The backstory: When death came knocking on a family in Ayodhya

In June, a Google Street View car that captures 360 degree images of streets around the world drove through an old pilgrimage route that encircles Ayodhya. For the last time, its cameras captured a flower bed near the banks of the Saryu river. They show a row of budding plants yet to blossom, fenced by slender trees and dense, green shrubbery. In August, local authorities flattened the bed and acquired the land for a road-widening project, as part of Ayodhya’s makeover in the run up to the Ram Mandir inauguration in January 2024.

The flower bed had been nurtured by 65-year-old Ram Kishor for decades. When I interviewed him for a story in the first week of December, he seemed helpless and despondent. The plot of land had been a source of livelihood for his family and the families of his three brothers. Their children, barring one, did not have jobs.

We sat down to speak in the courtyard of Kishor’s modest, age-old home. From there, one could see four tall cranes building the Ram Mandir a few hundred metres away. After a brief chat about the land’s history, Kishor told me about his father, 93-year-old Sitaram Verma.

In the 1950s, Verma started his career as an assistant store keeper in the Uttar Pradesh Power Corporation in nearby Faizabad. He was transferred to Allahabad in the early 1960s. “Every 15 days, he would visit us from Allahabad and bring gifts,” Kishor recalled. “My grandfather grew curious. He asked my father how much money he made. Father told him that the money he sent home every month was what he earned.”

Something did not add up. If Verma sent his earnings home, then how did he survive in Allahabad and afford the gifts, asked the grandfather. “My father revealed he made more money through bribes,” said Kishor. “My grandfather was livid. He told him that the family did not need money made through bribes and ordered him to return home.”

Verma was transferred back to Ayodhya in 1966, where he retired in 1995. “After the scolding, he never even had a cup of tea from someone else’s money,” said Kishor, proudly. “Someone less honest would have built a big house. But our little home is the story of my father’s honesty.”

As I absorbed the account, I blurted out a stupid question that I came to regret. “When did your father die?” I asked. “He’s still alive,” said Kishor. “But he’s bed-ridden in the next room.”

The theme of Kishor’s story was not just injustice but also betrayal. His account of his father’s life, woven into the conversation about the crude seizure of the flower bed, was meant to convey a larger truth: the family of a government servant who had served honestly and faithfully had been abandoned by the state.

As we spoke, a frail, old man walked out to the courtyard. He was held by Kishor’s wife and son on either side. With a blue sweater and black pair of pyjamas, Sitaram Verma took small, weak steps to the washroom.

The harsh afternoon sun in Ayodhya was soon lost amidst grey clouds. Anticipating rain, Kishor and I moved our chairs under a tin shed. Minutes later, a loud, shrill cry rang out from the room where Verma lay.

“Is your father okay?” I asked Kishore. He replied the old man had not been well. But consumed by the interview, he continued his story. But then came another cry. This time, Kishor rushed in.

Another minute passed. Deep down, I feared the worst. Those fears came true when the women in the family began wailing. Kishor walked out of the room. His eyes were moist. “He’s no more.”

As panic engulfed the Verma household, I stood around, confused. Kishor’s son made frantic phone calls and prepared to dash to the nearest hospital. Everyone seemed to forget about my presence. I left soon after.

I wanted to visit Kishor again. He was an important character in my report and I hadn’t photographed him. But I had second thoughts. His father’s demise shortly after I had (mistakenly) asked about his death had spooked me. What if, I thought, the family was superstitious and assumed that it was my question that had brought the bad omen.

Reluctantly, I walked to Kishor’s home on my last day in Ayodhya. The family was busy preparing for the funeral. The 65-year-old greeted me warmly and was willing to pose for a picture. He was angry, but not with me. He cursed the government and the local authorities, who, in his view, held the common folk in contempt.

“I have heard a rumour that the Ram Mandir trust will take over the land in this neighbourhood, including our house,” he said. “A rumour is only a rumour till the police force shows up. On one hand, I lost my land, then I lost my father. If we lose the house, where will we go?”