I was browsing through the title in Audible when I came upon the title “You don’t look Muslim” by Rakshanda Jalil. So, of course, I immediately purchased it because of the sheer fact that I had heard the exact phrase many a time.
I did not realize it would stir up something that I had perhaps buried deep inside or had been running away from. It is time to confess, lay bare my soul and embrace my truth, my experiences being a Muslim.
On one side of my family were the people who had families with five to seven kids. There would always be one or two toddlers or preschoolers running around, shouting, and creating a stir. There was always much work in the kitchen, so these kids were mostly left unsupervised. Girls would be allowed to complete school and be prepared for their duty in this world, getting married, raising kids, and managing the home. On another side were the ones with one or two children, well-educated primarily in English medium schools, pursuing careers in Indian Administrative Services. Houses ran like clockwork. After two hours of rest, relaxation, games, or socializing after school, college, or office hours, the houses would turn silent with tick-tock clocks. Everybody buried deep in some books till dinner. Dinner was family time with discussions on the health of politics, the breakthroughs, and the country’s current affairs. These two worlds were so different, yet they were similar in only one thing: faith. However, there was always a bit of healthy tension between these two worlds regarding the ethical code of life prescribed, between the letters and the spirit of the words. I grew up seeing these two worlds co-exist, and both were evolving at their own pace.
Unfortunately, the story was completely different in my school, where I was trying to fit in. It was an English medium convent school with hardly two to three Muslim girls in a class of around 160 students. Most of us came from the second world, where the source of income was government jobs. The families had made many compromises in their day-to-day expenses to afford this school, unlike most girls from affluent business families. Unsaid economic differences were sharply pointed out in any fun or charity events. These were thankfully limited to fewer than four to five events in a year. What was apparent almost every day was how my school and batchmates saw us. They had no idea of the different worlds that co-existed.
My peers in school had a bizarre view of the entire community. To them, all Muslims were filthy and bathed once a week. I wonder how many times in a week someone or the other would ask me this question. Nobody even thought of asking others. I used to wonder why. Ironically, the mindset had not changed. Five years back, a friend of mine made a very shielded remark where he labeled his dog Muslim because he took a bath only once a week. I am not sure if a vast section of people evolves or mature through age or if it is an easy choice, veiling their deep-rooted biases, intolerance, and in some cases, hatred. Coming back to school, for my peers, being Muslim meant living in dirty homes in areas that resemble slums in terms of sanitation. In their views, all Muslim women were instruments of delivering children; they were unkept, uneducated, and quarrelsome. According to them, all Muslim men were butchers, dishonest people, chewing paan and spitting on the road. They could not complete any sentence without using four-lettered words a minimum of four times in a sentence. “Musalmaan Beimaan haat mein bidi, muh main paan.” I can’t recall how many times these girls used to sing this with utter glee.
Often, they would interrogate, “do you eat beef?” “No,” I repeatedly lied. Somehow, I felt unsafe stating the truth. Finally, after five or six years, I realized why I felt unsafe. Ironically, the girl who would question me hailed me from a pure vegetarian home. Countless times, she had boasted about how she and her boyfriend would sneak into some lonely corner of restaurants and devour pieces of chicken. Mutton and eggs. It was all about taste and a sense of adventure for her, but she would look down on anyone who regularly had non-vegetarian food. “Barbarians,” she used to call us. For most of them, about ninety percent of the class, Muslims were not supposed to be in such a school, and those who came in were freak accidents who would ultimately go back and become the filthy cockroaches they were. Those may not be the exact words, but the sentiment and choice of insect were the same.
I wonder how selective the memory or retention was fact was. Muslims are cruel killers was inferred because of Aurangzeb. He was cited as an example. Ajatashatru, Mahapadma Nanda, or Ashoka were conveniently forgiven a few classes ago. They argued it was a disturbing time where one needed to do what was done to survive.
Urdu Poetry, or Ghazal’s, was old-fashioned and boring. People who could recite or understand them were old ones stuck in time and were incapable of moving to the modern world. And these girls would giggle when they used to get notes from across the back gate of the school from their boyfriends Ghalib’s couplets in Hindi.
The most heinous of the accusations was that all Muslims were not patriots. Their loyalties lie with Pakistan. How insane was that? People asked them to prove their loyalty and had the option to go and stay back due to their love for their motherland. Yet, a Muslim Jinnah created Pakistan by an association of religion; all Muslims were loyal to Pakistan. So, to prove your patriotism, there was one criterion, you should hate Pakistan. For years, I hated Pakistan because that was the definition of being an Indian. But, thank God, very soon, I realized my mistake. I no longer hate Pakistan. Why should I? A country is made of people who have no role in greater policies like war or peace. That is the prerogative of politicians. So, yes, I no longer hate Pakistan, and I hate politicians irrespective of their countries.
During school, I used to feel relieved when someone said, you don’t look Muslim. Then, I did not have to prove my loyalty or virtues to anyone.
1992, the school was closed due to a frenzy that had resulted in a blood bath. Nobody dared enter the homes and close families of collectors, commissioners, and journalists. But we witnessed the plundering and unspeakable violence, something no child should have seen. Thankfully, after days this madness stopped, and the school opened.
We all were eager to meet and express support for each other.
I spotted my group. I went over. They were happy. The happiest was my best friend’s closest friend. I knew any time school was closed; it was like Christmas for her. Her heart or mind was not in studies; no wonder she enjoyed the ten- or fifteen-day break. I was so wrong. The exploits of her brothers drove her jubilant mood. I wish I could forget these words, “You know we had so much fun. It served them those rights. Since morning Bhaiya’s (brother) friends would come over to teach them a good lesson, they broke into every shop and home, beat them blue and black, and burned their homes to the ground. Now the cockroaches have nowhere to run. It was so amazing. I wish I could have gone. They would take a break for lunch and continue till late afternoon.”
It was shocking. I was stunned. I don’t remember what I told my so-called friends, my best friend tried to hush her, but she was too intoxicated by the violence her brothers were a part of.
Not all of the school was like her. They were almost twenty percent of the class. But they were the most influential and loud; the rest, eighty percent, were silent onlookers. As Italian-born economist, Vilfredo Pareto theorized, they drove most actions, as I would later find out. That moment the action of such mean girls and the inaction and voicelessness of others finally dawned on me. I just walked away, regretting for the first time that I did not look like a Muslim.
Disclaimer: The ideas and views expressed by the author are her own opinions and The Literary Mirror do not hold any responsibility for any such expressions which could act in the infringement of thoughts, ideas, beliefs of any individual or community.
About the Author
Naseha Sameen, a data scientist by profession, is an emerging writer residing in Hyderabad. Her journey as an Author started in 2020 with Invincible Publishers picking up her two books, Heir – End of Innocence & Heir – Dawn of Deception. Her 3rd book Perplex-city was picked up by the Lab Academia. Her books are for the Thriller lover, with a bouquet of suspense, crime & horror thrillers. She has also penned an anthology of poems, Ruby Drops, and co-authored several anthologies. She is recognized as an author with a different style and presentation. She has 10 nation-level awards for her books.
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