Mission Vatican in Kashi: The battle between ideology and faith

Ideology

Dinner can be a fraught exercise in an era that elevates offence to an art form. Yet Parveen Ahmed, whose family has lived in Banaras for generations, is an accomplished hostess who lays the table with the cultural sophistication of a seasoned Banarasi.

“We have a few pure vegetarian Gujarati friends,” she says. “When they come, we lay the vegetarian table separately. Bakri Eid pe nahin ayenge – and I have no problem at all. Why should I torture them with a table full of kebabs? If pork is served on a table, I wouldn't want to eat there either, so I totally understand. But during Ramzaan itni iftaari aati hai doston se ke ‘dua karna, dua karna’ – mazhab ki poori izzat karte hain woh – aur hum bhi.” (But during Ramzan, we receive so many wonderful iftaaris (foods to break the holy fast) from our friends, asking to be included in our prayers! They truly respect our religion – just as we do theirs) 

The table is a test of the Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb that Banaras used to be known for – one that put a composite blend of Hindu-Muslim traditions at its core. Under the Hindutva paradigm, its vision of shared, harmonious daily life has been discredited as a foolish, romanticised, “pseudo-secular” fantasy that never actually existed.

To survive in this diverse city then, what is at stake, is trust.

Prof Rana P.B. Singh, (formerly IIT-BHU), a cultural landscapes expert and contributing member, International Council on Monuments and Sites ICOMOS that protects cultural heritage sites globally, concedes that his table experiences with Muslim friends rest on the very trust that this tehzeeb provides. “When we eat dinner, I have full faith ki unhone alag se banaya hai – woh khuda ke naam pe kasam khaate hain. I trust them.”

Yet he has a harder, more realistic take on the Ganga-Jamuni discourse. “No scholar will say ‘Ganga-Jamuni sanskriti’.  Anecdotally keh sakte hain thodi si …,” he dismisses. 

“Jab ’78 mein riots hue, 1000 ki sankhya mein log maare gaye Hindu aur Musalmaan. Pehle aap samajh ke dekhiye phir idealism aur secularism ki baat kariye.” (When the riots broke out in ‘78, a thousand people – both Hindus and Muslims – were killed. First understand these realities. Only then you can talk about idealism and secularism.)

He has a valid point. Yet if Ganga-Jamuni is a cotton candy notion full of fluff that sweeps the realistic and unpleasant parts under the carpet and puts on a smiley game face muttering ‘duas’ and ‘tauba-taubas’ – today's state-promoted notions are no better.

Over the last 12 years, the needle has moved from the alleged “pseudo-secular” Ganga-Jamuni discourse to the equally unrealistic Eternal Wound discourse that has Hindus eternally cast as injured souls of a thousand-year victimhood that never seems to end, despite the paradox of 80 years of freedom, majority and economic self-sufficiency. 

Given artificial sustenance, the discourse has stretched on like a hypochondriac with an indulgent doctor. Yet, much depends on this sustenance. Crucial developments have to fall in place. 

A key chess piece is the Kashi Vishwanath Corridor (KVC) in Hinduism’s holiest city. (Read this: The sacred geography they bulldozed)

Along with other key pieces, the moves on the board aim to provide the balm of glory to this Eternal Wound discourse by ushering in a transformational management exercise – the Vaticanisation of the Hindu faith. 

This has been a stated intention even before the Ayodhya Ram Temple was built. 

In 2021, the then Vishwa Hindu Parishad chief declared that “The Ram Janmabhoomi teerth kshetra (sacred site) in Ayodhya would be developed on the lines of the Vatican City, the headquarters of the Catholic Church and Mecca, Islam’s holiest site.” As he attacked Christian missionaries for “uprooting Hindu dharma”, he went on to add that this Hindu Vatican would “become a symbol of Hindutva”. 

Mission Vatican: Hindutva’s envy of the ‘Big Church’

If the IT Cell has not headlined Vaticanisation, perhaps it is because people higher up the chain recognise – the incongruity is a self-goal.

