This year, Gandhi Jayanti and Vijayadashami coincide. Gandhi Jayanti has long been marked by formal pieties, yet it has increasingly become a reminder of our estrangement from Gandhi himself. Vijayadashami, on the surface, is a colourful celebration of the triumph of good over evil. Yet, in every serious literary rendering, the occasion carries a melancholic undercurrent. In Valmiki’s Ramayana, even when good triumphs over evil, there is no unalloyed joy. In Valmiki, Tulsidas, and Kamba, the joy of victory is haunted by the gravity of what has been endured; the victory is inseparable from loss. The lament of mothers, particularly Mandodari, reaches lyrical heights in Kamba’s rendition. Even the victory of dharma cannot obscure the reality of human suffering.
In the Bengali Krittibas Ramayana, the occasion evokes a reflection on the impermanence of power and the sorrow that attends the duties of kingship: Victory cannot bring redemption; mere power does not deliver liberation. Yet, the ultimate melancholy stems from the fact that the real test comes after Dussehra. The banishment of Sita diminishes Ram, rendering the victory over Ravan a relative sideshow. These are sentiments that cannot be danced away.
In a curious way, Ram and Gandhi also emerge as two of the loneliest figures in the Indian imagination. They inhabit different planes of existence. Yet both, in their own way, are intensely public figures: The very possibility of a public depends on their upholding dharma. They have, or once had, legions of followers. Their moments of triumph are simultaneously moments of failure, portending future catastrophe. In Gandhi’s case, Partition overshadowed Independence; violence rendered the moral power of his example almost ironic. He became an unhoused, lonely figure: Revered by many, hated by some, and inconvenient to most. No political formation knows what to do with him. His death, paradoxically, gave the new Republic of India the possibility of survival by delegitimising the one political force that could have caused chaos in the 1950s — the RSS. Gandhi’s ironic triumph came through his increasing irrelevance.
Ram’s justice and kingship are similarly shaken to the core by Sita’s banishment, the beating heart of the Ramayana. Ayodhya itself is a kind of curse: It is the place where he is destined never to find happiness. He is exiled from it, and even his return is not a moment of triumph. As Valmiki puts it, in all the splendour of Ayodhya, he dwelt like an ascetic in sorrow. Ayodhya is thus the site not only of exile but of enduring loss: Even when Ram regains his kingdom, he loses something more essential — Sita, the truth of his existence. Vidyaniwas Mishra, in his essay Ram ka Ayan Van, insightfully observes that the forest is central to the spiritual truth of the Ramayana. First, it is the site of Ram’s real education, beginning and ending at Bharadwaj’s ashram. There is a parallel here with the Mahabharata: While the Santi Parva is celebrated as a repository of political thought, the true political education of the Pandavas occurs in the Vana Parva, fraught with moral complexity. Ram’s education, too, unfolds in the forest. Yet, it carries a deeper meaning: It is the forest that adopts Sita, and ultimately, it is the forest that becomes Ram’s true abode, for there the truth of his existence with Sita lies. But here is the bitter truth: Sita’s existence is more important to Ram’s truth than Ram himself is to hers. He achieves deification in a blaze of irrelevance.
The loneliness of Gandhi and Ram is not merely emotional. Neither figure is preoccupied with what we might call mann ki baat — matters of the heart. Such inwardness is presumptuous and sentimental. The true object of inward reflection is to discern the truth of one’s existence, not to dwell on fickle emotions. This quest is lonely in three respects. First, it is full of internal struggle and self-doubt: Ram repeatedly reminds us that self-recognition, in the truest sense, eludes even the gods. Second, the goal is not narcissistic self-centring but to perceive oneself in relation to the objective order of the universe. Third, the world may be hostile to the truth of your existence, and this is a path one must tread alone.
Increasingly, a deeper form of loneliness emerges. Gandhi wrote and spoke extensively, yet his most enigmatic moral moments are his recognition that communication is profoundly difficult. His retreats into silence are not only acts of meditation or purification; they arise from a sense that most attempts at communication are bound to be misunderstood. What communicates most effectively is exemplariness, the totality of one’s being, not a flow of words. Sometimes, the world reaches a condition where communication collapses: Words cannot survive the multiple interpretations they invite, and sincerity cannot be assumed. More words do not restore sincerity; they cloud it. Gandhi’s withdrawal reflects his recognition that his truth can no longer be understood.
Ram, too, is a being of few words. He listens attentively to everyone — from sages to monkeys — but he is anguished that the truth of his existence, as he perceives it, is always liable to misunderstanding. He engages with this truth mostly in anguished silences, knowing that comprehension by others is precarious at best.
In their loneliness, Ram and Gandhi reach the same uncomfortable truth: The moral exemplar often stands outside the logic of power. Indeed, they are themselves often powerless in preventing suffering. All they can do is atone. For Gandhi, it was his very irrelevance that preserved the Republic, by neutralising the one political force that could have plunged India into chaos. For Ram, it is the banishment of Sita that makes dharma’s victory partial, a triumph shadowed by moral loss. Both figures remind us that the real test of virtue is not celebration or obedience or swimming with the tides of political expediency. Their solitude is a warning: Virtue is lonely because the powers that shape history rarely bend to conscience. Triumph is never complete; the survival of the moral order depends on quiet endurance, not false celebration. Perhaps this truth of the tradition will again have to be recovered against the liturgy that will mark the occasion from now on: Hundred years of the RSS. India needs more of the loneliness and productive melancholy of Ram and Gandhi than the simple binaries of good triumphing over evil that will be offered to us as part of our daily spiritual and political diet.
The writer is contributing editor, The Indian Express
This algorithmic world prefers simple binaries. Gandhi’s life and ideas do not fit into a simple box (Express Photo) 
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