Priyadarshini Sen

COVID-19: Kerala’s Muslim Woman Cremator Shows Bereaved Needs Empathy, Not Religion

With crematoriums overflowing with bodies of COVID-19 victims and priests reluctant to perform last rites, a 29-year-old Kerala woman has been giving a decent send-off to the deceased from Hindu and Christian communities.

Delhi: Subina Rahman spent Eid overseeing funeral rites at a crematorium in the Irinjalakuda town of Kerala. As the Covid-dead piled up at the crematorium, she gently loaded them onto carts before rolling the bodies into two electric furnaces. When the fires crackled, she prayed for the deceased.

“I have been overseeing this crematorium over the last two years,” says the 29-year-old manager. “Since the outbreak of Covid, my work has shifted almost entirely to cremating the dead.”

Since the second coronavirus wave hit Kerala, Rahman has set aside all her commitments to give the deceased a decent send-off. When families and priests have turned away, Rahman has not only lit the funeral pyres, but also consoled the bereaved and recited a prayer or two for them.

“For ages, women have been kept away from ministering to the deceased,” she says. “My job is allowing me to serve Hindu and Christian families.”

Among handful women in a male-dominated bastion, Rahman takes pride in her work. It has not only allowed her to understand other communities better but has also brought her closer to them.

“The pyre does not discriminate on the basis of religion,” she says. “If anything, it has made me realise why more women must be involved in after-death rituals.”

Cremator Subina Rahman collects a deceased’s remains at a crematorium in the Irinjalakuda town of Kerala. Photo: Sunil.

Rahman, who grew up in a poor Muslim family, joined the crematorium as an office clerk two years ago. When the cremator’s position fell vacant after a few months, she took up the job with some reluctance. Her family wasn’t supportive at first nor was she sure she would be accepted by Hindus in a sacred space, leave alone shepherd their rituals.

“It’s amazing to see a woman show such courage amid a raging pandemic,” says K.R. Vijaya, an advocate in Irinjalakuda who has been campaigning for women’s rights. “In death, the grieving need empathy more than a robotic dispensing of duties, and women are better suited for that.”

Vijaya says Rahman’s work is not only critical amid the Coronavirus outbreak in Kerala but also speaks to the larger question of interfaith work and solidarity to build community ties.

Cremator Subina Rahman with her coworker Sunil at a crematorium in the Irinjalakuda
town of Kerala.

Rahman’s coworker Sunil, a low-caste Hindu from Kerala’s Ezhava community, has been by her side from the beginning. He believes, “It is important to break stereotypes around religion and caste.”

“These rituals have been dominated by high-caste priests for centuries,” he says. “The pandemic has shown that social hierarchies break down during catastrophes of this scale and intensity.”

Over the last month, the cremators have seen death visit their crematorium day and night.

“We have been seeing about eight Covid bodies a day, sometimes more,” says Sunil. “People didn’t even know about our little crematorium until now, so we are working overtime.”

Also read: Non-Stop Cremations Cast Doubt on India’s Counting Of COVID Dead

The cremators arrive early to hand over the remains of the previous day to the waiting families. Subina then goes home to finish her household chores before returning in the afternoon.

Even though her work is exhausting both physically and emotionally, she believes it’s her “calling.”

“There should be dignity in death,” she says. “We hear crematoriums and burials grounds are running out of space, so we want to help as many people as possible.”

The clamour for space since the second surge has not only brought smaller crematoriums and burial grounds into focus but has also highlighted the role of low-castes, civil society actors, community leaders and women in holding it all together for the grieving families.

Rahman says though she has never supervised death rituals in her own community, her proximity to Christian and Hindu rituals have given her access to “deeper philosophical questions”.

“Why have social reformers worked tirelessly for the empowerment of women and the dissolution of caste and religious barriers?” she asks. “If we don’t rise up to challenges like these, I would say we have failed as a society.”

Her assistant says when they disembark the bodies from the ambulances in their protective gears, no one cares if Subina is Muslim or Hindu, or that it’s a woman who’s overseeing the funeral rites.

Even as death remains so close, the fear of death does not haunt Subina.

Though some of her neighbours have contracted the infection and she remains perpetually exposed, her focus is on human suffering and helping build religious tolerance in her town.

“I could not even maintain all my Roza rituals this year,” says Rahman. “For me, my work is worship, and far more important than religious ceremonies.”

Even before this surge, Rahman was visiting temples and churches; working with religious leaders to sensitise the public about pandemic protocols, and attending solidarity-building events.

Sonia Giri, the chairperson of Irinjalakuda municipality, says “Subina’s consciousness” sets her apart.

“We have had a history of communal peace in our region,” says Giri. “But what Subina has shown is that in a polarised world it is important to keep working on it.”

When male priests bolted their doors in April, Giri recalls how Rahman came forward despite financial hardships, a family to care for unaided, as well as social pressures.

Sunil remembers how during the last catastrophic event – the Babri Masjid demolition – the social fabric was blown to pieces due to communal riots and “manipulation of ordinary people”.

