I
In the middle of a long meandering walk in Ahmedabad on a cool
February evening in 2010, we stopped before a mosque. “Just look at it
now.
You should have seen it when my boys and I burnt it down in 2002,” said
Kunal. I looked up and saw a large pale green mosque covered in
decorative lights. Eight years on, there were no signs of the
destruction. But I stood in front of the mosque and tried to imagine the
assault. It was hard to conjure the scene of a mob burning a mosque in
the middle of a busy street packed with street vendors selling bangles,
vegetables, and sweets.
Kunal, a Bajrang Dal activist and a long-time resident of Madhavpura,
tells me that they had a surprise visitor during the attack.
“As we were breaking the lock of the mosque, the Police
Inspector’s (PI) jeep came by and we all ran away. But he stopped his
jeep near the mosque and shouted keep doing what you’re doing.”
The news and election cycles make men like Kunal flicker in and out
of our lives, making it easy to dismiss them as part of the fringe. But
what do these men do when the burning, looting, and stabbing is over? We
conveniently look the other way when the riot is over, when the
lynching is done, and when the elections are lost or won. For us, the
fringe becomes visible only during moments of “exceptional”
violence—lynchings, vigilante attacks, moral policing, and massacres.
But the fringe is also a world view—Hindu supremacy—that resonates with
the fears of common people, fuels the masculine fantasies of young men,
becomes a tool to access the state, and a pragmatic mode to gain
influence in the neighbourhood.
Kunal is short and stocky with a barrel chest, bulging biceps, small
ears, and a floppy haircut. Most evenings, he sits outside his house on a
cot with “his boys.” On Sunday mornings, they go together to a
municipal gymnasium and attend cock fights. They are all members of the
Bajrang Dal. Raj is a night shift security guard, Ajay sells religious
photos outside courts, Sanjay sells fried snacks on a cart, and Jai, the
most educated, is 22 years old and is student of accountancy.
To show me how he joined the Bajrang Dal, Kunal pulls out an old
coverless photo album from underneath his mattress. It has colour
photographs of many young men joining the Dal. We flip through pictures
of men striking identical faux aggressive poses till we find a young
Kunal. Irrespective of their built, they all strike the same
pose—holding up shining
trishuls in their hands, and a bright
orange Bajrang Dal sash hanging loosely across their shoulders. In the
background, there is a small temple and a map of Mother India on a
tiger. Standing next to the men, a local Bajrang Dal leader smiles
broadly at the camera like a principal distributing prizes to his best
students.
Kunal strikes that same pose as soon as anyone approaches him; he
stands very straight, stuffs both his hands in the pockets of his
trousers, and thrusts his chest out. You can spot his house from the
street because it is the only one with a red trident and
Jai Shri Ram
painted on it. And then you notice the dusty cot on which his parents
sit all day, the broken windows of his dark, sunless one-room shack, and
the ragged clothes of his neighbours. He says he is a Rajput from
Rajasthan unlike his Dalit neighbours, whom he finds filthy.
“They are low caste, so when they call us for weddings,
we don’t go. Forget about eating with them, we don’t even drink water in
their house.”
Since 2010, I have been visiting Kunal and his boys in Ahmedabad to
understand men who roam the streets to protect Hindu women from Muslim
men, raid Muslim neighbourhoods to seize cows, vandalise cinema halls to
protest movies like “My Name is Khan.” They are, of course, the foot
soldiers, not the top command; the small fry who burn the mosque, not
the big sahibs who make sure that the police do not disturb them. In
2002, my attempts to meet these Hindu activists in Gujarat were largely
unsuccessful. When I walked across from a Muslim relief camp to the
Hindu neighbourhood next to it, the streets were empty, and all I saw
was a freshly painted wall with the message: “The Pride of 5 Crore
Gujaratis, Narendra Modi.” Walking down the empty streets in the
afternoon, I felt a hundred eyes on me as I desperately tried to find
someone to talk to. Then a man beckoned me from his balcony with a
wave.
“No one here will talk to you. Go back to Pakistan.”
So, when a friend introduced me to Kunal, I was surprised to meet an
affable young man who tries to help his neighbours. Barely literate,
with no stable job, Kunal is passionate about rescuing Hindu women from
Muslim men and saving cows from Muslim butchers, but it is the idea of
seva (service) that he finds attractive.
“They (Muslims) collect together and talk about their dharma.
Why can’t we talk like that too? Why can’t we collect together and be
strong? If any Hindu is hurt, I am very saddened, so I act. I try to
help my neighbours people as much as possible. If I can’t help them then
I talk to some people above me.”
