In Ramnagar, the Folk Theatre of the Ramlila Continues its Centuries-Old Traditions
Performers in costume waiting for the day’s Ramlila to begin. Photo: Karan Madhok
Photo Essay: Over 250 years since its inception, the Ramlila of Ramnagar—a ‘play’ dramatizing Rama’s story from the Ramcharitmanas—still exists as a faint time capsule of the past.
No scene of the grand Ramlila of Ramnagar could begin without the event’s vyasi—it’s arranger or organizer—raising a hand in the air to silence the surrounding audience. “Chup raho!” he said out in loud, clear voice across the outdoor set. Be quiet! The murmurs descended into a sharp silence.
There were no microphones or speakers to amplify the dialogues that followed; just the aureate voices of actors reciting verses that have been passed on for hundreds of years—generation after generation—to bring to life scenes from one of the greatest epics ever told, the Ramayana, as adapted by Tulsidas in the landmark 17th century text, the Ramcharitmanas.
Ramnagar Fort. Photo: Karan Madhok
Now, holding the script in his hand, penned down in a tattered, dense notebook, the vyasi mumbled the words to the actors. The actors, in turn, magnified the lines out in poetic diction. Scholars opened their own copies of the Ramcharitmanas to follow along to the dialogue. At a distance, the Kashi Naresh—the current emperor occupying the nearby Ramnagar fort—watched the scene from his chariot. Only the mooing of a nearby cow interrupted the silence. From afar, there were also the incessant beeps of passing traffic, a reminder of the present imposing itself on the past.
The original Ramayana was composed in Sanskrit by Valmiki, likely in the 5th century BCE. But it was the epic’s retelling by the bhakti poet Tulsidas as the Ramcharitmanas (1633) that truly made the story of Rama—prince of Ayodhya—accessible to a wider audience. Written in Awadhi (a dialect of Hindi), the ‘Manas’ has been called “the living sum of Indian culture”; this version of the narrative stands—for better or worse—deeply-embedded in the zeitgeist of contemporary Hinduism.
There were no microphones or speakers to amplify the dialogues that followed; just the aureate voices of actors reciting verses that have been passed on for hundreds of years—generation after generation—to bring to life scenes from one of the greatest epics ever told.
The legend goes that later in the 17th century, Tulsidas’ student Megha Bhagat initiated the first folk theatrical adaptations of the Manas. Tulsidas was known to write much of his epic on the ghats of the River Ganga in Varanasi, besides a Hanuman temple at a top of the stepwells, an area that is now called as the Tulsi Ghat. But it was on the other side of the river in the town of Ramnagar where the tradition of Ramlila truly began to thrive. Kashi Naresh Balwant Narayan Singh, the king of the Kashi kingdom (Kashi is still one of Varanasi’s alternative names) is said to have started Ramnagar’s Ramlila first within the premises of the Ramnagar fort, before his successors moved the play out to the townsfolk in Ramnagar and Varanasi.
This year’s Ramlila was scheduled from the end of the September to the end of October, through the periods of Navaratri and Dusshera. The 31-day daily extravaganza is the longest such theatrical production of the epic in the world. Most of Ramnagar turns into a stage, and the crowd of performers and spectators traverse across town—temples to fields to lakes to forts—to enact major scenes from the Manas. Ramnagar and some parts of Varanasi become a miniature model of the entire subcontinent—from Ayodhya to Janakpuri, Ashok Vatika to Lanka—mapping Rama’s exile and grand journeys.
In pre-modern times, the parts outside the main town of Ramnagar used to be forest area, and thus, they became perfect to play the location for scenes from Rama’s exile. Nowadays, the forest is non-existent, and the forest scenes are held on the roadsides, under some trees, just a short distance from passing traffic.
The Kashi Naresh’s charioteer prepares for the evening’s trot at Ramnagar Fort. Photo: Karan Madhok
In 2008, the Ramnagar Ramlila was classified as an Intangible Culture Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO. This is the most notable version of the Ramlila, but abridged productions are held across the country, and around the world: Ayodhya, Vrindavan, Almora, in Bihar, Madhya Pradesh, in Bali, Thailand, Fiji, U.S., Canada, the U.K, and beyond.
At this year’s Ramlila, I was greeted by Ajit Upadhayay, whose family has been part of the organizing samiti (committee) in Ramnagar for generations. Upadhayay’s father was once the vyasi, and his grandfather and great-grandfather before him. Nowadays, it is his elder brother who initiates the action, commanding performers and audience members, offering stage directions and verses, moving the action forward each evening for the month-long event.
Upadhyay told me that Ramnagar’s Ramlila has been ongoing for “at least 250 years”, always under the patronship of the current Kashi Naresh, who resides at the Ramnagar fort. Except for special circumstances, the Ramlila cannot commence unless the king himself is present, watching from a distance. When COVID-19 struck, it was the first time in Upadhayay’s memory (or of that of his forefathers) that the Ramlila was halted for a two-year stretch.
Seated: The children designated to play princes Bharata and Shatrughna. Photo: Karan Madhok
On the day I arrived, the scene to be enacted was from the ‘Ayodhya Kand’ of the Manas. Bharata and Shatrughna—the two younger brothers of Rama—were at the ashram of Bharadwaj Muni, where Bharata sought permission from the sage to go to Chitrakoot. Bharata hoped to convince Rama to end his exile and return home, with his wife Sita and brother Lakshmana.
