Mohabbat ka Sharbat, Not Sharbat Jihad: Weaponising Rooh Afza & Politics of Food

It's not just about a drink; it’s about feeding the flames of communal division, creating an 'us vs them' narrative

Mohabbat ka Sharbat

(Artwork: Made using ChatGPT, directed by Kamran Akhter/The Quint)

Hakim Hafiz Abdul Majeed, a 24-year-old herbalist from Shahjahanabad (Old Delhi), could never have imagined that the simple drink he crafted in 1906 to soothe the throats of those stricken by the unforgiving summer heat would one day be transformed into a weapon of division.

He called it Rooh Afza, meaning "soul refresher" in Urdu, a perfect reflection of its purpose.

It was the same year when Gandhi first conceived the satyagraha in 1906 in response to a law discriminating against Asians that was passed by the British colonial government of the Transvaal in South Africa. 

But what would have seemed like a simple, refreshing beverage became a symbol of unity—uniting people from all walks of life, all religions, and all regions.

Who would have thought that this pure concoction of rose petals and herbs would one day bear the weight of a new jihad? “Sharbat Jihad”, as it has been dubbed, by none other than Ram Kisan Yadav, or Baba Ramdev, a business mogul and Yoga guru.

A New Day, A New 'Jihad'

At a time when Muslims are already subjected to the absurdity of being labeled in one jihad after another—from Love Jihad to Thook Jihad—Ramdev decided it was time for a new chapter.

According to him, drinking RoohAfza was akin to supporting the construction of mosques and madrasas. But if you drink Patanjali’s rose sherbet, you’re investing in gurukuls, Acharyakulam, and the Bharatiya Shiksha Board.

This bizarre rhetoric—framed as an urgent call to protect oneself from an invisible enemy—was nothing short of a classic display of Islamophobia, cleverly wrapped in a marketing ploy to bolster his brand.

Hamdard Foods India CEO, Hamid Ahmed, who also serves as Chancellor of Jamia Hamdard, emphasised that Hamdard India, since its founding in 1906, has been rooted in service to humanity, transcending religious and political lines.

For me, this magical red potion has always been a symbol of Ramzan iftar. No iftar ever feels complete without Rooh Afza. Personally, I prefer it with milk, though many enjoy it with water.

Old Delhi’s streets are lined with stalls selling Mohabbat ka Sharbat, which uses Rooh Afza as a key ingredient, alongside milk and chopped watermelon. It truly hurts when a beverage that spreads so much love is suddenly labeled as “communal,” all because one crony capitalist thought it was acceptable to bring down an institution and a community in order to sell a cheap imitation.

In an interview with Clarion, Ahmed dismissed the communal tone of Ramdev’s comments, making it clear that Rooh Afza is a drink that bridges divides, not creates them. “Rooh Afza is served at mosques, temples, gurdwaras, and churches alike. No one sees it through a religious lens. It is valued for its natural cooling properties—something unmatched by other beverages,” he asserted.

Commodifying Fear

In Ramdev’s case, the rhetoric around “Sharbat Jihad” and other similar divisive comments is a reflection of the commodification of fear. By framing diversity as a threat, he is aligning himself with a larger political agenda that seeks to consolidate power by othering communities.

This creates a false dichotomy where Muslims are portrayed as a foreign element, needing to be pushed out, or controlled.

In the larger context, mosques and madrasas being constructed are often scapegoated as symbols of Islamic dominance, while the reality is that these institutions are centers of learning, charity, and community welfare—just like temples, gurdwaras, and churches. The objection to them is less about the institutions themselves and more about the symbolism of diversity they represent.

The rise of such voices is an effort to create a narrative where religion is weaponised to undermine social harmony and deepen divisions.

It is not just about a drink; it’s about feeding the flames of communal division, creating an 'us vs them' narrative where there need not be one.

