Sorrow is immeasurable, and the weight of loss lingers long after someone is gone. Who was Vagish Bhaiyya? Or rather, who is Vagish Bhaiyya? This question will always spark reflection among his family members and ideological companions.
When I came to Jawahar Lal Nehru University (JNU), burdened by the weight of a troubled childhood, two people breathed life into me as if I were a tabula rasa. Like many who found their way to JNU, I was searching for an identity, a voice, and a place where I could belong. One of these guiding figures was Vagish Bhaiyya—an enigmatic presence who continued to astonish me throughout my life.
Vagish Kumar Jha, better known as Vagish Bhaiyya, was a student of history and the founder of Jugnu, a cultural organization on campus, in early 1990s. It largely experimented with street theatre and as the name suggests, it was an artistic endeavour to lighten the path even in darkness.
When I joined JNU and also Jugnu in 1992, I was amused to find that most of its members were Bihari, which meant I no longer had to worry about my English or my accent. It was a relief to exist in a space where linguistic insecurities were irrelevant.
My first visit to the Teflas music room was eye-opening. The students were singing songs unlike the usual Bollywood melodies. One of them was Dabegi Kab Talak Awaaz-e-Adam—Hum Bhi Dekhenge. That was my first encounter with Sahir Ludhianvi, whom I had previously thought of only as a Bollywood lyricist—someone whose words I had unconsciously hummed while singing Jo Wada Kiya Woh Nibhana Padega.
Then, they moved on to singing Kabir. Until that moment, my textbook-driven perception of Kabir was limited to him being just a Julaha, a simple weaver-poet. That day, I encountered three greats at once—Sahir, a poetic genius; Kabir, the eternal voice of wisdom; and then Vagish Bhaiyya, a Bihari who shocked me by speaking flawless English, albeit with a Bihari accent. I marveled at how a single person could seem to know everything.
This was my early impression of Vagish Bhaiyya—a man who could switch effortlessly between Bhojpuri, Maithili, Hindi, and English. He inhabited multiple linguistic worlds with ease.
At the time, Jugnu was seen as the cultural wing of SFI, given the sheer number of SFI members in the group. It was also a period marked by the demolition of the Babri Masjid. In response, Jugnu organized a day-long Satyagraha at Jhelum Lawns, protesting the demolition.
Prominent intellectuals from across Delhi participated, and by evening, we marched in silence through the streets of Munirka—an unmistakably Gandhian mode of protest. India Today later reported it as the first demonstration in India just after the Babri Masjid’s demolition.
In 1993, SFI splintered into two parts. The dissenters aligned with AISA, which won the JNUSU mandate in 1993. Consequently, JUGNU became filled with AISA members, and I, too, became an AISA-ite. The ideological shift was from the Left to the Left. It was an era that historian Bipan Chandra once said—“the idealism of JNU was so high that students could cut through the air with it.”
I often wondered why JNU had so many Left organizations and why both IPTA and JUGNU competed for their cultural sphere of influence.
Vagish Bhaiyya explained that JUGNU’s core philosophy was to foster debate and challenge the culture of silence—a concept central to Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed. As a student of Persian, I had little interest in Freire but found the concept of ‘Chuppi ki Sanskriti’ deeply compelling.
Jugnu didn’t just resist the hegemonic culture of silence imposed by the state; it also challenged the internalised silences within the Left itself. This tension even extended to the structure of revolutionary songs—should they adhere to a rigid marching tune, or could they experiment with melodic structures?
The debate echoed Ritwik Ghatak’s complex, love-hate relationship with the Left in the cultural sphere.
Today’s generation may envy us, for in a span of ten years, we performed more than 50 street plays. Our street theatre, as envisioned by Vagish Bhaiyya, was never meant to offer solutions but to spark dialogue—resonating with Augusto Boal’s concept of the Spectator. He would remind us, “Humein theatre ke through khoonta nahi garna hai”.
The impact of art, he believed, should not be fleeting. Though we may not have fully grasped the layers of discourse he introduced us to, his ability to communicate complex ideas in simple language always captivated us. Despite his intellectual depth, he resisted the convoluted rhetoric that Left organizations often indulged in. He would often quip, “People don’t understand you, comrades!”
