Have been wanting to share this article that I wrote during my Masters in Hyderabad for a looong time.....here it is....
A New Awakening:
Prejudice can really imprison a
mind. Imagine being trapped in a room with no windows, with the door locked,
your days passing by, unfelt, unseen. The only survival measure being, the
meager means that you have been provided to just barely live. What do you do? In the initial days, you crib, and
then very soon your body begins to adopt a certain pattern of complacence,
which soon turns into a habit. And then, your mental faculties curl inward,
pack up and begin their long snooze. All the while, the only thing you need is
to wake up to the fact that albeit the door is closed, it is closed from the inside ……
That’s what I realized when I happened to be friends with Mohammed and
Abdul. It was my first day at the University of Hyderabad, and the seventeen
students gathered in the MSc Biochemistry class of 2004 were more or less a
homogenous lot except for the two suit clad men….err…you
couldn’t call them boys for the
simple reason that they looked years elder to any of us present there. The rest
of us glanced discreetly at them, taking in their bulky frames, the so
obviously foreign countenances, the whiff of some exotic perfume they had
sprayed a little too liberally…..and I bet you….all of us thought how on earth
could we call these grown up men- Muslim men- our classmates for the coming two
years. And whereas, we knew that they had come from the Middle East, none of us
had even heard about Yemen….a
small country situated beside Oman.
Those first days, a nasty rumor rose that Abdul, a thirtyish stocky guy
with a small paunch, mirthful eyes and an amicable predisposition, was indeed
married, with two wives…one, whom he
had brought to India along with his four daughters, leaving behind the other
wife, possibly with some more children! The rest of us found this piece of news
utterly incredible, as even the mere thought of having to care for a family
while you need to study Biochemistry was
inconceivable to us. The Govt. of Yemen had arranged for him to study in India,
paying him a meager stipend of 14,000 rupees a month, which given the nature of
his family, was definitely not what you’d call luxurious.
Mohammed Mansur, the other guy, was what you’d call the classic Muslim –
a very handsome mustachioed face with a head full of dark, curly hair, an
aquiline nose, an attractive smile, an inherent confidence and a love for life.
He was a happy bachelor, full of wit and the most amazing sense of humor I’ve
ever seen. He too had been sent to India to pursue his Masters and he
stayed in the University International Hostel, as against Abdul, who stayed
with his family in a small rented apartment just outside the campus. In a class where virtually everyone was a
genius, having bagged a coveted seat in this world renowned University, yet had
a subdued perspective of life, Abdul and Mohammed ushered in a rainbow of
laughter, joy, friendship and love. Only time would unravel this……
India
may seem to be the embodiment of secularism, but the undercurrent of religious
prejudice still mars its foundation. And none of this is emphasized more than when
a Muslim is in the picture. Most of us, including myself, have been brought up
with the belief never to trust a Muslim, much less be friends. Back in my
school days, I had Muslim friends –Sabira, Imran, Farzana, Sohaib, and Aftab
-who are still very much in touch and who would invite us to their Id
Celebrations. They seemed to me pretty much the same, except maybe that their
vocabulary was more poetic, and they tended to be a little conservative. But no
such thing as gender discrimination, or stuff like burkhas and skull caps being
a must. Even when I arrived in Hyderabad,
a city renowned for its resplendent Nawabi culture, I hardly noticed any
radical traits. In fact, with India’s bloody history of Hindu-Muslim feudalism,
I found the fact of 45% of the Hyderabadi population being Muslim and living in perfect cultural and
social harmony with their Hindu counterparts, worthy of praise.
But meeting Abdul and Mohammed not just deepened my respect and
fascination for their culture, it indeed made me acutely appreciative of the
finer nuances of their lifestyles , their excellent sense of hospitality, their
resources of courage, adaptability and resilience and most of all- I say this
with all my heart- their unlimited capacity to give love, share love.
Once our classes and practicals began, we discovered that both Abdul and
Mohammed had superior knowledge in Microbiology, both having spent a year in
Pathology labs as technicians in Yemen. As two lone foreigners
crammed with fifteen other brilliant students much younger than them in age and
having a better command of English, I never recall even a single moment when
they showed diffidence or hesitation in speaking out their minds. They had a
brilliant sense of individualism, and had they not lacked a deeper knowledge of
English when answering their term papers, they could have scored as well as
some of the better students. As it is, they hadn’t come all the way to India to prove
their mite, but to gain sufficient subject knowledge so that when they would
return back to their country, they could land jobs as assistant Professors and
teach at their local University. Hence, they spent major time in learning
Biochemistry, and polishing their real Achilles’ heel-English. And for that,
they chose me!