“In Kerala, we will never let that happen,” he says. “Subina believes the pandemic is testing our limits as an inclusive society, and we will work towards holding our threads together.”

Rahman draws inspiration from the 19th century philosopher and spiritual leader Narayan Guru who campaigned against social injustices for a more tolerant and compassionate society.

“On the pyre, the deceased hold no judgements,” she says. “I have learnt more from them than the living who are always bickering over gods, religion and caste, none of which matter.”

Priyadarshini Sen is an independent journalist based in Delhi. She writes for India and US-based media.

How a ‘Low’ Caste Hindu Became a Priest at the Kumbh Mela

“For centuries, we were relegated to the margins of society. This is the beginning of a new chapter,” says Nandgiri.

Prayagraj (Uttar Pradesh): Flanked by gun-toting sentries on Prayagraj’s sprawling Kumbh Mela grounds, 32-year-old Kanhaiya Prabhu Nandgiri extols the inclusive tenets of Hinduism.

“Only the Sanatan Dharma has space for untouchables,” says the high priest of the Juna Akhara – the largest order of sadhus in India, with over 4,00,000 members.

“For centuries, we were relegated to the margins of society. This is the beginning of a new chapter,” adds Nandgiri, ensconced in his ceremonial chair in a saffron-splashed tent.

In a historic turn this January that set many eyeballs rolling, Nandgiri, an Azamgarh resident from the Dalit community, reversed the centuries-old Brahmanical ascetic order at the Kumbh Mela.

Nandgiri was roped into high priesthood amid chanting of mantras and ritual offerings into a consecrated fire while on a silver chariot. Later, he joined sadhus and akhara heads to take the customary holy dip, cementing his position as mahamandaleswar among Hindu religious leaders.

“Over 500 years ago, poet and ascetic Ravidas broke caste and gender barriers in the pursuit of spiritual freedom,” he says. “I, too, want more lower castes to join the Hindu religious mainstream.”

Nandgiri believes his spiritual elevation will be a boost to marginalised sections of society, tired of unequal access to social and economic opportunities, and encourage their return to Hinduism.

“We need to break outdated notions that ‘untouchables’ pollute sanctified spaces. More awareness will trigger more ghar wapsis,” he says, beaming at the 100-odd devotees kneeling before him.

Nandgiri, who claims to be a descendant of an ancient Indian snake-worshipping warrior tribe, says he was always victimised for his ‘low-caste’ lineage. In school, he wasn’t allowed to study Sanskrit, and was taunted or attacked by classmates. Later, he was denied jobs and entry into temples.

Watch : In Polarised India, One UP Village Stands out as a Beacon of Hindu-Muslim Harmony

He then decided to learn the Vedas and Puranas himself, drawing inspiration from Hindu mystics and philosophers such as Chanakya and Ramakrishna.

In 2007, Nandgiri enrolled at Chandigarh’s Bharatiya Jyotish Vigyan Parishad to study astrology and Hindu shastras. He also became a member of the militant Bajrang Dal in 2001 to “protect India’s Hindu identity” from the perceived threats of conversion and cow slaughter.

But when Nandgiri was in Chandigarh to attend a congregation of Sikh seers in 1999, he realised the assertion of his Dalit identity in politics wasn’t enough. Despite being a Bajrang Dal member at the time, he was stopped from touching the head priest’s feet because of his caste.

“I realised my caste was irrelevant as a Bajrang Dal member and later as president of the Chandigarh outfit. But it became my defining identity in religious places,” he says.

In desperation, Nandgiri turned to Juna Akhara’s Jagatguru Panchanand Giri Maharaj to push for the inclusion of Dalits and lower castes within the Hindu religious mainstream.

In 2016, Panchanand Giri appointed Nandgiri as the main priest of a Chandigarh-based temple and gave him diksha in Ujjain. That set the ball rolling for his appointment as a mahamandaleswar in the Hindu ascetic order.

An area used by ‘low’ caste sadhus to conduct rituals at their makeshift tent. Credit: Priyadarshini Sen

When the All India Akhara Parishad appointed Nandgiri as a mahamandaleswar in January, his makeshift tent in Prayagraj became an abode for socially marginalised groups. Six disciples – four sadhus and two sadhvis – were roped in to consolidate the high priest’s position at the Kumbh Mela.

“We wanted a caste-free and gender-neutral Kumbh so that monastics and devotees of all kinds can fit in,” says Panchanand Giri. “Our focus is to strengthen Hinduism, and that’s possible only by including all castes, women and transgender people.”

Rama Nandgiri, a disciple from the Jaunpur district of Uttar Pradesh, says the elevation of people from the lower castes in the ascetic order will help free society of certain prejudices. “We will help our guru set up ashrams across India where priests from the lower castes can preside over religious ceremonies,” he says. “In the secular realm, we will push for schools, jobs and better housing and medical facilities for the deprived.”

