The Religion of a Common Man

 

Mere goodness in letter covers up for many a sin in spirit. Blind adherence to religion in letter allows one to commit many wrongs in spirit. Hypothetical lip service is very easily done. More importantly, it fetches very rich, luscious fruits.

The radicalization of religion is primarily driven from the ritualistic adhesion to customs and conventions on the surface, their meanings twisted to suit the ulterior motives. We have a painful history of Christian crusades to the modern day Islamic radicalization that have brought countless sufferings to our little planet.

The practitioners of the modern Hindutva have now taken a few clues from these aggressive defenders of faith and are imbibing some steely nerves in their Sanatan Dharma fabric. ‘If the Christians and the Muslims can slaughter thousands in the name of religion, we can at least create verbal rhetoric in stout defence of our religion,’ they seem to think. They rarely kill but then they have a pretty noisy sloganeering movement. It serves the purpose of all the political parties irrespective of who stands for whom.

All said and done, is it necessary to take inspiration from somebody’s wrong? Someone’s wrong can never stand as a justification to your own falling on the wrong turf. Why weigh your worth and value on the tainted, tempered scale of someone else? Only the yardstick of your own goodness will do justice to your real worth.      

Ramraj Pandit is a simple man at the pilgrimage town of Mathura. He feels very insecure on account of the belligerent Islam. The tales from the Middle East and Afghanistan—apart from the arch nemesis Pakistan—rile his conscience a lot. He speaks well in defence of his religion, contests for municipal councillor post and wins. He is genuinely concerned that radical Islam will slaughter meek Hindus if we don’t fight for our religion. Now the onus is on him to prove himself worth the salt of his faith.

The more the bloody tales of belligerent Islam trickle from outside, the more his nerves get on the edge. He is ready for the protection of his faith and values. He needs errant Muslims to substantiate his fears and justify the remedies of law.

Four people stay in his locality in the basement of a garage. Taslim is a ragman. Abdul is a bangle seller. Rashid is a vegetables hawker. Ali operates a dosa vendor cart. They are all migrant workers and barely pull their humble cart of survival and sustenance.

Taslim, the ragman, collects trash and scrap items and keeps them for sorting out in the corner of an empty plot of land behind the garage. A fencing of gunny sacks defines a few yards of his space for which he pays to the plot owner. The plot owner gets double benefit as the ragman works as a kind of watchman for his property also.

This morning he is collecting the disposables strewn around a wedding party site. His big garbage sack on his carrier rickshaw is bulging at its seams with scores of disposed items of festivity. Who won’t be happy to get a big lead in his line of business?

His pleasant reverie is broken as he gets pushed from behind. A loud abuse follows. ‘Chant Jai Shri Ram!’ Pandit says.

Then he carefully scans the contents in his cart. Blasphemy! An empty packet of incense among the trash. There is an image of Lord Ganesha on the packet!

‘You guys cut necks if someone merely says anything about Koran! And here you are putting our Gods in shitty trash!’ he roars.

There is a little crowd. Jostling, shoving, an altercation and the trash cart is toppled. Nothing serious happens. But the incident’s video will go viral by the evening. 

A forlorn looking, stick-wielding policeman arrives on the scene. Ramraj is inconsolable. He yells and shouts well, enough qualifications to be a successful politician. Deep imprecations follow.

The rag-picker is booked under IPC Section 153-A (promoting enmity between different groups on grounds of religion), 505 (2) (public mischief), 323 (voluntarily causing hurt). He has no clue to these imposing clauses. Most of the time, the heavy tomes of judicial clauses hardly have any clues to their own meaning. Everything is subject to interpretation. No wonder, the judicial process can stretch till eternity.

The nights in the lock-up are very busy. ‘You must be cooking fabulous mutton,’ a relaxed policeman asks. So the rag-picker gives his best in cooking mutton. Multiple skills are always welcome in this big, bad world. The cooking comes out amazing. A tongue can bite in verbal exchange but nature primarily means it to taste nice food. In this way, many tongues are happy and no longer bothered about the weightier issue of saving religions. They are contended with his service and treat him well. It goes for three days. On the fourth day, the Hindu plot owner gets him out on bail. He will adjust the money owed to him in little monthly instalments. The real sufferer I think is the Indian judiciary at having one more petty case that will sit on its breast, suffocating it under its weight along with the millions of other ongoing cases.  

But it seems that the local councillor is on a spree.  

Very soon the affable and friendly Abdul is booked for inappropriately touching a teenage girl. The girl says a firm ‘no’ and insists that she didn’t feel anything of that sort as he tried to fix a bangle around her wrist. ‘You are too young to feel these predatory ways, we know better,’ they tell her. So there are many who say they can feel it and know it for sure.

