Ramlila of Rampur

Rampur village wore its festive colors once every year, during the ten days of Ramlila, when the small dusty square transformed into a grand stage. Bamboo poles, patched tarpaulin, and fairy lights strung with questionable wiring became the great Ayodhya, Lanka, and forests of Dandakaranya.

Villagers poured in from surrounding hamlets, walking barefoot under the starry October sky, their children trailing behind, clutching the hems of cotton dhotis and bright skirts.

Vendors lined the field: jalebis sizzling in oil, pakoras piled high, sugarcane juice machines creaking, and balloon-sellers shouting “ek rupiya, ek rupiya!” Wooden toys shaped like bows and arrows, rattles, and whirligigs clacked in eager little hands. The smell of roasted peanuts mingled with incense from the temple nearby, while hawkers screamed in chorus: “Garam samose le lo! Tazaa imarti lo!”

The Ramlila was serious business. Villagers rehearsed for weeks. The tailor stitched makeshift crowns from golden paper, the village carpenter carved out a bow so heavy that poor “Ram” (a lanky school teacher) staggered while lifting it. Hanuman was played by a wiry postman who had a knack for backflips, though his tail frequently caught fire from stage diyas.

By Day Three, rumors spread that Ravan’s ten heads had been stolen. Turned out, the heads were left at the village well, mistaken for coconut husks. They were fished out, patched with gum, and reattached, though one hung sideways, making Ravan look perpetually curious.

By Day Seven, the “golden deer” costume didn’t arrive. Instead, a village goat painted with turmeric powder and tied with bells pranced across the stage. The audience clapped in delight, shouting, “Wah! Kitna asli lag raha hai!”

The final night drew the largest crowd. The square was jam-packed, women in bright saris fanned themselves with betel-leaf plates, men leaned on bamboo sticks, children squealed for ice popsicles. The air vibrated with anticipation. This was the grand climax, the death of Ravan.

But that night, Bansi Lal, the potbellied grocer playing Ravan, had one grievance: he had not been paid his promised honorarium of fifty rupees and two free samosas. He climbed the stage in full gear, ten heads wobbling and growled in his booming voice:

“Ram! I will not die until I am paid!”

The audience laughed, thinking it was a clever improvisation. Ram (the school teacher) looked panicked. He whispered, “Bhai, abhi script mein marna hai!”

Bansi Lal crossed his arms, refusing. “Not without my paisa. Last year also they fooled me!”

The crowd roared with laughter. Some even clapped, shouting, “Sahi kaha Ravan baba!”

Meanwhile, the management, two flustered uncles from the Panchayat, scurried backstage. They realized they had forgotten to arrange his payment, having spent most of the budget on firecrackers and extra tea for themselves.

The play continued. Ram shot his arrow. Instead of falling, Ravan dodged dramatically, wagging a finger:
“Missed me! Because I haven’t been paid!”

He pranced across the stage, reciting his own made-up lines:
“Why should Ravan die for free?
Without samosa, no victory!”

The audience was in splits. Even the children, who usually cried at Ravan’s death, rolled on the ground laughing.

At one point, Bansi Lal grabbed the mic and began listing his dues:
“Two years of unpaid roles! One time they made me a monkey! Another time they promised me jalebi! Enough is enough!”

The management tried to hush him, but the crowd cheered, chanting: “Ravan zindabad! Pay him! Pay him!”

 Finally, the Panchayat uncles collected a crumpled fifty-rupee note and two steaming samosas from a nearby vendor. They couldn’t go on stage themselves, it would ruin the drama, so they slipped the payment to Hanuman, who slid in mid-scene with an acrobatic somersault.

Whispering loudly into Ravan’s ear (and the microphone),

Hanuman said:
“Bansi bhaiya, paisa aa gaya! Samosa bhi!”

The audience howled with laughter, clutching their stomachs.

Bansi Lal grinned, stuffed a samosa in his mouth right there on stage, and declared in a loud burp:
“Ab main mar sakta hu!”

 But instead of collapsing immediately, he chose the wrong moment. At that exact time, Ram was giving a long dialogue about dharma and duty, and Sita was preparing to welcome him back.

Suddenly, Ravan clutched his chest, fell flat on his face, and shouted:
“Main mar gaya!”

The audience erupted. Someone yelled, “Arre abhi Ram ne teer bhi nahi chalaya!” Others shouted, “Payment ne maar diya Ravan ko!”

 Children squealed, “Ravan ko samose se heart attack ho gaya!”

Even the stoic village elders wiped tears of laughter.

 The play somehow wrapped up, though the sequence was hopelessly jumbled. Ram awkwardly fired another arrow into already-dead Ravan, while Hanuman struggled not to laugh aloud. Sita stood covering her face with her veil to hide her giggles.

When the curtain (a torn bed sheet) finally dropped, the entire crowd stood and clapped, not for Ram’s victory, but for Bansi Lal’s unforgettable performance. People teased each other for weeks afterward: “Arre, did you hear? In Rampur, Ravan doesn’t die by Ram’s arrow. He dies by samosa!”

 Later that night, while rolling up props, a young man asked the village barber, who had been sitting near the stage all along, about the chaos.

The barber grinned and said, “Bhai, this happens every year. Sometimes someone forgets lines, sometimes someone forgets costume. But Bansi Lal? He’s the best. Without him, Ramlila of Rampur is like tea without sugar. Pure entertainment!”

And so, every October, people came not just to see the triumph of Ram over Ravan, but to see what new mischief Bansi Lal would cook up next.

 

Because in Rampur, tradition was sacred, but laughter was even holier.