Hindu and Muslim, the two names
automatically considered as rival communities. Us Hindus are all taught to stay
away from Muslims, be their friends but not trust them, don’t hate them, but
don’t love them either. Similarly, Muslims are made to believe that Hindus hate
them so stay away from them and to stay within their community. It’s as grave
as committing a Haram to love Hindus, or anyone outside their community.
I was no exception to this teaching; the only difference in my case was, it
wasn’t my parents who taught me this, but my entire society who taught me that
I am a Brahmin, nearly next to God and that I should remain that way. I was
told the story of my ancestors who had to suffer during the India-Bangladesh
partition and how Muslims butchered the Hindus and forced the remaining ones to
go to India. Words of my great-grandmother became a Patthar ki lakeer, or
words engraved on stone, and
her words were this, “Do whatever you want to, marry whoever you all want to,
but not a Muslim. They have the blood of our loved ones in their hands.” When I
heard the entire story behind the decision, I never felt the need to raise any
objection. I understood she was hurt, after all, who would love to be thrown
out of their own country, their own house and be called an outsider. Moreover,
why should I let it bother me?
I grew up in a Hindu Bengali community,
later when I moved out of it and became friends with people who were non-Bengalis
but Hindus. Most of my friends were Brahmin and they all grew up learning the
same things as me. I never had a Muslim friend and I didn’t care. During the
years I was growing up, terrorism in India was spreading faster than cancer. Even
outside of our borders, terror attacks became a regular occurrence, and the
world was engulfed by “Islamophobia”. The situation further worsened after the
attacks of 26/11 on Mumbai Taj Hotel which was perpetrated by Lashkar-e-Taiba,
an Islamic terrorist organisation based in Pakistan, which carried out a series
of 12 coordinated shooting and bombing attacks lasting for four days across
Mumbai. The rage against Muslims increased drastically, and I too was consumed
by the flames of paranoia. I hated what these people were doing. Muslim people
scared the living hell out of me. In fact any one with the name Khan, Ali,
Ahmed or Iqbal scared me. The way they dressed, the way they behaved, their
beards, the burkhas and the purdah, started giving me chills and I started
maintaining a good distance from them. But the fear never concerned me, I
didn’t mind it being there. Because why should I? It’s not important, THEY are
not important to me.
News of rage against Muslims grew frequent;
many political parties declared that they will make India a Hindu Nation and
get us all “rid” of Muslims. Some leaders even asked Hindu couples to produce
as many kids as possible to counter the growing Muslim population. But I didn’t
care because why should I? I am a Hindu and India is my country.
But life had different plans for me. Life
decided to give me a reality check, and change my view on people. I finished my
undergrad and went to Bhopal to study Journalism. I was oh so excited! But soon
my happy bubble met the needle of reality. I met my classmates and they were
too different from me. They judged me because my Hindi wasn’t as polished as
theirs, I used cuss words, I preferred Shakespeare over Premchand, Game of
Thrones over some decade long Indian soap opera, I used English to express my
views and failed to understand superfluous Hindi. To me it wasn’t my fault
because I grew up in a Bengali community and studied in a Convent school and college.
I never really used Hindi that much. But for them it was more like a crime to
be unfamiliar with Hindi Language and so I just couldn’t get along with them.
I spent almost my entire July at home and
refused to go back there. But eventually I had to. In August I went back and I
met a girl in my class and her name was Ahmed. I was apprehensive, judgemental
and scared. Why wouldn’t I be? My brain was configured to think in a certain
way by now. But, just like a man, the way to a woman’s heart also goes through
her stomach. Or at least, mine does. She brought Sheer-Khurma, a type of rice
pudding, for it was Eid a few days back and God bless my soul! That rice
pudding felt like it fell from heaven, my heart danced a little with every
spoon of it as I ate. I eventually learned that, just like me, even she studied
English literature in her undergrad, and that her parents were teachers. Both
the parents. For some really problematic and judgmental reason, I was
impressed.
People talk so much about love, and
heartbreak. All senses come into life when people fall in love. But for me, my
emotions came into life when I touched friendship. I talk to a lot of people, I
am acquainted to many, but I never called anyone ‘a friend’, for I believe
terms like love and friendship weigh a lot more than we realise. The more I
interacted with her, the more it cleared the heavy clouds of judgment from
head. Together we laughed a little louder, cried a little harder, made decision
a little too stupid, and later regretted a little more gravely. But isn’t that
what friends are for? To be a partner in crime? To build you up when you break
bad? To help you grow as a person? To be there for you when this entire world turns
their back on you?
As I spent more and more time with her,
her views became clearer, and now she started telling me about Islam and what
it says, what are the do’s and don’ts, what are the rules and the reason why
they exist. I started reading about it and it all made so sense. It was all
proper, but most importantly the preaching. THEY WERE SO SIMILAR TO HINDUISM. They
were like different paths leading to same mountain. The exact words, the exact
philosophies just different language. Why are we enemies again? I couldn’t
comprehend anymore.
It was soon enough that her family adopted
me as a part of them. They treated me as their own daughter. Soon they became
family away from family.
Then my series of visits became more
often. I went out for dinner with them,
met her relatives and they too treated me as a part of their family. I was
touched. With time our friendship grew, and became stronger. Every sleepover
added a new milestone to our friendship, and each milestone made a new
contribution to the memories we were making. Our late-night horror movie
sessions, sneaking out at 2 am to smoke a cigarette, and staying up till 5 in
the morning talking about anything and everything about our lives.
When I was down with chicken pox, it was
an ultimate eye opener for me. I was in Bhopal, away from family, alone and
down with the infection, and her family brought me home. They let me stay there,
took me to the doctor. I slept in my dear friend’s room and she took care of me
like a mother. I was them only for three days but in these three days they did
all that they could to keep me comfortable. But then I came home and the people
among who I grew up, the people from my own society and culture treated me like
an untouchable. All of a sudden, I wasn’t a Brahmin anymore. I was an
untouchable girl with a highly infectious disease. They even went to the extent
that they “advised” my mother not to stay in the same room as me and not to
enter the room unless it was absolutely required. I was sick and weak, and they
wanted me to be alone.
My best friend is an Ahmed, and she is one
the best human beings as I have ever seen. I am what I am because of her
presence in my life. True Shakespearean love is hard to find, but a true friend
is rare. After all, when love breaks your heart you go to your friend, because it’s
simple. love breaks, but a true friend heals. I am ashamed, I am guilty, but
now I have changed. My friend is an Ahmed and now I am proud of it.