As a young Left activist, I had a lot to say, but my thoughts often tangled into incoherence.
My arguments lacked clarity, and my articulation felt chaotic. Vagish Bhaiyya would patiently guide me, emphasizing that arguments should be accessible if they were meant to reach people. The pamphlets JUGNU produced during this period were more creative than all the Left pamphlets combined.
Titles like Jatin Das ki Dadhi and Aapka Dissertation critiqued the creeping apathy in JNU. Our pamphlets often began with Dear Would-Be Outsiders, a playful yet sharp response to the ongoing outsider vs. insider debate at JNU.
Jugnu housed two dominant ideological currents—one Leftist and the other Gandhian. Vagish Bhaiyya leaned toward Gandhian ideals, while I was a radical Leftist.
One day, in a meeting, I launched into a critique of Gandhi through the lens of Bhagat Singh—uninformed and oversimplified. Instead of dismissing me, he suggested that I should read Hind Swaraj, Bhikhu Parekh’s work on Gandhi, The Intimate Enemy, and Savage Freud by Ashish Nandy.
When I did, a new world of decolonial thought opened up to me. From that point on, I refrained from engaging in uninformed debates. Vagish Bhaiyya often recited a line from Majaz: Bahut mushkil hai duniya ka sanwarna Teri zulfon ka pech-o-kham nahi hai. He always struggled with the epiglottal ‘kha’ sound in Urdu and would force himself to pronounce ‘kham’. We would all laugh.
Jugnu truly embodied what Mao once said: "Let a hundred ideas contend and let a thousand flowers bloom." Vagish Bhaiyya, with his Gandhian ideals, never dismissed any perspective. I even saw a right-wing person join the group, and while the rest of us viewed the Right as anathema, Vagish Bhaiyya engaged with him passionately.
We used to joke that India has two Parivaars—the Sangh Parivaar and the Jugnu Parivaar. But in the truest sense, Jugnu was more than just a collective; it was a Parivar to all of us.
Jugnu was also the first Left-leaning organization to unfurl the Tricolour at Jhelum Lawns. The chief guest for the event would always be the most marginalized member of society—often a sweeper from Ganga hostel.
Some of us, especially those with more radical Leftist leanings, would stand there in silence. As Jana Gana Mana was sung, many joined in, but people like us remained mute. Yet, immediately after the national anthem, another revolutionary song would follow—Is Liye Raah Sangharsh Ki Hum Chune, Zindagi Aansuon Mein Nahayi Na Ho, penned by Anup Vashisht.
This juxtaposition always ignited debates on nationalism and patriotism—debates where dissent wasn’t just tolerated but encouraged. Unlike today’s climate, no one threatened or vilified us for choosing not to sing the national anthem.
Jugnu played a vital role in shaping JNU’s culture of dissent, but Vagish Bhaiyya was our guiding light in so many ways. He was the Safdar Hashmi of street theatre—yet with a deeper vision.
To him, culture was never meant to be dictated by political parties; rather, it had its own political life. He believed street theatre should be both intellectually stimulating and deeply engaging. With a masterful touch, he wove forgotten folk songs from Bihar and Bengal into the intricate fabric of our plays. He always reminded us—there must be a creative unease within us if we wish to truly live.
Last year, I came across a poem on Facebook—Kafir Hun, Sirfira Hun, Mujhe Maar Dijiye. It moved me so deeply that I set it to tune in Raag Malkauns and eagerly shared it with Vagish Bhaiyya. To my surprise, he had already composed his own version in Raag Pahadi.
That was the depth of our connection—we were always in sync. So much of what I am today, I owe to him—engagement, clarity, writing, singing.
As for him, he spent the last few decades dedicated to issues of education and its deepening, till he died an untimely death recently.
Vagish Bhaiyya, the world you envisioned for us is slipping away in this digital age. We find ourselves surrendering to screens, losing the essence of what once made us alive.
We need you to challenge this, to anchor me once more. I still have so much to learn from you.
Please, come back. Please come back even to the digital presence of Jugnu.
Have you liked the news article?