[Reader-list] The worst act

[Dilip D'Souza -- Sarai]

July 29

Dear All,

Here's my sixth article on my theme, "Village in the City". Though
this completes the requirement, I have material for a couple more
articles and I hope to share those when I get them done. (Which, I
hope, will be before the August jamboree in Delhi).

Best,
dilip d'souza.

(PS: a substantially different version of this was in Tehelka, issue
of July 29).

---

The worst act
-------------
Dilip D'Souza


Anywhere else, you cannot help thinking, the Irani Masjid would be a
major tourist attraction. Here in Bombay, this gorgeous blue-tiled
beauty sits on a nondescript road that meanders through Dongri,
massage parlour on one side, tea shop on the other, apparently unknown
outside this area. It's on my third visit that I find a side door open
and a short friendly man who beckons. "This way!" says Mr Abid. "Come
in and take a look!"

Inside, it's reminiscent of Lucknow's Imam Bara, though on a far
reduced scale. Neat courtyard, rooms lining the sides, long
rectangular pond, mausoleum of sorts at the other end. Peaceful.

I can't help that last thought, because this third visit is only days
after the horrific train blasts of July 11, and I'm in the funk I get
into from time to time. I'm so tired of the hatred and violence of the
world I live in. A great big cosmic thought, sure, but in this little
haven of calm -- and yes, in this obviously Muslim part of my city
which I'm told is unsafe for being so -- it comes naturally. Just why
isn't this place better known?

Nearby, two men are sitting in their tempo. What're you doing, I ask.
"Waiting for work," they say. "Since the blasts, nobody wants to hire
us. Everything is down." ("Sab kuch down hai" are the exact words one
of them uses to express this thought). And what are people here saying
after the blasts, I ask, feeling that I simply must find a less naive
way to ask this. "What will they say?" asks the younger man,
Shahjahan. "Nobody likes it, everyone's frightened. Take me: I had to
walk my daughter to school here all the way from Wadala, because the
taxi drivers all refused to come."

His companion, Nazeer, says: "See those policemen, sahib?" (There's a
detachment of singularly idle-looking cops at the street corner). He
goes on:

    "Only here! You won't find them in Umerkhadi, just across the street!
    I want to know, why do they trouble only the Muslims? You remember the
    1992 riots, sahib? As much rioting in Umerkhadi as here! So why the
    policemen here? And do you know how many Muslims from here gave their
    clothes to cover the bodies?"

No, I don't know. Shahjahan takes over: "And do you know what's
happened since then? I now feel safe only in Muslim areas. Just like
they feel in their areas." He doesn't say whom he means by that
"they". Doesn't need to, of course. It's evident. "If I go to Dadar
market," says Shahjahan, "I'm not sure I'll come back alive."

I begin spluttering some homily about how there's no reason to feel
that kind of fear. Nazeer ignores me and comes back to the blasts.
"You know, people should understand that these terrorists are not
Muslims. Nobody here considers them Muslims."

That kind of sentiment, over and over again from person after random
person in these parts. Sitting in nearby Cafe Khushali over delicious
kawa coffee in an elegant little glass, looking out at a poster that
advertises "Al-Serat Tours" to Iran/Iraq/Syria for Rs 49000, but "only
Iran" for only Rs 25000 -- days after the blasts how much more normal
can things be? -- sitting there, a fellow drinker says: "Look outside.
See how few people there are?"

Now to me, this seems like a bustling street -- plenty of walkers,
vendors, handcart-pushers, idlers. So I say so. "No, no!" says the
fellow drinker. "On normal days, the public goes past ba-ba-bum,
ba-ba-bum! These blasts have scared everyone." (Now he switches to
English) "This was the worst act! They are not Muslims!"

That's certainly true. And on the door of the Cafe is a 4x6 green
sticker that I later notice is also stuck on several other walls,
windows, mirrors and doors, all over this neighbourhood. It reads:

    Don't Create Mischief on Earth (Al-Quraan Al-Baqarah 11)
    To Act Against Public Interest Spreading Terrorism, Killing Innocents,
    Destroying Properties is in fact, Creating Mischief.

