A Hindu-Muslim Story of Betrayal, Healing, and Hope

The Wire

17 hours ago

Communalism
In a world shaken by fear and fractured by hate, quiet acts of care endure. I find proof that humanity's heart beats stronger than its wounds.
On May 22, 2025, terror tore through the Baisaran meadow in Pahalgam, Kashmir, where attackers killed 26 civilian after allegedly demanding their religions. Among the fallen was one Muslim – a grim reminder that hatred, though perpetrated in the name of religion, spares no one.
In Srinagar, the spring air grew heavy with grief, the valley's famed beauty dulled by the weight of mourning. For the first time in 35 years of conflict, Muslim voices rose from beneath the iconic Clock Tower in Lal Chowk, crying out: ' Kashmir se awaaz aayi… Hindu Muslim bhai bhai (A voice rises from Kashmir… Hindus and Muslims are brothers)."
Yet, tragically, that voice echoed only within the bounds of the valley, unable to reach places where it was needed most.
Amid this sorrow, my phone buzzed. It was Monika, a Hindu friend from Jammu I'd known for years.
Her words pierced deeper than I expected: 'All you Muslims are terrorists who harbour and feed them.'
Moments later, she blocked me, cutting off all contact. What I thought was an enduring friendship dissolved into silence. It felt like betrayal.
But life has its way of stitching together what pain rips apart. As I wrestled with her words, a call came from Sushanta Bishal, a Hindu from West Bengal I had never met.
" Bhaya, come to London. Stay with us," he urged.
His brother Prashanta lives near IIT Kharagpur, where my son, Mehran, studies.
Over time, Prashanta and his wife, Sunita, had embraced Mehran like their own – inviting him to birthdays, Durga Puja celebrations, and dinners. Their six-year-old daughter, Aavya – affectionately called 'Mother India' – refuses to eat if Mehran doesn't show up at least once a week.
Two winters ago, Prashanta visited our Srinagar home bringing with him two more families we had never seen before. They skipped hotels, choosing instead to sleep on bedding spread across our drawing room – trusting us without hesitation.
Sushanta's call rekindled my shelved dream of visiting London, delayed since December. Encouraged, I booked a roundtrip ticket and informed him of my arrival.
Busy with work, he sent his brother-in-law, Surojit, to receive me at Heathrow. We visited a pilot friend, before taking the tube to Woodford Green, where Sushanta lives with his wife, Moumita, and mother-in-law, Smita.
At the station, Sushanta greeted me with a warm embrace. Moumita bent to touch my feet, a gesture of respect that soothed the ache of Monika's rejection.
Their home became a quiet refuge. But on my second night, news broke of India's military strike in response to the Pahalgam attack. The air grew tense.
Still, Sushanta's family didn't waver. Smita, barely older than me, cared for me with maternal grace, undeterred by my Muslim identity.
Back home, when missiles and drones were flying across the India-Pakistan border, Sushanta drove me around London – from the iconic bridge to the quiet English countryside.
He read my articles and discussed them thoughtfully. Despite political differences, our disagreements only deepened our bond.
Craving familiarity, I reached out to some Muslim friends in London, including a few Pakistanis I'd known since my first visit to the United Kingdom in 1998. But the conflict had hardened even them.
One snapped, 'Don't compare me to Hindus,' after I jokingly said, 'The Hindus here are taking such good care of me – and I haven't even heard from you yet.'
His words echoed Monika's prejudice, revealing how division poisons even the gentlest hearts.
Weeks later, healing found its way back.
Monika, after seeing my photos with Sushanta's family on social media, messaged me with regret: 'I was overwhelmed by disturbing WhatsApp messages and videos portraying Muslims as terrorists. I got caught up momentarily.'
I realised instantly how 'WhatsApp University' – with its barrage of forwarded videos, memes, and half-truths – can poison even soft hearts like Monika's.
In a gesture of reconciliation, she spoke with Sushanta and even invited him to visit Mata Vaishno Devi, the sacred Hindu shrine in Jammu.
Her transformation mirrored my own journey from betrayal to renewed trust.
After a month, Sushanta's family drove me to Heathrow. Moumita touched my feet once more, a quiet promise of enduring connection.
Back in Kashmir, my phone rang. ' Bhaya, when will you visit again?' Sushanta asked, his voice carrying the warmth of Woodford Green.
The tragedy of Baisaran had shaken my faith in humanity, but London's kindness restored it.
In a world shaken by fear and fractured by hate, it was quiet acts of care that endured. In those moments, I found proof that humanity's heart beats stronger than its wounds.
Farooq Shah is a veteran journalist from Kashmir.
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