicted with our true selves.

Reflecting on this time, I realise how profoundly these events influenced my perspective on religion and identity. The Rathyatra of 1992 was not just a journey of a chariot; it was a journey of transformation for me and many others in our village.

BY GEETA BHANWALA