Amiteswar Nandgiri, the first Dalit child to receive diksha from the mahamandaleswar, says he will help his leader set up schools for the underprivileged, which will focus on Sanskrit and English education. “My parents want me to become a great saint and a proponent of the Sanatan Dharma,” says the ten-year-old Azamgarh resident, wearing a saffron robe and rudraksha beads.

Also read: Why Locating the Indian Secular State in the Virtues of Hinduism Is Problematic

On ghar wapsi, Amiteswar echoes the thoughts of other disciples. “Our guru has carried out over 550 ghar wapsis in Uttar Pradesh, Punjab, Madhya Pradesh and Jharkhand since last April,” he says. “We will accompany him to different villages where he will wash the feet of those who reconvert.”

Nandgiri’s newly ordained women disciples such as Bhairvi say they want to end discriminations faced by Dalit women. “It’s a dual stigma to be a woman and Dalit,” says 37-year-old Bhairvi, her forehead smeared with red and gold paint. “Sadhvis will motivate more Hindu women to fight for gender equality in religious and secular spheres.”

In the next four months or so, Nandgiri aims to give diksha to 60 more disciples from the low castes. They will help him propagate the Sanatan Dharma across India.

Mahamandaleswar Kanhaiya Prabhu Nandgiri’s disciple Rama Nandgiri outside their makeshift tent at Prayagraj’s Kumbh Mela. Credit: Priyadarshini Sen

Eyewash?

But Nandgiri’s ascendency in the Hindu ascetic order hasn’t gone without criticism, backlash or even outright withdrawal of support.

Fearing dilution of the old Brahmanical ascetic order, some monastics have vociferously opposed the inclusion of a lower caste monastic. A Nirmohi Akhara seer said, “The sanctity of the close-knit akhara structure needs to be protected. We can’t include those who have no knowledge of the Hindu shastras.”

Even the government has provided no financial or logistical support. Nandgiri says, “We don’t have a camp of our own; and I’ve hired these gun-wielding bodyguards to protect me from my adversaries. But at least the government has given us token recognition.”

Dalit scholars and social activists, too, are divided on Nandgiri’s elevation.

Rajesh Kumar Paswan, professor of Hindi at Delhi’s Jawaharlal Nehru University, believes the mahamandaleswar’s appointment is an eyewash before the upcoming general elections.

“Nandgiri is Hindutva’s divine slave. The BJP has a new trump card, and he’ll be used as a tool to tap the Dalit and backward-caste voters,” says Paswan.

Political theorist and writer Kancha Ilaiah Shepherd believes until a Dalit is appointed as a shankaracharya, there will be no real change in India’s caste-steeped social hierarchy.

“If there was any desire to reform Hinduism, there would have been Dalit priests in every temple and monastery across India,” says Ilaiah. “This is just drama being played out by Yogi Adityanath and Mohan Bhagwat to make people believe in a Dalit ‘homecoming’.”

Also read: How Cleaning Up Varanasi for Modi Left Two Men Dead

Lal Man Dravid, a Prayagraj-based social activist, thinks Nandgiri has no understanding of the Dalit movement or the ideals of Ambedkar. “To me he’s just a slave of the Sangh, corporates and media, and may become irrelevant after Kumbh,” says Dravid.

But other academics are more positive about the stirrings of change in the Hindu ascetic order.

Alok Prasad, professor of history at the University of Allahabad, says, “Even though Nandgiri’s ascendency is manifestly political, he has the potential to bring about revolutionary change by questioning caste hegemony like Sant Ravidas.”

Prasad’s colleague B.C. Lal, too, believes it’s a constructive development since most pilgrims who visit Kumbh are from lower castes, but have had upper caste monastics hold forth for centuries.

“Whether it will improve the social and economic status of Dalits is questionable, but it has certainly helped them gain religious legitimacy,” says Lal.

Nandgiri says these criticisms have only firmed his resolve to serve the Dalit community. He wants to build more ashrams, appoint lower caste priests and increase the visibility of Dalit youth in schools, businesses, police stations, courts.

“I want my disciples to look like new-age priests who wear the best clothes, drive cars and live in swank apartments,” he says. “It’s not where you begin, it’s where you end up that matters.”

Priyadarshini Sen is an independent journalist based in New Delhi. She writes for various India and US-based media outlets.

Aboard Matribhoomi Local, ‘Manned’ Entirely by Women

Soumita Roy wanted to overturn the patriarchy entrenched in India’s rail services. She now steers a ladies’ special train through the verdant landscape of rural Bengal.

Sealdah, Kolkata: Her eyes glued to the pressure gauge as she maneuvers the master controller gear dexterously, Soumita Roy cuts an unusual frame. She takes a pause, revs up the engine and chugs out of Kolkata’s Sealdah station like a seasoned loco-pilot.

“This train is ‘manned’ entirely by women – guards, assistants, loco-pilot and passengers. Men aren’t allowed here,” she says, while steering the ladies-special Matribhoomi Local through the verdant landscape of rural Bengal.

But this isn’t Roy’s first brush with Bengal’s suburban railway network.