Considering the BJP government’s visceral antipathy to Islam and Christianity as religions of invaders and colonisers, and its systematic attempts to delegitimise their voices, there is a rich paradox in the fact that it wants to be just like them!

Yet even if left carefully understated, the chess moves are clear. Two key concepts emerge. The first is the concept of the ‘Big Church’. 

The ideology of Hindutva is built around the envy of this single ‘Big Church’ concept (Mecca/Vatican) from which power flows downwards. Hindutva’s own organisations emulate the single structure, the rule-based clarity and the mass obedience of the Abrahamic religions. 

The second concept was first conceptualised by the man they love to hate – Mohammed Ali Jinnah.

In 1937, when Muslim voters chose regional identity over communal identity and defeated the Muslim League in an election it felt sure of winning, Jinnah was left staring into an abyss of political powerlessness. His obsessive quest thenceforth became to make himself the sole spokesman of the Muslim community. 

He would go on to craft its narrative, hold up its grievance, real or imagined, invoke its lost glory, and lead it to the power it then began to desire. Most importantly, he would not allow anyone else to speak for the Muslims. 

Hindutva has similarly sought to appropriate the role of sole spokesman for the Hindu faith, using the same narratives of glory and grievance to rebrand the faith and transform it into a politically charged, nationalism-fused, standardised entity of a majoritarian state. Since 2014, it has closed off the space for other claimants, discrediting them when they challenge its version of the faith. 

Jinnah’s quest for sole spokespersonship was greatly helped by the fact that Islam is a religion of the Book. It has a clearly defined single god, single truth, book and prayers. Its qaum (community) of obedient followers is sharply differentiated from the ‘other’ (non-follower). 

The architecture was in place. Jinnah only had to convince the Muslim community that it would be under grave threat in an independent India. In ten years, the goal was achieved.

The politico-legal struggle for the Ram Temple has given Hindutva a robust moral authority, yet 80 years later, scaling up a similar sole spokesmanship in a functional democracy is tough. Building the centralised, Vaticanised ‘Big Church’ in a non-Abrahamic faith with a million competing truths and divinities requires a truly challenging checklist. 

Firstly, it requires the credibility that ancient sites possess – therefore taking control of their holy status is as vital as constructing new ones. Secondly, it needs collective spaces for mass congregations. Hindutva has long aspired to these ‘great’ sites for gathering, along with a triumphalist ‘Big Church’ architecture to accompany its rhetoric. 

Thirdly, as highly visible summits of the faith, these ‘Big Church’ sites need to be transformed into a clear, united and dominating central authority – or Vatican – of Hinduism’s diffused, scattered cosmology. 

This gives it power over smaller entities of faith that rival it – the ‘small church’, i.e., the roadside shrine, the small neighbourhood temple, the Peepul tree, the Matas, the Babas, the Nag devtas, the non-Vedic gods and a million other smaller deities.

Though Hindutva was born in 1925, the Vaticanisation of Hinduism only acquired real-life power since 2014 to plot the holy takeovers, decimate the old and construct the new grand sites.

Jinnah’s sole spokesmanship aimed for a separate nation. Vaticanisation aims to restore both the lost glory diminished by past foreign invaders and current minorities, and the power held before the googlies of Buddhism, Jainism, and the 6th-century BCE hit Sanatan.

By building a grand religion of conformity, designated central sites like the Vatican or Mecca, uniform truths, chosen deities and controlled mass prayer, Vaticanisation aims to transform the way the Hindu faith functions today. 

Ayodhya’s Ram Temple, along with Kashi Vishwanath Corridor and the upcoming Banke Behari Corridor in Mathura, completes the key triumvirate of the Vaticanised grand sites so essential to sole spokesmanship. 

By effectively hogging Ram, Krishna and Vishwanath, Hindutva is shaping the Hindu Vatican narrative as an incontestable tale of power and glory. 