Before the scene was to begin, a crowd of nearly hundred had gathered at a small field by a dirt road in Ramnagar to wait for the Kashi Naresh to arrive. The ground was soft, muddy, scattered with cow dung. The crowd included a few dozen singers and musicians playing manjira taal (clash cymbals), an audience gathered with their copies of the holy text, vendors selling peanuts, bhujia, and chai, and actors in costume, seated in their starting positions. Some musicians played the vaani and some clapped when appropriate. We in the crowd also became the ‘praja’ (citizens) of the ancient kingdom: answering to the call of kings, hailing the appearance of the gods, and singing the hymns requested of us.
All the actors, including the ones portraying women, are men. The role of the princes—Rama, Lakshmana, Bharata, and Shatrughna —are played by young boys. The costumes and props—from the fake beard on Brihaspati to the wooden swords carried by the palace security—seem like they have been in use for decades, too, passed on from one generation of actors to the other.
A troupe of local policemen awaited the scene before the Kashi Naresh finally arrived from the fort nearby. He was driven in a car, surrounded by a caravan of more police security, before he found a seat on a horse-drawn chariot. He watched the scenes proceed from here, shaded under a parasol. Spectators greeted him with a “Jai Maharaj” before readying themselves for the show. The peanut seller was told to get out of the way so the king has a clear view. Somewhere behind me, the faint smell of charas emanated into the thin air just as the performances began.
“The lila is not ‘performed’,” Upadhayay corrected me. “It is ‘played’, just like Holi is ‘played’.” More play than theatre.
Masks, wind spinners, and balloons for sale in Ramnagar. Photo: Karan Madhok
After the vyasi’s command for silence—“Chup raho!”—the actors boomed their voices out to the quiet crowd. A host of singers filled up the gaps between speech with melodious hymns.
Once Bharata and Shatrughna departed from Bharadwaj’s ashram, word of their approach to the forest spread, even disturbing those who sat in the heavens. Soon, Indra—the king of all gods—holds conference with the deity Brihaspati, both seated on a pedestal that is supported by bamboo sticks and carried on the shoulders of some men. The raised pedestal signified that the action was now unfolding in the heavens above. A philosophical dilemma ensued: should the gods intervene and stop Bharata, for, if he is able to convince Rama to leave his exile, Rama wouldn’t be able to eventually fight the forces of evil later in the story.
Despite the UNESCO tag, the current iteration of the Lila seems to have lost much of its shine and lustre. The crowds which once numbered in the thousands are now just a dwindling few. The distractions of the modern world have largely replaced the importance of folk theatre as the primary entertainer and educator of the masses.
Brihaspati’s advice was that the fate of events shouldn’t be meddled with, in a way that would defraud the devotees of Rama. The gods decided to allow the natural course of events to occur, and Bharata was then praised and encouraged to keep moving forward in his journey.
Bharata and Shatrughna crossed the ‘Yamuna’ (represented by a small stream here) before arriving to Chitrakoot, and eventually reaching Rama and Lakshmana. As the sun descended, organizers, volunteers, and some of the actors playing the palace entourage carried fire torches to alight the environs for the next scenes. Some torches are placed around the tents and canopies wherever the action took place. But of course, nobody can stop the march of progress. Some people used flash-lights to read the text in the dark; most now have their mobile phones, providing light and photography.
In Chitrakoot, Lakshmana at first assumed that Bharata has come to kill Rama, and raised his guard in anticipation. But a voice from the skies warned Lakshmana from being rash. Rama, too, preached patience.
Crowds watch Indra and Brihaspati holding conference on a raised pedestal. Photo: Karan Madhok
The evening ended with an amicable embrace between the brothers. As it is customary, an arti was performed at the end of the episode, and the praja chanted to the gods and the king. The performers then returned home, and would return the next day to ‘play’ again.
I have attended Ramlilas in the past and have read many recorded histories of the event. Despite the UNESCO tag, the current iteration of the Lila seems to have lost much of its shine and lustre. The crowds which once numbered in the thousands are now just a dwindling few. The distractions of the modern world have largely replaced the importance of folk theatre as the primary entertainer and educator of the masses.
Performers receive measly payments for their work: Upadhyay told me that the children portraying the princes, for example, earned only around ₹500 for the whole month. “They don’t do it for the money,” he told me. “They do it for their bhakti (devotion) to Rama.”
Another evening at the Ramlila in Ramnagar. Photo: Karan Madhok
On some nights, however, the Ramlila will still shine in the glory of its yesteryears. In the crucial chapter of Ravana Vadh—the slaughter of the Asura King Ravana—huge crowds will gather for a major celebration. All of Ramnagar will be alit with excitement. On the festival of Dusshera, a giant effigy of the 10-headed Ravana would be burned down with fireworks. It is well known that the Kashi Naresh doesn’t attend the killing of Ravana, as a form of acknowledgement from one king to avoid the downfall of another.
On the day I had visited, however, the king only left the scene in his caravan at nightfall, shifting back from his horse-driven chariot to his motored vehicle. It was a surreal reminder of the ongoing oxymoron of the Ramlila, where the past and the present continue to exchange convenient pleasantries, and keep a centuries-old tradition ongoing into the modern world.
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Karan Madhok is a writer, journalist, and editor of The Chakkar. His debut novel A Beautiful Decay (Aleph Book Company) was published in October 2022. His work has appeared in Epiphany, Sycamore Review, Gargoyle, The Literary Review, The Bombay Review, Fifty Two, Scroll, The Caravan, the anthology A Case of Indian Marvels (Aleph Book Company) and The Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English 2022 (Hawakal). You can find him on Twitter: @karanmadhok1, Instagram: @karanmadhok, and Threads: @karanmadhok.
