Hanuman Pandaram

 

 As a child, I was fed tales of a bogeyman. Recalcitrant, noisy, and demanding children were warned of a certain "Hanuman Pandaram," who would appear from nowhere, perform bizarre dance moves, then snatch you away and vanish forever. The fear was palpable when we were told that the distant sound of a gong heralded his arrival. Eventually, he did appear one day—and many times thereafter—revealing himself to be a harmless, hunched mendicant who performed a monkey dance, wearing a grotesque mask resembling the primate god Hanuman. He would quietly retreat after collecting alms.

Reflecting on those days, I can still feel the fright that the story of Hanuman Pandaram aroused in us. Yet, it must have been a boon for parents, helping them to rein in and control their children.

I liken that childhood fear of Hanuman Pandaram to the scaremongering of the Modi-led narrative about Muslims and minorities. Just as those tales once served to subdue children, today, populations and societies have been effectively divided, with suspicions writ large. The Hindutva agenda has been smoothly accomplished.

Now, more than halfway through my life, I cannot recall a single instance where I was hounded or discriminated against solely for being born Hindu. It amuses me to hear people parrot the notion that Hindus are under threat in their own country. I challenge anyone of my age, or even younger, to come forward and specify what tangible threat they have faced.

As a child, I visited temples, vying to be at the forefront of jostling devotees, eager to ring the temple bells when the priests opened the doors of the sanctum sanctorum. I would also wander into the school chapel, observing nuns kneeling piously in prayer, gazing with pity at the crucified Christ and marvelling at the saints and frescoes adorning the walls. No one forced me to attend catechism classes. In my teens, out of my own volition, I began to question the futility of supplicating to gods and eventually ceased visiting temples as a devotee. To grow up exercising free will, thought, and decision-making—albeit as something of a rebel—was a unique experience that required a touch of resolve. Fortunately, I had that in abundance. I saw no need to question or worry about my church-going friends or Abdul Harris, a schoolmate who, to our amusement and wonder, once showed us his circumcised penis. That did not make us see him as different. We eagerly awaited the Christmas cake from a friend of my grandfather, which arrived unfailingly every Christmas Eve.

Where was the threat to me? Later, there was none for my children, who spent their entire schooling as boarders at St. George’s Homes in Ooty. It was our decision to inform the school principal that we had no objection to our children attending Holy Mass on Sundays at the school chapel. Mercifully, notions of “love jihad” or “holy crusades” had not yet reached Kerala when I broke ranks and married a Catholic—32 years ago to this day, 23 August.

My Hindu identity, whatever that may be, has neither worn out nor diminished. By not fretting over its definition or feeling the need to safeguard that mirage, I have found immense peace that no gods or places of worship could ever provide.

Twice in my life, both times in my early teens, I was approached and cajoled to convert. First, by the local RSS shakha leaders, whose advances I found strangely abhorrent even then. Later, by a neighbourhood senior, accompanied by the then-SFI leader, who appeared at my gate to recruit me as an active SFI member—an offer that failed to inspire.