***

Faith

Banaras: Is it the right ‘fit’ for Mission Vatican?

While Ayodhya represents the pinnacle of Mission Vatican politically, it is Kashi that is its beating heart. As Hindutva’s most critical playing field, it is the site where the deadly serious battle between ideology and faith is unfolding. 

So then – game over? 

Is the religion of plurality and multiple truths ready for a management makeover into a centralised faith that brooks no dissent? Will the organised presence of the ‘Big Church’ of Kashi Vishwanath overpower the shivlings and shrine-heavy ‘small church’ of Banaras’ galis? 

Not quite. Paradoxically, one of Hinduism’s holiest cities may not be the rollover candidate the Hindutva ideology wants it to be. 

At the Sankat Mochan temple, built in the 16th century by Tulsidas of Ramcharitmanas fame, it is Tuesday, especially holy for Hanuman’s devotees. People are surging in for the evening aarti. 

In 2006, a terror blast at the site killed 10 people and injured several others – part of a series across Banaras. Security is tight but once inside, devotees are free to join the crowd, mostly local, lining up for darshan that starts as a circle that can be rejoined again. They walk around the temple’s inner sanctum with its vermillion pillars and distressed walls, smoothened to a shiny weathered patina by the touch of a million human hands in devotion.  The ambience is celebratory as the sound of cymbals and the dhol fills the air. 

In a corner, a group of young men expertly wield the clashing cymbals with incredible force as they chant and sing, and the crowd joins in. The effect is electric, a spiritual feast even for the agnostic. Devotees, visitors, irresistibly drawn, wander by to listen, join in the animated singing or just sit for a while. People participate and engage, then make way for fresh arrivals. Outside, in the verdant gardens, families chatter, devotees linger, meditate, or just imbibe the atmosphere. 

The contrast with KVC could not be greater. 

The bhajans are sung by real people, not heard through a speaker. The deities are sculpted figures or painted on walls that devotees actually touch in an act of piety, weathering them over centuries – not high digital projections that leave the gods distant and the walls clean. The community makes space for all without being chained in by barricades. (Read this: The sacred geography they bulldozed)

The devotional experience here is rich, real, and human-scale. It is familial, with its own historical story, seen, heard and felt, at one with nature. It has not been stripped of its surroundings, its authenticity or its antiquity.  

It is the reason why, despite KVC’s gargantuan presence, Mission Vatican may be poorly suited to this recalcitrant city, whose eccentric character, masti, and geography are wired for disobedience. 

Wander through its famed galis, and you will understand why. Like a heap of spaghetti, twisted and curved in impossible bends, there is not a single straight line in sight and not a place where you will not see ceaseless flurries of people or not pass by 3-4 shrines.

Life in the galis is about community. Long, winding discussions take place that everyone can listen in to – there is no Western notion of privacy here. A naked Naga sadhu prances down the narrow twists, gleefully shouting out Mahadev’s glory. A group of schoolgirls passes by without a second glance. This is Banaras’ normal. 

Life, death and everything in between in the galis of Banaras.

A group of men holding up a bier, walk purposefully, chanting Ram Naam Satya Hai. They pass a house lit up with fairy lights for a wedding. Film songs clash with live bhajans. People crowd ultra-tiny eateries with narrow benches for skinny bums. The business of death carries on as wood traders haggle with those who come to cremate loved ones.

The ‘small church’ and dissent: Mahadev, Kabir and Banarsi malang 

Besides over 1,000 mosques and churches, Banaras’ galis are dotted with thousands of shrines and temples — home to countless streams of belief.  Shaivites and Vaishnavites whose temples carve up the city, South Indian and Gujarati temples, divinities from the pantheon, Hanuman… the list is endless.  

Collectively, this uber-diverse ‘small church’ has a few tricks over the ‘Big Church’. 

