He was a scientist. He had a large correspondence and hence access to stamps. I asked him if he would give me some. He said yes, but. I had to write a letter to him in English. I did and he sent me a few thousand stamps. From countries I had not even heard of until then, Opened my eyes to the larger world.
He had an arty portrait of himself done by none other than M F Husain.
He opened my eyes towards, and changed my opinion of, abstract art. I am forever grateful to him.
I called him Mama. Uncle. That is, my mother’s brother.
I called him Rahmanmama.
That was my India. India I grew up in. I want my India back.
I was playing in school. Someone swung a softball bat. I took the full force of it on my left temple. My left eye was swollen shut.
Two friends sat me on a bicycle. Pushed it all the way to a doctor’s clinic. They did not ride it because the bumps would hurt my injured head. Dropped me home the same way. They were breathing hard because the last kilometer was all the way up.
Shabbir and Khalid. Forever my friends.
That was my India. India I grew up in. I want my India back.
Our Social Studies teacher took us on a ride through Indian history in every class. One story segueing into another.
One impertinent classmate dared to ask. You were on one story and now on another. What happened to the first one?
The teacher was stunned.
“ಏಯ್, ಹರೀಕತೆ ಒಳ್ಗೆ ಉಪಾಕತೆ ಇರಕ್ಕಿಲ್ವೇನೋ? ಇದೂ ಅಂಗೇನೇ, ದೊಡ್ಡವ್ರು ಹೇಳ್ತಾ ಅವ್ರೆ. ಸುಮ್ಗೆ ಕುಂತಕೊಂಡ್ ಕೇಳೋ1”
Piped up Shabbir in his deep voice and shut the ipertinent fellow up.
The classes continued as if this did not happen.
That was my India. India I grew up in. I want my India back.
A hall in an engineering college, run by a religious organisation.
Shahnai Nawaz Khan Saheb Ustad Bismillah Khan was into an intricate passage in raag Yaman. Stops mid passage and challenges the students. Iska dharm kyaa hai? Na Hindu, na Mussalmaan, Na isAi.
The walls of the hall was decorated with symbols of various religions of the world. Carved in wood.
Khan saheb points to the symbols on the wall and declares. Look at them. We are all one.
That was my India. India I grew up in. I want my India back.
H A B Parpia. The late director of a central research institute. Legend in his family is that they are the direct descendents of Lord Rama and everyone in the family has a given name to indicate just that. His name was Hussain Ali Bhimji Parpia.
That was my India. India I grew up in. I want my India back.
The old man had heard my father’s talk on All India Radio about Jagalur Imam3 (my grandfather’s close friend). He had taught Urdu to Jagalur Imam’s children, while he was a teacher in the Urdu primary school in Jagalur. He had come to meet my father to express his great admiration for Jagalur Imam and say how happy he was that my dad had also spoken highly of him.
He was a retired employee of the education department. Thanks to his close friends who spoke Urdu, he too had learnt it. His knowledge of the language was found good enough for him to be appointed (with promotion) to teach Urdu.
He was a devout looking old man in highly traditional clothes. He wore the religious marks of a Vaishnavite Brahmin on his forehead and temples.
That was my India. India I grew up in. I want my India back.
The Babri Masjid is destroyed. Curfew is imposed. Even in my beloved city. A few had brought shame on my city, with bloodshed. I felt.
Tempers cool. Calm prevails. The curfew ends.
I have to travel on work. I go to the bus stand early in the morning. There are a few passengers. Quite a few buses. Many in road transport corporation uniforms. Nothing moves. Everyone is apprehensive. The expectant passengers are grouped together. Talking to each other in hushed voices.
A diminutive man in uniform approaches us. A knitted prayer cap firmly on head.
“ನೋಡಿ ಸೋಮಿ, ನನ್ಗೆ ಗಾಡಿ ಓಡಿಸ್ಬೇಕು. ನಿಮ್ಗೆ ಬೆಂಗ್ಳೂರ್ಗೆ ಹೋಗ್ಬೇಕು. ಇವೆಲ್ಲ ರಾಜಕೀಯ ಸೂಳೆಮಕ್ಳ ಗಲಾಟೆ. ಬರ್ತೀರಾ ಹೋಗೋಣ?”2
We all get into the bus and reach Bangalore without further incident.
After the mindless mayhem, back to normal.
There is hope.
That was my India. Just barely. But, I want my India back.
A colleague and I sit in a restaurant and talk about everything under the sun. A cultured man. Sings Mohammad Rafi songs well, with passion and understanding.
In the middle of it all he says, “When in college all my friends were Hindus. They all called me ತುರ್ಕ (turka. Kannada slang for a mulsim). I belonged.
Now no one calls me that. Everyone is politically correct. The intimacy is gone. I feel I have been expelled. I feel I do not belong.
Pain and nostalgia. Hard to miss.
That was a glimpse of my India. India I grew up in. I want my India back.
He spoke in the patois of many Muslims in Mysore. I can’t translate the quaintness of that. But what he said was, “Aren’t there subsidiary stories in Harikathe? This is also like that. An elder is telling you something. So, shut up and listen”.
Harikathe is an art form in which a story relating to a god is narrated in formal style with music and illustrating each point in the main story with a subsidiary story and song.
“Look here. I have to drive. You have to travel. All these troubles are thanks to the political beeps. Shall we go?” - spoken in the same patois as before.
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