Freedom to hope, speak and write what we want to

The monumental shift that the 4th of June was for India

I cried on May 23^rd, 2019 when the election results were declared. It was in the middle of Ramadan and the evening before, at an iftar gathering, we collectively held our hands out in front of us, eyes closed, heads down, and prayed together at sunset. We prayed with all the force we could muster. We prayed for peace and communal harmony for our country. What that prayer meant was that we prayed for a change in government. Anyone but him, we pleaded in our prayers. The next day the BJP made a devastating clean sweep and left us angry and crestfallen. The future looked bleak.

Sporadic events of violence erupted in places that were far enough from me. Reports of mob lynchings took place thousands of kilometers away. Far away, yet close enough for me to feel despair, to feel the blaze of hate lurking around the corner.

All this while a certain section of India, which felt like the vast majority because of the inclusion of mainstream media, looked the other way and sang praises of their ‘Honorable Prime Minister Ji’. The watchdogs of the government mutated into lap dogs. In the absence of a healthy opposition, the ruling party did whatever it could to get a stranglehold of the nation. In the presence of gullible masses who could be swayed by the sentiment of religion, Modi became god.

In the last five years, many people I know have left the country. Most have cited better job opportunities as the reason for relocation but they won’t always let on that it is the stark reality of living in India, under the current regime, that made them consider moving away in the first place.

With every friend or family member who moved away, I felt left behind. I felt trapped. The news did not help. It played to communal sentiments and worked on divisive agendas. It spread a shroud of rumours, hatred, misinformation, and downright lies, so thick that the country suffocated under it. As a hijabi, and thus visible, Muslim woman living in a predominantly Hindu locality, I felt the eyes of people on me every time I left the house. I smelt their disapproval and discomfort with the way I dressed, the way I looked, the beliefs I had, and those that I did not. My body involuntarily became tensed and guarded at the raised slogans and chants that carried themselves from the streets below to our second-floor apartment window.

 “Aap Musalman ho. Dus mai se aanth options tho waise hii cancel ho jaenge.” (You are Muslim. Eight out of ten options will anyway get canceled.) said the real estate broker matter-of-factly when we were looking for an apartment to rent in Pune. “Muslim ho.  Jo mil raha hai chup chaap lelo. Choice nahi milegi.” (You are Muslims. Take what you get quietly. You can’t be picky.) said another broker to a friend in Mumbai. Several other friends reported similar instances of difficulty finding accommodation.

On the morning of July 31^st 2023 a Railway Protection Force jawan shot dead four people who were on a train near the Palghar railway station in Maharashtra. He first shot dead a senior officer, Tikaram Meena in coach B-5. He then shot and killed a passenger, Abdul Kaderbhai Bhanpurwala, a passenger in the same coach. Singh then walked through four coaches without using his weapon until he came across a passenger in the pantry car, identified as Sadar Mohammed Hussain, and killed him. Singh then walked through two other coaches before shooting, Asghar Abbas Shaikh in coach S-6. “All three passengers were bearded. As Asghar’s body toppled onto the narrow corridor, Singh rested the hilt of his assault weapon on the side seat and began a short hate-filled rant against Muslims that he asked the bystanders to record for the media’s consumption.” reported The Wire.

I had returned from a trip with my children a few weeks ago. We had travelled by train. A shiver ran through me.

In May this year, I travelled from Pune to Mumbai and cast my vote. On a sweltering summer morning, I stood with the young and old citizens of a constituency that is an RSS stronghold. I looked around at the crowd of people forming queues and fanning themselves for some respite from the heat. We were all there, united in this quest to fulfill our democratic duty. We were there because that one vote was the only thing in our hands. The queue snaked forward slowly and an hour and a half later I could vote.

India waited with bated breath for June 4^th, 2024.

After a saffron flag frenzy in January for the Ram Mandir inauguration, BJP was sitting pretty on their imminent victory, a repeat of 2019’s clean sweep.

Again, I prayed with tears in my eyes, hoping against hope for a miracle. Because only a miracle could have broken the curse.

Someone once said that God has a brilliant sense of humour. We saw that to be true on June 4^th. “A victory that felt like a loss. A loss that felt like a victory.” read a post on Instagram. Our jaws dropped. We were first stunned and then rejoiced despite the final results.

Hope is a strange, beauteous creature that dwells in the cracks and corners of our cynical souls.  The 4^th of June, 2024 will be remembered as the day our hope pushed itself out of those darn crevices and grew wings.