In September, the 31-year-old resident of a small town in Nadia was promoted as the first woman loco-pilot by the Eastern Railways. Since then, Roy has held the reigns of various local trains plying through Bengal.

Roy says her decision to wear the train driver’s hat wasn’t random. She wanted to overturn the patriarchy entrenched in India’s rail services. “Who says only men should drive trains? I wanted to break this notion and encourage more women to come forward.”

But working her way through the steeped-in-bureaucracy railway ranks wasn’t easy. In 2010, she cleared the Railway Recruitment Board exam to join the Eastern Railways as assistant co-pilot. Then in 2016, she was promoted as a goods train driver. “I had to quickly learn the ropes of line operation, system control and parking. On top of that, there were manuals to memorise,” she says.

Roy also had to endure psychological tests as well as those that gauged her decision-making, concentration, dependency and emergency-tackling skills.

“She has sheer grit and determination. You should see how she cares about accuracy and passenger safety. Her innate abilities came through when she took those tests,” says Rajneesh Singh, a senior divisional electrical engineer in charge of operations at Sealdah station.

So when Roy was promoted as loco-pilot this September, there was much cheer from railway officials and staff. Her colleague and guard Sabita Shaw, who also mans Matribhoomi Local, says her elevation led to renewed respect for women in rail work.

During Roy’s felicitation ceremony at Sealdah station, aspiring women loco-pilots came forward to announce they wanted to follow in her footsteps. A few even cajoled their role model to reveal her success mantra. Bharati Dey, a high-school student from Bandel, says, “I’ve always dreamt of taking charge of the driving cabin, but Soumita has translated that dream into reality. I now want her to be my mentor.”

Also read: Why Indian Workplaces Are Losing Women

Shaw says she feels better now that she can share the responsibility of passenger safety with Roy. “As the senior-most staff member, I oversaw everything. But now we can divide those tasks. Indian railways needs more women who are sure-footed and agile like Soumita,” says Shaw.

Roy’s rise in the male-dominated rail system has also been supported by her family. Her husband, Barun Modak, says, “Soumita has had a difficult childhood and now she’s following her dreams. There should be more women like her coming forward to challenge patriarchy. We’ll always support her decisions.”

Echoing her husband’s views, Roy says she grew up in a conventional setting where school jobs for women were the done thing. But when she started working as a schoolteacher in Nadia, Roy realised she had more to bring to the table. “A part of me was left feeling unfulfilled. I wanted to do something that ran counter to the trend.”

So Roy took the plunge while her family rallied around her. They now look after her three-year-old son when she is away on assignment six days a week.

But Roy’s attempts at breaking stereotypes hasn’t come without criticism. Ramesh Das, a railway staff member, thinks she might jeopardise the safety of passengers if she’s negligent. “This is a risky job, and even a glitch could cause insuperable damage. There are certain professions better left to men,” he says.

Roy agrees that train-driving is risky and emotionally demanding. “You have to be prepared for accidents, suicides, attacks. The idea is to avert calamities to the extent possible, but you also need to build a resistance wall around you.”

Roy believes she built that resistance wall during her training period seven years ago. Her first practical test, however, came when she saw a man commit suicide on the parallel track of a suburban station in September. “I got off the train and learnt how to file an on-the-spot memo. This is the most difficult part of the job because you’re always treading the thin line between life and death.”

Passengers aboard the all-women the Matribhoomi Local.

Not just accidents, the loco-pilot must also tackle hooliganism on board and misbehaviour from passengers. “Handling thousands of commuters isn’t easy, especially during delays. But we’ve been trained to deal with unforeseen situations, and even seek help from the Railway Protection Force when needed,” says Roy.

Daily commuters agree that trains are receptacles of chaos, and for an all-women crew to sort out conflict is commendable. Manju Roy, an accounts officer who commutes daily on the Matribhoomi Local, says Soumita’s takeover has made women feel safer. “In other trains there’s more chaos, but here we feel like one family traveling together. Apart from her skills, Roy is also a source of inspiration for young women.”

Also watch: The Economy Is Growing but Women Are Leaving the Labour Market. Here’s Why

But Roy doesn’t take her success for granted. She believes that her driving-practice apart, she also needs to maintain a disciplined lifestyle. So, she does yoga and concentration-building exercises daily to maximise her potential.

As if taking a cue from her success, more women have started considering train-driving as a doable career. The number of assistant loco-pilots on the rolls of Eastern Railways has recently increased, and more women have started preparing for the Railway Protection Force exams.

“There’s glamour attached to women who lead from the front in airplanes or ships. But train drivers have never been given the same respect. When more women come forward, this notion will change,” says Roy.

All images by Priyadarshini Sen.

Priyadarshini Sen is an independent journalist based in New Delhi. She writes for various India and US-based media outlets.

In Today’s Polarised India, This UP Village Is the Epitome of Hindu-Muslim Harmony

Residents of Sadhan village espouse different faiths without fear of ostracisation. They believe it is possible to be born a Hindu but practice Islam, and it’s possible to be Muslim but retain a Hindu name.