Having had an ICSE background, my English was…lets put it this way- more
eloquent if not actually better that the rest of the lot. So many a sunny day
was spent in imparting the finer nuances of the language to my budding
‘students”. They both had an O.K. grasp on the grammar but boy! were they
absolutely atrocious in their pronunciation…especially when it came to words
beginning with the letters G and J. So according to Abdul, he wanted to go to
‘joa” looking for a ‘gob’ (read Goa looking for a Job); he wore a “jold” dagger
on his waistband (read gold) and
Mohammed once called the word ‘general” as “giniral”, making all of us wonder
what word was he actually referring to. In spite of the language handicap, they
cracked jokes that sent us all into uncontrollable laughter, and soon we also
came to know that Abdul’s two-wife rumor was nothing but a rumor.
Once, during our annual fest, Abdul brought along his youngest daughter,
Mayada. The two year old was a spitting image of her dad, and was so cute; we
fought over who would hold her. Another time, his eldest daughter Amera, who
was nine, danced on the stage to the tune of a Telegu song. I desperately
wanted to meet his wife, so one fine evening I set out for their house. The
welcome that I received from his four daughters and wife, Nadah, was unparalleled.
I mean, in spite of the huge language gap, and amidst my English banter and
gesticulations and their frantic Arabic, very little of love got lost. Amera, his eldest, knew a little English and the
first thing that she asked me was whether her dad was a good “student” and how
did he score. Sitting there, I imagined Abdul studying for his exams, probably
alongside his own children amidst the din and clamor. I also noticed he was a
doting father; not once did any irritation or worry mar his cheerful face.
Looking at Nadah’s serene, beautiful face, I imagined how nostalgic she would be
feeling here, hundreds of miles apart from her family in a strange place,
cooped up in her apartment as she hardly ventured out on her own as she spoke
neither Hindi nor English to converse with even the shopkeepers. Very
obviously, they were on a tight budget, and the scant furniture bore testimony
to that. Even for a moment, if I conceived of myself in Abdul’s shoes, I got
heartache imagining his worries and troubles. So much was riding on his MSc
degree, and imagine having to uproot an entire family and settle in an
unaccustomed , strange place armed only with hope for a better tomorrow……the
rest of us could have been toppers and gold medalists, but I bet we wouldn’t
have carried on our shoulders what Abdul so effortlessly seemed to be doing.
The dinner that they whipped up for me was, truly, one of the best I’ve
ever eaten. Notwithstanding the love that laced the food, the taste of Arabic
fare was fabulous. One could say it was almost the cousin of Indian cuisine, as
they served me large tandoor baked naans,
a huge omlette I’m sure which contained no less than 6-8 eggs, a vegetable
stir fried side dish and of course, chicken with gravy. All the dishes were
really tasty, albeit a little less spicy. The highlight of the entire ritual
was that all the six of us
(Nadah, me and the four children) ate from
the same large plate, sometimes even
sharing spoons. I must confess that never in my life had I shared my plate with
so many, and I must also admit that the feeling was good…wholesome good. Having
myself spent five years away from home, the circle of love that Abdul’s family
included me into felt touching, especially because I could never have imagined
that one day, I would be dining with strangers who lived in a country I didn’t
even know existed. With a bounty of kisses that the womenfolk showered on me, I
left their house late into the night, richer by several degrees of happiness
and experience.
After that first visit, I became a frequent presence there; the food
part being only second to meeting and having fun with the kids. Some of their
neighbors were also from Yemen.
I became especially close to a young couple- Hishaab and his wife Abeer. Abeer
was born and brought up in New York,
and I simply loved talking to her as I could give free course to my expressions
in a language she could understand completely, without having to resort to
gestures and the ensuing confusion. What was surprising about her was that even
with her New York upbringing, she had conceded to marry Hishaab, her first
cousin, who was an out and out Yemeni, and whom she had seen only once in her
life when she had been a kid. What was even more shocking was that she was only
sixteen, and, already pregnant with their first child. When I asked her how she
had adjusted to the gaping cultural difference between her childhood years as
against what she encountered after her marriage, she only said that she
couldn’t have gone against her father’s wish. She had studied only till the 10th
grade. Given my fascination with travel and meeting people of different
cultures and races, I bet my envy of her having lived in New York and seen the
Statue of Liberty was nothing compared to the envy she felt against me for
having such a free life and being so educated. By the time she had a baby girl,
I was already into my PhD, which served to emphasize the irony only more.
