The story of Ram and Laxman

Last week, the Allahabad High Court delivered a judgment whose implications both intellectuals and people are still working out. This concerned what was to be done with a disputed 2.77 acre piece of land at Ayodhya on which the Babri Masjid stood till December 1992.

The court made a critical point at the very beginning: it dismissed petitions by two of the parties concerned (the Sunni Waqf Board and the Nirmohi Akhara) on the grounds that they were time-barred. It then played mediator, keeping in mind the rights of the infant Ram, on whose behalf the third party in the case was pleading; and the faith of Ram Lalla’s followers. It split the land into three parts. The part right under the central dome of the razed mosque was now the undisputed (according to this court) property of Ram Lalla and his faithful.

The day the judgment came, September 30, India was in shutdown mode. Everybody was advising restraint. Everybody was going home.

But what else can happen when the majority wins the rights of a revered minor?

I was in a village in Rajasthan, sitting with Dallu Khan in a single-home, (his) hamlet in Keraliya, Jaisalmer.

He was telling me about his son’s unusual profession (his boy trains and tends to racing camels in the Gulf) when Mushtaq, a young friend of mine from the village, brought the Ayodhya topic up.

Dallu Khan does not have a TV, nor does he read. His current affairs were a day or two late, but sound.

“Mandir masjid mein jeeto kaun?” he asked Mushtaq.

“Mandir jeeto”, said Mushtaq evenly.

*******

This is a digression I could not resist. India’s one-wicket win against Australia in the Mohali Test is causing an epidemic of pulled pectorals here, from slapping ourselves vigorously on the back. (I think I have one too...)

But this is about the man at the centre of it: V V S Laxman. When Australia plays Laxman, it thinks it can win, but generally loses. Shane Warne was reduced to making faces at him after a day and a half of trying to get him out in Kolkata in 2001. (281, following on.)

But my memories of Laxman go back a couple of years further. I saw Laxman close up for the first time in a hotel room in Kolkata in February 1999. This was during a memorable game against Pakistan.

He was sharing a room with the cricketer I had gone to interview. And through the hour or so that we were there, Laxman remained in this fetus position on his single bed. Facing away, constantly chanting something under his breath, referring to a piece of paper with some handwritten Dravidian text on it as if to ensure he was mumbling what he was, correctly.

He had scored five in the first innings. Bowled Shoaib Akhtar. He didn’t see it. Wasim Akram laughed as he ran towards Shoaib to celebrate, gesturing that the batsman was blind. Laxman now had his seventh score under 50 in consecutive innings, of which he hadn’t reached double figures in four. He didn’t have a Test hundred to his name. His next hit for India might well have been his last. He was a wreck.

And I thought, when will this guy stop praying and start playing? Well he did, right after. A 67 in the second innings wasn’t enough to save India the Test, but Laxman had worked something out in that beautifully still head of his: the lips should not move in desperation, while batting, or otherwise. There was a calm about that 67 that has since become a signature.

Which is why it was even more fun to see it disturbed. During the match-winning 73 not out in Mohali, batting with a plucky, but not very competent no. 11, Laxman lost it when Pragyan Ojha didn’t run when he was supposed to. “Ojheeey! B******! Bhaag!”

This was not part of the Dravidian text mentioned earlier. It was just poetry, says the expert lip reader I consulted.

Published in The Express Tribune, October 8^th, 2010.