Philip Lutgendorf on translating Tulsidas’ 'Ramcharitmanas' for Murty Classical Library of India

Few things flatter the vanity of Indians more than a gora speaking in Hindi. Philip A Lutgendorf not just speaks the language very well, but he also has recently translated Tulsidas’ Ramcharitmanas for the Murty Classical Library of India. Which was what brought him to Jaipur late last month, where he was a huge hit with the lit-fest crowds, who loved the way he sang out the chaupais with verve, the way they do in Benaras, and even indulged in sawaal-jawab — witty repartee using the poem’s lines plucked from memory to suit the occasion. Unlike India, where the Ramcharitmanas is losing its hold, even in north India where it has historically been strongest, Prof Lugendorf is not just intimate with the text, but also knows, and possibly shares, the near mystical devotion that people accord it. Edited excerpts from an interview with Gargi Gupta:

How did you come to learn Hindi?
I got interested in India initially in the late 1960s as a high school student, and I read the Bhagavadgita and Upanishads in translation, wondering about the meaning the life. I was a seeker. I came to India in 1971, right out of college, and fell in love with north Indian culture. It was the love of culture that brought me back and the feeling of being very comfortable in the culture. I soon realised, and I wrote about this in my book, Life of a Text, that anybody who was interested in the religion and culture of north India sooner or later encounters the Ramcharitmanas and its extraordinary popularity. The more I got to know the culture the more I realised that unless I read this text, I won’t really understand certain things. 

What was your first encounter with the Ramcharitmanas, and how did you learn to sing it aloud? 
I started reading Manas with Kali Charan Behl, one of my professors at the University of Chicago. Prof Behl had grown up in Punjab and there was considerable devotion to the Ramayana in his family. He had real feeling for it and he insisted that all his students — we were three in his class — chant it along with him. He would make us chant each ardhali three-four times till we got it right. I always read it out aloud in the way he had taught me. 

Your fascination with the Ramcharitmanas led you to the Ramnagar Ramlila, where you actually sat among the singers. How did that come about?
I went to do my dissertation work on the Ramnagar Ramlila, which is very Manas-based. At Ramnagar, there are these 12 Ramayanis who recite the Manas antiphonically, as a kind of sawal jawab. They have a very distinct dhun that they chant to it. I was interested in the way they recited the text and the phenomenon of how people learned such a long text by heart, or kanthast, as they would say. Lots of people in the audience were illiterate and they could recite too. 

I sat with the Ramayanis — I had a little Gita Press Ramayan with me — and started chanting with them, quietly, so I did not disturb. I think the first day they were all very quiet — Who is this man? What planet has he landed from? We talked a bit about people who come niyam se, and people who came kabhi-kabhi and I said, ‘Nahi main niyam se aoonga.’ They were kind of, okay, let’s see. And the next day I was there and the next day, at the time they started, which was 5 o’clock or a little before. The chief Ramayani, Ramji Pande, very quickly adopted me. He said, you sit with us and told me what to do. He even got me a poti they sit on. 

What was it like? 
The Ramnagar Ramlila style of reciting, called naarad vaani, is very stylised. It changes the words a little bit for the purpose of the melody. Every chaupai begins with — and they shout to be heard over the crowds — “E-haaaaah” (demonstrates). Listen. It’s a whole art form. I did it with them for 31 days. 

Sometimes I didn’t go home till one in the morning. It kind of takes over your life if you participate niyam se. They call the people who do that nemi premi. 

The Ramlila is something of a mass religious experience — did you partake of the surge of devotion that was driving most of the people around you?
The swarups, the boys who play Ram, koi baarah-terah saal ke ladke, were worshipped at aartis every night at around 9-10 in the evening. It was always beautiful and it always brought tears to my eyes. They light a flare on a pole and hold it up over the swarups so that they’ll be visible to the crowds. It casts an intense sustained brilliance over them. I always got a lump in my throat. But on the last night, which is the night of the consecration of Ram, everybody stays up and the aarti is done at 5 in the morning, outside the fort by the maharaj himself. On that last night, there was something about the Ram swarup’s face that was not quite human. Like he was transformed into some sort of eternal mask or something. It was a kind of...almost religious experience. 

While the Ramlila lasts, it takes over your life. When it’s over, you feel lost for a while. 

And the other experience?
Two-three months after the Lila ended I was back in Ramnagar and visiting Ramji. We were talking and at a certain point went out to have chai at this very famous chai ki dukaan at the corner of the fort. I have a taste for it. We got our little kulhads and were sipping chai and these young boys in their school vardi come up. They started talking to Ramji. I wasn’t paying attention, and Ramji turned to me and said, ‘Yeh ladka aapko chai pilana chahta hai.’ I said, ‘Kyon? Abhi to mein chai pee raha hoon. Kya zaroorat hai?’ Ramji was insistent and I started to get a little irritated. Because so often I would be put in these situations where I would be expected to stop what I was doing and sit down and be social. And also show off that I knew Hindi and the Ramayana — what I call bandar ka naach. So I was just brushing off these kids. And then Ramji said to me, ‘Kya aap inko nahin pehechante?’ I look at the kid and think, no, I’ve never seen him. And he says, ‘Yeh Ram hai. Aur woh aapko apna prasad pilana chahta hai.’ For just a second, it was as if the surface of the world was dissolving and this other reality become visible. 

So did you agree? 
Oh yes. ‘Haan, hum chai piyenge,’ I said. We had tea, chitchat a bit — he was just a school boy (smiles).