Her Name Is Khan and She Is My FRIEND

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.