It is accessible to anyone who wishes to pray, with no mediator. The worshipper and their God are one-on-one because God is literally at ‘home’ or next door – nestled between mithai shops, subziwallas, jewellers, chemists, kabadiwallas and everything else. Darshan may be five seconds, but it can be anytime and anywhere – it doesn’t require a special ‘visit’ with tickets and queues. (Read this: The sacred geography they bulldozed)

The neighbourhood shrine.

Shrines, temples, commerce, masti, tradition, home – a speedy ride through Banaras’ pride and joy – its ancient galis. 

The bigger obstacle Hindutva faces is Mahadev Himself!

The King of Banaras – and btw, also the cosmos – is the absolute opposite of a corporate hegemon and cookie-cutter rules, mass obedience and organised prayer. 

Banaras’ galis live and breathe His divinity. Yet Mahadev too is no awesome Sardar Patel statue in a lake — He’s a neighbourhood chap. Some of His shrines are below waist level and have to be bent down to see the divinity inside. Some are below street level and can’t even be accessed physically — Mahadev resides one storey down in a 4’ x 4’ tiled hole in the ground, and the shivling is visible through an elaborate system of mirrors. If you peer through the bars of the gate, you will see Him. Always with fresh flowers. 

Prof Kalyan Krishna, formerly convenor of INTACH Banaras for 35 years, describes the affection and banter Banaras shares with its ruling divinity. 

“Banaraswallas have a unique relationship with Him, and He enjoys their love and their curses. When devotees of Shiva set out for a holy dip in the early morning, and they pass a temple of Shiva, they’ll tell Him, “Abhai tak soota lava? Chala! Kaam kara! Bahut kaam ho torey upar. (Still sleeping, you lazy fellow? C’mon – get to work! You have too many responsibilities!) He is always accessible, within touching distance.”

Can this Kashi – whose soul is imbued with the unfettered mysticism of Mahadev – actually be the home of the ‘Big Church’? Can a bhang loving Supreme Consciousness that rejects hierarchy and wealth be constrained by plotting minds and ticket counters? Can the ultimate ruler of the cosmos, whose vision is limitless, squeeze Himself into the boundaries of petty human ideologies? 

Kashi’s other favourite, Kabir – the 16th-century bard – also directly challenges the notions of the ‘Big Church’, Islam's Mecca and Kashi itself, with his powerful dissent.

Moko kahaan dhoonde re bande

Main toh tere paas mein 

Na teerath mein

Na moorat mein

Na ekant niwas mein

Na mandir mein

Na masjid mein

Na Kaabe Kailas mein

“O’ seeker, where do you search for me? I am right here residing within you, then why are you seeking me in Kaaba or Kailash?” 

By questioning the very need for holy places, pilgrimages, vaunted rituals, idols, and any elaborate, ‘Big Church’ mumbo jumbo, Kabir has already pared it down to the basic relationship between God and individual – so eloquently practised every day and everywhere in Banaras’ ‘small church’ gali shrines.

No surprise that the grand hierarchies of faith skate on thin ice here. Banaras’ denizens are used to the world’s scholars, seekers, ascetics, saints, pretenders, cynics and believers, wandering the city’s streets and layering it with their shared knowledge of the universe. This multiplicity of voices shapes the “malang” Banarasi character with a broad, free spirit, not easily receptive to a single authority. 

At Manikarnika Ghat late in the night, the upper terrace (slated to be demolished soon) is busy with the endless cycle of cremations. Men, grey-stubbled with carelessly wrapped headgear to protect from the chill, grimy, rural clothing and the weary countenance of distant travels and grief, squat by lit pyres in huddles discussing the wheres and the whats, the bean counting of a last journey. 

The floor, or what is left of it, is strewn with silver-foiled paper thalis, the bane of ecologists, used for offerings. Half-burnt logs, dried grass, bamboo, discarded marigold malas from the bodies – and ash – are everywhere. It looks hellish and frightening for a first-timer, but the relentless work at hand and the ceaseless comings and goings slowly stabilise your perspective. This is ‘normal’ – of a different kind, that’s all. 

