India, the land of Rama and Krishna, the Rama lore, the Krishna lore of it, where did it not spread to? The song of Rama, how to sing it? Can it be if the bhakti is not? What is the abode of Rama? The heart, is it not? 

Who the singers of Rama? Was Kabir not? Was Mahatma not? Ramdhuna, how pleasant is it to get lost in?

A.F. Khabardar, definitely a very talented poet, whose poetic genius we could not appreciate then. How magical and enchanting is he that the words themselves speak it about! A Parsi poet, how could he write about, song of Rama and Krishna in such a way! It is but rare.

Sita-Rama is one such poem from the poetic pen of Khabardar. We do not know if it is a picture recreated or that which he saw it. But where did he? He would not have seen in Daman or in Madras with which he was connected.

Whatever be that, the poet has tried to capture the Ramdhuna heard at morn and eve. How would the people have recited Sita-Rama, Sita-Rama then! The folks of Rama taking the name, spelling it unawares had been but our tradition. We were but the people of Rama and Krishna; India a land of Rama and Krishna and we cannot help without whatever be the thesis or the anti-thesis we give it. 

In wonder and astonishment, shame and fear, take we the name of Rama, “Hey, Rama, ab kya hoga?” O Rama, what will it happen? This is but our word. We the Rama’s people live by him. In the click of our tongue, dwells the name of Rama. Even now many greet with, Ram, Ram, bhai.

The poem takes us to the Gangetic plains and north Indian countryside. How beautiful is to hear Sita-Rama, Sita-Rama, the kirtanias reciting! Mahatma Gandhi too used to sing the song of Rama, wheeling the charkha, Raghupati raghav rajaram… The Hare Rama Hare Krishna Movement too is before us to draw from. E.M. Forster too heard the echoes of Vyom, Om in the Maravar Caves in A Passage to India.

Wherever go you, to the north, the east, the south or the west, the lore of Rama is there to entertain you. Every time you sit, a newer version comes out. There is Ram Setu to take you to Ceylon and beyond. The Ramlila tradition, the Krishnalila are there to entertain, regale and teach us.

How the song of Rama? How the singer of Rama? How is the worship? Where the dhuna coming from? How the impact of it on birds, men and flowers? How the breezes carrying the whiffs and wisps of it?

The parrot of the village Brahmin speaking, Sita-Rama, Sita-Rama and the wayfarers talking about the kripa of Rama and the magic connected with the name-taking at morn may also take you by strike. These are but rural tales while on the other hand Kabirdas, the great disciple of Ramanand, cautioned against the unnecessary show of devotion. Where is not Rama? Rama is in your heart. Try to see him inside rather than outside is the lesson, the moral that he gives to, imparts with. 

Was Father Camille Bulcke not a Ram-bhakta? A greater bhakta of Rama he was, a bhakta from the overseas, across the saat samudras which we feared to leap over once for to be boycotted socially, but Greater India was not as such, as because our glorious remnants are there in Bali, Sumatra, Champa and so on.

How does life begin with the break of the morning and the village-women hastening to the Ganga ghats and the maidens engaged in picking flowers from jasmine-bowers and creepers for the temple-god and go back to? But suddenly the sounding and resounding of Sita-Rama echoes it around to take it all over.

Even it is noontide taking us all, at that time the Sita-Rama keeps us spell-bound, the music taking us over, the dhuna echoing and enveloping in. When the butterflies seem to be busy with flitting from flower to flower and the full-grown blooms glistening, at that time Sita-Rama, Sita-Rama can be seen doing the rounds with hope and joy being kept alive. 

Even when the day departs, when the lotus seems to be closing, the village-women can be seen burning the incense sticks and the lamps. Even then the sing-song spell leaves us not.

While the infant hours of morning
Glide so playful by the door,
And the village-women hasten
To the Ganga’s holy shore;
While the maidens gather flowers
Under fragrant jasmine-bowers
For the temple-god and go;
Suddenly a voice there towers
Over all below:
          Sita-Rama, Sita-Rama,
          Sita-Rama, Ho!
 
Like the flying pansies, wheeling
Flutter while the butterflies,
And the busy moments gather
All the fruits of toiling skies;
While the full-blown flowers are gleaming
In the noontide’s golden dreaming 
Of the hopes that ever grow;
Hark! the words there loud and streaming
In the long street flow:
          Sita-Rama, Sita-Rama,
          Sita-Rama, Ho!
 
While the temple bells are ringing
At the slow-departing day,
And the closing lips o’ the lotus
Kiss the last and lingering ray;
While the village-wives are burning
Purest incense with a yearning
For their joy and peace below;
Oh, the echoes there returning
With the breezes blow:
          Sita-Rama, Sita-Rama,
          Sita-Rama, Ho!