Agra: The inner courtyard of Shaukat Ali’s house, circled by five other hutments, seems like any other village household near Agra. Six brothers sit on a string cot under a leafy peepal tree smoking a hookah. A pleasant breeze wafts the grey smoke away.

Nothing seems out of tune in this bucolic milieu until a muezzin’s azaan call breaks the afternoon lull.

As though in unison, four brothers hurriedly retreat to their homes to lay out their prayer mats. The other two join their families in chanting Vedic mantras in front of a holy basil plant growing bountifully in the courtyard.

The Alis have cast their religious differences aside and set a precedent for harmonious coexistence. They typify a reality in Sadhan village, 31 km south of Agra, where its 20,000-odd residents espouse different faiths without fear of ostracisation. When ghettoisation based on faith is being rampantly imposed across India, Sadhan stands out as an anomaly.

Its residents believe it is possible to be born a Hindu but practice Islam, and it’s possible to be Muslim but retain a Hindu name. “This may seem bizarre in a polarised country like India today, but we take pride in our shared brotherhood,” says Ali.

In this Hindu-majority village with about 6,000 Muslim residents, the belief in a common ancestry tethers people to a tapestry of faith.

History of the village

Oral tradition has it that a Rajput chieftain – Singh Pal – established control over the area around 1200 and boosted its population. But during Aurangzeb’s rule, large-scale conversion to Islam took place. Then in 1923, during a mahapanchayat meet in Agra district, a resident from Sadhan – Lakhmi Singh – was reconverted to Hinduism through an elaborate ritualistic ceremony. That sparked a wave of reconversions across the village, which continues even today.

But even though conversions have become a divisive force in India causing societies to break up, Sadhan doesn’t see them as an unnatural phenomenon. A Hindu resident can turn to Islam, Sikhism or Jainism if he so chooses. Osman Khan, a former priest, received support from his brethren for practicing Christianity openly.

Also read: Breaking Stereotypes, Hindu Family Running Mosque in Kolkata’s Suburbs for Decades

“This narrative of conversion and reconversion through centuries hasn’t taken away our belief that we are part of the same family. If it hasn’t destroyed our cohesion over epochs, it won’t now,” says Jameel Jadon, the village pradhan.

Jadon adds that Jugal Kishore, a Birla scion, gave thrust to the reconversion efforts in the 1920s by setting up a temple in the village. He also made generous donations to Hindu trusts such as the Hindu Mahasabha and the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh.

The temple set up by Jugal Kishore Birla in Sadhan village near Agra.

“Look, this is the nerve centre of the village, which was set up by Jugal Kishore,” says Jadon, pointing to a dilapidated mustard-coloured temple with a green shikhara.

‘Ours is an open society’

At the temple, devotees of all hues gather to offer their prayers during Hindu festivals. Even weddings are solemnised without discrimination based on caste or religion. “Ours is an open society. If my son wants to marry a Hindu girl, there’s no problem. There are so many families where inter-religious marriages have taken place without fear of persecution,” says Asrar Jadon, a paddy farmer.

Thus, during wedding ceremonies, Sadhan villagers include both Hindu and Islamic rituals on their calendar to ensure no one feels left out. Hindu grooms wear traditional Muslim headdresses, while Muslims host engagement ceremonies reminiscent of Hindu customs.

“Not only weddings, we also respect each other’s food habits and eat from the same plate. There are no rules about what to eat and what to leave out,” says Balbir Singh, a tea stall owner. “During Eid, families cook mutton curry in their homes, while sweetmeats are prepared in every rural household during Holi.”

Even day-to-day activities allow for communal kinship in a village where most residents depend on farming and construction activities for their livelihood. During panchayat meets, Muslims – both Sunni and Ahmadiyya – Hindus and Dalits come together at the same table to discuss ways to improve their living conditions.

“It seems unbelievable to others that such a mix of people could come together in a peaceful setting. There hasn’t been a single riot or communal uprising in Sadhan despite unrest in surrounding areas,” says Jameel Jadon.

Communal harmony

Indeed, when communal riots broke out in neighbouring Fatehpur Sikri, Agra and Achhnera town in the early 2000s, Sadhan remained an oasis of peace. “Infighting would cause families to split up because of the multiplicity of faiths within each unit. We had to remind everyone that brotherhood trumps caste, identity and religion,” recalls Bhagat Singh, a 70-year-old Muslim charpoy maker.

Village Pradhan Jameel Jadon with a resident, Asrar Jadon, in Sadhan village near Agra.

While weaving a mesh of ropes around a metal bed frame, Singh remembers how Hindu fundamentalists called for a boycott of Muslims from the village during a mahapanchayat in 1989.

Even the political shifts sweeping Uttar Pradesh over the past decades haven’t destroyed the communal harmony that binds Sadhan’s residents. Here, candidates from the Bharatiya Janata Party, Congress, Bahujan Samaj Party and Samajwadi Party have tested the waters of local governance only to be met with resistance from the locals.

