A.K. Ramanujan’s wonderful essay, “Three Hundred Ramayanas: Five Examples and Three Thoughts on Translation”, which says that the Ramayana is a narrative that has been told numerous times in numerous ways across languages and cultures, ends with a delightful story. The essay was dropped from the Delhi University syllabus after Akhil Bharatiya Vidyarthi Parishad protested against it for allegedly hurting the sentiments of Hindus.

It is about a cultured woman who had a complex about her husband not being cultured enough. When a great reciter of the epic came to the village, she sent him to the performance, hoping that her husband would return from it smarter.

The man was very bored and slept through the first three nights. The wife was so enraged by this that she accompanied him on the fourth night and made him sit in the first row. He could not fall asleep and soon was caught up in the twists and turns of the plot of the epic.

The reciter was narrating an episode in which Hanuman has to take Rama’s signet ring to Sita.

“When Hanuman was leaping across the ocean, the signet ring slipped from his hand and fell into the ocean. Hanuman didn’t know what to do. He had to get the ring back quickly and take it to Sita in the demon’s kingdom… the husband who was listening with rapt attention in the first row said: ‘Hanuman, don’t worry. I’ll get it for you.’ Then he jumped up and dived into the ocean, found the ring on the ocean floor, brought it back, and gave it to Hanuman,” writes Ramanujan.

“Everyone was astonished. They thought this man was someone special, really blessed by Rama and Hanuman…That’s what happens when you really listen to a story, especially to the Ramayana.”

Listening deeply is like deep diving; it can eliminate everything else and draw you in, into even the sublime. It is the unlocking of imagination, which is a key element of faith. If you are listening that intently, metaphors cast off their skin and turn into facts. The believer fishes out the blessed ring. A miracle is performed.

But what if we reverse the premise a bit? Reversing can be a useful technique to understand many a phenomena. It can help us to understand the limits of possibility. For example, can Palestine pound Israel back, the way it is being pounded? No. Can India be reluctant to issue visas to Americans or Europeans? No. Can you visualise a future in which Bengali-style weddings will replace Bollywood-style weddings? No.

Reversing also highlights the direction in which power flows.

In other cases, when the reverse is possible, you may want to explore its implications.

So in the case of listening, to frame a question that is a little more complex, what if you are hearing something, insistently, despite yourself, and you do not want to be dragged into its plot?

A few days ago, when the Ram mandir was inaugurated, a lot of Indians felt obliged to dress up as Rama, Sita, Lakshmana and Hanuman. I felt the pressure, too, to be part of such a pageant. But I could not take the risk. Firstly, I would not look good in any of the costumes. I am too short, fat, bald and old for any of them, and of the wrong gender, mostly. Secondly, induced by the constant music and chanting around me, if I do lose myself and get caught up in the action, and then the person dressed up as Rama, or Hanuman, or anyone, loses something valuable, say an iPhone, what will I deep dive into? The Calcutta pavement?

The transcendental will not work for me, not in these changed circumstances. I think I will keep wearing my own clothes. I will also really switch off my ears, at times, whether the storytelling is going on on WhatsApp or offline.

On a cold, winter day, I will listen to Kishore Kumar.