As news of Osama bin Laden’s death spread, the Indian mainstream media, in its attempts to give a ‘local angle’ to the story, could only think of asking Muslims about their opinion on the event. Even though I was as indifferent to it all as an ordinary citizen is to mafia gangwars (bad guys killing bad guys), this took me back to an incident that occurred during my travels.
It was December 2008. Mumbai had been attacked by armed infiltrators the previous month and the country was experiencing a surge of insecurity and revengefulness.
I and Surya were, however, unfazed. All we could think about was our long-pending trip of Rajasthan that was now luckily coinciding with New Year. In an attempt to make our poor financial condition as students appear glorious, we decided to travel by the cheapest means possible-only unreserved passenger trains, stay at dharamshalas, and local commuting by hired motorcycles.
And the extraneous conditions helped us stick by our resolve. The passenger trains had sparse occupancy, especially in the western parts, the local food was cheap, and Jain dharamshalas accommodated us even though neither of us knew the J of Jainism.
The most expensive, yet the best part were the bikes we got on rent. For about 300 rupees and an I-card as security deposit, you could take away a leaky, grumpy, embarrassment-inducing commuter motorcycle for a day. It was on such bikes that we negotiated the majestic Sam sand dunes near Jaisalmer, visited the beautiful Jain temple at Nakora, and sped along the winding roads to Pushkar.
At Jodhpur, we were lucky to bump into an old acquaintance who gladly lent his 100cc bike to us, choosing to commute in the suicidal city buses himself. Leaving our rucksacks with him, we went about exploring the city- not the typical touristy spots, but the ordinary marketplaces, parks, and restaurants which the locals frequented.
Jodhpur, incidentally, is a major training centre for the Indian Army and has a sprawling Cantt area. So it wasn’t just a matter of chance that our aimless riding made us stumble upon one of the many army clothing stores in the city.
We were about to get totally impressed by the coolness of rugged army sweaters and blankets when I suddenly noticed a pair of eyes staring coldly at us from a distance. When I realized that the eyes were particularly staring at Surya’s beard, I must admit, that for some strange reason, my blood froze. Before I could nudge Surya and prompt him towards an honourable exit, the eyes, attached to a seemingly drunk armyman, came too close for comfort.
“What’re you doing here?” he asked Surya in Hindi, who being a Keralite and unfamiliar with the language, just looked blank in response. The armyman stopped me when I tried to intervene, and thundered, “Show me your I card!” Surya fished out his wallet and showed him his identity card. The man couldn’t read, so he called the shopkeeper to assist. “Suryanarayanan. MA Economics. University of Delhi,” the shopkeeper read out aloud.
The inquiry was over. While leaving the shop, the armyman asked me, just in passing, what my name was. “Ali Rizvi.” No, the inquiry wasn’t over. In fact, it continued for a couple of hours and consisted of the most ridiculous questions imaginable until a couple of phone calls by well-connected people known to my father assured the armyman that I wasn’t a spy.
The incident troubled us for many days. We were not the ‘citizens of the world’ that we thought ourselves to be. We were only a beard and a name.
Surya and I meet rarely these days. Whenever we do, this incident invariably comes up in our conversations. It was the incident that prompted Surya to retain his beard for life, and made me prouder than ever, of my name.
ali1.rizvi@hindustantimes.com
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