Let me confess something right at the beginning. I have lived with Ram all my life. Not as a political slogan, not as a television serial, and certainly not as a subject for academic seminars where people use twenty difficult words to explain something a village grandmother already understands.
My Ram arrived much earlier.
It began at Raisina Bengali School, where abridged versions of the Ramayana and Mahabharata were part of our syllabus. Nobody felt the need to issue disclaimers. Nobody warned us that exposure to Ram might have side effects. We simply read the stories and moved on with life.
Then there was the annual Ramlila near our chummery in Delhi.
For ten glorious days, the entire locality would come alive.
My friend Subhash, who possessed an entrepreneurial spirit that would have made him a successful startup founder today, had perfected the art of manufacturing entry tickets. His philosophy was simple: culture should be accessible to all. We happily accepted his social reform programme and never wasted time discussing ethics. I am fairly certain Ram would have forgiven a few enthusiastic schoolboys.
The real attraction was Hanuman.
A man dressed as Hanuman would be tied to a rope fixed to the top of a tall tree. At the right moment he would come sliding down dramatically with a blazing torch in his hand. Lanka would catch fire, the crowd would erupt, and we would clap until our palms hurt.
Nobody in that audience had a PhD in Sanskrit. Nobody had read comparative mythology. Yet everyone understood exactly what was happening.
That is the magic of Ram.
Years later, at Singrauli Super Thermal Power Station, I saw another version of India. During Dussehra, one half of the stage hosted Durga Puja while the other half staged Ramlila.
Durga on one side.
Ram on the other.
Both perfectly comfortable sharing the same stage.
If somebody wants a practical demonstration of Indian secularism, I would recommend that arrangement.
Then came Bhopal.
As Executive Director of BHEL, I was invited to inaugurate the Dussehra celebrations. Someone handed me a flaming arrow and pointed toward Ravan's effigy.
I aimed.
I fired.
Ravan exploded into flames.
I must admit that at that moment I experienced absolutely no philosophical confusion. There was no internal debate about symbolism, structural oppression, post-modern interpretations or narrative complexity.
Ravan burned.
The audience cheered.
The system worked exactly as designed.
My understanding of Ram took a different turn when I came under the influence of Swami Rajeshwaranand.
He was one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. Born a Muslim, he became a Hindu ascetic, but more importantly, he remained a deeply humane person.
His discourses were extraordinary.
In a single session he could quote Valmiki, the Quran and the Guru Granth Sahib and somehow make them sound like members of the same family. My wife Madhuri and I would eagerly wait for his annual visits.
When I retired, he chose Vanvas—Ram's exile—as the theme of his farewell discourse for me.
Only later did I understand the message.
Retirement is not the end of the story.
Sometimes the forest begins where the office ends.
After retirement came my reading years.
I enjoyed Devdutt Pattanaik and his interpretation of Sita.
Then I read the Ram series by Amish Tripathi, where Ram appears as a statesman, reformer and administrator struggling with duty and responsibility.
Both were fascinating.
Both made me think.
But eventually I stopped outsourcing my understanding of Ram.
As Tulsidas wrote:
> Siya Ram maya sab jag jani, karaun pranaam jori jug paani.
Knowing that Sita and Ram pervade the entire universe, I fold my hands and bow.
That, for me, is the essence.
Ram is not a political position.
Ram is not a debating point.
Ram is not a membership card.
Ram is an aspiration.
The ideal human being.
The complete man.
The Raymond advertisement before Raymond advertisements were invented.
And the interesting thing is that I have understood Ram not through my virtues but through my shortcomings.
Every time I lose patience, I understand his patience.
Every time I make a selfish choice, I understand his selflessness.
The distance between me and Ram is precisely what helps me understand Ram.
That gap itself is Ram.
One Sanskrit verse has always stayed with me:
> न त्वहं कामये राज्यं न स्वर्गं नापुनर्भवम्।
कामये दुःखतप्तानां प्राणिनामार्तिनाशनम्॥
"I desire neither kingdom, nor heaven, nor liberation. I desire only the removal of suffering from those who are afflicted."
That is the Ram who inspires me.
Not the shouting Ram of television debates.
Not the weaponised Ram of election speeches.
Simply a moral ideal that asks us to become slightly better than we were yesterday.
Which brings me—with considerable amusement—to a certain distinguished Bengali Sanskrit scholar who discovered in recent years that the "angry warrior Ram" was apparently invented by modern politics.
Now, I have nothing against scholarship. I respect learning immensely.
But using Ram to attack people for using Ram politically is rather like protesting traffic congestion by driving another car into the jam.
This gentleman received awards, enjoyed publication opportunities and flourished magnificently during a particular political era. I happened to share a stage with him at a book fair recently.
Had I known his views beforehand, I might have requested the organisers to keep a ceremonial fire arrow ready.
Metaphorically, of course.
At my age, one must be careful with both fire and controversy.
I am an engineer by training.
I am a nationalist by conviction.
Whether Ram existed as a historical figure is, frankly, not the question that keeps me awake at night.
After all, gravity existed long before Newton explained it.
Similarly, the idea of Ram has existed for centuries before modern historians began arguing about it.
That idea has shaped societies, inspired literature, comforted grieving families, guided rulers and ordinary citizens alike, and travelled across generations without needing marketing support.
To me, that makes Ram profoundly real.
Today, when I want to quiet my mind, I listen to Hey Ram sung by Jagjit Singh.
And suddenly everything returns.
The dusty Ramlila ground.
Subhash and his miraculous tickets.
Hanuman sliding down the rope.
The burning Lanka.
The shared stage of Durga and Ram at Singrauli.
The flaming arrow in Bhopal.
The gentle wisdom of Swami Rajeshwar Anand.
The books.
The memories.
The lessons.
And all my own imperfections that helped me appreciate the ideal.
Ram does not need my defence.
He does not need anyone's criticism.
He certainly does not need a government grant.
Ram has survived empires, invasions, ideologies, academics, politicians and television anchors.
He will survive us too.
You do not have to prove Ram.
You only have to feel him.
