Posts
Khalil – My Friend
By Madhavi Shree
I am a Hindu by religion and female by gender, born and brought up in Kolkata
(Calcutta), once the capital of British India. In India people are usually identified by their
state, caste, and the language they speak. Although I was born in Bengal, my family
considers itself Bihari, since our ancestors came from the state of Bihar. Bengal's culture
is very liberal. Bengalis are art and culture sensitive and more woman friendly than
Biharis.
Communal violence between Hindus and Muslims is part and parcel of India's history,
going back to our struggle for independence and the ensuing bloody partition of British
India into India and Pakistan. Owing to that, Muslim and Hindu children are taught at
home to keep a distance from each other. I, too, was programmed from childhood to be
like this, “for practical reasons.”
My mother had seen communal riots in her childhood and once she told me a sensitive
story, narrating the whole incident from a very human angle. I was amazed by her deep
understanding of human behavior. Here was a woman who taught her daughter to beware
of Muslims, but she herself was so softhearted towards them. This made me realize that
we as human beings are quite confused about our own self.
So I decided to be objective towards people of different faith and gender. I consciously
tried to take each individual as a human being, although our biased mind sometimes
influences us. Sometimes our biased mind wins and sometimes our human behavior wins.
Between Khalil and me, there were two broad gaps: one of gender, which is a universal
gap, and another of faith, which is very deep. But one thread was tying us together: our
joint Bihari roots. Although I am more Bengali in my thinking and behavior, I always had
a deep respect for my ancestral state and took pride in my mother’s birthplace, Bihar.
I first met Khalil at the official residence of Mr. H. D. Deve Gowda, a former Prime
Minister of India, in Safdar Lane, New Delhi, somewhere in 2009 or 2010. On that day,
the members of the Indian Media Centre, an association of journalists, had been invited to
meet with the political heads of India. Surprisingly few of the journalists had brought a
camera, and everybody wanted to be included in the photo shoot to have a memento of
this occasion. So those of our colleagues who were armed with a camera were in demand
and happily obliged their media friends. As I did not know Khalil personally, I hesitated
to ask him for a copy of the photo, but somehow he understood my dilemma and
spontaneously offered to mail me my picture with the ex-PM. He took my email address
and a few days later I received a message to which my picture with Mr. Deve Gowda and
my fellow journalists was attached.
I found him true to his word. Without needing to be reminded, he did what he told he
would do. This was my first opinion about Khalil.Later we spoke over the phone on various issues of political and social interest. This way our friendship grew and with it our understanding of each other, both as a person and a journalist. Some time later, the Radia tape scandal broke. (In 2008-09, the Indian Income Tax Department had taped phone conversations between Nira Radia, the owner of a PR firm, with several senior journalists, politicians, and industrialists for 300 days, hoping to find evidence of tax evasion and money laundering.) I don't know what made Khalil refer
my name to his boss, but Mr. Naoya Sugio of the Mainichi Shimbun came to meet me in
my Women's Press Club to discuss the matter. Khalil accompanied him. Mr. Sugio and I
had a long discussion about the issue. He liked my views but thought that many of them
were too controversial for publication in his Japanese newspaper, as they didn't want a
difficult relationship with the Indian Government. However, he chose one line from the
whole conversation: that this Nira Radia tape case had come to light thanks to the advent
of the Internet and new media. I made my peace with this. In my time as a journalist I had
learned that we can’t write all the things we want to write. We have our limitations.
Time flies. Delhi is such a busy, merciless place where we hardly find time for ourselves,
let alone for friends. But the friendship between Khalil and me withstood the onslaught of
time. Usually, he took the initiative to call me as I always felt that, especially with male
friends, it’s not my duty to make the call. This is a very bad habit of mine, and many
think me stuck up for this reason. I thank my friends from the bottom of my heart for
putting up with this fault of mine.
One more thing that Khalil had to put up with from me was that I mangled his name,
always calling him Khalid. He would just reply anyway; he never showed an attitude and
never complained about my mispronunciation. He joked that if anyone was calling him
"Khalid," then it must be Madhavi and he would recognize me over the phone by this
funny mistake of mine.
When I became State Coordinator of the Laadli Media Awards For Gender Sensitivity, I
barely knew any Urdu journalists. Khalil was an English-language journalist but I
thought that as a Muslim he must know a lot of Urdu journalists. I requested him to
forward me the names of some Urdu-media journalists, which he did. Again I felt
thankful for his help.
Our last encounter, which prompted me to write this piece, came after I posted a
Facebook update regarding Abhimanyu's brutal killing in the Mahabharata TV series.