In a corner shed made of literal rags and the bamboo of discarded shaiyyas (biers) is a nameless Baba. The overwhelming Kashi Vishwanath Corridor looms large next door, modern, lit up, well built – everything this decrepit, ragged, grimy Ghat is not. 

“Gufa mein rehte the wahaan,” he points to it. “Gufa hi tod diya toh yahaan aaye,” he says, referring to the demolitions to construct the Corridor.  (I used to live in a cave there. They demolished it so I came here.)

“Mahadev ki panchayat ko Mahadev se hi door kar diya! Insaan lalchi lobhi hai – lalach mein bech diya,” he chats on. “Lekin devtaon ko apne bas mein nahin kar sakta”. (They have severed Mahadev's followers from Mahadev himself. Humans are driven by greed and avarice, so they sold it off. But they cannot bring the gods under their control.)

Barefoot with a thin shawl and dhoti, Baba says he now lives, breathes, sleeps and eats, amidst the flying ash of remains, the multiple burning pyres, on a khatiya that is also probably not his, below his ragtag ceiling held by knots. It is impossible to imagine this being having any attachment to the trappings of the ‘Big Church’ Hindu Vatican. Besides, security would instantly shoo him out. 

Yet as I get up to leave, he, who doesn’t have a shoe to his name, flashes a grin and holds out his hand for a quick note for the gyaan. Nothing much – just enough for the next bidi, meal or chai. It’s a paradox of detachment and worldliness that illustrates Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu’s “truth is paradoxical” on the spot – yet in Banaras, it is just a part of the city’s unique mix.

How does a Big Church, organised, disciplined and security-heavy, extol its narrative of uniformity in this unruly mélange of divinity, humanity and geography? It literally has no place to set up shop without the brute force that KVC had to use. 

***

Ideology vs faith: The scars of the battle

The wounds of Vaticanisation

Unfortunately, despite its non-conformity, Banaras cannot escape the oppressive burden of Vaticanisation. The harshest price it has paid is the supremacy of outsiders over its own.

Ayodhya, Kashi, and Mathura were never meant to be Hindu Vaticans. They were built around individual pilgrimages. Yet here they are today — stripped and reconstructed to giant proportions to accommodate darshan-hungry hordes. 

Without the hordes, there can be no Hindu Vatican. Its sole spokesmanship and authority rest on their presence. 

Insiders hold no value – a realisation deeply understood by Banaras. “Banaraswallas feel everything Banarsi is special – be it the sari, the paan or even the thug”, jokes Ambrish Chaturvedi, who runs a brocade business, about this sidelining. “Ab sab kehte hain, humse bada thug kaun aa gaya ki Banaras hi thug gaya?” (Now everyone asks, who is this thug greater than us, who has managed to thug Banaras itself!)

The costs of the Hindutva vs Hinduism battle: losses and erasures

He means the cost that Banaras has paid in loss, erasure and pain to create the Hindu Vatican. The geographies of the city, its institutions, and its relationships were all deemed unworthy of saving. 

But these are the very things that define it!

Prof Singh is shocked that the historic name of the KVC Ghat has been changed from Jalasen, a name with historical significance and purpose, to Ganga Dwar (Ganga Gate), where the palatial new steps now meet the river. 

“It was called Jalasen because the dead body is first taken to the Ganga to sprinkle jal or holy water, then goes to Manikarnika for cremation (now walled off). Woh naam hi badal diya, rasta hi tod diya, he grieves.

Chaturvedi recalls an akhara “jahaan roz jaake mitti lagate toh bimaari mit jaati”. (…an akhara whose soil had medicinal powers that could heal disease)

The panda (local priest) at Manikarnika, who cannot bear to enter the new Corridor, mourns, “Badh ka ped tha, Kali Ma ka mandir tha, Shani mandir tha, hazaaron shivling the … sab gayab.” (There was a Banyan tree, a Kali Maa temple, a Shani temple, thousands of Shivlings… all gone!) 

