Religion of Hunger

Fiction

Image by Copilot AI

In the little teashop that stood on one of the many dusty streets of Chhatarpur, just a few kilometres from the Qutub Minar, evenings belonged to arguments.

Men gathered under the old banyan tree outside the teashop as faithfully as devotees at the Chhatarpur Mandir. Politics rose with the steam from the glasses of chai. Some spoke about the rising unemployment, some batted for religion, and many just listened.

The fiercest debates always belonged to two men. Raghav Sen and Salim Hussein.

Raghav wore crisp khadi kurtas and spoke of India with the trembling emotion of a pilgrim. To him, Prime Minister Narendra Modi was the first leader in centuries to restore dignity to Hindus. He believed that history had humiliated Hindus long enough until Modi emerged as their Messiah.

Salim, a history teacher with permanently tired eyes, considered Modi dangerous precisely because he inspired devotion. “No democracy survives sainthood in politics,” he would say.

The chaiwallah called them Ram and Ravana depending on who tipped better.

“Modiji is going great guns,” Raghav said slapping the newspaper on the table. “Look at him performing the Vishesh Maha Puja and Jalabhishek at Somnath Temple.” He opened the newspaper and showed the Prime Minister’s picture at the historical temple which was celebrating the Somnath Amrut Mahotsav. “Modiji has conducted the first-ever Kumbhabhishek ceremony using holy water brought from eleven sacred pilgrimage sites across India. Who but Modiji could perform such historical acts?”

“Is Modiji the Prime Minister or the Prime Priest of the country?” Salim asked.

“People like you can say what you want,” Raghav snapped. “This land is Hindu at its core. Others like you came later.”

“And before Hindus?” Salim asked quietly. “Who owned it then? Adivasis? Tribals? Dravidians?”

Raghav’s face flushed with suppressed fury. “You people only mock Hindu identity. Every community protects itself except Hindus. Don’t you people have many countries of your own, Islamic countries? Shouldn’t we Hindus have at least one country for ourselves?”

“No, bhai,” Salim said gently. “I oppose any identity becoming larger than humanity itself. The moment religion becomes the nation, someone becomes less human.”

Around them the listeners fell silent. This is a potentially volatile situation. But debates like this were not rare here, especially when Raghav and Salim came together.

Raghav’s voice softened rather unusually. “Do you know why I admire Modiji?”

Salim looked into his eyes that had become unusually mellow.

“My grandmother,” Raghav said, “used to cry whenever Partition was mentioned. Her family came from Sylhet in East Pakistan, what is Bangladesh today. With nothing of their own. Everything was snatched away long before they clambered up the mountains to reach India, risking their very lives. She would say often that Hindus survived by swallowing humiliation…. Modiji speaks as if we don’t have to bow anymore.”

Salim did not say anything. His family too had a tragic history to tell. They had chosen to stay back in India because of deep ancestral roots and firm reassurance from Nehru and Maulana Abul Kalam Azad. It wasn’t an easy choice. They faced many threats and even potential annihilation.

The sun was setting somewhere far beyond the Chhatarpur metro station. A street urchin approached them from nowhere and asked, “Saab, could you buy me something to eat?”

He was one of the many, hundreds of people, who slept near the railway station, under the metro rail elevations.

Both Raghav and Salim pulled out money. Their hands touched awkwardly over the counter.

Raghav watched the boy. His fingers trembled as he tore the bun apart, stuffing pieces into his mouth dipping them into the watery aloo sabzi as though afraid someone might snatch it away.

Salim asked Raghav, “What is the religion of hunger?”

The Chhatarpur temple bells began ringing in the distance. A faint Azaan drifted from beyond the metro station. Between the two sounds sat the boy, chewing desperately, belonging to neither and both.

“Hunger has no religion,” Raghav admitted. “But we all need an identity.”

“But identities should become homes,” Salim said, “not prisons.”

For the first time in years, neither man sounded like he was trying to win the debate.

The boy finished eating and looked up at them with startled gratitude, unaware that his hunger had interrupted an argument much older than all three of them.

Modi at Somnath Temple

 

Note: The Somnath Amrut Mahotsav and Modi’s priestly role there are real. The rest is fiction. I don’t know whether a Raghav and a Salim will ever sit together in the same teashop anymore, especially in a place like Delhi. This story was prompted by a Facebook remark made by a former colleague of mine in Delhi.