One evening, a Hindu couple approaches him after their neighbours
(also Hindus) file a police report against them. There is some dispute
over a staircase and the neighbours have gone to the police. After
listening to couple, Kunal accompanies them to the local police chowki,
and helps them file a counter case against their neighbours. Kunal’s
brother and I wait outside the small one-room chowki. Through the open
door I see Kunal enter and shake hands with the policemen, seat the
couple in front of a desk, and stand behind them. They are out in 10
minutes. He tells them, “we will pull them out of their [the neighbours]
house if they make trouble.”
II
“The Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) and Bajrang Dal are different from the Sangh (RSS),” says former VHP leader Chandanbhai.
“The Sangh is not known to fight or send boys to begin a scuffle.
They concentrate on laying the roots with physical exercises and
patriotic songs.”
Swaying his grandson in his arms, Chandanbhai says that things have cooled down.
“It seems that the top leaders don’t want any activity
from the Bajrang Dal and VHP. For several months now there have been no
incidents, meetings and orders.”
Organisations like Bajrang Dal cycle through hot and cool phases.
Elections are typically hot. And we often only hear about them when they
pass through a hot phase.
But from the perspective of young men like Kunal, there is more to
these Hindutva organisations than a cynical electoral strategy to
polarise voters along religious lines and win elections. That is true
and important, but it does not capture what these organisations do for
them. In a life that promises no prospect of a stable job, or any kind
of social and economic mobility, these organisations give many young men
a chance to be part of something bigger and grander than their
precarious everyday lives. It gives them influence with powerful state
officials and institutions like the police. It gives them feelings of
“manly” strength and power. It gives them something to rescue and
something to destroy.
Ask Kunal what he does for a living and he tries to change the
subject. “I buy and sell cloth. I buy cloth wholesale, give it to small
vendors, and take a percent of the profits.” One day when he is away,
his brother tells me something quite different. “He (Kunal) walks around
neighbourhoods selling hosiery items. You know ladies’ stuff…” When
Kunal asks for my cellphone number, he cannot type it himself because he
is barely literate. With no formal education or skills, he has no
prospect of securing a white-collar job or a traditional factory job,
and belongs to the large and precarious informal sector in Ahmedabad.
His father had moved to Gujarat from Rajasthan to work in Omex Mills,
but the mills too closed down long ago. In Ahmedabad—where everyone has
finer clothes, smarter phones, and better paying jobs—Kunal and his boys
are proud of saving Hinduism from effete Hindus and treacherous
Muslims.
“There is no Muslim in this neighbourhood who doesn’t know that we are from the VHP. We are kattar.”
Kattar (fanatic) here is not an insult, but a badge of distinction.
They build this reputation by intimidating anyone who comes in the
way of their projects. When a Hindu neighbour protests against the
building of a temple next to his house and threatens to call the police,
Kunal collects his boys and gives him a thrashing. When the municipal
corporation tries to remove an illegal temple to widen the street, they
protest against it. The police arrive and take them to the station and
let them go with a tip:
“Rebuild the temple, but do it at night.”
They build a bigger and grander temple on the widened road.
When a Muslim family buys a house adjoining his neighbourhood, Kunal
feels it is “too dangerous.” He asks his neighbours to throw trash into
the balcony to impede the new owner’s efforts to renovate it.
“Some of the neighbourhood women even burned some of
their clothes hanging out to dry. When they (Muslims) tried to oppose
us, I called the police and told them to come here quickly before a riot
begins.”
For Kunal and his boys, the police are a malleable force that can be
molded to fit their agenda of Hindu supremacy. This happens through
persuasion and appeals to policemen to help protect shared Hindu
interests or through connections with politicians. When a Hindu man
protested against the building of an illegal temple next to his house,
it was a Muslim policeman, according to Kunal, who asked the man, “What
kind of Hindu are you?” What happens when the police don’t intervene in
their favour? “We phone our leaders at Mahalaxmi (the Bajrang Dal office
in Ahmedabad) and make them speak to the police.” Under “ideal”
conditions, as in 2002, the state falls in line. But their work goes on.
Looking at 22-year-old Jai, quiet and bespectacled, it is hard to
imagine him stealing into a slaughterhouse in the middle of the night
with two friends and a camera. Later, they send the footage to the
local Member of the Legislative Assembly and the police commissioner.
Standing back, his mouth swollen with red betel juice, Jai smiles when
the boys show me signs of his other life: a thick, long brown lathi
(stick) is tucked away discreetly on the side of his motorbike. He is a
member of a civil defence committee.