This is history, traditional knowledge, cultural markers – intangible linkages of an old civilization, being erased in real time. 

Suddenly, the 200-year-old mandir where you have prayed your whole life – for an exam, for Dadi who is sick, or to say thanks for a happy life is gone – its physical abode gone, its devta gone. The scars are real.

Yet the mass tourism beast so essential for a Vaticanised site requires feeding – more galis, shrines, history and community. 

At Dalmandi, Banaras’ historic Muslim neighbourhood, bulldozers are creating a “Grand Avenue” for the ease and comfort of mourners carrying dead bodies to Manikarnika Ghat, the mokshbhoomi, thereby erasing the specific cultural meaning of the last journey too.

“Why should they have ease and comfort?” demands Prof Kalyan Krishna. “They come to Manikarnika for moksh. If they have trouble navigating narrow galis they should face a little pain. There are so many little tirths  (shrines) en route to the final journey at Manikarnika – the soul gets blessings from each one. That’s the whole point of it – it’s a historic, special place. You can’t make a highway there.” 

Mahant Vishambar Nath Mishra of the Sankat Mochan temple and Professor, electrical engineering at IIT-BHU describes how the city’s densely packed galis held relationships forged over aeons that have been ripped away – a crucial part of Vaticanising ideology.   

“Dalmandi ka sawaal Hindu-Muslim ka nahin hai, it’s a question of the urban fabric of Banaras. Entire families have gone! They have lived here for 10-15 generations. People have an identity crisis when you forcibly break these deep rishtas.” 

If this sounds like a bull raging through a china shop, it is because of a loss of agency. “No one from Banaras was consulted,” as Prof Singh says. On what was forbidden, what was sacred and where the tears would be shed for something so close to the heart. “Map dekha, line kheenchi aur bola chaudha kar do. Bas!” 

Outsiders made the decisions. Institutional erasure meant the protectors of heritage quietly folded without a sound. 

“They should have raised their voices and said this cannot be done” snaps Prof Kalyan Krishna. “But you don’t want to go against the government. This is institutional dysfunction! If you have enjoyed the benefits of INTACH, why are you afraid of an FIR?” 

Parveen Ahmed’s loss is of an intangible sense – so precious in teeming, diverse Banaras. 

It is the sense of belonging she still holds onto in her bubble of close friends, but that has been chipped away in the outside world. An old way of life has been quietly extinguished amid the new narrative of exclusion. Old assumptions about freedom, integration, and fitting in have been set aside for a new guardedness and boundary-setting. 

“We are nightbirds, we used to go every evening to Lakshmi Chowk and Vishwanath Temple”, she reminisces. “Banarsi generally alag hain – bhang, tambaaku, paan dabaye, mast rehte hain. Lassi peene, chai peene jaate the Vishwanath gali”. (Banarasis are generally different – a relaxed, chilled lot. We used to go to Vishwanath gali to have lassi, drink tea.) 

 “It’s been two years now, and we haven’t been. I have heard Muslims are not allowed in Kashi Vishwanath Complex, so … chalo koi nahin”…. she trails off.  “Mecca-Medina mein bhi non-Muslims nahin allowed hain, so …. main nahin jaungi.” (so… no matter… non Muslims aren’t allowed in Mecca Medina either, so okay .. I won’t go here”)

Unknowingly, Parveen touches upon the very thing that ideology forces upon faith. Hindutva brings in the Abrahamic paradigm of distinction between those inside and outside the religion. Seeing it through the lens of her own religion, Islam, she acquiesces and quietly adjusts to the new reality of being unwelcome.  

Hindutva advocates would heartily agree with this equivalence. Tit for Tat is their choice because the Eternal Wound narrative demands that Hinduism respond the same way as religions of the Book would — with exclusion. This is the transformational effect of Vaticanisation.  

