Selfie with Ravana in Shoghi

October in Shoghi has its own charm — pine-scented breeze, sweaters smelling faintly of mothballs, and the half-road taken over by the local Ramlila group, with the other half still open to buses.

Not too long ago, we sat cross-legged on the rough carpet in front of the stage, waiting for the drama to unfold.

The curtain fluttered, and then it came: a voice that thundered like a cloudburst over the hills. “Main Ravan hoon!” His moustache twitched, his eyes bulged, and the younger kids clutched their mothers in fear. Me? I was impressed. And during interval, I was in line, not to meet the virtuous Lord Rama, or the loyal Hanumanji, but to meet Ravana — our local superstar. Kids shoved phones at him: “Uncle, selfie!” Ravana obliged, grinning like a movie star. Of course, he was the villain of Treta Yuga, but in Shoghi he would trend like a hero.

Then came the blockbuster scene of Ashok Vatika. Hanumanji bounded in, tugged at the artificial tree, and down came real guavas tied with red ribbon. “Pakad!” Hanumanji shouted, hurling one straight into the audience. We went wild. Some dived, some missed, one uncle caught a guava and pretended to faint like he’d been blessed. Hanumanji, meanwhile, started playing catch-catch mid-dialogue, while Sita Mata, sitting still and sad, tried not to laugh. That was Shoghi theatre: mythological epic on stage, comedy circus in the crowd.

And ah, the donations! Every five minutes, the announcer with a crackly mic would interrupt:

“Shree Chandji ne pachaas rupaye diye!” The whole tent clapped as though he was daanveer Karna himself.  But in those days, Rs 50 could make you a legend. I swear, half of us contributed through coins in our pockets only to hear our names echo in that squeaky loudspeaker.

Years later, I saw a Ramlila in the plains — smoke machines, laser lights, booming soundtracks. But it felt like watching television, not a play. Perfect, polished, but something essential was missing.

In Shoghi though, the magic still rests, sometimes in its minor imperfections — the guava pelting, the thunderous Ravana posing for selfies, and the joy of becoming daanveer Karna with just fifty bucks. That’s where the hills of Shogi win—light on the “camera,” but heavy on the “action.”

Because Ramlila here is never just about gods and demons—it’s about neighbours, children, laughter, and a community coming alive under a tent roof. And as the pine trees sway in the October breeze, you realise Ramlila is also a lesson: that life, like theatre, doesn’t need perfection. It only needs people willing to clap, laugh, and believe together. That’s when even a fifty-rupee note can make you feel like Karna himself.

Saurabh Malik, Chandigarh