A muffled shriek woke me up in the middle of the night. I opened my eyes; looked around, trying to grasp what had happened. My vigilant senses could not draw any conclusion. Nothing was out of place. There was no movement; no sound either; just a distant loudspeaker, probably from a Ramleela venue, humming a devotional song. Somewhat confused, after about a minute, I pacified my sensory antennas and tried to go back to sleep. I thought I was hallucinating.

Just then, I heard someone scream my name from across the street. The voice was imbued with pain and agony. “He is someone familiar”, I thought. Almost impulsively, I jumped off the bed and rushed towards the window. All I could see were a few shadows rushing into a narrow alley nearby. I hurried towards the main door but halted abruptly. A sudden realisation of fear struck me. “It isn’t safe outside”, I said to myself. I stood motionless. Intuitively, I knew that something egregiously bad had transpired.

I waited for a while, till I could hear a few voices on the street. I came out and walked slowly towards the small crowd that had gathered around something. My heart sank with every step. I was preparing myself for the worst. I mustered some courage, pushed my way through the crowd and witnessed the unimaginable. It was Gafoor, dressed as Lord Ram, painted blue from head to toe, in full decorative paraphernalia, lying in a pool of blood.

There was no life left in him. He was cold. The dim street light was struggling to reveal the ghastly act. The body bore deep stab wounds with blood oozing out profusely. The knotted hair bun hung on one side, the tilak on the forehead was wiped clean, the garland had broken, the dhoti had come loose and the quiver lay a few meters away. The bow of Ram, however, was clutched tightly in his hand.

It has been over nine years since the incident occurred, yet I have not been able to come to terms with it. The gruesome act has left an indelible scar on my life. A pungent sense of guilt and remorse overcomes me and suffocates my self-esteem at every mention and thought of Gafoor. I detest the coward within me that failed a childhood friend that fateful night. I wish I’d not developed cold feet. I wish I’d been there earlier.

It all started about twenty-five years ago when Gafoor, the only son of a school headmaster, bagged a small role in a local Ramleela. We must have been in the second or third standard. He played the part of a foot soldier in Hanuman’s monkey army. Dressed as a vanara, he carried a small mace and ran around Lord Ram during the climax scene. I was his classmate and confidante. It was obligatory for me to witness his debut performance. I clearly remember the earnestness and excitement with which he performed his unnoticeable part. He looked every bit the soldier monkey that he was portraying. The role, though insignificant, kindled within Gafoor, a love for Ram, Ramleela and Dussehra.

He was enchanted by the magic that unfolds with the onset of Dussehra. The dull and dusty roads come alive with colourful lightings and tasteful decorations. Songs and music substitute the discordant bustle. The fumes from camphor and incense sticks consume the stench from the drains and sewers. Fresh flavours enrich the smell from the eateries.  Simpletons turn ostentatious; gaudy attires replace modest appearances. The town that otherwise sleeps early, starts revelling till the break of dawn.

During the ten days of Dussehra celebrations, Gafoor would transform into a zealous devotee. He would roam from locality to locality participating in various festivities and rituals. His favourite though were the chowkis (tableaux). These moving tableaux, twinkling with decorative bulbs would come from different localities to merge into a large procession on the town’s main street. Actors, in different get-ups, mounted on these tableaux, enacted different scenes from Ramayan and other Indian mythologies. Musical bands, dancing devotees, flags and banners followed each tableau. Gafoor would follow these tableaux for miles, tirelessly.

Once the Dussehra procession ended, he would rush to occupy his vantage point atop a large banyan tree and savour the Ramleela performances at the neighbouring public ground. Though he had seen these performances many times over, he would sit mesmerised and relish every scene like an unsuspecting, first-time viewer. He would turn serious during the scenes depicting Ram’s exile and Sita’s abduction. He would gleefully cheer  Hanuman’s rampage in Lanka and Ram’s victory over Ravan. Often, along with the crowd, he would burst into chants of “Raja Ramchandra ki jai” and sing aloud devotional songs that interspersed the performances.

