Trigger
December 2019 has bled into a hard Indian January – campuses under seige, visuals of bleeding teachers and student leaders, moms protesting in the bitter Delhi air against the NRC and the CAA, reports of sycophantic Bollywood stars and sports stars, shouts of maar daalo saalon ko drowning out Hindustan kisi ke baap ka hai kya? My news feed has nothing happy to report and the rage has been slowly building.
There is a different paranoia this time – I find myself questioning every action, every motive. I stare at the back of the taxi driver’s head, the woman in front of me in a shop queue, and I suspect each one of belonging to Them. My faith in strangers and the kindness they show, has been shaken badly over the last few months. I cannot smile easily at passersby on Marine Drive, I frown and scowl at them, imagining their hidden agenda and their unbridled hatred towards Us.
It was always going to end in tears – as I write this, I only can’t decide if they are furious tears or despair leaking out of my eyes. Today has been a hollow day. I have been weighed, judged and found wanting. Have I become my worst nightmare?
This morning, the first trigger is my sweet natured, lovely household helper. She has always been a bit wary of me, her strange employer who worships no gods nor keeps any rituals. She, on the other hand, fasts more days of the week than she feasts. She murmurs prayers under her breath while she works and all her holidays are spent visiting temples. Her children study in a Parsi school so she apologetically explains that they love to eat eggs and chicken outside the house. I think in part, she is apologising for me too. She tries innocently to pin my beliefs down – are we Hindu? We aren’t Muslim, are we? Perhaps we are lapsed Hindus? She gently encourages me to try the Gayatri mantra to solve this problem or to recite the Hanuman chalisa to sort out that dilemma. I listen and pay no heed. In turn, I try to give her as unbiased a view of local politics and my atheistic bent as possible. She listens and pays no heed.
It starts with a harmless cube of frozen lime juice. She exclaims in wonder over it and comments that it looks just like a piece of petha (the famous sweet from Agra, made of some strange vegetable, I think.) I reply that I don’t care much for petha myself and her immediate, heartfelt response is: Yes, those Muslims make it, na? This is accompanied by an exclusive facial expression reserved for any reluctant reference she might make to Muslims. It is a bitter, derogatory, and slightly nauseated expression that leaves me feeling much the same way. I wonder if she has ever, in her forty four years, had the opportunity to talk to any Muslim, man or woman, much less share a friendship with one. But her dislike is so visceral, and deep rooted in religious/socio- cultural belief, it is as if she has faced terrible and traumatic interactions with Muslims every day of her life.
I let it go. I don’t have enough Gujarati to adequately explain these thoughts to her. That is my excuse. Maybe I simply don’t have the energy or I can’t be bothered.
At the dentist, there is a frazzled young mother in the waiting room. She is rather rude with the receptionist and downright unpleasant with her young kids. Her manner miraculously improves while taking a phone call…she is a member of that younger generation who don’t give a damn if strangers are witness to their unpleasant side swinging from the chandelier while they make nice to an unseen entity. Anyway, she is barely paying attention to her little girl, more concerned with the amount she has to pay for the dental treatment, trying not too discreetly to haggle it down. The girl is playing a word game and suddenly exclaims, “Oh, that spells chicken!”. In the next instant, and I mean without drawing a breath, the mom snaps: “Chee, are you mad? Don’t say that word!”. The receptionist and I quickly glance up, up and away. The son, around twelve years old, looks a little embarrassed and the little girl’s face falls. The breathtaking rudeness, the carelessness, the confident assurance of the utterance leaves me gasping for air. But
I let it go. What would I say anyway? This is between a mother and her children.
The IFB technician rings my doorbell. Just this morning, I have been advised by the service centre to check his credentials before letting him into the house. They have told me to look out for his light blue shirt and badge. I stand at the door, wondering why they didn’t advise me instead to look out for the blood red tilak the man sports on his forehead – a tilak that extends all the way up to his hairline. A tilak that bleeds red over my eyes and my brain. I stare at him and think, I don’t want to let this man into my home. He wonders what I’m doing, radiating so much animosity. Our interaction is strained. Usually, I am quite chatty with the guys who keep my home running hassle-free but not today. I am overcome by an anger that I cannot name. Is it that he is flaunting his religious beliefs during his work day? Would I have the same reaction if a skull cap wearing, bearded man were to appear at my door? I hope so. A person can complain about a Muslim delivery boy delivering food to a Jain household and get away with mere social media tut-tuts. I imagine calling IFB and saying that I don’t want a tilak sporting technician in my home. I am immediately ashamed of this thought. Also, I don’t think the calling out of a Hindu for flaunting his religion would be ignored quite as easily in the country we live in today.
I let it go. But the remorse and guilt remain behind. I am no better than the Jain man complaining about a Muslim delivery boy, no better than the rod wielding masked goon at JNU last night. I have judged a man based on his appearance and religion. I may as well have had that same expression on my face that my household helper did or spoken in the same tones of disgust as that mother in the dentist’s waiting room. Mea culpa. How easily my prejudice came roaring to the surface. What use the fine words of solidarity, the social media support or the ideals I am so proud of?
I saw the worst part of me today and it frightened me. Deep down, coming from a place I would rather not acknowledge, are the prejudices and biases I have grown up with. Though I hope that I have not been shaped by them, there is a niggling feeling that I have assimilated at least some of them. So it’s back to the basics. Remembering the truths that hide in plain sight, while the lies attempt to deafen and blind us. These are the truths of every holy book and of humanity itself: Glass houses. Stones. Heal thyself. Be the change. Forgiveness. Don’t judge.
It scares me to see the long, lonely road ahead. And it’s only the first week of the year yet. All I can do is take a deep breath and take another step out of this morass of ill-will and angry justification for all manner of inhuman acts that we find ourselves in.