“The incumbent MP for the Fatehpur Sikri constituency is BJP’s Babulal Chaudhary while I’m a BSP supporter, so there’s bound to be ideological differences. But the brotherhood here is an indestructible force. It cannot be elbowed out by external factors,” says Jameel Jadon.

Some residents claim local leaders spearhead conversion campaigns promising economic gains. In reality, their intent is to divide the community. “We fell for that,” says Meena Jadon, a 45-year-old homemaker who’s now an observant Hindu.

Hoping for upward social and economic mobility, Meena’s family converted to Hinduism 25 years ago. “It hasn’t led to any tangible benefits. Fortunately, our extended family hasn’t alienated us nor has our village,” she says.

Meena recites mantras from the Rig Veda every morning, while her sister’s family reads from the Quran. “There’s no animosity even if prayer habits are vastly different within a family. Idol worship is not condemned, nor are Islamic rituals,” says Shiraz Khan, Meena’s nephew, who’s a devout Muslim.

Ganesh, a 45-year-old priest, readies himself to conduct Islamic rituals in front of a mausoleum at his ashram in Sadhan village near Agra.

In many rural households, Muslims recite the Gayatri Mantra as fluently as Hindus recall verses from the Quran. Riyaz Ahmad Khan, a 76-year-old Sanskrit scholar believes religious texts need to be read widely. “It’s as important to know the Atharva Veda as it is to read Satyarth Prakash, Mahabharata, Quran or Bible. I remind residents that inclusion broadens mental horizons, while exclusion leads to insular societies,” he says.

The desire to preserve Sadhan’s secular ethos is prevalent not only among its residents but also among priests and godmen.

Ganesh, a 45-year-old priest has turned his modest ashram into a secular abode – including under its umbrella a Muslim saint’s mausoleum and a sacred space for the worship of Hindu goddesses. A sign outside reads: “Religion is no ground for discrimination. Faith unites all.”

Inside, devotees are seen genuflecting before the altars until they seek the priest’s blessings. “This is a formal representation of what the village stands for. People can move fluidly between Hinduism and Islam just as I do,” says Ganesh, now a Hindu sadhu chanting Kali mantras in a pink robe.

Within a few minutes, Ganesh changes his avatar as Muslim devotees line up before the mausoleum. “I’m well-versed in Islamic rituals. Now I’m their pir baba,” he quips.

When the faithful leave Ganesh’s ashram after paying their obeisance, they say it’s time to get on with their day. “This melding of cultures and religions over generations may seem surprising to others. For us it’s inconsequential because we live as one family,” says Shaukat Ali nonchalantly.

All images by Priyadarshini Sen.

Priyadarshini Sen is an independent journalist based in New Delhi. She writes for various India and US-based media outlets.

Breaking Stereotypes, Hindu Family Running Mosque in Kolkata’s Suburbs for Decades

Built as “an oasis for people fleeing war and persecution,” Amanati Masjid continues to spread its secular ethos.

You wouldn’t blame yourself if you walked past the diminutive Amanati Masjid in Barasat, some 25 kilometres north of Kolkata, without as much as a fleeting glance. Sandwiched between an idol makers’ workshop and a hardware garage, the single-storied structure with a corrugated tin roof appears to be an ubiquitous place of worship in Kolkata’s suburbs.

But if you noticed the white lettering emblazoned across a freshly-painted board above the main entrance, you would pause. “Probhu ke Pronam Karo” (Pray to the Almighty) – at a mosque? “Probhu” is generally used in churches, and “Pronam” at temples in Bengal, urging devotees to offer their prayers. But here at Amanati, believers of many hues – Hindus, Muslims and Christians congregate. Not only is the mosque a microcosm of multiculturalism, it also has an unusual story.

Amanati – which literally translates as ‘left in trust’ is the only mosque run by a Hindu family that migrated to India from Bangladesh in 1964. “This is my identity. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world,” says 67-year-old Dipak Basu, hunkering down on a prayer mat.

Basu, a small-time kerosene dealer, believes the mosque is a testament to his belief in religious tolerance. The faithful are asked to keep their religious and political beliefs aside prior to setting foot on its leafy compound. “I have the same zeal as my father and elder brothers. They wanted to create an oasis of faith for all believers. It is our family’s pride,” he says.

Dipak Basu (left) and Partha Sarathi Basu, owners of Amanati mosque in Barasat, Bengal. Credit: Priyadarshini Sen

Back in 1964 during the religious riots in Bangladesh, the Basus swapped their property in Khulna district with a house owned by a Barasat-based Muslim family. “The property we got in exchange included the 500-year-old mosque in a ramshackle state. Some neighbours told us to tear it down because we are Hindus.”

But things took another turn when Basu’s mother lit a candle on the verandah outside the mosque’s eastern wall. “My mother felt an immediate connection with it, and insisted we should create a place of worship for everyone. Amid communal riots, this could be an oasis for people fleeing war and persecution,” says Basu.

