Broken buildings are a common sight in the temple town. Hundreds of residents were forced to give up their businesses and homes during the land acquisition process for the Ayodhya’s redevelopment.
Credit: DH Photo/Anand Singh
Ayodhya: I boarded the Sabarmati Express from Varanasi to Ayodhya and sat by the window. This was on November 22, 2023, exactly two months before the scheduled inauguration of the Ram temple.
I had planned a quick four-hour visit but the train pulled into Ayodhya eight hours late. People tried to swarm the AC 2 and 3 coaches to reach their hometowns for the Chhath festival. In a stampede-like situation, RPF personnel guarded the AC coaches and wielded their lathis.
Crossing the foot over-bridge in the heart of Ayodhya, I was struck by the transformation unfolding. The temple town — once said to be cursed by Sita that it would never develop — was dug up and the construction dust covered everything in sight. I shouldn’t have been surprised — the government has allocated Rs 85,000 crore to develop the town into a global tourism destination over 10 years.
As Ayodhya prepares for a daily influx of three lakh visitors after the temple’s opening, the owner of a hotel chain said it has the potential to become a spiritual hub akin to the Vatican City and Mecca.
However, my recent travels through two other significant temple towns — Varanasi and Tirupati — offered a perspective I couldn’t overlook. The organic evolution of these towns is in sharp contrast to the frenetic transition Ayodhya is witnessing. As I write, two of four Shankaracharyas have turned down the invitation to attend the temple inauguration. They feel there is no need to consecrate an idol in an incomplete temple.
It is difficult to ignore the economic disparities. The stark poverty in the south-central region of Uttar Pradesh, where Ayodhya is located, hits you hard. Ayodhya is surrounded by some of the least-developed districts of India, like Gonda, Ambedkar Nagar, Shravasti, Bahraich, and Barabanki. Open defecation is common along the tracks, shattering claims about the success of the Swachh Bharat programme in the state.
Road to displacement
The construction of the Ram temple has boosted tourist footfall but also displaced many long-time street vendors. R K Paan Shop, a 75-year-old business located just 15 minutes from the Ram temple, was compelled to relocate to a roadside setup.
Street vendors like Pankaj Sharma complained of harassment since the government built a swanky Ram Path to attract tourists. The nearly 14 km road connects Ayodhya Cantt to Ayodhya.
Pankaj has been selling pani puri on a cart near Hanuman Garhi for almost a decade. The police once threw hot water on his vat of paapdi chaat when he insisted on setting up his cart at his regular spot. Another time, they forcibly mixed red chillis in his chhole. An inspector at the Ayodhya Kotwali police station denied these claims and said pushcarts did not have valid permits.
Despite running under loss, Pankaj offered a complimentary plate of panipuri to me and smiled for my camera, as he had never given an "interview".
In the Shringaar Haat locality nearby, I met Tarun. His garment shop was partially acquired for road expansion. He has converted the remaining space into an eatery. He had no business for six months when the road widening began and the compensation given by the government “was too little”.
He claimed the compensation would have been better had they been the “owners”. A majority of the land in Ayodhya was leased out to businesses and residents by temples and the erstwhile king, and at least two decades were still left for the lease to end, multiple people told me. “But after the temple construction picked up pace last year, everything was uprooted quickly," said Tarun.
Ravindra Narain Srivastava is one more Ayodhya resident unhappy with the compensation. He received about Rs 1 lakh for letting go of a fourth of his 1,000 sq ft eatery, which he opened in the mid-80s.
"The process (of acquisition) was legal of course. But have you seen how land prices have shot up around the temple? Some spots cost over Rs 10,000-18,000 per sq ft. You can calculate how much I lost and how much I was compensated. My shop is 10 minutes away from the temple," he rued.
The shopkeepers have to move to government-allotted shops in a shopping complex on the outskirts of the city. The new spaces, available on a 25-year lease, come with a hefty deposit. The deposit for a ground floor location costs between Rs 20 lakh and Rs 25 lakh, they said. Worse, the ground floor allocation is uncertain, as it is based on a lottery system.
Sunil Gupta owns a laddoo shop in close proximity to the Hanuman Garhi temple. He suffered a significant loss of land during the acquisition process, and although the laddoos may receive a GI tag, the future of his business hangs in the balance if the rest of the shop is also acquired.