Then I stroll past a dilapidated building on a side street. I don't
see the green sticker anywhere on it, but I do see a large black sign
displayed prominently above its front door, and this is what it says
verbatim:

    In this building any (Bachelor) are strictly restricted from
    purchase of room or on live license. Only Family is Allowed.

Who was it, Cliff Richard who sang "I'll be a Bachelor Boy/Until my
dying day"? No way we'd find him in this building.

Nazeer and Shahjahan take a break from waiting for work and walk me to
a roadside tea stall near the rear of the Dongri Children's Home. I'm
struck immediately by what's on the wall behind the stove: images of
Hindu gods. In these parts? The stall belongs to stocky Mohan Sharma,
about 40, ex-Rajasthan by way of Nariman Point. Yes, he used to run a
canteen in some Nariman Point office building. It folded when the
clientele began asking for meat dishes. "The day that happened, I gave
the keys back and came here. I'm a Brahmin, after all."

He and his brother have run this place for the 20 years since.

Yes, but why here, in this place occupied by those ... well, those
other people? "These people are like my brothers. It's a very good
atmosphere, and they take care of me." And what happened during those
riots, Mohan-bhai, back in '92? "What happened? The people here told
me, you don't worry, we'll protect you. Sahib, ten days they gave me
food! This is my family."

Walk on, to visit 79 year old Shaukatali (name changed) in his
family's one-room tenement. The overwhelming impression in the room is
of -- of all things -- cats. Back firmly to us, one is asleep up on a
shelf. Another is asleep in a deep basket on the floor. Third walks
nonchalantly in the door. Fourth peeks from under the bed. "And there
are about ten more outside that we feed," says Shaukatali. Plus
several stray dogs outside whom they also look after. That kind of
family, one that cares for animals.

I get more of a sense of that from the small plaque on the wall near the door:

    Allah bless our home
    Bless these walls wherein we dwell
    The trees and flowers too
    Bless the things that make our house.

Bless those cats, yes. What do you think, I ask Shaukatali, about the
blasts, what's it been like afterwards for you all here?

His thirty-something daughter answers first: "What to do, people will
suspect us! Because every time there's something like this there's
some Mohammed-bhai Jaffer-bhai involved!" Shaukatali, a friend who's
visiting, the daughter, her son, maybe even the cats -- they all burst
into rocking, gasping laughter. Laughing and laughing at this state
they are in, automatically suspect.

"I'll tell you this," says Shaukatali, when he's stopped laughing.
Serious now, so's his daughter. "Things were so much better in the
past. Food was cheap, and who asked who's Hindu, who's Muslim?"

Not quite what I had expected to hear, but by now, I know where he's
coming from, why he's saying this. He must be tired and dejected --
every bit as much as I am -- with the faith-tinted glasses we all
learn to wear.

Which past are you talking about, I ask.

"British! I was happier in British times. Nobody cared that I was
Muslim. But after '47, everything has changed. Hindu this, Muslim
that! We don't believe this killing is taught by any religion!"

Yet the killings happen. And for too many of us, they come to
characterize an entire religion, come to taint everybody who follows
it. That's the profound reality of the Muslim areas of Bombay, the
burden their residents must learn to carry. (Sometimes by laughing out
loud at it). The feeling that an entire city, an entire country, maybe
the whole world, sees them as responsible for terrorism.

In Dongri, I spend a lot of time wondering what it must be to live
like that. To know that whatever happens, the men and women around me
are assumed to be apologists for, sympathizers with, terrorism.

That's why the effort to introduce me to Mohan the tea-man. That's why
the green stickers that are everywhere. That's why the large banner on
Mohamedali Road:

    We want peace no terror
    Save humanity, condemn terrorism.

In no other part of my city have I seen such a banner. Tells me a few things.