Faint-hearted secularist

SCENE ONE: quot;I'M dying to love everybody, I really want to be true to our school pledge All Indians are my brothers and sisters.' But...

SCENE ONE: quot;I8217;M dying to love everybody, I really want to be true to our school pledge All Indians are my brothers and sisters.8217; But why don8217;t they love me back?quot; wails a young friend, a Hindu raised by Nehruvian parents. Soothing clucks lead to depressing confidences. She went to a Muslim ghetto as part of a college project. The maulvi had several sharp things to say about but-parasti idol worship as condemned by quot;hamara Paigambarquot; our Prophet. She had shrunk back in terror, her Indian manners sealing in the hot rejoinder that had sprung to her lips. Similarly, the nuns in her convent would routinely claim that quot;the one true faith is Christ8217;s love. He died to save us from sin!quot; She would go home and weep a little about that, for she loved her teachers dearly and felt dejected that they found her fundamentally wrong.

The Nehruvian parents had given her no armour against this sort of thing except a High Thought and a Pretty Thought. The first was, quot;There is one Truth; the wise perceive it in many ways.quot; The second was, quot;Just as all rivers meet in one Ocean, all religions meet in one God.quot; She was not taught the Sanskrit words in which these thoughts were originally clothed. But she believed both. They were so easy to understand. Different ways of looking at the same thing. Yes. Different routes to one Goal. No problem there.

But she8217;s afraid now. Afraid that somewhere down the line, her willing, open heart will begin to close and harden against those who rub the lustre off this two-bead japmala. She broods increasingly on the battered history of her faith, on its own soil! She has picked up the tiresome habit of commencing opinions with words like, 8220;It8217;s really too bad that we8230;8221;

SCENE TWO: Same girl, a year later, in a smart advertising office in South Mumbai. Work is at a standstill because everyone8217;s watching an India-Pak cricket final. Pakistan is piling up runs unforgivably fast. Everyone8217;s cursing, jeering, including our friend with the hardened heart. Another girl is perched beside her on the desk, also in jeans, also in a smart top from Fashion Street. She answers to the name of, let8217;s say, Asma. The yelling and booing has reached a crescendo and Asma8217;s cursing as furiously as anyone else. Suddenly, one of the boys looks hard at her. quot;Why are you cursing? You should be cheering!quot;

Asma8217;s face crumples and she runs off to the loo. Our Nehruvian daughter rushes after her. They cry together and swap horror stories. Turns out Asma8217;s parents are pretty Nehruvian themselves. They bought the pledge, same as lots of us others. The girls rescue their bags and nip down to Britannia, for a healing orgy of Iranian Berry Pulao. quot;It8217;s really too bad that we8230;quot; sniffs Asma, dabbing a residual tear away.

SCENE THREE flashback to 1984: Galeries Lafayette, Paris. As a Tea Board girl, I8217;m dishing out chai by the urnful to great gaggles of thirsty Parisians. It8217;s Labour Day, the Frenchies are, chacun, wearing sprigs of sweet mignonette and my sari-tucked shoulder is beginning to look positively festooned with the attentions of an affectionate holiday-mood public. Two youngish, rather dishy Pakis whiz by and stand on their brakes, naturally, when they see an Indian girl. Hindustani overpowers la plume de ma tante. Tea is drunk, adabs and compliments are exchanged and farewells said. As I turn to cut more oranges to dunk in the tea, I8217;m confronted by Abdur Rashid of Pondicherry. He knows I8217;m a Tamilian, he8217;s been watching me pass the time of day with Pakistanis and he8217;s hissing at me in Tamil-English: quot;Don8217;t you know those fellows are racists? How could you talk in Hindi to them? You are a Tamilian! You are not one of them, I say!quot;

That evening I go to the Sacre Coeur church and treat myself to a good cry.