Credit: DH Photo/Anand Singh
The newfound attention on Ayodhya has disrupted the local economy in more ways than one. Tarun, in his late 20s, said, “After 1992, no prime minister visited Ayodhya. But after (Narendra) Modiji visited in 2020. the city frequently sees politicians... These visits often disrupt business because public entry on the road is restricted. Sometimes, an entire day’s business is hampered.”
The loss has been double for people who ran hole-in-the-wall shops attached to their homes, notes Manpreet Singh, a hotelier.
Restricted access
Tourists and pilgrims flock to the Ram temple and Hanuman Garhi ahead of the consecration ceremony of the Ram Lulla idol.
Credit: DH Photo/Anand Singh
The Ram temple was bustling with tourists from Karnataka, Sikkim, Mumbai, and also nearby districts when I arrived. This was my first time here but my friend Manisha (name changed) had visited multiple times. She is a local.
In 2019, when the makeshift Ram temple sat on the rubble of the mosque, she was stopped by a female guard for carrying a sanitary napkin in her bag. The plastic content in the sanitary napkin was deemed impure. A female guard had also asked her if she was menstruating. Manisha said she is hoping for more inclusivity from the new temple.
Being a local, Manisha also pointed out that most relatives who came to her home were more interested in seeing the Ram idol out of curiosity about the site where Babri once stood, rather than being devout followers.
I feel it’s difficult to be at the site without the mosque coming to one’s mind.
Back to my visit. Despite presenting my Press ID to the police, entry was denied because even my leather accessories — my belt, my watch strap, and my bag — were deemed impure. To photograph the temple, I needed a pass from the temple trust, which would require a day at least.
Returning to the gate, I stood there with the policemen, looking at the under-construction temple, its pink sandstone, and the dust covering the sunny November sky. Looking at the ID card hanging around my neck, an elderly man mistook me for a temple official. Speaking in Awadhi, he inquired, "Lulla andar hun?" (Is Ram lulla inside?). I said yes and directed him and his wife, standing behind him in a frayed saree and worn-out slippers, to the trust office for Bhog aarti's passes.
Their excitement was cut short. The poor couple had travelled 50 km from the neighbouring Gonda district but did not carry a valid government ID to qualify for entry passes for the aarti. I overheard the old man's interaction with cops, which ended with him saying, "Chala Lulla andar hun, itne bahut hau." (Ram Lulla is inside, that’s enough for me). The couple set back home.
Their resignation underscored a poignant disparity. According to the temple trust, only 30 people can attend the aarti at a time. The majority who could access the noon aarti were city dwellers, fluent in English and equipped with the necessary documents. The less fortunate, like the elderly couple, remained on the periphery.
Family connection
Standing outside the temple felt surreal. This was the same site my uncle visited on a school excursion in the 70s, without any permission or security fuss. Plus, my parents were caught in the riots following its demolition.
I have a connection to this region. My paternal grandparents lived in the erstwhile district of Faizabad in the ’60s and ’70s. My grandfather, a professor of English literature and a young second lieutenant in the NCC, was posted in the sleepy town of Tanda, about 60 km from Ayodhya. Both Tanda and Ayodhya were then parts of Faizabad district. In 2018, Faizabad was renamed Ayodhya Cantt and Tanda is now part of Ambedkar Nagar district. My father, uncle, and aunt had also spent their early and mid-teen years in Faizabad.
During a dinnertime conversation some months ago, my father and uncle remembered Ayodhya as a "calm, tranquil but underdeveloped town". My uncle recalled a school trip from Tanda to Ayodhya in 1978, which included a visit to the Babri mosque. It was about 29 years after Sadhu Abhiram Das, the guru of the current chief priest of Ram temple Satyendra Das, had planted a Ram idol inside the Babri mosque. My uncle, then in Class 4, peered through the iron gates of the mosque at the Ram idol, some 10 feet away. I enquired about his silence on this anecdote so far, to which he responded, "I wasn't keen to mention this. You know what happened there. You must have heard of Huzefa uncle."
Huzefa uncle was a family friend. He was shot dead in Lucknow in the riots that engulfed India after the Babri mosque was demolished in 1992. Another family friend was killed, his throat slit, my father added.
