The mosques
on the banks of the Ganges1
(In
the era of the west and the Islam)
These
days, like most Europeans, I
too think very often about the Muslims. This
despite the fact that, in contrast to the adherents of Mohammed, neither
my ancestors nor the numerous gods of my country ever had anything
to do with the Occident. On the other hand, however, thousands of
mosques are situated on the banks of the Ganges together with millions
of Hindu temples. From Benares to Calcutta. And it is not uncommon
in that thickly populated Indo-Gangetic Plain that a brother starts
to hate the other only because he wears different clothes. Or one
worships another God or eats a different kind of meat. It often happens
that siblings fight one another. Even unto death.
After the deaths
on September 11 I thought less – if at all, then only marginally
– about the Muslims. Much more about the unscrupulous terrorists
who can recruit at will from various groups of people, minorities,
nations … And as a human being I felt blind hatred against the
organizations, groups of people, countries … whose pictures were
repeatedly flashed in the aftermath. And gradually the common denominator
became more and more evident to me, i.e. that all of them were Muslims.
I became more
confused and uncertain and tried to find solace in the writings of
my western ideals (poets and thinkers). I read with great care an
interview with the philosopher Gadamer, who himself had had to live
through the most devastating wars of mankind, titled “I am very
scared.” His answer to the question of the ‘Acceptable Future
of all Religions’ was a help to me, viz. that it is possible
to come to terms with everything, except with the religion of the
Arabs.2 I read the paragraph again.
As far as I can
remember I had had a similar discussion with my elder brother in Delhi
(during my studies in New Delhi) and at that time we had reacted to
a report in India Today, India’s “Der Spiegel”,
which read: Throughout the world the nations and cultures have had
conflicts with the Muslims, irrespective of whether they were in a
minority, as in India, or a majority, as in Indonesia. At that time,
the report appeared to us, two students of the Indian middle class,
like a scientific observation and simultaneously as a logical explanation
of certain evil situations. And we believed it.
In my small hometown,
Motihari in Eastern India, where George Orwell saw the light of day,
and where, in 1917, Gandhi started his Satyagraha movement3,
the Muslims are in a minority. And in my childhood and youth I, a
Hindu, had an interesting relationship with them. We went to school
together and they were my playmates.
Every now
and then, however, conflicts did take place between the two major
religions of India, between the Muslims and the Hindus. Special security
measures were adopted during the tense days and weeks. Parents forbade
their children to go into areas where mosques were situated.
There was
a small Muslim ghetto about as large as the northern part of Kassel
called agarwa.4 In this
area lived a large Muslim joint family. My father, a Hindu, was related
to this family. Yes, ‘related’ is the correct expression,
as my father, a strict disciplinarian in his own family, was looked
upon in that Muslim family as the most beloved and generous of uncles.
The children of that family told me that only as young men did they
get to know that my father was neither a Muslim nor a blood relative.
He spoke excellent Urdu5
and in his wardrobe one could find several well-cut sherwanis.6
But we
children belonged, on the one hand, to a West-oriented era, and simultaneously
to modern, progressive India, in which Pakistan and its Muslims were
considered arch enemies.
My brother and
I were particularly fond of Muslim festivals, especially on account
of the delicious sweets prepared on these occasions. My mother comes
from a strictly vegetarian Hindu family, and at home even today no
meat is cooked. But we brothers had early on discovered the joys of
eating meat. At such functions the Muslims prepared for their Hindu
guests and neighbours dishes made from goat’s meat. Just thinking
about them even now my mouth starts watering. I can well remember
the day when we visited the family late in the evening on Eid-ul-Azha7
and the meat had all been consumed. I was upset and both my brother
and I wore downcast expressions. My aunt realised why and immediately
asked her daughters, or her daughter-in-law, to prepare a meat dish
afresh just for us. I was overjoyed!
Even as a child
I was a revolutionary and as a result quite early on I moved away
from my family. I spent the last years of school in cities thousands
of miles away. The visits to my family were few and far between in
those days, partly due to strained relations within the family, and
partly due to the extreme competition at school, which entailed much
work. It was the same with my elder brother. We did our best to get
the best grades and results in order to be able to rise in the hierarchy
of the Indian bourgeoisie.