The Ramleela would go on till the wee hours of the morning, when Gafoor, after many detours and stop-overs, would discreetly sneak into his old, crumbling, Mughal-era house in the Muslim neighbourhood.  Whenever his mother found out about his late night escapades, he would receive a severe spanking that would leave his posterior red and burning. His father, a liberal-minded socialist, however, condoned his transgressions. As for Gafoor, he remained incorrigible. His love for Ram was absolute. He did not let the beliefs of his religion-of-birth interfere with his devotion for Ram. There was no confusion; no conflict. Those ten days of Dussehra were when he lived his life to the fullest.

Gafoor’s fascination with Dussehra took a fortuitous turn when a stroke of serendipity landed him the role of Lord Ram in a tableau act. He accidentally bumped into a panic-stricken tableau organiser who was frantically looking for someone who could play Lord Ram on the tableau that night. Apparently, the lead tableau artist, struck by bouts of diarrhoea, had gone absconding. The tableau organiser, an acquaintance of Gafoor, pleaded him to fill-in. The ever-willing Gafoor, readily obliged.

That night, Gafoor appeared in full grandeur. Painted in blue from head to toe, bare-chested, a yellow dhoti draped neatly around the waist, he walked with a princely gait.  The look was accentuated by painting the lips red, applying kajal around the eyes and putting a white tilak on the forehead. Marigold garlands adorned the neck and arms. The hair was knotted in a tight bun and tied with a string of marigold flowers. A quiver hung behind his back, a bow clutched in his hand,  Gafoor resembled every bit the vanvaasi Ram of our imaginations. 

Gafoor was into the skin of the character he played. Ram’s mannerisms came naturally to him.  He wore a beatific smile and raised his hands to bless the onlookers from time to time. He shared a loving gaze with Sita, his consort. He demonstrated overwhelming brotherly affection when he embraced Laxman. He nodded in acknowledgement as Hanuman knelt before him. He needed no prompts or briefings. He had trained himself for this moment for years.

For the first time Gafoor experienced Dussehra from the other side. Ram on a moving tableau wielded unimaginable power. Dozens bowed down in reverence as he raised his hand to bless. Applause and cheers erupted as he pulled the string of his bow and killed imaginary demons. Devotees chanted, “Bolo Siyavar Ramchandra ki jai”, as he stood up from his embellished throne. Flower petals were showered on him as the procession made way through the narrow by-lanes. The faithful offered food, touched his feet, prostrated and sprinkled holy water all along the way. It was an exhilarating experience for a non-entity like him.

Gafoor’s act, though limited to a few actions, was an instant hit. The conviction and untiring dedication with which he essayed his role received widespread appreciation.  He was offered plum roles by the most prestigious Ramleela and tableaux committees. He had his hands full. From dusk to dawn, he participated in one or the other Dussehra event. He was living his dream. Maybe a bit more than what he had dreamt of.

Gafoor’s elevation was miraculous. Within a span of five days, he rose from being an insignificant entity to being an object of veneration. Ram brought him recognition, dignity and a feeling of fulfilment. He ate with the famous and the powerful. He was hosted by the high and the mighty. He sat in the front rows and received the best of treatments. He savoured every aspect of his exalted social status.

The adorations, however, subsided once Dussehra festival drew to a close.  Gafoor, in his usual attire, lost his divinity. He was ordinary once again. He was so emotionally invested in his fantasy world that he flinched, gasped and cringed like an addict to take on his guise once again. The actor could not get out of his character. Maybe, he did not want to. He could not wait for a full year to assume his celebrated identity. At the slightest of opportunities, he dressed himself as Ram. He was everywhere - religious feasts, holy ablutions, prayer meetings, devotional night vigils.

Soon, dressing as Ram became a daily affair. People too started addressing him as Ramji. He started living an ascetic’s life. He left his home, wandered from place to place, lived on alms and slept in temples. He walked like a stolid prince, clutching his bow in one hand and holding up the other hand in blessing. Sometimes children would run after him and poke fun at him; yet Gafoor never lost his serenity. He was playing Ram; he could not be flippant. People forgot how he actually looked. Gafoor had completely dissolved into Ramji. For six years Gafoor aka Ramji was a common sight in our locality. Then things changed.

Some hotheads from the Muslim and Hindu communities clashed with each other over a trivial property dispute. The incident aroused communal passions on both the sides. Rumours and fabrications further raised tempers. Violent clashes broke out in various parts of the town. Several people were injured; a few of them seriously. Centuries of peace and harmony were shattered in a matter of hours. Police were called in and a curfew was imposed.