Although the mosque site was disputed for long, it was not until 80s when tensions flared up, culminating in its demolition on December 6, 1992. My parents were vacationing in Goa when they heard the news of a Hindu mob pulling down the Babri mosque. Urged by the hotel staff to leave, they hastily made their way to Bombay (now Mumbai). With no public transport in sight, they took the last bus to Poona (now Pune) and hitched a ride to the outskirts of Thane, where they encountered armed mobs for the first time.
My father said, "We took a local train from Thane but danger lurked there, too. Mobs stood along the tracks, their swords glinting in the afternoon sun. We hid under the seats of the train.” He said it was a miracle that they escaped unhurt.
Changing times
I was back on the streets of Ayodhya, wandering and reflecting on the signs of change that were all over the town. I had to pay Rs 2,400 a night for a basic hotel room that earlier cost Rs 1,000. The hotel reached full capacity quickly.
While local businesses stand to benefit from the rapid transformation, residents of Ayodhya and nearby towns are feeling overwhelmed. “They are used to small-town sensibilities,” said Manisha.
While I was chatting with Ravindra at his eatery, two pilgrims inquired about thali meals and then settled for a single plate of samosa instead. The meals were priced between Rs 80 and Rs 60 while samosa cost Rs 15. While the temple town is now buzzing with tourists equipped with the latest iPhones, DSLRs and tour guides, what I could not ignore was its regular visitors — working-class pilgrims from nearby districts. For the latter, even a modest price revision pinches their pockets.
Despite the high demand for luxury hotels and the crowds at the Maharishi Valmiki International Airport (round-trip from Bengaluru to Ayodhya costs Rs 33,000 and up around the consecration ceremony), the poverty in and around town is palpable. The old and new railway stations in Ayodhya are even more crowded, with pilgrims sleeping on the platforms. Apart from two-wheelers and some private cars, shared ‘Vikram’ tempos and government buses provide transport in Ayodhya.
Pilgrims, many of whom are not affluent, seen in Ayodhya.
Credit: DH Photo/Anand Singh
Manisha, planning to fly home for Holi, will land at the Ayodhya airport instead of touching down at Lucknow as she used to earlier. “I can afford flights but these are expensive for the less affluent,” said Manisha, a lawyer.
While Ayodhya is the biggest talking point in India right now, local residents didn’t have a lot to share. Many refused to speak to me. One came around hesitantly to say, “We grew up hearing about the temple. Nearly everyone would agree that a temple should be constructed. The airport and other projects have given our modest town complex a boost.”
'Kuch banaane ke liye kuch ujaadna padta hi hai' was the sentiment among those who were forthcoming. The Hindi phrase means to create something new, something old must be sacrificed. “This rings true in a harsh way as we have already seen a demolition in Ayodhya in 1992,” said the proprietor of a generational paan shop. He claimed he had seen the Babri mosque fall.
Tale of another temple town
Though Varanasi and Ayodhya are 220 km apart, their preoccupations are similar. Varanasi has also been at the centre of a mandir-masjid dispute, over the claim that the Gyanvapi mosque was built on the ruins of the 'original' Kashi Vishwanath temple.
Former mahant of the Kashi Vishwanath temple Rajendra Tiwari, one of many whose homes were acquired for the corridor, still awaits fair compensation.
The corridor has notably impacted local weavers. Zillur Ansari, a veteran in the Banarasi saree business, says restrictions on four-wheelers in key market areas have led to a decline in customer visits. This has left the Chowk-to-Maidagin stretch quieter.
Ansari says, “Earlier, pilgrims from across India would explore this area more as the four-wheelers could pass through the main market. Many pilgrims who visit Varanasi are old, and can’t walk through this stretch.”
This discontent surfaced in the Varanasi South constituency during the 2022 Uttar Pradesh Assembly elections. The constituency, housing the Kashi Vishwanath temple and the Gyanvapi mosque, saw a close contest between the BJP and SP, with the former narrowly winning.
The shrine controversy looms large, overshadowing other concerns. The unease within Varanasi's Muslim community is evident, with most preferring to remain anonymous when I spoke to them. Only one, a businessman, reminisced about a time when children of all faiths, including him, freely played cricket between Gyanvapi and Kashi Vishwanath — a stark contrast to the current reality of barricades and barbed wires.