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Journalism of Courage
They say time heals but they don’t specify the period. If the psychic injury is really deep, it can turn into hatred so strong that even killing comes easily. Fifty years of independence and it takes a minor haggling over a petty amount to be paid for tea to a vendor at the station to create mayhem in Gujarat. Is the malaise of chasm, having its roots deep in the psyche, being nurtured and watered by the opportunistic politicians?
Both my parents migrated when the tortured soul of India was carved into two distinct regions. The aftermath created so much havoc that no one heard the cries of the mother earth for which the two-nation theory was like a verdict of a doctor who was going to operate on Siamese twins to give them separate identities. But the very communities, which are presently at loggerheads, lived in not only perfect harmony but were there for each other.
My father became an orphan at the tender age of seven. He earned his livelihood by working in hotels and selling newspapers all the while pursuing his studies up to middle school. Higher education might not have been possible but for the intervention of the Muslim community.
Unable to afford the high fees of Sanatam Dharam School, as there was no provision of scholarships, he decided to give up studies. Sheikh Dost Mohammed, the principal of Islamia School, Chaniot, learnt of this. He called my father and asked him to enrol in his school. He promised waiving of fees. He also promised that all subsidiary expenses like those of stationery, books, uniform would be borne by the school. Though excited and yet undecided, he came back home to seek the advice of his school teacher, Master Nihal Chand, as he had no one in the family to turn to. Unable to offer anything better or even equivalent, the teacher asked him not to miss the golden opportunity which had come his way. This was not all. The teacher even withdrew his own son from the Sanatam Dharam School to admit him in the Islamia School so that my father won’t feel odd in a religiously different environment.
Bonds of friendship go much beyond playing games. Four more boys pestered their parents to be allowed to change schools for friends to be together. Not to force anything down the gullet, the Hindu students were taught Sanskrit when all other boys went to attend Urdu classes. Pandit Ramdas was specially appointed for this purpose.
Not only this, those six boys were not forced to join prayers or recite the Koran. A secular prayer was incorporated — Us khuda ka nahin koi sani. The Hindu festivals were not only celebrated with great fervour but were declared as holidays too.
A couple of years later, a new principal, Karamat Ali, tried to revert to the old system and showed his bias against those six boys. But he was forced to seek transfer by the people of his own community, who wanted no discrimination. Many years later his and my father’s paths crossed. By that time my father was a professor. Who hugged more tightly or cried more, my father cannot tell. Tears flowed freely on both the wrinkled cheeks as well the youthful one.
The national movement was fast catching up with the masses. The rulers tried to prolong their stay by inciting communal riots. During sporadic incidents, the Muslim boys would accompany the Hindu boys, especially through the Muslim-dominated sensitive areas. Once when a notorious boy, Ismail, put to the torch the wooden gate of the school and accused the Hindu students, his Muslim class fellows came to their defence and beat the truth out of him.
When the violence in Gujarat is capturing the headlines, I wonder why we become stooges in the hands of incendiaries who try to take mileage of even the most deplorable incidents. A small step forward in the right direction will cover miles to restore faith and trust for all to live in peace.