Many of my friends, especially Hindus, had written their expert comments on the cruel
death of Abhimanyu, the son of Arjuna, in the story. Khalil, too posted a comment on the
incident, which reflected his deep understanding of Hindu mythology (correction: don't
say “mythology,” as Khalil has serious objections to that word. He feels that the Hindu
scriptures are not myths but true texts of guidance. The word mythology, he says, was
used by the British to tell the world how backward Indians are, leading their lives by
reading "mythology."). Hmm, people are still touchy about India's heritage. I felt happy.
After reading Khalil 's comment I decided to meet with him, as we had not met for a long
time. Our conversation, the next day, started with media “shop talk” and then suddenly he
told me that he was getting married and he was writing about it in a series being
published in his Japanese newspaper. He gave me the piece to read. After reading it I
became really emotional. He wrote about the circumstances surrounding his marriage:
how he consented to this arranged marriage to make his ailing father happy, how it
unfolded, and what was the outcome. We thoroughly enjoyed our conversation about his
marriage and the so-called outdated concept of arranged marriage. (I am sure Khalil must
have dated someone earlier and it did not work out, otherwise he would have had a “love-
cum-arranged marriage.”) In his essay for the paper, he described the preparations for the
wedding and his emotions related to it so beautifully, and with such candor and
innocence, that it made me like this piece a lot. A far cry from the exotic personal life
experiences people like to display these days. I could not help but be moved by the story
and feelings of this young man from a very middle-class, conservative Muslim background, so different from mine.
Khalil had a difficult childhood. He and his family migrated from Bhagalpur, a city in
Bihar that had suffered serious communal unrest. After coming to Delhi, he worked in a
factory, here and there. His father was an engineer but it took him time to settle down in
the capital and to reorganize his family. Khalil did his schooling in a Christian missionary
school. He learned Taekwondo, not by paying the fees, but by observing the lessons and
later practicing on his own, kind of like Ekalavya in the Mahabharata. His positive
outlook towards life made him what he is now - a good human being and a good
journalist. I am proud of this friendship. Khalil is not my only male friend and not my
only friend of a different faith. He is not my only Muslim friend. What makes him special
is his always being there for me, without seeking rewards. This selfless friendship is so
rare in this world.
Over time I have learned to be non-judgmental where friends and friendship are
concerned. But I feel a bit biased toward this friend of mine who is going to be married
next month. All the more because he is a Bihari, like me. It’s not as if we never had a
difficult time or a misunderstanding in the course of our friendship, but we have managed
to handle those periods with grace. And that’s what matters most in life. And why this
friendship, between two people of different faith and background, has withstood the test
of time.
AMEEN.
By Madhavi Shree
I am a Hindu by religion and female by gender, born and brought up in Kolkata
(Calcutta), once the capital of British India. In India people are usually identified by their
state, caste, and the language they speak. Although I was born in Bengal, my family
considers itself Bihari, since our ancestors came from the state of Bihar. Bengal's culture
is very liberal. Bengalis are art and culture sensitive and more woman friendly than
Biharis.
Communal violence between Hindus and Muslims is part and parcel of India's history,
going back to our struggle for independence and the ensuing bloody partition of British
India into India and Pakistan. Owing to that, Muslim and Hindu children are taught at
home to keep a distance from each other. I, too, was programmed from childhood to be
like this, “for practical reasons.”
My mother had seen communal riots in her childhood and once she told me a sensitive
story, narrating the whole incident from a very human angle. I was amazed by her deep
understanding of human behavior. Here was a woman who taught her daughter to beware
of Muslims, but she herself was so softhearted towards them. This made me realize that
we as human beings are quite confused about our own self.
So I decided to be objective towards people of different faith and gender. I consciously
tried to take each individual as a human being, although our biased mind sometimes
influences us. Sometimes our biased mind wins and sometimes our human behavior wins.
Between Khalil and me, there were two broad gaps: one of gender, which is a universal
gap, and another of faith, which is very deep. But one thread was tying us together: our
joint Bihari roots. Although I am more Bengali in my thinking and behavior, I always had
a deep respect for my ancestral state and took pride in my mother’s birthplace, Bihar.
I first met Khalil at the official residence of Mr. H. D. Deve Gowda, a former Prime
Minister of India, in Safdar Lane, New Delhi, somewhere in 2009 or 2010. On that day,
the members of the Indian Media Centre, an association of journalists, had been invited to
meet with the political heads of India. Surprisingly few of the journalists had brought a
camera, and everybody wanted to be included in the photo shoot to have a memento of
this occasion. So those of our colleagues who were armed with a camera were in demand
and happily obliged their media friends. As I did not know Khalil personally, I hesitated
to ask him for a copy of the photo, but somehow he understood my dilemma and
spontaneously offered to mail me my picture with the ex-PM. He took my email address
and a few days later I received a message to which my picture with Mr. Deve Gowda and
my fellow journalists was attached.