So, the family in memory of Pir Amanat Shah – a popular eighteenth-century saint from Bangladesh, named the mosque Amanati. The dense orchard in which it was seated was cleared, and its bamboo fencing removed. A tin shade and ritual purification enclosure were constructed.

In a Hindu-majority area, believers from all walks of life started coming in to offer namaz. Raju Bhaskar, a shopkeeper from the nearby Malikapur village, cycles ten kilometres every afternoon to Barasat town. He learnt about the mosque from his 82-year-old grandfather. “Even today, my grandfather has faith in Amanati’s miraculous powers. It cured him of a deadly disease. He comes here every alternate day,” says Bhaskar.

Basu himself was struck by the mosque’s healing power when his son, Partha Sarathi, then just three, recovered from a bout of jaundice after being rolled on its hard-concrete floor. “His health was deteriorating, so we brought him to the mosque and offered our prayers. He improved in three days. It’s all about faith.”

Sarathi, now a 43-year-old real estate agent in Barasat, helps his father clean the mosque every day before sunrise. They lay out the prayer mats, perfume the women’s enclosure and offer namaz. “We follow most Islamic rituals, observe roza during Ramazan and read the Quran.”

During Eid, the boisterous owner hosts a feast of biryani and goat curry outside the mosque, inviting over 200 followers to join in the celebration and communal warmth.

Women, too, consider the Pir’s abode their own and not just a place for Muslim men.

Mary Rozario, an elocution teacher from Chandannagar town, visits the mosque every month with her family. “This place has a halo of spirituality like no other. I sometimes miss my Sunday mass to come here. I only wish it could accommodate more women.”

Devotees gather for their afternoon prayers at Amanati mosque in Barasat, Bengal. Credit: Priyadarshini Sen

Echoing Rozario’s view, Sarathi too wants to build a more expansive space for believers. This year, he plans to fortify the 2,500 square feet area with six pillars, a dome symbolising the vault of heaven and an embellished space for women. “There won’t be any religious symbolism in the restructuring. This place started as one that broke stereotypes. It will continue to do so.”

The imam of Amanati mosque, Akhtar Ali, also believes breaking stereotypes in a polarised world is the way forward for all religious institutions. After taking charge in 1992, not only has he engineered religious mutuality within the mosque’s precincts but has even worked with the Basus to suppress polarising forces. “We sometimes get harassing calls from right-wingers. Our task is to remind everyone that communal flare-ups are the result of divisive politics.”

Akhtar Ali, Imam of Amanati mosque in Barasat, Bengal. Credit: Pradipta Sen

The only time when the secular flavour of the mosque came under threat was during the Babri Masjid demolition in 1992. Sarathi recalls how certain fundamentalists threatened to shut down the mosque and labelled the family pseudo-Hindus.

When the wave of fear passed, Basu resolved not to relinquish ownership of the mosque to any Muslim committee, nor cave into the Hindu fundamentalist threat. He got support from his secular brethren who rallied around him.

Abdul Haji, a 61-year-old tailor from a neighbouring village, remembers how representatives from different communities got together to pass on the message of peace. “Everywhere the atmosphere was tense, but among us, there was communal harmony. It was as if the mosque kept us together.”

But the intimidations haven’t gone away. Mina Bose, a 25-year-old medic from West Ichapur district, recounts how she was threatened by neighbourhood goons on two occasions. “I like this place for its secular ethos and community feel. But who would make bigoted people understand this? I’ve been stalked, and I keep getting threat calls.”

But Basu himself doesn’t care about bigots so long as they don’t disrespect Islamic rituals within the precincts of the mosque. “This is my Kohinoor, and I will not tolerate any form of disrespect. The generosity in my faith has allowed me to reach out to everyone. I will continue to do so.”

Priyadarshini Sen is an independent journalist based in New Delhi. She writes for various India and US-based media outlets.

Meet India’s First Santhal RJ, Who Wants Tribal Culture to be Truly Understood

Shikha Mandi, who hosts a show about the coming-of-age of tribals in India in fluent Santhali, also wants more indigenous voices to be heard in the public domain.

Perched on the hot seat, her fingers manoeuvring the keys of a mixer console like an artist wielding her brush, 24-year-old Shikha Mandi cuts an arresting frame. The radio jockey punctuates her chat show, Johar Jhargram – about the coming-of-age of tribals in India in fluent Santhali (the language spoken by over six million indigenous people across South Asia) – with mellifluous strains of village songs.

Her story is even more interesting. The daughter of a small farmer from West Midnapore, Mandi worked her way up from the paddy fields of Jhargram’s Belpahari village where she was born, to the coveted mechanical engineering school at Kolkata’s Industrial Training Institute. And now, as one of India’s first tribal radio jockeys, she’s quite the talk of the town.

