Pandit Miyan and Miyan Pandit

Two months ago I went to Nagpur for a week. My purpose was personal. A very dear cousin had died a year before and I wanted to meet her daughter, now herself the mother of two boys. Chiefly, though, I wanted to spend time with her mother, my aunt, who has been paralysed for some time but who, and my memories go back to early childhood, had in important ways been the bulwark of the family for long years. But this story is not about my mission.

I was standing at a pan shop which I have frequented for over a quarter of a century when I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard, in a voice which came from the heart, but which I realised was no longer strong, the words,‘‘Arre Mukul Miyan, ap yahan?’’ I turned to see an elderly man, dressed in a quite threadbare achkan, whom I had not seen for perhaps 20 years. He was a prominent classical musician of the city and I had known him for decades. I was amazed that he had recognised me, having seen me only slim and far from grey. The questions came pouring out of him. How was ‘‘Apa’’, he wanted to know, referring to my oldest aunt, also a musician and someone he knew well as he had accompanied her several times. How was my Abba, he asked, for of course he had known him too. In short, he knew us all: and it was patent that his interest was not so different from what one would have in one’s family. Our conversation was interrupted abruptly. My panwallah said, sternly though not rudely, ‘‘Miyanji, this gentleman is a Hindu, in fact a Brahman. His name is Dube. You should not address him thus.’’

Khan Sahab and I looked at each other, entirely unable to comprehend. But he was quicker than I was. He said, “Mukul Miyan, I called you Mukul Miyan. That is what Panditji is speaking of.’’ Once I understood what the problem was, it was easy to solve. I explained to the panwallah that ‘‘Miyan’’ was no more than a term of affection when used for someone younger than the speaker. I told him that, ever since my infancy in Hyderabad, I had been so addressed by the people I knew best because that was how all boys were addressed. I added that nowadays I was frequently addressed as ‘‘Bade Miyan’’, in which usage the term becomes one of respect for age.

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‘‘Panditji,’’ said Khan Sahab, ‘‘some people address me too as ‘Panditji’. I take it as a compliment, that they are showing respect for the little knowledge that I have acquired. I know very well that the word is used for pujaris and Brahmans. I am a Muslim and can be neither. Would you wish me to object to it as strenuously as you just objected to my manner of addressing my friend?’’

What explained the contretemps? “Miyan”, an ordinary, perfectly secular word, has become a term of abuse flung by bigoted self-proclaimed Hindus against all Muslims. What next? Which religion will claim the word “beti” or its exclusive use? And “bhaiya”? Will “bhabhi” be Muslim or Hindu? Will a shared language be split down the middle as a once shared country was?