The Yogi was tall and thin, so thin in fact that you could call him emaciated. His face was pinched and hungry, and there was something fel...
The Yogi was tall and thin, so thin in fact that you could call him emaciated. His face was pinched and hungry, and there was something feline about his curved nose. He usually wore a saffron tunic, like all the godmen across the country who were demanding that a Mughal-era mosque in Ayodhya be torn down and a temple to Ram be constructed in its place.
A few months back, the Yogi had publicly declared his support for the cause and had promised a few lakh rupees to build the temple. He had also extended an invitation to the political leader travelling from Ahmedabad to Ayodhya on a chariot, to come to Calcutta and stay at his ashram. But the West Bengal government, led by the Marxists, had denied the politician and his entourage permission to enter the state, in a bid to prevent a communal flare-up. The Yogi was now planning his own chariot procession in support of the Ram temple…
The first time I saw the Yogi, it was his dark glasses that had caught my attention. They made it difficult to determine the true colour of his eyes.
He wore it at all hours, day and night, never appearing without...
