There is good patriotism that fundamentally draws from humanitarian values distinct from the hysterical invoking of nationalism
THE smartest quip I heard last week was about the ghost of Mohandas Gandhi calling up Narendra Modi after he heard the prime minister of India in 2017 condemn the lynching of human beings and invoke Gandhi’s name to do so. The ghost then tells him, one Gujarati to the other, beta Narendrabhai please, NotInMyName….
In February 2013, along with several other Indians, some of whom are celebrities, I attended the Karachi literature festival. A modest event was scheduled around my first book, In Good Faith that is a journey across India in search of syncretistic traditions. It’s the sort of theme that actually sold a few copies in Pakistan (possibly making me guilty of treachery under the new norms that govern our country).
What struck me then is how traumatized a certain type of Pakistani (who would be called pseudo secular or pseudo liberal were they Indian today) was by the many jolts that doctrines of hate were giving their country. Karachi is routinely visited by horrendous violence and even as the festival ended, there was curfew in the city as protests broke out after a massacre of Hazara Shias in Quetta (death toll 89). The road to the airport was blocked and some international visitors had to leave with security escort.
Writers at the venue — and Pakistan has produced an outstanding crop of novelists writing in English such as Mohammed Hanif, Mohsin Hamid, Nadeem Aslam and Kamila Shamsie who were present at the lit fest — spoke of their “collective misery”.
But what really remained with me was the opening ceremony of the festival as it included a dance-drama called Tagore. Gurudev’s poem Where the Mind is Without Fear was recited to a dance. Included in the drama was a rendition of Mahatma Gandhi’s favourite bhajan, ‘Raghupati Raghav Rajaram, patita paavana Sitaram, Ishwar Allah tero naam…. I had one of those moments of quiet pride standing there in Karachi.
There is good patriotism that fundamentally draws from humanitarian values distinct from the hysterical invoking of nationalism to damn other people. George Orwell, who damns the nationalist narrative more effectively in the classic 1984 (written in 1949) than any writer has done, was a quintessential Englishman to the very end. I mention Karachi because, it’s been suggested that somehow the #NotInMyName campaign “defamed” India because some people in Karachi wanted to hold a similar event, linking it up to their own traumas such as the lynching of young student Mashal Khan.
Bad times do bring out the best in the human spirit. The NotInMyName Campaign and citizens protests that took place in several Indian cities came from that sort of emotion. Initiated by a facebook post by an independent film-maker, it struck a chord. Whether the PM spoke out as a result of the citizens’ campaign or bad press in the West, I do not know. I will just admit that by the time he did, I was ready to weep with relief, fall at his feet and say thank you. That’s how desperate one has been feeling about the targeted attack on a particular community. And the scary silence about it. It’s not a distant fear; it’s closing in on those of us who live in areas with a sizeable Muslim population. For nearly a decade now, I’ve lived not far from the Qutub Minar in an area that is part slum, part middle class buildings. There are glorious monuments of the Delhi sultanate period, some maintained, others encroached on. It’s a chaotic area dotted with temples, madarsas, mosques, garbage dumps.
I always heard the Azan in my neighbourhood. The Ramzan of 2017 was the first when the call to prayer is no longer being broadcast, at least not in my ear-shot. The madarsa near my home stopped its broadcast several months ago, as they now just want to keep their head low, and be as invisible as is possible for groups of boys wearing little skull caps. I had gone to speak to the Imam last year requesting him to keep the volume down for the morning Azan during Ramzan as many non-Muslims get disturbed. This year there was no need: no Azan is broadcast, morning, afternoon, evening.
Today morning, during my walk, four little kids with the sweetest faces came up to me with a grin to ask for money. I asked their names: Muskaan, Fatima, Abrar and Anjali, ages three to eight, whose parents worked as labourers in a nearby slum. When I asked where they emerged from, they pointed to a small temple inside the park. They said they play there sometimes. In the past I would have seen it as an example of intertwined lives, but now I am worried if the pujari knows that three of the kids are Muslims. Perhaps they are taking a risk, I thought. They are innocent children not yet aware of their religious identity.
Because of my fears I shall investigate the matter tomorrow morning. Perhaps I am wrong and the pujari is a man with an open heart. Meanwhile, I’ve promised the children presents so they will be there.
( The article was first published in The Tribune )
Saba Naqvi is a journalist and an author
