Life will hand us the invisible thread that connects us all; love will hand us the needle.
"I think the pre-dawn call of the muezzin leading the faithfuls into prayer, is a sheer act of terrorism. It inflicts a sense of injustice upon those asleep," says an angered B.K. Sharma, who, by the same token, also believes that all the Shaheen Bagh protesters too were party to an act of terrorism, by disrupting the life of the common man for seventy whole days. "They should have been dealt with earlier," Sharma adds emphatically. Yet, he doesn't see it as the failure of the administration, of the police, or of the ruling party, who were in a position to bring a peaceful end to the prolonged protests by simply lending an attentive ear to the fears of the protesters, and disspelling any unfounded misconceptions they might have harboured vis-à-vis the recently introduced Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA).
Sharma is an educated man by all account, who happens to be a devout Hindu, convinced that if strict actions are not taken now, India would soon transmogrify into an Islamic nation.
Sharma's driver Rehman Malik prays, facing the Mecca a few times a day. On long distance drives, while his master sleeps, he is subjected to an endless volley of Anup Jalota's devotional songs. "Is it a conspiracy to convert me into a Hindu?" He asks himself, and at times, his wife, Tabassum. Tabassum runs a successful clothes and tailoring business in the old part of the city, and has little time for such silly questions. Yet, once a week, Malik, his wife, and two sons used to attend an anti-CAA protest in their locality. "We have to fight for our rights," Malik staunchly believes.
When Malik coughs violently, Sharma produces a pack of Robitussin caplets and asks him to take it twice, after food, adding, "you really need to quit smoking". Malik smiles shyly.
"When should we go to the Pir Baba's Durgah to pray for a handsome husband for our bitiya rani?" asks Malik, remembering the time Sharma had accompanied him to the holy shrine. It was at a point when his new business venture was at its lowest, with no glimmer of hope in sight. The visit had proved auspicious, turning the tide in Sharma's favour, and reinforcing his faith in the glory of Pir Baba.
Santavati, the house help at the Sharmas, can't get enough of Malik. While he waits by the car, she pretends to water the garden, striking up an inane conversation to justify being around him. Knowing Santavati's love for lamb biryani, Malik brings her some, whenever his wife cooks it on special occasions. Santavati is the youngest amongst her ten siblings, and therefore most pampered. She wallows in the realisation that Malik too seems to know her preferences, and blushes to herself.
The Sharmas, the Maliks, and Santavati all voted for BJP in the national elections. The Sharmas, because of the party's emphasis on economic growth and its Hindutva edge, the Maliks, because they were offered three thousand rupees each to do so, and Santavati? "Why did you vote for BJP?" I ask her. "Because Sahib (implying, Mr Sharma), asked me to do so."
In a country like ours, where cast, religion, and the economic status of people are so intricately intermingled and interdependent, it is not uncommon to find emotions such as despise give way to pietistic pity, loathing to love, violence to benevolence, and... communal riots to unspoken brotherhood. For, ours is a country, where centuries of tolerance, compassion, and understanding has woven a warp and weft of the social fabric, which cannot be lacerated by hate speeches and staged violence of political carpetbaggers.
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