It is assumed that those born in Hindu families, especially families with faith, usually turn out to be believers. The core of their belief is the existence of God. Mostly, they also believe that it is he, who is the actor, director and producer of this universe. And yet, even for them, there are some issues beyond this pale of faith. They are existential. They are about one’s own identity. For such Hindus of faith, the re-construction of Lord Ram’s temple in Ayodhya and the Pran Pratishtha of the deity is not a mere ceremony; it is the Pran Pratishtha of our national identity, of our pride as a nation and of our freedom. And, in that sense, the Ram Mandir is also a Rashtra Mandir.
It was the year 1990. I was barely 17 years old. At the time, the office of the Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP) was very small. The nation was in the throes of the Ayodhya agitation. My responsibility was simple. I had to open the office every morning, register karsevaks throughout the day and go home at night after shutting the office. There was an outpour for registering as a karsevak. Yet, it was planned to send the first batch with only 72. Being a VHP member, the onus of leading the first small group fell on me. Jagdish Gupta (who later became a minister in 1995), Ram Joshi, Halve kaka were part of our group. It was the month of October. It was decided to first head to Allahabad (now Prayagraj) and from there, proceed to Ayodhya under the leadership of Shankaracharya.
Most karsevaks reached Allahabad by train. The police were well-prepared. The moment trains reached the station, more often than not, the karsevaks were apprehended and whisked off to lock-ups. The same fate would have befallen us. We had fallen asleep and it was actually the cops who came into the compartment and woke us up. We were informed that we were being detained. We started pleading with them. Just then, one of the policemen asked us how much money we had. I took out a hundred rupee note from my pocket. The police took it and let us go.
From there, we started walking to the Rastogi Dharamshala. It was an old white-coloured building. Had it been deserted, it could have been a perfect set for a horror film. There, we met karsevaks from other parts of the country. The entire lot was divided into two. One batch would keep watch, while the other slept. Their shift was from 9 pm to 3 am. Then, the other batch would wake up. The then chief minister had threatened, “parinda bhi pair nahi maar sakta” (even a bird will not be able to slip in); hence, this precaution.
After four days of waiting, it was time to end our stay at Allahabad. We left for Ayodhya under the leadership of Shankaracharya. The seer led from the front and various groups trailed behind him. These groups spoke different languages. None understood what the other was saying. Yet, when we met and greeted each other with ‘Jai Shri Ram’, a strong bond was automatically forged. None knew what difficulties awaited us and none cared. Just when we had reached the middle of the bridge on the Yamuna River, police cut us off, swooping upon us from both sides. We were caught on the bridge right in the middle.
They had already readied trucks to haul us to jails. We were virtually packed like sardines into the truck. And yet, the truck did not move. It did not leave the spot even when the day turned into night. Slowly, we left the truck one by one. No one even stopped us. We just moved ahead on the path we could see in the middle of the dark. After trudging along for four or five hours, we finally arrived at a small village after daybreak.
The next seven days saw us leave the main roads, and make our way mostly through fields adjoining towns and villages as we headed towards Ayodhya. Single-minded in our pursuit, we had only one goal – reaching Ayodhya. The atmosphere in the villages was one of religious fervour. In almost every village we crossed, we found Ram Katha or Hanuman Chalisa being read in almost every third house. We would start walking at dawn around 5 am, take the jungle or farm route and stop in some village around 8 am for breakfast. We always found breakfast waiting for us as though planned. These villages were always ready with food, enough to feed at least 70 to 80 karsevaks. We would again start walking till lunch, and take a similar halt around 1 pm.
Once done with the food the village offered us, we would continue walking till dark. Every village was ready to feed us, there was no chance of even refusing their hospitality, if anyone dared to do so, the hurt in their eyes was visible. Their sentiment was clear – you are out to serve Lord Ram, so please accept our service. Sometimes, we ate even if we were not hungry. I especially remember the nights. Wherever we would halt, people would gather. I remember the puffed rice and the green chilli powder. Walking through the jungles, the taste of this simple snack is unforgettable. In fact, I tried getting that particular type of green chilli powder later, but to no avail.
The distance between Allahabad and Ayodhya is only 170 km, but traversing jungles and villages, it was more than double for us. The longer routes were more often than not necessitated so as to not be apprehended. It took us seven days to finally reach Ayodhya. The experience in Ayodhya was completely different to the one in Allahabad.
If we carried our ire against the Allahabad police for taking Rs 100 from us, the cops in Ayodhya washed our anger away with their attitude. They said, “You have come to do Lord Ram’s seva, we will tell you where to hide!” We were dispatched to a sadhu’s math. Now we were so close to our destination. At around noon, the Sadhu asked us whether we were hungry. Our answer was a whopping “yes.” We, who were 78 when we left Amravati, were now only around 40-50. We thought it would take long to cook for so many of us. But a fire was lit and aloo sabji was cooked in a big cauldron while rotis were made on a huge wooden platform. In barely an hour, all of us were lunching, happily. This was our first full meal in seven days and it did away with all the weariness of trudging from Allahabad to Ayodhya.
The second day was spent roaming in Ayodhya. We bathed in the holy Sarayu. And finally, it was October 30. Cocking a snook at the ones who had said “Parinda bhi pair nahi maar sakta”, lakhs had gathered in the sacred Ram Janmabhoomi premises. We were in a building adjacent to this. Sadhvi Ritambhara was moving from building to building, guiding on what was to be done or what was to happen. She also came to our building. She had several boxes of chuna (lime) with her. She told us to smear the lime powder around our eyes. It was supposed to diminish the effect of teargas, in case the police resorted to it.
Outside, we could hear the speeches of Lal Krishna Advani, Murli Manohar Joshi, Uma Bharti and Ashok Singhal. Each of us started leaving for the venue of the meeting. By now, the government and the police were in a state of shock. How had so many managed to reach Ayodhya? How did people reach even though buses and trains had been shut down? These questions plagued them. Just then, there was news of Ashok Singhal being hurt and the crowds became restive. Suddenly, police resorted to bursting tear gas shells. Firing was also heard.
Through all this, the voice of Sadhvi Ritambhara continued to reassure people. “Darna nahin hai” (do not fear), we could hear her say. All those present there were prepared to lay down their lives in this fight for securing and consecrating our national identity. There was not just nationalism but also ‘Ramaism’ in those present there. Of course, the scales were tilted a little more favourably for nationalism. Everyone wanted to wipe out the mentality of slavery, nay, destroy it.
Unfortunately, many karsevaks lost their lives. Even though the then Uttar Pradesh government pegged the loss at 50, we saw hundreds with our own eyes. Dead bodies were being taken away in trucks, away from the eyes of the media.
When I left home, I had carried with me a pair of jeans and a blue shirt. After this incident, the next day, one picture was carried by newspapers across the country. The face of the deceased was not clear, but he wore jeans and a blue shirt. This was before the time of the mobile phone. Until I reached home, there was no way for my family to know that I was safe. We started back after another two or three days. On our return, the fanfare and euphoria which accompanied our welcome was like a battle won. It is now 33 years since. Yet today, the memories have surfaced.
I am almost reliving those moments. There are many stories of that time stored in the recesses of both my mind and heart. Yet, as material evidence, I have laminated and kept a newspaper from Ayodhya of the following day. It is, maybe, my love for journalism which has made me treasure it. I pride myself on having been part of this battle for the Rashtra Mandir. And today, there is a sense of fulfillment, of having won it.
The author is a former journalist and then Media Advisor to DCM Devendra Fadnavis since the last 10 years. Views expressed in the above piece are personal and solely that of the author. They do not necessarily reflect News18’s views.
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