Guest post by VANI SUBRAMANIAN

21 January 2024

My dearest Amma,

I’m relieved that you aren’t around these days. But I miss the sort of discussions we would have had if you were. Hence this letter, this sort of talking to you, this helpless and possibly meaningless, speaking into the ether because some things must just be said, remembered, felt, resisted, and held on to, even if everything around is telling you to move on, to get into the spirit of things and join the festivities, as it were.

I remember your reaction when you first saw my documentary film, Ayodhya Gatha. ‘Did you have to make our arguments about religion so public? If you get any recognition for this film, remember it’s thanks to me – like all your debating prizes!’ you said, loud enough for all to hear, both embarrassed and proud at the same time. We had a good laugh and a hug together. But in truth, over the years, religion was a topic on which we went from heated, impassioned arguments to considered, more careful discussions. You, tip toeing around my atheism (and asserting that deep down inside I was a believer) and me trying to be sensitive around your faith, even as we talked a lot about everything that’s been happening over the last four decades in the name of that religion.

Your inner conflicts were inevitable, I guess. You were a devout believer, but in much more than Hinduism. You found a deep resonance with Sikhism and Christianity, but for reasons both self-evident and inexplicable, Islam lay outside your realm of acceptance. But when it came to people, you didn’t make such distinctions. Neither did you make exception for violence that took place in the name of any religion either. Least of all yours.

6 December 1992. We had heard via BBC radio about the demolition of the Babri Masjid and rushed over to your place to see the TV coverage. I had never seen you or Appa so shaken. ‘It’s wrong, it’s just wrong’ both of you kept saying. ‘How can they do this to someone’s place of faith.’ And let’s face it, as children of the Partition and the no-longer-such-a-young-nation-in-1992, you had seen your fair share of violence in the name of all religions. But this was totally beyond your comprehension, outside your limits of acceptance. ‘It may have happened in another era, but it cannot happen in these times. This is not how you deal with the past!’ Then on 1 January 1993, when I was going to the Sahmat programme at Mandi House, you both decided to join me. I was so proud to be your daughter that day. Most of my friends couldn’t imagine being at such an event with theirs.

As violence erupted post the Babri masjid demolition in various parts of the country, and we, young secularists, were out all over Delhi, wall painting and pasting stickers against the hate and killings, I remember Appa saying, ‘Take the car, do what you have to do but be careful and don’t get arrested.’ And we did. Driving around the city in the cold foggy nights, meeting policemen angry at our actions but not at what had happened, meeting others rejoicing in their ‘mandir wahin banayenge’ moment, being confronted by young men claiming to be karsevaks who’d played their part in bringing down the masjid. ‘Come home, we’ll show you pieces of it we’ve brought back,’ they proudly declared.

On 9 November 2019, just two weeks before you passed away, the Supreme Court ruled that while it was wrong to demolish the mosque, the disputed land in Ayodhya was to be used to build the Ram Janmabhoomi temple, and an alternative patch of land given to build a mosque in place of the demolished masjid. Not one word about accountability for the demolition, the lives lost, the Muslim community (and consequently, Christians and Dalits) terrorised, the Hindutva brigade emboldened to continue their violent sprees in full public view. And now their government (it really isn’t everyone’s government, despite all the platitudes and PR), speeding through like juggernaut, marauding its way through the very foundations of decency, equality, justice, law and order, constitutional values, as well as the secular history and fabric of what remains in India. But by then you were too ill for us to discuss all this.

I write to you today, just before I turn 59, because I find myself wondering how you would have dealt with what’s happening all around. The ‘nation’ is apparently celebrating Diwali because Ram has ‘returned’ to Ayodhya. The temple, estimated to cost in the region ₹1,800 crore is set for a ‘pran pratishthan,’ a consecration, by none less than our elected leader, who apparently, is also now the self-appointed religious leader of the nation. Not only are he and the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh on every hoarding and poster of the temple opening, but he will also be leading the consecration ceremony for which he has been ‘preparing’ for the last 11 days by visiting Ram temples across the country. Obviously then, he doesn’t have the time to visit Manipur that’s been burning for over 8 months now, or address growing unemployment, outrageous disparities between the rich and the poor, increasing violence against women, or so much else that we think a government should be engaging with.

But this is not just about them, it’s about us. Orange flags bearing Jai Shri Ram are flying at every crossing, colony, and marketplace in town after town, city after city. Half and full day holidays have been declared tomorrow in many states, as well as by ‘reputed’ hospitals like All India Institute of Medical Sciences and Ram Manohar Lohia Hospital (luckily the last two just withdrew that order). Neighbourhood processions are chanting ‘Mere Ram aa gaye.’ School children are practicing dance and song routines, and there are door to door campaigns about the rituals all good Hindus should complete by tomorrow (I wish they’d bothered to go door-to-door during the Covid 19 pandemic, but that’s another nightmare you escaped, Amma.) The crazy is everywhere you turn.

Today, it feels like all the bets are off for anything to get better anytime soon here. And I know how much you would have been troubled with this pre-election majoritarian circus we’re all being forced to witness. You would have been dealing with your own conflict at being a Ram believer, but not wanting this to be the way to live that faith. And your spiritual and moral compass would also have isolated you from many of your friends who have been waiting long and impatient, for this moment. I’m relieved you’ve been spared all this, Amma. I’m glad you are anywhere but here.

Much love, and I wish I could give you just one more hug.

Vani