It is not easy being a Muslim in India, it never has been, especially being a secular one. Back in my school days, Sharjah hosted what turned out to be the match, the one where Javed Miandad, that incorrigibly abrasive cricketer, hit the famous six off the last ball of the hapless Chetan Sharma to win a match India had no business to lose. All through the day, like millions of youngsters, I had cheered India on every ball. Colour television was still a novelty and we had bought one just a little before the tournament to watch the fun from the UAE. As India outclassed Pakistan for the better part of the match, I often found myself jumping up and down in front of the television, my hands turned red because of the loud and consistent clapping whenever an Indian batsman hit a boundary or a bowler took a wicket to break a crucial partnership. It was heady stuff. Until that incorrigibly abrasive cricketer ruined it all.
On April 18, 1986, Miandad’s six hurt. The worst came the next morning in school as I was asked by one of my classmates from Old Delhi, if I had been distributing laddoos following Pakistan’s come-from-behind victory? Too hurt, too shocked, I could not muster up any words and consoled myself into believing that he hailed from a lunatic fringe. My agony was far from over. The fringe again occupied centre stage in my life a few years later in a prestigious college of Delhi University. This time, India had defeated Pakistan in a match it seemed doomed to lose. The next day, a classmate, hailing from Siri Fort area of the city, asked me if I had been mourning. “ Toone to kal khana bhi nahi khaya hoga ,” he mocked. His words still ring in my ears. I could not win any which way. India lost. I lost. India won. I still lost.
These thought came back to my mind around this time last year when I started reading Anees Salim’s powerful work, Vanity Bagh , a book where he talks freely and passionately about mini-Pakistans in the country, those pockets of Muslim dominance where many believe the loyalties of the residents in case of Indo-Pak cricket matches lay elsewhere. Anees writes with a rare mix of humour and gravity. He does not hold his punches, he goes for the jugular. What he writes makes many feel uncomfortable; what he writes must be written. With such a direct approach and an extremely sensitive subject, he easily grabbed my attention. And indeed of so many others, considering he also won The Hindu Prize for Best Fiction (2013). The first time around, I read the book in a hurry, almost like a river in the mountains not ready to wait too long. I came back to it recently. This time I read with patience, care and rapt attention, almost like a river in the plains, tranquil, silent but profound. Vanity Bagh seemed to have more qualities for admiration.
The book stays on my shelf. I go back to it every now and then. I read it when I find myself silently cheering Misbah ul Haque as he tries valiantly to rescue Pakistan in umpteen matches. One day a little more than a year ago, I pushed myself away from work for a few minutes to catch up on the score of an Indo-Pak match. As luck would have it, I had barely watched three balls than an Indian batsman got out followed by a longish commercial break. As I retraced my steps towards my office, I heard a photo-journalist comment, “ Miyan bhai to out ho gaya...ab aap kahan rukenge ?” Something twisted inside me. But words failed me again. Yet again, a dirty look was all I could give him. And went back to reading Anees Salim.
At night I read a few pages of the book for the nth time and closed the book. For how long could I fight my demons through someone else’s words, however powerful they might be? I asked myself many questions that night: why is it that in any crucial cricket match, or at the time of a controversy about, say, a Taslima Nasreen seeking asylum here or an MF Husain painting Bharat Mata in his own way, I am required to speak up, I am supposed to have an opinion? Why should I have to prove my patriotism to those who had never undertaken a similar test? Why should I always be expected to have politically correct opinions? And pray why cannot I live my life quietly, unobtrusively without any doubting Thomases knocking at my door, the way those lunatic elements did at the height of the Babri Masjid-Ram Janambhoomi controversy, shouting “ Musalman ke do hi sthhan, qabristan ya Pakistan ”.
Back then I took recourse to a book by Girilal Jain to understand the challenge in front of me. His The Hindu Phenomenon helped clear a few cobwebs. Then came books by M.J. Akbar and M.N. Srinivas — the latter making me wonder, why can’t I live my life like a little stream that joins the mainstream yet manages to retain its identity? Like Mr Moorthy next door or Mr Singh down the lane, why can’t I wear trousers to work and come back home to slip into pajamas, like they don a mundu or a dhoti at home? Why can’t I enjoy a cricket match for the fare it provides and for once cheer a good shot or a good ball without the fear of being tagged a traitor? Why can’t I enjoy the simple joys of life?
There are no easy answers there. I am trying to find some though, in the essays by Irfan Ahmad and Tanweer Fazal which form a crucial part of the book, “Being Muslim in South Asia”. But as Ahmad and Fazal will appreciate, it is not easy being a Muslim in India.
The author is a seasoned literary critic