The two years of our MSc drew to a close. All of us were frantic with
preparations for the upcoming PhD entrances. Most of my classmates were
planning to do their research in the US. I had a different set of plans.
My PhD was irrevocably entwined with my marriage to my childhood sweetheart,
Satish and hence I chose to work in the same university in the same city where
he was based. Abdul and Mohammed’s stay in India too was drawing to a close as
they had to go back to their country. Having been a close knit group of friends
for two wonderful years in the campus, all of us were sad thinking about our
imminent separation. Also, life as a student, as carefree birds, was on the
brink of the next phase of our lives- adulthood. The mere thought of having to
deal with an altogether different set of problems and situations left us all
deep in despair. To enliven the melancholia, Abdul and Mohammed organized a
sort of midnight farewell party, where apart from our classmates, they had also
invited over their other foreign friends. They cut a big cake, passed around
soft drinks and as the bash reached its peak, Mohammed, well known for his
emotional bent of bind, entreated each one of us to say something about the
past glorious days, after he himself gave a touching speech. Some of his
friends from the Middle East had us in splits
cracking jokes and just fooling around. A puny guy from Mongolia sang a
native song. Another one from Uganda
rapped. As for us, we all spoke our hearts out. I dedicated a song to
them-“That’s what friends are for” …... Before they left for their country, I
remember having hugged them goodbye, a gesture I had never shared even with my
own brother here.
Life moved on for all of us. A major chunk of our “crème de la crème” class left for the U.S. in pursuit
of higher glory. For some time, all of us were in touch through e mail, but
gradually, as our individual worries wore us down, we drifted apart. But the
memories lingered, still retaining the power to bring a smile to our faces
whenever we reminisced about the past days.
One
day, I got on the University bus, as I was now married and no longer stayed in
the campus hostel and hence had to commute everyday from my home in the city.
As the bus was about to move, a foreign middle aged couple flagged the bus. As
destined, they sat next to me, as every other seat was taken up. Normally, I’d
open my book and read through the entire 45minutes of my commute and get down
at my stop, but that day, I glanced at the book the lady just opened. I noticed
that she was reading the book from the back and when I looked at the page she
was reading, I was surprised to see that the script was unlike anything I’d
ever seen before. It consisted of a series of squarish, triangularish, roundish
figures and I just couldn’t hold in my curiosity and asked her outright what
script that was. She looked at me, smiled and said- “Hebrew”. Well well
well….if that wasn’t coincidence of the best kind. They were Jews, Professors
of Islamic culture at the University
of Jerusalem and right
now on a world tour to gather material for the book they were planning to
write. Being a hard core fan of Jews, empathetic of their horrendous past, a
real admirer of their spirit of resilience and most of all a die hard fan of
Jewish stalwarts like Einstein, Spielberg and God knows so many others….I
struck up a cheerful banter with the couple. They were quite surprised when I spoke about their customs like bar
mitzvah, Sabbath, their holy book, the Talmud, kosher food and “mazel tov” etc. and told me I had a
great future with knowledge like mine. The 45minutes came to an end, and just
like that they gave me their website and e mail addresses and also offered me a
Post Doctoral Fellowship in their university when I was done with my PhD.
The meeting left a pleasant aftertaste for
days, and once again, as I often feel, I felt the world is indeed a small place.
Folks like Abdul, Mohammed, the Jewish couple, Abeer….all with their
different personal stories have served to establish one fact certainly- that no
matter what the country, the color, the race, the circumstances, in a world
marred by racial prejudice, fascism, fundamentalism, there still exists in the
hearts of some people an inherent
kindness, an instinctive urge to care and comfort, and most of all a primal
need for love and to love. Let prejudice build its web, we have plenty of free
birds to fly across borders.
His signature style of art was initially a statement of protest against the Bengal School of Art, whose artists largely pandered to the demands of the ruling British during that time. He was heavily influenced by the basic two dimensional line drawings with the use of 2-3 flat colors which constituted the Kalighat pat paintings, which artisans of Bengal have been practicing since generations.
