I’m a Delhi girl. I studied in a school where artistes sent their children. I have worn shorts and sunglasses in Delhi Transport Corporation (DTC) buses. I have seen the Mahabharata every Sunday and have gone to the Karbala with my mother during Muharram.
While my friends salivated over Eid food at my home, I have eaten stomach full of Diwali mithaai (sweets) at theirs. My sister has friends by the names of Radha and Megha while our family has a Salman and a Qamar. My parents stay up partying till late on weekdays and travel the world in the months of May and June. And we’re Muslim.
Our names are Sohail, Kausar, Sania and Sarah. That’s where the problem begins.
'Decided To Never Let My Father Travel By Trains'
I fall under the privileged section of the society. I have options. I am not burdened by my circumstances.
At least, that’s what I thought till the morning of 31 July when an RPF officer allegedly ended up killing his senior and murdering three innocent Muslims travelling in a train from Jaipur to Mumbai.
How? Allegedly by identifying them through their religious markings and asking their names.
My first thought after reading the news was this could have been my father. After all, he has a very obvious white beard that he sports and will never part with, not for religious reasons but because that’s part of his appearance and has been since the past 35 odd years.
The immediate response was to call my mother, and the decision to not let Abbu go on long train journeys was taken. It didn’t need a discussion, or his opinion. It was a done deal. Things like these no longer needed discussions.
It was important to stay safe and stay alive. I wish I could blame the current government entirely for this but I can’t. The othering of Muslims has peaked since 2014 but this is a phenomena that the Muslims of this country have been dealing with since the Partition.
'Have Had To Prove Our Patriotism Time And Again'
When Pakistan was created, the Muslims of this country were given the choice of either staying in India or moving to Pakistan. My family chose India. Even at that time, the communal voices didn’t spare Muslim families.
We had to prove our patriotism time and again. In the 1960s, my Nani (maternal grandmother) was travelling with her children in a train from Aligarh to Allahabad. A fat-bellied man, looking at the five children or the burqa-clad woman decided to spew venom and told my Nani to leave India and live in Pakistan instead. Baffled by this comment, my Nani dug out our family history, spoke of her ancestors, their graves and her love for India to this communal stranger.
She had to do it because she needed to prove her love for this country. Little did she know that her children and grandchildren would have to continue to do the same time and again.
'Mob Ran To My Father And Demanded To Know Their Names'
During the anti-Sikh riots, my father and his brother-in-law had to step outside for work. We used to live in Aliganj in Delhi. A rather posh locality now but had many mid-level government officials living there in those times. As my father and his brother-in-law stepped out, they saw a mob surrounding a Sikh man.
Seeing the two young men with beards, the mob ran towards them and demanded to know their names. Sohail Hashmi and Gauhar Raza. Hearing the names, one of the men from the mob said, "Abhi chale jao. Tumhse baad mein nippat lenge (For now, you can go. We will deal with you later)."
The next day, the newspaper reported cases of arson from the same locality.
Summer holidays were the best time in the life of a young child growing up in the '90s. My sister and I, along with Amma (mother), used to hop on to the train from Delhi to Aligarh almost every year.
While we packed our holiday homework and new clothes, Amma prepped for the journey by packing aaloo ki sabzi, paratha, achaar (pickle), and dressing in a saree with a bindi on her forehead. Her saree and bindi would hopefully give the impression that we weren’t Muslim and the aloo sabzi will not get any eyebrows raised.
We continued to call her Amma on our journeys while she looked out for suspicious behavior on that three-hour-long train journey every summer.
'Told To Never Argue With A Stranger'
Imagine a day in school, when all of your friends stop talking to you all of a sudden. That’s what happened to my sister at the age of five in the best school of Delhi. She was asked if she was a Muslim. She had no answer but her name definitely didn’t sound Hindu enough at that time. None of her friends spoke to her that day. She had been cancelled at the age of 6.
With the onset of the 2000s, came the new-age communalism. It was hierarchical, systematic and unabashed. The realisation that a Muslim house or a family living among hundreds of Hindus can be identified, targeted and wiped clean, hit a different chord among us all. Panic buying of cell phones took place in the family. Every night when the clock hit the 8 mark, phone calls were made to track the last location of our parents. That fear has still not left us.
Over the years several protocols have been passed down either from my parents to us or the other way round: No need to bring fresh meat in the metro; don’t get involved in an argument to protect a stranger in the metro; avoid saying Khuda Hafiz (May God be your Guardian) among strangers; stay quiet or look down if you see a bunch of tilak and saffron-scarfed men.
'Can Change How We Look, But Not Hatred Against Us'
People over the years have told me and my sister that we don’t look Muslim. I guess that works in our favour but what does one do when one does look Muslim?
We can change our routes, lower our gaze, change our eating habits, and even lie about our names. But how do we change the hatred that fills the hearts of those who get instigated, are ready to kill, commit a crime for which they will probably be garlanded later, acquitted and even given tickets to stand as representatives?
The dislike for 'the other' has been around for many decades but what makes it different now is the danger that the mob poses. You prepare for the worst but thank your stars if you come home unscathed at night only to begin the next day in a battlefield, knowing very well that the odds are heavily against you.
(Sarah Hashmi is an actor, producer, writer and daughter of historian Sohail Hashmi. She is an activist in her free time. This is an opinion piece. The views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)
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