I have always wondered how, someone who is born, into a religion that he did not choose, can bay for someone’s blood whose religion is equally incidental. Bigotry turns people into blind amnesiacs. Why else do neighbours turn into sworn enemies overnight? Why else do friends hound each other? Why else are familiarities forgotten so easily?

After a few days, with the efforts of community elders and the administration, the situation slowly limped back to normalcy. People resumed their daily routines but relationships could not be mended. Religious identities trumped all other identities. An uneasy calm pervaded the town as religious acerbity permeated all strata of society. The radicals had had no closure. They were lying low, only waiting to unleash the hatred simmering within them.

Gafoor was an easy target. He bore allegiance to neither of the two communities. A Muslim dressed as a Hindu god is the most vulnerable in times of petty sectarianism. Soon, from an object of devotion, he turned into an object of derision. Extremists from both the communities dubbed his act vile, blasphemous and despicable. Fanatics and chauvinists appointed themselves the protectors of faith. Religious pronouncements were made and sacred oaths were taken to set things right. The jobless found a cause. Every now and then, he was abused, threatened and roughed up.  He was often seen nursing a bleeding nose or tending to a swollen face.

When things started getting out of control, I and a few others, appealed to him to give up his guise. He resisted for days but ultimately yielded under the collective pressure of his well-wishers. It was nothing short of a sacrifice for him; a really massive one. He was inconsolable. When the blue paint came off, the bruise marks became evident. Scars and scratches filled his body. One could only imagine the pain and brutality that he had undergone. Yet he did not seem to care much. He was lamenting the loss of his identity.

The refreshing blue that once stood out, merged into the insipid palette of colours. Gafoor was lost in the crowd. He was again a ‘nobody’. He slipped into depression and withdrew himself from social life. The princely gait weakened into a slow, purposeless walk. The beatific smile changed to a frowned expression. The attention seeker grew disenchanted with the limelight. He was a mass of bones and muscles wandering without a soul.

Just when everyone had given up on Gafoor, the winds cooled down to welcome the festive season. The magical transformations began. It was Dussehra time yet again. Gafoor started healing. The soul returned to reinvigorate the living corpse. The eyes sparkled again, the face re-glistened and the smile reappeared. He was itching to take on his celebrated appearance. However, I coaxed him otherwise, lest he invited trouble. He agreed, only to renege on his promise the following day.

At the Ramleela, Ramayan’s exile act was being performed. Actors were pleading Ram to return. A mesh of loudspeakers carried the earnest appeals to Gafoor. “Hey Ram! Come back”, echoed all over. He could not hold himself back. It was a divine indication for him. His hands moved involuntarily to dress himself as Ram. He stepped out to regain his lost glory.

I saw him at a distance. He was chasing a tableau at the Dussehra procession. Struck by horror, I shouted out his name. He turned back and waved at me. He was smiling from ear to ear. I felt there was a certain radiance around his face, or it was the bright Dussehra lights creating an illusion. He disappeared into the sea of humanity that had emerged to pay obeisance to Lord Ram. That was the last time I saw him alive.

He was murdered on his way to a Ramleela venue. Someone could not reconcile the two seemingly opposing identities within him. Someone’s view of life termed a-religious as sacrilegious. Someone decided that anything incoherent and incomprehensible should be blotted out of existence.

No amount of repentance can wash away my culpability. I failed on two counts. One, despite my uneasiness about Gafoor’s dressing I did not pursue him hard enough. Second, I capitulated to my fear and did not rush to his aid. I thought that bringing Gafoor’s murderers to justice would reduce my guilt. I visited the police station several times. I did my own little investigation. I spoke to all and sundry. No one said anything. Nothing came out of the investigations. Nobody, till date, knows who murdered Gafoor.

After a lot of painstaking efforts, I have concluded, rather despondently, that everyone is an accomplice. Our collective conscience bears the burdensome guilt of nurturing and propagating the religious bitterness that killed Gafoor. Religion might have been conceived to have salubrious effects on society. In reality, the societal malaise has contaminated our religious beliefs. It is inconsequential to know the religion of the murderers. What is consequential, though, is that two religions died in one person that portentous night.