In New Delhi
my brother met his school friend, a Muslim by the name of Aquil Ahmad,
once again. Both became bosom pals after this meeting. One of the
important reasons for this was that Aquil was a student of Urdu literature,
and Urdu poetry my brother’s favourite reading in his leisure
hours, although he was a student of Mathematics. He now lives and
works successfully in the USA. I experienced the intensity of this
relationship only incidentally, as I was a diligent student in the
Foreign Languages Department at a different university. In due course
of time I learnt that Aquil had lost his father as a child. He thus
referred to my father as Uncle or sometimes even Baba8
like us children. Especially during the last few years, after we had
emigrated to two different countries for higher studies, he took to
calling him Baba.
In 1993 I was
working as a trainee in the Volkswagen factory in Kassel when I unexpectedly
received news of my father being on his deathbed. I took the next
plane out and when I landed in Delhi in a state of shock, Aquil, the
Muslim friend, arranged for my speedy travel to Patna in Eastern India.
I did not arrive in time to see my father alive, but as a Hindu son
I carried out his last rites according to Hindu tradition on the banks
of the Ganges. At all the long complicated funeral ceremonies Aquil
was the one who coordinated everything, working tirelessly like a
well-oiled machine.
My colleague
Dirk Schümer wrote in the FAZ on September 30 as follows: ‘What
is Islam actually? I must admit that till now this question has only
marginally interested me and I cannot for the life of me remember
when the Mohammedan era began. 620? 628?’.9
During the very first reading, I found the lines of colleague Schümer’s
partly ironical and partly complaining. Then I imagined how it would
look like, if in a public discussion, for example in a talk show on
TV, I were to propound to him my understanding of his lines. Then
I saw my colleague irritated. He started refuting my interpretation:
No! No! ... You have completely misunderstood me. I neither want to
complain, nor to ignore Islam … But it is my right (and also
possible) not to understand everything in this world.
The same questions
go through my head. But my case is more justified as I come from a
country in which religion is seldom taught in schools. Furthermore,
although a deeply religious and educated man, I have read only a fraction
of the numerous Hindu sacred texts – the Vedas, the Upanishads
and the Epics.
I saw on CNN
a Muslim woman academic bemoaning the fact that the Muslims, a third
of the world’s population, remain misunderstood; that the rest
of the world has to understand the Muslims, or else peaceful coexistence
between nations would remain a utopian idea.
The Hindus do
not constitute even a third of the world’s population, and the
Buddhists are even fewer in number. I try in vain to imagine an international
constellation in which temple bells would peal in Europe for millions
of cow-worshippers and their billions of gods.
For me, as a
writer educated in Europe, it is even more difficult to end this article
with the opinion of the European philosopher Gadamer. ‘I don’t
know, but I believe in our world as we know it, and I do not need
any written explanation for that. It is really very difficult for
a European to understand that it is not always so for others.’10
Yes very difficult, even if the colleagues like Mr. Schümer would
find Buddha, Krishna, Rama, … and the cows very interesting and
fascinating.
To comfort myself
I let my thoughts drift to the mosques on the banks of the Ganges,
especially since I – living in the country of my choice, like
some of my western colleagues – am not concerned either with
mosques or with Islam.
The
original essay in German (Die Moscheen am Gangesufer) was first published
in the trilingual German cultural and political magazine Gazette,
Munich, Germany http://www.gazette.de/Archiv/Gazette-Oktober2001/Kumar-Indien.html,
Anant Kumar, Kassel – Motihari/Indien, http://www.anant-kumar.de.vu.
Translator: Prof. Dr. Rajendra Prasad Jain, Fachbereich Indologie,
Universität Münster, gudda@gmx.net
1
Almost 140 million Muslims live in India (as many as in Pakistan).
2 DIE WELT, 25. 09. 2001.
3 Satyagraha: civil disobedience for the sake
of truth.
4 Agarwa: a foreign, Urdu-Persian term for
the Hindus who account for 81% of the population.
5 Urdu: official language of Pakistan, also
spoken in large parts of India. It is related to the Indian national
language, Hindi, but contains more Arabic and Persian words.
6 Sherwani: a long coat for men with the collar
buttoned at the neck in Mughal fashion.
7 Eid-ul-Azha: The second most important festival
of the Muslims.
8 Baba: Persian for ‘father’; an
affectionate term for ‘father’ in India.
9 Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 30. 09.
2001.
10 DIE WELT, 25. 09. 2001.