RJ Shikha commands the attention of hundreds of listeners through Radio Milan – a small community radio station in West Bengal’s Jhargram district – about 170 km west of Kolkata. The radio waves bearing her unusual Santhal imprint ripple through the Jhargram and Kharagpur districts. More fans across India and abroad tune in to her programme online. Her followers on social media are also growing. Not only does Mandi want tribal culture to be understood across India, she also wants to pioneer its representation through popular media. “There’s almost no knowledge of tribal life and its idiosyncrasies. I want more indigenous voices to be heard in the public domain,” she says.

To forefront tribal culture and ethos, Mandi holds her own at Radio Milan – her “working playground,” as she calls it. Here, she writes her own script, mashes up tunes, readies playlists and rustles up ideas for shows on socially relevant issues. “There’s a lot of independence at work, and I’m encouraged by my colleagues to think out of the box,” she says.

Her colleagues at Radio Milan, which was set up last November by Milan Chakraborty, a Kolkata-based entrepreneur, are supportive of her work. “Shikha impressed us with her determination, diligence and language proficiency,” says Tanmay Dutta, a well-heeled radio jockey from Siliguri, who trains young talent. “There are few people in India who understand the Santhali Ol Chiki script and can translate it. Not too many books or academic resources are available, either. So Shikha works hard on her research.”

But the journey to the hot seat hasn’t been an easy one for Mandi. At the age of three, she was sent to live with her uncle in Kolkata so she could receive a quality education. There were reported incidents of Maoist activity in the Jhargram region, which added to their insecurity. “My parents thought it wasn’t safe for me to live in our village. But in Kolkata, despite having a loving family, I felt a sense of uprootedness,” says Mandi.

At school, the young girl would get taunted for her Santhal leanings and demeanour. But that made her more determined to stay true to her roots. “The older I got, the more connected I felt to my tribal mores,” she says. So, Mandi would tune in to Santhal shows on Doordarshan; sing indigenous songs and recite Santhali poetry at social gatherings. Instead of settling into city life completely, she held on to her tribal identity and nursed the dream of going back to Jhargram.

The move back to Jhargram was in some ways fated. Just as Mandi was preparing to take an apprenticeship test at a Kolkata-based shipbuilding and engineering company, she got an interview call from Radio Milan last November. After scouring several resumes, the hiring team cast its eye on Mandi. “We felt Shikha is deeply embedded in the tribal culture. Her ability to identify issues facing indigenous people, and making them accessible through popular media set her apart from other applicants,” says Chakraborty.

Even though Mandi had no formal training in radio or anchoring, she won the hiring team over with her persuasion skills. Soon after getting selected, the 24-year-old moved back to her beloved hometown.

But the transition wasn’t easy. Years of living in Kolkata had taken the sheen off Mandi’s proficiency in Santhali. She had to make herself acquainted with tribal customs, rituals and devotional songs for her show Johar Jhargram. She also spent nights poring over books given to her by four Midnapore-based professors who knew the Ol Chiki script well, including the bi-monthly magazine Sagen Saota. “Going on air was a nerve-wracking experience, and I would have my script open in front of me every day,” says Mandi.

The content-mastering challenge aside, Mandi also had technical challenges to overcome. The 24-year-old was made to undergo training in script-writing, voice tone and modulation, studio sound and audience engagement. “I had no idea about the technical side of radio production, and was literally thrown into the deep end in order to figure things out,” she says.

But Mandi’s love for all things Santhal made these challenges surmountable. Today, she’s a purist in her approach to showmanship. “There’s not a speck of Hindi or Bengali in my show, and I can rustle up and rehearse a script, three hours prior to my programme,” she says with a wry smile.

The young RJ’s command of Santhali and understanding of tribal culture has also made her more experimental. Nowadays, she goes to different villages in Bengal to identify new trends, and ways to build a support-base in indigenous communities. “Instead of just sitting in my studio and doing my research, I like to be in touch with real people and real issues,” she says.

Mandi’s innovative approach has struck a chord with the Santhal people. Priyanka Hembrom, a 17-year-old ardent fan from the Jaigeria village in Jhargram district, says she too wants to be a radio jockey, and entertain and inform an audience. “Shikha brings important issues such as underage marriages in tribal communities to the fore. She adds a touch of humour to all her shows, which makes her stand apart from others,” says Hembrom.

Mandi’s out-of-the-box thinking also gets reflected in her special shows ahead of tribal festivals. Her programme – the ‘Wonders of Waiting’ was a big success, says one of her colleagues. “The act of waiting is pregnant with hope. Those who work on the borders, wait to be united with their families; children living abroad wait to go back home. Shikha wanted to underline the value of time in the act of waiting. Isn’t that an interesting idea?”

Perhaps for Mandi, too, patient waiting has given her career an impetus, and her life meaning. More advertisers are now buying slots during her show. The Santhali programme has been extended by a couple of hours, and there are plans to bring in more tribal artistes to improve people’s understanding of indigenous communities.

“The fact that I’m doing what I love, for the people I love, in the place I love the most is my biggest success. I’m not looking back,” says Mandi.

Priyadarshini Sen is an independent journalist based in New Delhi. She writes for various India and US-based media outlets.