On my transfer to Navi Mumbai, finding a flat to live in was one of the most difficult tasks to accomplish. The ones I liked were exorbitantly out of my budget. The ones that were affordable, I didn’t like. After a lot of searching and hunting around, when I finally found one that felt a bit comfortable, the house owner refused to rent it to me—once he saw my Aadhar card. Phew!
Yes, it was my name on the card that gave it away. It clearly denoted that I was a Muslim.
And whoever said, “What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet!”—please, please take back your words! There’s too much in a name! If I were not a Khan but a Sharma, Singh, or Patel, I would have faced far less discrimination.
The house owner did not want tenants from my religion. I won’t blame them if they felt this way. The events in the country and the world over the past few decades have tarnished the image of this peace-loving religion to such an extent that anyone belonging to the Muslim community—or even someone sporting a beard or wearing a kurta-pyjama—is viewed with suspicion. A lot of the credit for spreading this negative image also goes to popular films, where every terrorist is conveniently portrayed to look the same way.
Finally, after a lot of searching and negotiations with the broker, I found a flat—though it was located almost on the outskirts of the city limits. I could now fully empathize with the people in the olden days who belonged to the so-called lower castes. They were not allowed to live within the mainstream village area. Their huts were placed at the outskirts, far away from the privileged.
I too felt like an outcast, pushed far from the heart of Navi Mumbai.
But they say adversities come with their own advantages, and I found some too. Since there were no shops nearby, there was less pollution, less noise, and more fresh air and unhindered sunlight in my room. I also had a nice large balcony—a luxury by any standard in a metro like Mumbai.
This building in Navi Mumbai was, by and large, occupied mostly by people from the Muslim community. Probably, they too had faced problems like me and had eventually been pushed to the city’s outskirts in search of accommodation.
I was lucky enough to have good neighbors—in a city where, they say, nobody usually knows or even bothers to know who lives next door. One Sunday, when I was at home, my neighbors introduced me to their house owner. She was an elderly lady, probably in her early seventies, well-built, wearing a housecoat with her head covered by a dupatta—a typical sign that she was also a Muslim.
I have always been good at striking a chord with the elderly. Soon, she was seated in my flat, sharing her life story.
She was originally from Gujarat but had moved to Mumbai with her sons after her husband’s demise. She fondly recalled, with a sweet laugh, how in her younger days, whenever she wore a saree and went out, she would often be mistaken for a Patel lady (a Hindu community in Gujarat). She also reminisced about the good old days when people didn’t differentiate based on religion. Most of her neighbors in Gujarat were Hindus, and they always came forward to help whenever her ailing husband needed medical care.
Her eyes held a forlorn look as she continued.
She spoke of how, during Eid, her Hindu neighbors relished her sewaiyan (sweet dish), and she, in turn, loved celebrating Diwali with them. There was a time when no one saw any difference. But in the past decade or so, the divide between communities had visibly grown—thanks to the political climate of the country.
She was saddened by the plight of poor Muslims in Uttar Pradesh, suffering under various state policies. It pained her to see how, during the Kumbh Mela, one of the largest human congregations on earth, Muslim boatmen and other petty workers were denied the opportunity to ferry pilgrims or sell their goods—robbing them of their legitimate livelihood, simply because they were Muslim.
“The nation has forgotten the contributions of this community,” she sighed. “We chose India as our motherland. We stayed back in this country. And yet…”
After exchanging pleasantries and promising to meet again soon, she left. But long after she was gone, her words lingered in my mind. I wished for the return of those good old days—of bonhomie, communal harmony, and peace.
But enough of serious talk! Let me tell you about a funny incident that happened between me and my neighbor.
The other day, I decided to make some poha (a dish made of flattened rice). I had all the ingredients—except karipatta (curry leaves). Being from South India, I loved the flavor of these leaves in most of my cooking. You simply cannot make sambar, rasam, or vegetable stir-fries without them. Karipatta is an inevitable ingredient in South Indian cuisine.
What was I to do? I decided to ask my neighbor if she had some.
Knock-knock!
She answered the door, and I asked if she had karipatta. She went to her kitchen and came back with… a bunch of green coriander!
I smiled and said, “No, I need karipatta.” But she didn’t have any. Most people would have left it at that. But not her! She was determined to help me find karipatta. She rushed off to her friend’s flat on the opposite side to check if she had some. Within a minute, she was back, proudly clutching a few twigs of karipatta in her hand!
I thanked her profusely and went back to my kitchen, happy to start cooking.
But just as I got busy, knock-knock!
I opened the door to find my neighbor standing there, looking perplexed—almost terrified.
In her rush to fetch karipatta for me, she had left her door open. A gust of wind had slammed it shut, locking her out! And she didn’t have her keys. Her husband and sons would be home soon, and she had to finish cooking before they arrived!
She started panicking.
I immediately grabbed my flat keys and tried to open her door, but it wouldn’t budge. No amount of twisting and turning the handle worked. The tension mounted.
Finally, we decided she would cross over the half-wall separating our balconies. It was risky—one small misstep and she could crash to the ground. But we had no other option.
I tried lifting her up, but she was wearing a silky kurta, and every time I hoisted her, she’d slip back. Despite the tension, we burst out laughing each time she failed.
Somehow, I managed to heave her up. Now she was perched on the wall—one leg dangling on each side—looking like a cat on a fence!
With a deep breath, she finally swung her other leg over and jumped. Thud! No bones broken—mission accomplished!
That night, as I ate my poha, I carefully removed the karipatta before taking a bite.
Yes, this leaf gives so much aroma and flavor to a dish. But once its essence is extracted, it is discarded, pushed aside, no longer needed.
And suddenly, it struck me.
The situation of Muslims in this country today is slowly becoming like that of karipatta…