Intolerance and hatred have existed with its opposite in the public spheres. Here’s Anika’s historical short fiction, in the regular column, exclusively in Different Truths.
He was Nizam to us. Not Sikander. Not Sultan; simply Nizam. The kind hearted, bubbly soul that gave my father’s trembling hands enough stability to feed his chronically ill wife and two emaciated children.
My father was the only Hindu, Nizam ever loved. He had taken after his father in that respect. One of whose devilish acts towards the daughter of a Hindu goldsmith had spawned Nizam himself.
Bibi Ambha, or Biji as we called her was Nizam’s mother and Sultan Bahlul’s lawfully wedded wife. Despite which, she led a miserable and deprived life with only god there to quench her parched soul.
One of my duties as the child of a royal minister was to accompany Biji to the nearby temple every day. She would gently clench onto her beads and quietly walk the distance, without ever making conversation. I, on the other hand, would often let out an occasional sigh or complain about the scorching heat but she would always walk maintaining perfect silence. It was one of those hot May afternoons. The heat bounced off the street, causing an illusion of wavering images and the air around was held hostage by the stink of our sweat. We reached the temple in a desperate hurry when we saw a sadhu dressed in all orange sitting
under the banyan tree.
He robbed Biji of all her attention as she found herself gravitating towards the man. After a few seconds of intense contemplation, she began walking towards the mendicant and sat quietly next to him. Over the next couple of hours, Bodhan engaged Biji in conversation about all the pilgrimages he had made and people he’d met. And from that day onwards, she was hooked. The nature of their relationship could never be determined as all they shared was love for the all mighty. But Biji began talking more. There’d be a bounce to her step on the way to the temple that would slowly fade out on the way back. And for once, she seemed happy.
But her happiness, much like other things in her life was short lived. Word spread around about Biji and her new companion and reached Nizam’s eager ears, propelling the pre-existing dislike towards his Hindu mother onto another tangent. It was time for him to aim the meaningless rage and anger he had harboured towards an entire religion onto someone, and Bodhan now wore the bull’s eye on his back.
The sound of the horse’s hooves reverberated through the street causing a huge crowd of people to gather. I sat in the courtyard of the temple as Nizam himself emerged through the army of soldiers. He bellowed at the sight of the old couple and moved ahead to break all the Hindu idols around. Bibi, shivering with fear began trying to punctuate her son’s wrath with her voice of reason when Bodhan spoke, “Islam and Hinduism are equally accepted to God. I suggest you halt to understand that.”
The words ignited an already sparked fire in Nizam. He picked up a torn cloth, tied it to a log and set it on fire using the temple diya. He then ordered his soldiers to hold Bodhan still, and eventually set the old mendicant on fire.
From that day onwards, Sultan Sikander’s attitude towards Hindus changed. The great administrator now fell heavily short when it came to religious tolerance. Temples were burnt. People were boycotted. And as for my family, we became just another casualty, just another prey of consequence.
Things from then to now haven’t changed much. In cases more than just a few, the human mind remains enslaved by the bigoted, intolerant fibre within, and hate’s victory against love prevails.
Visual by Different Truths
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