IDENTITY CRISIS

“Amma…aren’t we r-e-a-l Hindus?” my three-and-a-half year old son raised his eyebrows, gulping down the piece of chapathi that I had stuffed into his mouth.

I looked up at my husband who was about to get up from the table having finished his dinner. He sat back and took little Eshan on to his lap.

Ach-ch-a tell me aren’t we real Hindus? Nikita says we aren’t. She says my amma is a Muslim and so I am not really Hindu.

“Hmmm…. No dear..we are neither Hindus nor Muslims…we are just human beings…,” I thought I was hearing Vivek say so to Eshan…the answer which I had often heard in my thoughts. I knew I was not smart enough to handle such situations and even in my thoughts Vivek used to take care of such scenes.

But no…I was hearing him say something else.
“ No dear…we are real Hindus… Don’t we go to temples?…Hindus go to temples…so we are real Hindus..okay?”

He winked at me and got up.

“You know amma”, chuckled Eshan, “my friends say Muslim means bad guys…they kill children , put bombs in trains and all…I don’t like Muslim”

Suddenly I felt uncomfortable. I knew it was not Eshan’s comments that took me off guard. Rather it was Vivek’s answer.

I just tried if I could catch hold of at least a splinter of the atheism or secularism in his face or words like olden days. But no…instead there was a common look and a plain smile.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *


“Aren’t you coming amma ?”… Eshan asked removing his chappals in front of the temple holding on to my hands.

I didn’t really want to. But there was a quizzical look on Vivek’s face. As always, I budged.

In front of Krishna’s statue I stood as if I was on my namaz mat. As always I prayed my heart out…for my family, Vivek’s family, and our own small one…for Eshan….

Coming out of the temple, we saw aunt Meenakshi.

“Oh…so you have also finally started coming to our temple?? Good…good,” she mused

“Hey, no auntie… she has always had more faith in our Gods and Goddessess..ha…ha…ha,” guffawed Vivek.

Though I felt irritated, I did not let my face reflect my thoughts and just giving a wide smile to the old lady, I walked off.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Razia”…a Muslim…?? I was asked for a millionth time in the last five years and I very well knew what would be next…
“wearing a bindi and sindoor…?”

and I answered for the millionth time
“Yes, I am a Muslim and my husband is a Hindu and I like wearing bindi and sindoor”

But this time my co-passenger in the train, a doctor by profession, seemed more curious…You mean love marriage? and didn’t you convert after marriage”

“No, I said. We both didn’t feel there was a need to convert and change one’s faith just to show someone,” I felt my words rather had an air of pride in them

“You said you have a son…and what’s he…? What do you bring him up as …?”

I just stared at the lady…

”Er…r..r…” she blurted “I’m sorry if I was over curios…you see….Its just..ok let’s leave the topic…”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Son, Muslims are not bad guys…you know..they are all followers of Prophet Mohammed…. He was a great soul just like Krishna, Jesus…He never told to kill anyone… instead he taught us to love each other and to fight against evil…. I’ll tell you his story….,” I was trying to put Eshan to sleep and just couldn’t find a better story for him.

Suddenly the TV news was flashing the scenes of a bomb blast a few minutes back in a crowded Mumbai sub-urban train…havoc..blood…chaos

I turned off the TV.

“What happened amma?….”

From a distance I could hear the rising slogans of Sree Rama Sena like the hum from a disturbed beehive. Near me Eshan was whimpering “Amma…story….”