Encounter on a train

When it came to a display of symbols of faith, I used to verge on the conservative. I thought of myself as a broad-minded, big city product.

When it came to a display of symbols of faith, I used to verge on the conservative. I thought of myself as a broad-minded, big city product. I was cynical about those who displayed symbols of their faith 8212; a cross, a crocheted cap, or even a large bindi. After all, we needed to outgrow them some time. We broad-minded folk needed to blend and not be obsessed with caste, creed, names. But something that day on the Lucknow Mail completely changed the way I looked at things.

It was December 1992, and the demolition of the Babri Mosque had once again bitterly divided the country. I was a young cub reporter, having just covered the demolition and the chaos in UP. I was tired, quite upset, hassled and my prejudices about carrying religious symbols were at an all-time high. I had had to answer many casual questions from those who knew I was there: 8220;How did it happen? wasn8217;t it justified?8221;

Train journeys get tougher if you don8217;t like these questions. People on the other berths were dying to ask you your name, caste, salary, all in one breath. I was bristling, having suffered many such buzzer rounds. I began to get even more wary watching an old woman, close to me, complete with large bindi and vibhuti, saying her prayers after setting her two little idols prominently next to the berth. She was also curious about the events of the past two weeks and, after realising that I was someone who had been there, asked, 8220;Kaise hua?8221;

I remember being my rudest, briefest best with her. Then she said, 8220;Why did they have to break it? It was, after all, the house of God.8221; She made this observation in what was possibly a Maharastrian accent. I heard her in silence, trying to quickly deduce where she could be from, what her caste and name could be. She had tucked herself between her sheets by then and was not even interested to hear what I may have had to say.

It was then that the irony struck me. The very secular citywallah in me was quickly trying to classify this old woman into categories while she hadn8217;t even bothered to ask me my name. Maybe it is the likes of her that keep this country together. People who are not interested in names, castes, or the postcodes of the House of God.