I found him true to his word. Without needing to be reminded, he did what he told he
would do. This was my first opinion about Khalil.Later we spoke over the phone on various issues of political and social interest. This way our friendship grew and with it our understanding of each other, both as a person and a journalist. Some time later, the Radia tape scandal broke. (In 2008-09, the Indian Income Tax Department had taped phone conversations between Nira Radia, the owner of a PR firm, with several senior journalists, politicians, and industrialists for 300 days, hoping to find evidence of tax evasion and money laundering.) I don't know what made Khalil refer
my name to his boss, but Mr. Naoya Sugio of the Mainichi Shimbun came to meet me in
my Women's Press Club to discuss the matter. Khalil accompanied him. Mr. Sugio and I
had a long discussion about the issue. He liked my views but thought that many of them
were too controversial for publication in his Japanese newspaper, as they didn't want a
difficult relationship with the Indian Government. However, he chose one line from the
whole conversation: that this Nira Radia tape case had come to light thanks to the advent
of the Internet and new media. I made my peace with this. In my time as a journalist I had
learned that we can’t write all the things we want to write. We have our limitations.
Time flies. Delhi is such a busy, merciless place where we hardly find time for ourselves,
let alone for friends. But the friendship between Khalil and me withstood the onslaught of
time. Usually, he took the initiative to call me as I always felt that, especially with male
friends, it’s not my duty to make the call. This is a very bad habit of mine, and many
think me stuck up for this reason. I thank my friends from the bottom of my heart for
putting up with this fault of mine.
One more thing that Khalil had to put up with from me was that I mangled his name,
always calling him Khalid. He would just reply anyway; he never showed an attitude and
never complained about my mispronunciation. He joked that if anyone was calling him
"Khalid," then it must be Madhavi and he would recognize me over the phone by this
funny mistake of mine.
When I became State Coordinator of the Laadli Media Awards For Gender Sensitivity, I
barely knew any Urdu journalists. Khalil was an English-language journalist but I
thought that as a Muslim he must know a lot of Urdu journalists. I requested him to
forward me the names of some Urdu-media journalists, which he did. Again I felt
thankful for his help.
Our last encounter, which prompted me to write this piece, came after I posted a
Facebook update regarding Abhimanyu's brutal killing in the Mahabharata TV series.
Many of my friends, especially Hindus, had written their expert comments on the cruel
death of Abhimanyu, the son of Arjuna, in the story. Khalil, too posted a comment on the
incident, which reflected his deep understanding of Hindu mythology (correction: don't
say “mythology,” as Khalil has serious objections to that word. He feels that the Hindu
scriptures are not myths but true texts of guidance. The word mythology, he says, was
used by the British to tell the world how backward Indians are, leading their lives by
reading "mythology."). Hmm, people are still touchy about India's heritage. I felt happy.
After reading Khalil 's comment I decided to meet with him, as we had not met for a long
time. Our conversation, the next day, started with media “shop talk” and then suddenly he
told me that he was getting married and he was writing about it in a series being
published in his Japanese newspaper. He gave me the piece to read. After reading it I
became really emotional. He wrote about the circumstances surrounding his marriage:
how he consented to this arranged marriage to make his ailing father happy, how it
unfolded, and what was the outcome. We thoroughly enjoyed our conversation about his
marriage and the so-called outdated concept of arranged marriage. (I am sure Khalil must
have dated someone earlier and it did not work out, otherwise he would have had a “love-
cum-arranged marriage.”) In his essay for the paper, he described the preparations for the
wedding and his emotions related to it so beautifully, and with such candor and
innocence, that it made me like this piece a lot. A far cry from the exotic personal life
experiences people like to display these days. I could not help but be moved by the story
and feelings of this young man from a very middle-class, conservative Muslim background, so different from mine.
Khalil had a difficult childhood. He and his family migrated from Bhagalpur, a city in
Bihar that had suffered serious communal unrest. After coming to Delhi, he worked in a
factory, here and there. His father was an engineer but it took him time to settle down in
the capital and to reorganize his family. Khalil did his schooling in a Christian missionary
school. He learned Taekwondo, not by paying the fees, but by observing the lessons and
later practicing on his own, kind of like Ekalavya in the Mahabharata. His positive
outlook towards life made him what he is now - a good human being and a good
journalist. I am proud of this friendship. Khalil is not my only male friend and not my
only friend of a different faith. He is not my only Muslim friend. What makes him special
is his always being there for me, without seeking rewards. This selfless friendship is so
rare in this world.
Over time I have learned to be non-judgmental where friends and friendship are
concerned. But I feel a bit biased toward this friend of mine who is going to be married
next month. All the more because he is a Bihari, like me. It’s not as if we never had a
difficult time or a misunderstanding in the course of our friendship, but we have managed
to handle those periods with grace. And that’s what matters most in life. And why this
friendship, between two people of different faith and background, has withstood the test
of time.
AMEEN.
