Everyday vignettes of a communal capital

The passport office was crowded as usual and the 14-year-old was waiting patiently, his file in hand, when a young man looked at it and asked if he was a Muslim. The schoolboy said 'yes', the youth looked at him and said flatly,  "Ek din sab Mussalman khatam jo jayenge."

People listened on, as of course they would in any public space. There was interest but no outrage to the bland assertion that the entire community would be finished. Another man joined in only declare, “Bahut bada jang hone wala hai (A big war is in the offing)”, before going on to ask the child if he would go with India or Pakistan. The quick-witted teen said he would watch from the sidelines. 

And the scene — which could well be from a film seeking to portray the gritty realities of modern-day India but was being played out on a weekday morning in the Indian capital — did not end there. The boy was then asked what his parents would do, to which he responded, “Go ask them.”

His father, a senior Delhi journalist, was somewhere at the back of the room with his young daughter, listening to it all — the subtext of violence in an exchange that was completely unprovoked, the hostility that was so matter-of-fact, the aggression that was almost passive in its assumptions, the brutal assertion of ‘otherness’ that went unchallenged by all around. And at the centre of it all, was a Class IX Delhi schoolboy who had gone with his father and sister to get his passport renewed.

Quite coincidentally, the journalist happened to visit Palika Bazar, the bustling shopping centre in Connaught Place, a few days later and was asked, possibly because of his fair skin, whether he was a Kashmiri. On hearing a 'yes' and presuming perhaps that he was a Kashmiri Pandit, the shopkeeper said, “Modiji aa gaye hain. Sab theek jo jaayega (Modi has come. Everything will be okay).”
 
At another place, another time, another government building, dna reporter Irfan Hakeem was subjected to the same ‘otherness’ syndrome. This is what he said on his Facebook post, “While entering a government building here in Delhi, a security guard after frisking, noting identity details and clicking my picture for the pass, took me to a corner of the room whispering, ‘Sir Aap Muhammadan hai... Ek Baat Boliye, Yeh #LoveJihad Ho Raha Hai Kya? Aap Tou Muslim Hain...Andar Ki Baat Pata Hogi Aap Ko...’ and not waiting for my reply continues...'Ho Hi Raha Hoga? Isi Liye Parda Zaroori Hai...’ I asked ‘What is #LoveJihad? and how do you know about it?’ He replied... 'Sir TV Main Bola Hamari Ladkiyun Ko Phasate Hain Muhammadan Log...’ then he walked away as his senior arrived...”

If only these were isolated incidents, if only we could dismiss them as the rantings of a rabid fringe targeting minorities in a mofussil, polarised town. But they are not. The exchanges took place in the heart of the Indian capital, geographically and thematically; two in offices of the government that is mandated to protect all Indians, regardless of religion, caste or creed.

They are tragically part of a pattern of minority exclusion. When Yogi Adityanath brazenly threatens Muslims and is made campaign chief of the BJP in Uttar Pradesh, when individual crime is attributed to an entire community and cross-religion marriages are stamped with the ‘love jihad’ moniker, when successive ruling party leaders bracket all Indians under Hindus, this pattern acquires a dangerous edge.

Have 100 days of the Modi government loosened tongues? Is it now acceptable to stop minorities, even schoolchildren, anywhere and everywhere and question their loyalty and identity? Sobering questions that the government would do well to ponder. And answer.

Perhaps the lesson Prime Minister Narendra Modi should deliver on Teacher’s Day on Friday should be one of assimilation and the oneness of India.

The author is consulting editor, dna