Nostagic Ramlila and Childhood Days

We grew up looking forward to the autumn when weather became cold and comfortably having wrapped our self in light blankets munching dried fruits and watching Ramlila—local theatre, late night. Reminiscences branches out, like whitish soft grass and well-ripened rows of paddy that grows curvy under the weight of cobs, and catch the gleeful childhood on street. A bunch of colorful embroidered tunics with exaggerated dots of crystal mirror practicing ‘dandiya’ – the stick dance, down the lanes; chirpy sunshine. Hmm…

It reminds me of ‘Ramlila’. Come autumn! By-lanes richly decorated with fluorescent gas pipes on sundown, huge tableaus hit the streets, screeching loud speakers playing the latest songs from Bollywood flicks. Sell of roasted corncobs soar so does lithe bow and broke in every mock fights.

Evenings spent rehearsing “Ram Chandra ki jai’ (the only dialogue we had) and re-enacting the last night episode; sneak at dressing room watching the burly ‘Ravana’ adding extra streak to the mushy brows while ‘Sita’ (a man) coiled-in chair smoking paper roll bidis while the dressmaker tweak her rubber balls stuffed to grow a feminine form. A group of ‘us’ sit cross legged in the foreground applying rich array of face paints (red, blue, green) while soft and loud murmur of audience gurgling on the background go sky-high.

When the curtains rises to hundreds or so spectators to be dazzled by the story they know by heart but still wish to see in Technicolor; memories get afresh of chaos which are key attraction than Ramayana. The gymnast Lakshman famed for his back arch, thumping Ravana with wobbling belly button, and lewd Vibishana overtly swinging his pelvis, and (oh) “flying Hanuman” who was a great disappointment yet star attraction for his somersaults.

A silky smile kissed the corners of my lips – warm, sunny yet honeyed. Alas! Time has changed so does the end of surrealism. Last year, watching the huge effigies of Ravana and his compatriots set to fire I realized the numbers of crackers are less. It doesn’t sound like the childhood days. Hordes of advertisers teamed as sponsors and no more ‘puppy-punju Lalla ji’ showering hundred-rupee note to the juggling breast of Sita. Now, Sita has real breast (and Rama don’t dare to tweak them to put in the overtly tight blouses. I remember the older times and sulk…

Children on street still rehearsing their steps and older folks tanning under the autumn sun look remote. No more lithe bows; its ‘a new time’ and new game. Innocence left me stranded.