The social media is the hub for the newly emergent tiny celebrities. Again the video goes viral in the city. The bangle seller is arrested. His five days in the lock-up prove that he indeed has very deft and caring hands. He works, cooks, brooms and massages calves, thus putting all the menial staff at rest. The Hindu bania who supplies bangles to him is worried. The hawker owes him some money, so he pays for the bail, carefully adding the bail charges to the previous amount. When Abdul walks out, it causes a lot of inconvenience to the police station. He proves himself almost indispensable. But they cannot keep him anymore even if they like him on account of his great utility.

It’s easy to come out of difficulties if you retain your smile and do all you can do without reacting. Give your best with a pleasant mood and there you are. You step out of the troubles one fine day.  

Very soon Rashid’s vegetable cart also gets into the eddies of the storm in the tea cup. He is very mildly beaten, but shouted at terribly, by a vigilante group, of course led by the effervescent local councillor, for failing to produce his adhar card. They allege that he is using fake identity to pass off as a Hindu hawker. The case doesn’t go too far as a gentleman helps the poor vegetable seller in getting cleared off the scene without further complications.

Ali’s dosa cart is vandalized now. The crime is naming his stall after a Hindu deity. The board that reads ‘Ganpati Dosa Corner’ is torn apart. The mere fact is that he has purchased the cart from its previous Hindu owner without taking care to change the name. Of course, its video is uploaded on the Facebook and many ‘likes’ follow. Ramraj is very vocal in accusing Ali of waging ‘economic jihad’ by depriving Hindus of job opportunities. They then move onto chanting slogans to ‘purify Mathura’.

On his complaint, the police registers a case under IPC section 427 (mischief causing damage) and some section about hurting religious sentiments. Ali can count his stars lucky for having worked as a masseur in a saloon at one time in life. His palms and fingers ensure that his few days in the jail turn out to be full of action for his hands. Everyone at the police station is more relaxed after a nice massage. Other inmates also get better treatment as the policemen carry much soothed nerves.

Ali’s three friends bail him out. Then they hold a meeting at their place. It’s a serious issue. Either leave the place or try not to fray the nerves of the ebullient, pudgy councillor who is aiming to get an MLA ticket, encouraged by the little storms his videos have raised on the local social media.

They understand the reality better than any hardcore mullah baying for kafir blood far away in a masjid. A common man’s life, irrespective of religion, is sustained by compromise, acceptance and adaptation. These are the religionless credentials necessary for the survival of the underprivileged of any caste, class, creed or religion. A reaction born of religious rhetoric from their side would mean leaving the place and start an innings somewhere else. That would amount to making life further burdensome. They choose prudence. They decide to greet their customers with ‘Jai Shri Ram’. It’s a masterstroke of marketing by the common men just like it’s a masterstroke of political rhetoric by the power-aspirant politicians. Using it the former can see through a normal day and the latter can go to assemblies.  

They do so. After a few days of this greeting, they don’t feel lesser Muslims. The initial apprehensions are allayed. Now even strangers smile at them. Surprisingly, with more open heart they feel more focussed in their prayers and nearer to Allah than before. Malleable hearts are very near to all Gods in all religions. 

Well, an imperilled Hindu, caught in similar circumstances, is also advised to greet his Muslim customers with ‘Allahoo Akbar’. Does hailing a flower in different languages insult the flower? We have different words for almost everything in different languages. So why don’t we understand that different religions use different words to connote the same entity.

A brainwashed mullah gives a blood-curdling yell against kafirs in a masjid. At the centre of the little storm, primarily his own influence grows, a few blindfolded souls get tricked, some killing or violence happens. Like a pebble is thrown into the pond and ripples move out. The littlest ripples at the centre turn broad at the outer margins and cover large spans of water. They touch the lives of the common man. Tiny undulations, softly shoving ahead. They just tug at the sleeves. It would be a folly to give them more consideration than what they are—mere tiny ruffles, often very silly. It’s advisable to treat them as something that just moves on, almost inconsequentially. Take them more seriously and they create storms in the minds. 

Poverty and deprivation are enough complications for the common man. Why make it further complicated by picking needles in hayracks. We, the commoners, are meant for raking and unraking big loads of hay, the actual movers of load on the broad stage of labour, sweat and grime. Let’s not stoop down too much into further nitty-gritty and stare around our feet for the invisible gems in the dust. If we do it then we get a kick on our ass by those who preach us to look into the dust for the smallest needle. As we do so, we get a hit and they gather their rewards.