Ayodhya: A Personal Account

The homogenisation of Indian culture and the seizure and erasure of history will only get stronger in times to come

- Sayan Aich Bhowmik

IN 1992, my father had planned a visit to Mumbai, then Bombay, in the first week of December. We were supposed to depart on the day of my birthday, December 7. A few days before the journey, I would see my father being on the phone more than usual, talking at times excitedly, and at times, with a worrying countenance on his face. The snippets of conversation that I could latch onto, told me that he was expecting some kind of trouble. My eight-year-old self was more concerned with the worst of his fears coming true. I had told all my friends that I was on my way to Bombay, and now the prospect of a cancellation of the trip would surely be the most embarrassing thing for the child in his less than a decade lifetime. As with human life, the worst fear had come true. On December 6, just a day before the journey, my father was glued to the television and listening to the radio, while my mother was intermittently packing the suitcases and being on the phone with relatives. The general consensus was to abort the journey and very late at night, maybe less than 12 hours before we were supposed to depart, the trip was called off. I have never managed or got a chance to visit Bombay since then.

AYODHYA HAD NOW BECOME THE BUZZWORD IN EVERY HOUSEHOLD AND EVERY MAJOR CITY WAS ON THE EDGE. A STORM WAS COMING.

But a greater damage had been done. Irrevocably so. The secular fabric of India, sometimes a matter of faith, most times a matter of pride and seldom (until then) a matter of scrutiny, was under the microscope. Ayodhya had now become the buzzword in every household and every major city was on the edge. A storm was coming. Some leaders, like the charismatic Lalu Prasad Yadav, had famously commented that if a government doesn’t want, there will be no riots. His exact words were, “