Amid celebrations of a grave injustice, many will be reminded of nights spent in terror and haunted by the knowledge that Ayodhya won’t be the last instance of righting the imagined wrongs of history
The Ram Temple in Ayodhya, Uttar Pradesh, ahead of its consecration. Pic/PTI
Late philosopher Ramchandra Gandhi, after the Babri Masjid was demolished on December 6, 1992, struggled to articulate the sorrow and significance of the cataclysmic event in Ayodhya. He was immersed in thought on the sun-drenched lawns of Delhi’s India International Centre (ICC), even as I waited to take notes on his perception of whether the demolition reflected a fundamental change in the Indian psyche.
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The philosopher intoned: it was believed Hindus never kill a saint, but they assassinated Mahatma Gandhi; it was believed Hindus never destroy a place of worship, but they have now demolished the Babri Masjid. He became distraught as laughter erupted at a lunch party 200-300 feet away. He said, “Can they be so indifferent to the tragedy that has befallen the nation?”
I was reminded of my conversation with Gandhi on the day Prime Minister Narendra Modi urged people to celebrate Deepawali on January 22, the day the Ram Temple in Ayodhya will be inaugurated. Modi was drawing an obvious parallel: Deepawali marked the return of Lord Ram from exile to which he had been unjustifiably banished, to deny him the throne rightfully his. And now, in 2024, the idol of Ram Lalla will be installed at the spot where he was believed to have been born—and from where a Mughal general was said to have evicted his idol for building the Babri Masjid.
The setting right of this injustice, perpetrated in the 16th century, is no less deserving of the festival of lights, Modi was suggesting.
Yet all the lights of January 22 cannot dispel the shadow of sorrow from falling on the celebration of the Ram Temple. This sorrow will arise from the memory of how an imagined grievance was popularised. But this was what the Archaeological Survey of India found: a good four centuries before the Babri Masjid was constructed, there had existed at its site a non-Islamic structure dating to the 12th century. The reason for the destruction of this structure could not be ascertained, let alone any evidence surfacing that it was destroyed to build the Babri Masjid. Even the remnants of the 12th century structure were not used to construct the Babri Masjid.
The conclusion shone as brightly as Diwali lights: the Mughals did not evict Ram Lalla to build the Babri Masjid. There was, thus, no injustice done to Lord Ram or Hindus. Is it possible to set right an instance of injustice that did not, to begin with, take place?
The Supreme Court, in its judgment on the Ayodhya title dispute, said, “The exclusion of the Muslims from worship and possession [of the Babri Masjid] took place on the intervening night between 22/23 December 1949 when the mosque was desecrated by the installation of Hindu idols. The ouster of the Muslims on that occasion was… through an act which was calculated to deprive them of their place of worship.”
There will be sorrow on January 22 at the thought that the Supreme Court still allowed the Ram Temple to be built at the spot where the Babri Masjid once stood.
It is the consecration of this temple the Prime Minister will grace, a temple built on the land unjustifiably wrested from Muslims. The injustice done to Muslims in 1992 will now be portrayed as the justice for which Hindus waited for centuries. About this fact, those who will celebrate on January 22 will feign ignorance or remain indifferent, as were those at IIC in the winter of 1992. Nor will the media highlight the irony of celebrating injustice as justice on January 22.
But the injustice will be remembered in silence, in sorrow, as many will be reminded of the nights spent in terror during the Ram Janmabhoomi campaign, and about the thousands who died in the riots that broke out following the demolition of the Babri Masjid. Their fear then provided them a glimpse of what it could mean to be second-class citizens.
For one entire day, on January 22, Muslims will experience yet another attribute of second-class citizenship—being excluded from a nationwide celebration. True, they will not join the January 22 rejoicing of their own volition, for to do so would subliminally imply participating in the bonfire of their pride and dignity. They will feel isolated, forlorn and vulnerable.
They might have participated in the jamboree of January 22 had they been sure that Ayodhya would be the last instance of righting the imagined wrongs of history. But they already know there will be soon discovered a non-Islamic structure below the Gyanvapi mosque in Varanasi, as will also be the case with the Shahi Idgah mosque in Mathura at a later date. Already a cry has risen from no one less than the Maharashtra chief minister to ‘liberate’ the Haji Malang dargah that is now claimed to have been a temple.
The sorrow on January 22 will also mourn the future in advance.
For Ramchandra Gandhi, the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi, his grandfather, and the demolition of the Babri Masjid represented the moral fall of Indians. He could have never imagined that the fall would be trumpeted as “freedom from the slave mentality” of the past.
The writer is a senior journalist
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