But that is precisely the point! Hinduism is not Islam or Christianity. Its framework has its own mechanisms of multiplicity, heterogeneity, assimilation and loose streams that are regarded with disdain today as ‘weakness’. They are the ones that have historically strengthened the faith when required. But no one wants to read this history. 

Eternal Wound: The slow-drip effect of ideologies that never let go

Over several decades, the Eternal Wound narrative has also extracted its own price, inflicted its own losses. In its embrace, the Hindu faith is no longer about practice. It is now aligned to the political notion of ‘Set Right’. 

Banaras is the prime playing field of these ideologies. The Kashi district is a premier region for RSS shakhas, and BHU is a long-time stronghold. Large remnants of the Chief Minister’s erstwhile “private army”, the Hindu Vahini, dissolved in 2022, still exist.

“Silent hain par lurk karte hain paan ki dukaan, chai ki dukaan, shaadiyon mein, sabke kaan bharte hain. Aadmi purani baaten bhool jata hai,” reflects Ambrish Chaturvedi. (They stay silent, yet they lurk – at paan shops, tea stalls, and weddings – filling everyone’s ears. A man tends to forget the old ways of life.)

The slow-drip effect of long-term ideologies ensures that Ganga-Jamuni idealisms are beaten down by their potent mix of fact, myth and propaganda that no one can tell apart. 

The notion of Muslims as either ‘terrorists’ or ‘oppressors’ rules the consciousness. “Musalmanon ne humein bahut dabaya tha,” as Chaturvedi puts it. “2014 se humein yeh bataya gaya hai ki dharma nirpekshata koi achhi cheez nahin hai aur Hindu rashtra mein Hindu ki hi baat chalni hai.” (The Muslims oppressed us greatly. Since 2014, we have been told that secularism is not a good thing, and that in a Hindu Rashtra, only the Hindu’s word shall prevail.)

Parveen Ahmed had to send her young child away to boarding school when a classmate (ironically, the child of Parveen’s friend) called her “dirty” for bringing chicken sandwiches to class, after which no one would sit next to her. 

She says there is an identity issue at play here. “It is like they have found their lost love,” she jokes. “Educated people mein zyaada hai. They regard these two (CM Yogi and PM Modi) like their own family.”

She describes a social gathering at which a Hindu friend criticised the Chief Minister Yogi. “Another friend just said ‘there is no discussion on this’ and left the room – itna upset ho gaya as if koi apne ghar ka ho. They cannot even listen to anything against them”.

The divisions prove that the Ganga Jamuni tehzeeb and Banarasi ‘Malang’ are simply not strong enough to resist an organised ideology at work. The overwhelming influx of outsiders, who drive its narrative in the city through the collective power of shakhas, politics, institutions, and governance, has choked off its freewheeling, devil-may-care masti and replaced it with a despondent cautiousness.

Rhetoric vs lived realities: The contradictions

The demolitions at Manikarnika Ghat, however, have opened up cracks. Realities earlier fogged by ideological spin are now dawning with visible disillusionment. 

The biggest contradiction is this. Following the governing ideology means you have to operate within the very intertwined, interdependent universe it is trying to uproot! Economically the Muslim artisan supplies the Hindu buyer and distributor. One cannot exist without the other. 

Chaturvedi laughs out loud, “Yeh nahin bataya ki agar karigar hi terrorist hai, toh hum uske saath kaam kaise karein?” (They didn’t tell us that if the craftsman himself is a terrorist, then how are we supposed to work with him?) 

This unravelling of beliefs is marked by discomfort, like a person betrayed who cannot believe they have been betrayed. Shaken by Manikarnika’s destruction, Chaturvedi, who spoke of Muslim ‘oppression’, surfaces other truths from a past long set aside – the old Banaras he grew up in. 

