Samira Agnihotri: ‘Two men chased my driver, thinking he was a Muslim’

From Tehelka Magazine, Vol 8, Issue 27, Dated 09 July 2011

CULTURE & SOCIETY
PERSONAL HISTORIES

Samira Agnihotri

A series on true experiences

RELIGION

‘Two men chased my driver, thinking he was a Muslim’

WHAT’S IN a name? Apparently, everything! It is the day before the Allahabad High Court gives its verdict on the Ayodhya case. The nightmares are back. I am caught in the middle of a riot and blurred faces while sinister voices are asking me my name. I wake up, covered in sweat. Was I crying in my sleep? I have never really been caught in a riot, but a number of seemingly small incidents have allowed my subconscious to build this particular dream.

In a post-Godhra, Modi-ruled Gujarat, I’m at a textile shop in Vadodara with a friend. “Samira! What do you think of this shirt?” my friend calls out. I’m standing near the counter, and the shopowner asks me, “Are you a Muslim?” I feel strangely uncomfortable under his gaze and I question him back, “Why do you ask?” This flummoxes him for a bit and I take the opportunity to walk out of the shop.

My PhD requires me to spend a lot of time travelling in rural Karnataka. Here, if you speak a word of Hindi, you are a Muslim.

You’re not? How can that be? You speak their language. According to many people here, all the domesticated elephants are also Muslim since they only understand Hindi. And just by chance, if you happen to wear kajal and avoid wearing a bindi, you must be a Muslim.

Illustration: Samia Singh

In another incident, I’m being introduced to some people who work for an NGO — this is Mukund, this is Saleem. This is Samira. Saleem singles me out later, and says, “I don’t think I caught your name?” “Samira,” I say. “Samira and...?” he asks. I say, “What do you mean by that and...?” Before I can finish, he’s armed with more questions. “What’s the rest of your name?” he asks. “Agnihotri,” I say. “Oh,” he sighs. Later he asks me which direction is west. And before we part ways, he tells me “You’re a Mozzie, right?” I say, “No, I’m not. Sorry.” He is standing too close.

Walking away is perhaps the only solution. But at times there are none. A few days later, I am going to town in a jeep. Our driver is a Soliga tribal. He slows down near a traffic signal for a line of trucks coming towards us. Two men on a bike collide with our jeep. They were too busy talking on the cell phone to notice us. One of them gets a minor cut on his leg. Our rear light is broken. They start shouting at us, and before a crowd can gather, we shout back that it’s their fault and drive away.

Twenty minutes have passed and we are at the LIC office. We get off and the driver parks the jeep under a tree. Inside the office, we stand in a long queue when I get an uneasy feeling. I leave the queue to take a look outside. The bikers have followed us all the way. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach, and steel myself for the fight that I’m sure is going to happen soon.

The driver somehow manages to pacify them, and after a bit of bluster about how they have connections in the police department, the bikers leave. Close shave, we say. On the way back, I ask the driver what finally transpired between them.

“They asked me where I’m from, and I said I’m a Soliga from Biligirirangan Hills. Then they said, ‘Oh, we thought you are a Muslim, that’s why we followed you’,” says the driver. Fear washes my relief away.

I have actually heard this admonishment given to a child: “Don’t use water to wash after urinating! The Sahebgalu (Muslim in colloquial Kannada) do that, not us!” I know people who have had to change their names and moved out of Gujarat. I have been advised to change my name too. But will the nightmares stop if I do?

Samira Agnihotri is 28. She is doing her PhD from Indian Institute of Science, Bengaluru