A PAGE FROM THE BOOK OF LIFE
When the White Symbol of Love Was Painted Blood Red of Hate
To be a human being means being human
I remember my mum crying when dad came home that evening with the news of his first job transfer — from the pleasant valley of Nainital to barren hot Agra.
I remember the sixteen hours road trip in a truck hauling the home my parents built — with love — over ten years of their marriage and mum’s heart beating a skip at every pothole.
I remember my sister and I getting heat strokes and ulcers of the size of grapes on our little faces unaccustomed to the hot summers.
I remember wearing the expensive Chacha Nehru suit — that costed more than the combined cost of wardrobe of the rest of my family in the photo below — on my first visit to Taj.
I remember walking through the big iron gates leading to a can-never-get-old sight of the marvel they call the Taj Mahal.
I remember the pain in my heels as we made the long walk surrounded by flora and fauna before entering the tribute of a loving husband to his beloved wife.
I remember the model tombs on the second floor as we walked down to the cold, calm basement that houses the actual resting place of two immortal lovers.
I remember two Muslim priests hand-fanning the two tombs as young adults queued up to tie a knot with a piece of their clothing in the jali windows of the Mecca of Love wishing to make their love eternal.
I remember dad coming back home that night — the earth hadn’t even rotated 365 times yet— with the news of another job transfer, albeit the haul would be a mere fifty miles this time. The town of Aligarh would become our new home.
I remember dad waking us up in haste one night with a finger on his lips, indicating us to be silent as we climbed the stairs up to the roof of our rented house.
I remember witnessing the entire human habitat around us curled up on their roof as the crystal-clear sounds of gunshots and cries of mothers for help coming from at least five miles echoed over the skies of the entire town.
I remember all the male adults with bricks and weapons in their hands peeking down their roof to see if any rioters running on the streets below were trying to climb up the using the electricity poles.
I remember spending five such nights in a row on that roof only to wake up on the sixth morning to watch the military tanks and Humvees making their way across the bridge into a city destroyed by madness.
I remember hearing dad talking to other adults about how the trains were being stopped — by Hindus one day and Muslims the next — and passengers being killed and raped based on their faith.
I remember my ten-year-old eyes witnessing burnt shops, demolished homes, and headless bodies lying on the roadside as the rickshaw puller hauled us to school — two weeks later — only to be sent back with schools closed indefinitely.
I remember a few demolishing a peaceful home of worship and walking up to the tomb of a fallen Babri Mosque because they believed their God was born there and the site belonged to a temple.
I remember the dream in which I saw the white symbol of love, the beautiful Taj Mahal, painted the blood-red of hate, and a weeping Shahjahan and Mumtaz.
I remember the tale of two contrasting years of my life that taught me humans are the most dangerous animals and their own worst enemies.
I remember my dad telling me to always believe in one religion and one religion only — humanity — that has the sole power to connect towns, states, countries, and continents.
I remember.
*The author, who is a Hindu, had a Christian wedding to a Muslim girl presided over by a Jewish judge.
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