“Two weeks ago, we saved a dozen calves from the Muslim
neighbourhood opposite us. For us, the cow is like a mother, but for
them she’s a meal. Have you seen a printing press? They have a blade
that slices paper into two halves. They have automatic machines where
the blade comes down and simply chops the head off. Then the carcass is
cleaned up. If you see it, it will give you goosebumps.”
Before Bakrid, the boys make a gang and forcibly enter Muslim neighbourhoods to save calves. But they are not alone.
“During the raid, we kept calling the police control number.”
“But such rescue missions must be dangerous?”
“Of course, but we have police protection. The police support us because they know we are from the Dal and do this work.”
But the police also use Kunal. One evening, as Kunal and I sit on the
cot outside his house admiring his new Samsung phone, I see two men
arrive on a motorbike across the street and gesture towards us. Kunal
hands me his phone and walks across to meet them. When the men leave,
Kunal apologises.
“Plain clothes policemen. They help us a lot, so I make sure I chat with them.”
Kunal’s Muslim neighbours have bigger and better houses.
“We have thatched roofs and they have towers
[multi-storied apartments]. When there is violence, they throw rocks and
petrol bombs, but our stones don’t reach them.”
I peer into the buildings in the distance and my eyes settle on a
distant tube light-lit room. I can see the outline of a person. I hear a
thin voice next to me say “We are surrounded by Muslims.” It’s an old
woman bent double on a walking stick looking up at me. She leaves
without saying anything else. We continue our evening walk weaving in
and out of tiny one-room houses. Kunal greets everyone with a loud “Jai
Shri Ram!” People call us inside their homes to have a meal. A gang of
small boys follow us around chanting his name. We stop at his aunt’s
house and she wants to talk about the government houses that have been
promised to slum dwellers who are displaced by the Sabarmati Riverfront.
She waves an affidavit at him as we leave. “I will talk to Barot about
it,” says Kunal.
III
Kunal, Jai, and I are “tripling” (three riders on a motorbike) down
Ellis Bridge in Ahmedabad. Jai is weaving in and out of traffic at full
speed. Kunal sits behind me nudging Jai to drive faster and catch up
with a motorbike ahead of us. “Just look at her straddling the bike,” he
points with his chin at a burqa-clad woman riding pillion on the bike.
We catch up with them at a red light. Kunal stares at the woman and the
shiny blue sports bike. When they roar past us, he nudges Jai to follow
them. At some point, they get tired of following the woman and turn back
to go home.
One day I notice Kunal is wearing a tight black t-shirt with
Lajja Bachao
(Protect Honour) in blue letters at the back and Nagrik Raksha
Sangathan (Citizen’s Protection Committee) on the front. He says it is
“an old organisation that works to protect women and their honour.” The
t-shirt reminds him of a funny story.
“Recently I saw a boy and a girl traveling in an autorickshaw and the boy had his arm wrapped around the girl. I had my tika on the forehead and I stopped them.
What’s your name?
Who are you?
I am from the VHP. What’s your name?
Trilochna.
Okay. And what’s your name?
Farooq.
Farooq, what are you doing with her?
She’s my friend.
Okay. Is this how you sit with your friend? With your arm around her? Is this the way you sit with your sister?
And then I thrashed him nicely. A crowd gathered and all the girls fled on their scooties.”
Kunal’s world is a peculiar mix of fear and fantasy. Kunal tells his
boys to trap Muslim women. “Make them love you and then make them
Hindu.” I ask him how that will happen and that his plan is like a scene
from a bad Hindi movie.
“If while walking you spot a Muslim girl, you should give
her the look so that she falls in love and then you make her Hindu.
Understand?”
It would be a mistake to treat Kunal and his boys as an exceptional
aspect of Hindu nationalism or even Indian politics. These men are part
of a growing network of Hindu right-wing organisations that are trying
to lay the groundwork to make Hindu supremacy mainstream. But violence
alone is not enough to spread the word, recruit new supporters, enter
new neighbourhoods, and win sympathisers. Their work often involves the
most ordinary things, like helping a neighbour.
In February 2016, I was sitting and chatting with Kunal on the cot
outside his house when a man wandered in looking for him. Kunal did not
know the man. The man needed help. His house shared a wall with a
neighbourhood mosque. The mosque authorities raised the height of the
wall without the man’s consent and in the process, even cut a part of
his tin roof. “I have a mud wall. What if it collapses when I am
inside?”
Kunal was quick to point out that this was a situation where he must
intervene because “a poor Hindu is being harassed by Muslims.” The man
quietly nodded in agreement. “I will talk to them and if they don’t
understand, we will file a complaint with the police.” The man turned
around and walked back to his house, next to the same mosque that was
burned down in 2002.
