No Admission Without Permission

I used to think that we have really matured as a society. You know, like the realization that we, as a race, all dislike Mayawati equally. Or, the fact that young men have discovered sewing and have discarded the lengthy pieces of cloth they once used to wear around their *thingamagigs*.

What a lovely thought it is, to see us walking up the path of evolution together, hand-in-hand, like two schoolgirls going to lunch. But this is all good only on paper. In reality, no two schoolgirls really like each other. No, really. Ask any of our Bollywood actresses.

So what really is happening to our modern Indian societies? I’m not talking about cultures that are close-knit – like you see in villages, or when one Malayali smells out another Malayali’s accent. I’m talking metropolitan societies.

When you grow up in a city like Bangalore – communal disparities are a far away phenomenon, like a Harry Potter story, or Rakhi Sawant learning the meaning of the word unpretentious. The only difference that people in Bangalore take great pains to point out in each other is how rounded your personality is and/or the number of lovers you have had since you were in Grade 8 – depending on who is gossiping.

Things like bank accounts, skin colour and community affiliations are almost never discussed – unless you are at a dermatologist’s clinic and your foreskin is itchy.

So with grave seriousness I bring up what I have been subjected to here in the city of dreams. Bombay’s lifestyle and culture is starkly different from that of Bangalore. Sure, you may never know EVERYONE in this city – despite how ‘out there’ your degrees of separation are. Sure, the public transport here can make the exhaust levels of Bangalore blush. Sure, the beach is about 15 minutes away although you may catch some fatal disease if you swim in it. But there is one prominent error in the way people live here as compared to Namma Bangalore. Their tendencies to be clannish.

It should be said that I live in a particularly ‘Yo’ part of Bombay. Bandra is like makeshift Goa. People with dreadlocks and Aunties with calf-length nightgowns are not uncommon. Unlike Goa, its city-like tendencies make it a dream destination for young adults like me – who want to experience life without some neighbour’s mother’s sister-in-law telling your folks that they saw you smoking in a street corner. And I haven’t yet seen a gunda-looking guy, like in those Ram Gopal Verma films, in this part of town.

This part of Bombay used to be a fishing village not too long ago. When Bombay reclaimed land from the sea (though I don’t understand how you can RE-claim something that was never yours), the land prices shot up multi-fold and the Christian converted fisherfolk (called Macs or Macapau) got rich overnight.

Now don’t get me wrong. I do not have anything against how large their pockets are. Or, how they prefer to spend all the time they have saved from tossing around at sea. Or, how much bread they consume. If you ask me, I have equal levels of preconceptions against any group of people, united because they believe in a supernatural force, that may or may not exist, because their mummies told them so.

The Macs share space alongside the Maharastrians and Gujaratis, who have colonies of their own in Mumbai. They live alongside Muslims as well, who were wealthy enough to buy chunks of this land and convert the spaces to imitate the back-lanes of Mecca.

It is not my fault that I was born Muslim. I had no control over who my ancestors preferred to hang-out with. What I don’t understand is how this one ‘question-on-a-form-that-I-usually-tick-off-subconsciously-because-I-have-to-I-guess’ goes on to define everything that I am as a human being.

It is true that house hunting in Mumbai has transition from a Bollywood movie to a B-grade dhammal. That is, it is lost its plot! What you don’t know is the ugly truth behind that comic relief.

Since I live with Christian friends who had no problems getting a place to stay, I was automatically assumed to be Christian too. Lively aunties and uncles stuck their chins our farther to know my name, or where I had come from. They helped me catch autorickshaws and find runaway cats. They even helped me source out my brand of cigarettes.

When I started house hunting, I realized that under that friendly disposition was a thick layer of detest for the Muslim community. If they are justified or not I do not know – considering the Muslims have gaudy habits that could make Bappi Lahiri get a sex change.

I decided to ask for help from the friends I had made. The same Aunties and Uncles looked at me quizzically, and then with large eyes of shock when I told them that no one wants to lease out their homes to Muslims in Bandra. They realized I was Muslim too. Most made excuses and scampered into their homes, only to look at me through their windows like I was selling leprosy.

One Uncle gathered courage over two days, only to tell me that he was shocked to find out that I was Muslim and that if I played it safe, I could pass off as a Christian. He even complimented the fact that I was ‘MOD’.

What is killing me, enough to write this article, is that I found myself defending the fact that I wasn’t an average Muslim. Who am I to judge a community based on what its going rate is? Even if it is my own? I said things like – ‘No Uncle, I’m different. I don’t fast or wear a Burkha. Heck, I even own a dog and eat pork once in a while!’. Shame on me.

It is very unlike me to have not picked a fight. One things for sure, I do not want to live with people who have prejudices like these, but to not stand up for who I am despite being Muslim? To not stand up for the values that are relevant as with any other religion? To not tell them that the English language is my God? Wow. What’s happened to me?

This is a new city. One that I am yet to learn the cultures and mentalities of. Despite the universal categorizations of people, Bangalore has always grown up united. To defend a label on my head that I have no control over seems a mammoth task right now.

But how does a fairly MODern Muslim girl from a cosmopolitan city change the world to forget classification? How does she convince people to live and let live? Does she live and let live herself?

Like some half-catholic friends of mine who used to write ‘Hindu’ on their convent education application forms just so that they were not forced into sitting through catechism classes, I tell people here that I speak Gujarati. (Since I’m a Bohra and we are Gujarati speaking Muslims). The funny thing is that the quizzical look and large eyes come back, followed by the jeer – ‘Kem Cho. Majja Ma?’.

Le Sigh! My head is muddled with questions and accusation. And here I thought that this country has Hindu-Muslim issues! (Apart from the less uncommon ‘Big Boss’ addiction, off course).

Amen.

Jai Ram Ji Ki.

Khuda Hafiz.

Tatabirla!