“Banaras ka character hi bilkul alag tha. Pehle Muslim-Hindu sab ka aana jaana tha gharon mein...  Ab woh masti hi khatam ho gayi hai. Bahut zyaada damage ho gaya hai,” he says haltingly. (The very character of Banaras was totally different. Back then, Muslims and Hindus alike used to come and go in each other’s homes ... Now, that very spirit has vanished. A great deal of damage has been done.)

He agrees with Parveen’s assessment of “lost love”. “Prem kiya. Isiliye toh dhokha hua.” (It was love. That’s why it’s a betrayal.)

Prof Singh addresses the ideological choice to destroy parts of Dalmandi – and its ironic, opposite effect on this diverse city. 

“Hinduvaad ke agenda ko lekar 90 percent Muslims ko kasht diya – par unke clients aur tenants kaun the? 60 percent Hindu the! Sabse zyaada kasht unhe hua!” (In pursuit of the Hindutva agenda, 90 percent of Muslims were made to suffer – but who were their clients and tenants? 60 per cent of them were Hindus! They were the ones who suffered the most!)

He remembers the Hindu and Muslim processions for peace too, after the 2006 Sankat Mochan blast that calmed the city instantly, and Bismillah Khan’s lifelong practice at the Lalita Devi Mata Mandir: “jahaan vishesh aarti hoti thi toh Bismillah ko hi bulaate the.” (Whenever a special Aarti was to be performed, they would only call upon Bismillah himself.)

The see-saw battle between faith and ideology

As always, lived experience reveals the limits of ideology. 

The RSS functions like a religious Marie Kondo – everything has a place and a place for everything – and obsesses over boundaries, rules, hierarchies. Its organised ideology puts mass obedience at its core. 

But Hinduism is built on the idea that everyone finds their own path! From contradictory philosophies and unstructured beliefs to sex to death to tantric skull worshippers – nothing is off the table! How do you control a naked Naga sadhu dancing down the galis who has nothing – needs nothing – not even clothes! He will not be obedient. 

Just the opposite of  ‘World Class’, ‘Corridor’, 'New India’ and all the big terms that make up the word-salad of the Hindutva narrative. It is why the Hindu Vatican can become a Disney-like tourist magnet but no capturer of hearts and souls. 

Also, why the Ganga Jamuni tehzeeb, that extinct dodo, still peeks out unexpectedly, showing off its plumed feathers. 

“Jab Corridor ke liye demolitions shuru huin toh Musalmaan workers ko bulaaya. Unhone kaha moorti nahin todenge,” says Mahant Mishra. “They had to get Rohingya Muslims to do the job. Banaras ke Musalmaan ne haath nahin lagaya.” (When the demolitions for the corridor began, Muslim workers were called in. They said they would not demolish the idols… They had to get Rohingya Muslims to do the job. The Muslims of Banaras wouldn’t touch it.)

“Eid ke liye log kapde banvaate hain, friends are amazing,” says Parveen. She keeps alive the tradition of shared festivities with Hindu friends who reciprocate with enthusiasm. It soothes the unbelonging elsewhere. “Humne toh Ganesh ki arti bhi ki hai diya aur thali jab pakdaya hai. Agar woh humein dein, I will do it very happily,” she says. (Whenever I’ve been handed the diya and thali, I have also performed the Ganesh Arti. If they include me, I will do it very happily.)

That fragile trust and respect keep the battle in tenuous balance, despite the immeasurable loss and destruction. The smaller devastations of little exclusions, name changes, the casual brutalities of a home or temple or street erased forever, have kept somewhat apace with the ancient city’s large hearted essence, honed over centuries of a broad tent Hinduism. It has patched the cracks as much as it can. 

For now the ‘Big Church’ religion may call the shots, but in Banaras, seat of the Hindu faith, it is still the ‘small church’ that reigns. For now, its favourite son Kabir’s words on ‘grand sites’ still resonate. 

Na mandir mein

Na masjid mein

Na Kaabe Kailas mein

For now.

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