The religiosity of hate
The other day, while walking through the narrow bylanes of a distinctively Muslim site called old Delhi — and that too at the time of Ramadan, I passed through a process of intense inner churning. I began to ask myself a series of disturbing questions. Who am I? Am I just a ‘Hindu’ engaging in an act of othering the Muslim community, and fixing them through certain stereotypes — kebab and biryani, beard and hijab, or the vibrations of Allah hu Akbar? Or, am I like a cultural anthropologist doing field work in a distant land? Likewise, is it that amid this Muslim crowd, I am seeing myself as a stranger filled with fear and anxiety? Or, am I merging myself with the flow of people — rich and poor, beggars and fakirs; experiencing our shared history and humanity, and realising the significance of many other walks — say, Gandhi at Noakhali in 1946, or Mother Teresa in the streets of Kolkata?
Popularisation of hate speeches in religious gatherings and the acceptance of ‘bulldozer politics’ is the new normal.
The emotive journey I passed through cannot be seen as merely personal; in fact, it is sociological. To begin with, let us reflect on the times we are living in. As one’s religious practice is becoming increasingly loud and demonstrative, we are witnessing its manifestation in a series of violent acts: say, a noisy Ram Navami procession, or the reduction of the recital of ‘Hanuman Chalisa’ into a political statement, and the emission of the kind of gestures and symbols that, far from cleansing our inner world, cause mass hysteria, fear and anxiety. Not surprisingly, from Delhi to Gujarat, it is becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish this sort of demonstrative religious practice from communal politics. What further adds to the wound is the support — latent or manifest — that this kind of loud and vulgar act receives from the Establishment. Amid the popularisation of hate speeches in religious gatherings and the acceptance of ‘bulldozer politics’ as the new normal, we are witnessing the death of religiosity of love, and the resultant assertion of religion as a tight identity marker erecting walls of separation.
Politically, we are getting used to the discourse of militant nationalism. For instance, the ideologues of Hindutva seek to unite all Hindus, irrespective of caste and class differences, and consolidate the cultural foundations of a hypermasculine/assertive/militaristic state through their monolithic reading of Hindu traditions and mythologies. And the secular reasoning of the liberal/left discourse seems to have failed to combat the psychic and emotional appeal of Hindutva — its loud gestures, its spectacular pujas and rituals, the dramaturgical performance of its ‘messiah’, and above all, the conspiracy theory it manufactures to invent and identify the ‘enemies’ of dharma — Muslims, atheists, feminists, Gandhians, Marxists…
And psychologically, Hindus, despite their majority status, are led to feel insecure. A Muslim girl wearing hijab, a Hindu girl getting married to a Muslim boy, a Muslim festival in the heart of the city, or even a simple note of appreciation if you happen to like the performance of a Pakistani fast bowler in international cricket: anything can disturb us, and make us feel that we are insecure, we are in danger, and we must behave like warriors to save our religion. In a way, we have normalised the ghettoisation of mind and space.
This is not to say that this sort of totalitarian thinking is limited only to Hindutva. Who can deny Islamic fundamentalism — some sort of Talibanisation of consciousness? And in a subcontinent like ours characterised by a complex and layered history of Hindu-Muslim relationships, it is always possible to engage in a blame game, or a toxic play of demonising the other community. And this sort of ghettoisation, as history has shown us, has not elevated anybody; instead, it has dehumanised us, and made it almost impossible to transform our collective memory of pain and wound to a new beginning, and a therapeutic practice of healing through dialogue, love, understanding and reconciliation.
Well, despite the trauma of Partition, we dreamed of a politico-cultural space that makes everybody, irrespective of faith and creed, an equal participant in the making of the new nation. However, the tragedy is that at this juncture of our politico-cultural history, we are negating the significance of this quest, and, instead, taking a regressive turn. There seems to be no end to communal frenzy and religious bigotry. Even amid the glitz of neoliberal techno-globalisation and the rhetoric of ‘sabka saath sabka vikas’, the average consciousness remains toxic, or confined to the limiting identity of caste and religion. In fact, the harsh reality is that we have begun to love the cult of violence — yes, violence in the name of religion.
Will it ever be possible to combat this sort of violence through the religiosity of love? Beyond the dictates of the non-reflexive priestcraft and orthodoxies of organised religions, the religiosity of love is about the union of the secular and the sacred, the phenomenal and the transcendental, and the pond and the ocean. This is the rhythmic music of connectedness — the realisation of the presence of the divine in everything — be it a flowing river, a tiny blue flower, a child playing with her doll, a daughter nursing her ailing father, or a young student giving her best in providing relief to the riot-affected victims. Love, dialogue and kindness are the symbols of this religiosity — its Bible, Quran and Upanishads.
Rumi is dead; Kabir is dead; Gandhi is dead. Yet, you and I must try to make them alive once again. Can it be our collective prayer at this moment of darkness?