When Ramdev launched his line of apparel, declaring that wearing torn jeans would erode India’s values, he offered yet another bizarre contradiction. In a post-globalised world, 'Western' attire suddenly became synonymous with moral decay. Ramdev even went as far as to say, “People are wearing torn jeans these days. So, some of our jeans are ripped, but we haven’t ripped them so much also so as to lose our Indian-ness and our values.”  But it’s all part of the same game, isn’t it? If it promotes ultra-nationalism, it doesn’t need to make sense. Logic, after all, is often the first casualty in the battle for business and ideology.

This is the same man who lied blatantly about the powers of Coronil, a product that promised to cure Covid-19 during one of the deadliest pandemics the modern world had seen.

The company has been accused of making unfounded claims about its products, including promises to cure diseases like diabetes, high blood pressure, obesity, as well as infertility cure and the promise of a boy child. Ramdev and his organisation have always capitalised on fear and chaos, profiting from the fragments of a nation divided, all under the guise of promoting “Indian-ness.”

Hindu Pani, Muslim Tea

The ultra-nationalism at play today takes me back to the days of “Hindu Pani and Muslim Pani, Hindu Tea or Muslim Tea”—the very same divide and rule tactics the British used before independence.

In 1929, Maulana Habib-ur-Rahman Ludhianvi, a freedom fighter and one of the founders of Majlis-e-Ahrar-e-Islam, dared to challenge one of the many policies designed to split the nation.

At Ludhiana’s Ghaas Mandi Chowk, he stood against the British decision to place two separate water pitchers for Hindus and Muslims at the railway station. His protest sparked a wave of unity among the city’s residents, forcing the authorities to replace the two pitchers with one single one, boldly marked ‘Sabka Paani Ek Hai’. It was a stand for unity.

Janta Weekly, an online journal, gives us further tea about tea. A few years later, On 11 April, 1946, Mahatma Gandhi visited the Indian National Army (INA) soldiers at Red Fort, Old Delhi who had been taken as prisoners by the British. In his interaction with soldiers, one of them shared how, despite their unity in the INA, they were now faced with “Hindu tea” and “Mussalman tea.” He asked, “What are we to do?” Gandhi asked, “Why do you suffer it?”

The soldier replied, “No, we do not. We mix ‘Hindu tea’ and ‘Mussalman tea’ exactly half and half, and then serve.” Gandhi burst into laughter, appreciating the soldiers’ silent resistance.

The divisive practice of serving “Hindu tea” and “Muslim tea” continued in railway stations until the 1950s.

It only came to an end when Seeta Paramananda, a Member of the Rajya Sabha, called attention to the absurdity during a Railway Budget discussion. Her appeal eventually led to the practice being stopped, but the ghosts of divide and rule has resurrected all over again.

Food Unites, Don't Use it to Divide

Food and beverages are often hailed as great unifiers, and I wholeheartedly agree, having spent most of my life surrounded by food, whether as a chef or a food chronicler.

But I also see the darker side: food can be incredibly divisive. It’s the lowest common denominator; control people’s food and eating habits, and you can control their society, its habits, and its culture.

Food and religion, both deeply entwined, have always carried the potential to bring people together or to pull them apart. They can forge beautiful traditions, but they can also fuel divisive controversy. In today's world, religion and food are being weaponized, exploited to intensify differences, spread hate, and further political agendas. What should be a source of unity has become yet another tool for division.

With Id-ul-Zuha approaching, I can only imagine what’s in store and how the “selective outrage” crowd will show up again, eager to restrict and control the celebration of this festival.

In the end, what started as a simple a symbol of refreshment, unity, and shared tradition has become yet another battleground for divisive politics. The weaponization of food, once a source of connection and community, has been hijacked to fuel polarization and hatred. Ramdev’s “Sharbat Jihad” is not just a product of misguided nationalism, but a calculated move to profit off the fears and divides within society.

In a world increasingly driven by fear and division, we must reclaim the simple act of sharing food as a means of unity, not as a tool for separation.

(Sadaf Hussain is an author, chef, food writer, podcaster and two-time TedX speaker, who was among the top 8 on MasterChef India in 2016. This is an opinion piece, and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)