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TRENDING: A REQUIEM FOR A LOST CHILDHOOD

by Sharad Raj March 31 2025, 12:00 am Estimated Reading Time: 7 mins, 23 secs

A deep reflection on communal harmony, personal memories, and the fading Ganga-Jamuni culture of Lucknow in today’s divisive times—where shared traditions once united, growing intolerance now threatens. Sharad Raj shares his memories and thoughts.

This powerful personal essay reflects on the rich Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb of Lucknow—a culture of Hindu-Muslim harmony—through the lens of one family's lived experiences. From interfaith friendships and Eid celebrations to poetic wit and shared humanity, the piece captures a time when inclusivity and respect transcended religious boundaries. As India grapples with rising communal polarization, the author recounts emotional memories of unity, now overshadowed by right-wing extremism and cultural erasure. This poignant narrative offers a timely reminder of the pluralism that once defined Indian identity—and the urgent need to preserve it.

My father’s final journey was led by Advocate Mehmood Mehndi Abdi, who many would know for his “Culture Bazaar” videos on YouTube, with the chants of “Ram naam Satya hai, Satya bolo Satya hai…” and we all followed him. Mahira, one of my closest friends, spent the day reading some Holy Kalmas at the side of my father’s body, whose funeral was attended by people of all faiths. Advocate Abdi is like a younger brother to my father, who in turn called Mr. Abdi’s father, “Abbu.” Papa considered him like a father figure. This is because we all belong to Lucknow, once known for its “Ganga-Jamuni” Tehzeeb (culture), now of course things are a lot different. The city once known for its poetry, literature, and Awadhi cuisine is now infested with malls and a model of development that breeds right-wing supporters.

A Childhood Steeped in Inclusivity

The Lucknow of my childhood was different. My father, a well-known psychiatrist of the city, and my mother, a doctor in Indian Railways, had a large circle of friends from the Muslim community. I once asked my father why I was not asked to touch the feet of elders when we visited our Muslim friends and why I should greet them with “adaab?” He told me that when we visit someone, we need to follow the culture of those people and not impose ours. That was maybe our first lesson in inclusivity.

Wali Asi, whom we called Wali Chacha, was a renowned Urdu poet of his time, who passed away too soon. He was one of my father’s closest friends. Wali Chacha, who had a booming voice, was a tall and well-built Pathan. One fine morning, he came to our house with a long-playing record (vinyl) and called my mother from the main door in his bass voice, “Bhabhi, kahan hain aap? Aapke devar ki ghazal Talat Aziz ne gaayi hai, pehla record aapki khidmat mein laya hoon.” (Sister-in-law, where are you? Here is my first record with a ghazal sung by Talat Aziz.)

A Tale of Respect and Dignity

When papa was a resident doctor at the medical college, a “tawaif” (nautch girl) from old Lucknow’s Chowk had come for some treatment, apparently for depression, and was treated by him. She, in turn, papa told us, tied a Rakhi to him as a gesture of gratitude. Sometime later, when he went to attend a wedding at a Muslim talukdar’s house, the same tawaif was there to perform “mujra.” She came to meet my father and referred to him as “bhaijaan” (brother). Soon papa saw that she was being given a send-off without the mujra by the host. My father told me, when he asked what the matter was, the talukdar said, “Bhai ke samne behen mujra nahi karegi, isiliye humne unko rukhsat kar diya.” (How can a tawaif perform mujra in front of her brother? So we have paid her and sent her away.)

This was the predominant ethos of Hindu-Muslim relations in Lucknow in my growing years. And Eid was the day we looked forward to after the Holy month of Ramzaan. Dressed in Chikan kurta and pajama, our Eid Milan would start early in the day. We would go from house to house with our parents to the homes of all their Muslim friends, eat gorgeous siwai and kebabs, korma or biryani. Then every family would give us Eidi (Eid token), and my sister and I would return with a few thousand rupees as Eidi after feasting. Thousands in the eighties was big money. Those were synchronous times.

Standing Up for Ghalib

Once in a gathering, one maulana started to criticize Mirza Ghalib, calling him a kafir, and the man who stood up for him was a Hindu psychiatrist—my father—who even quoted from the Quran to defend the great poet. He left the gathering in appreciation and without any harm done or acrimony. Another late afternoon, he returned super excited after a patient’s visit at Mahmudabad Palace and started to narrate what happened there. He told us, “Roohi is absolutely brilliant, what wit!” He went on to tell us that there is a huge painting of the grandfather of Raja saab Mahmoudabad, who patronized Mohammad Ali Jinnah. So he told Roohi aunty that had he met her grandfather, he would have made mincemeat of him (agar mein inse mila hota toh inka kheema kutwa deta), alluding to his role and that of Jinnah in India’s partition. Roohi aunty returned with a cup of tea, and as my dad took it from her, his hands shook, spilling some tea. “Now listen to Roohi’s wit,” he said. “Huzur, ungliyan kanpti hain qatil ki!” (Fingers of a murderer tremble, sir.) And my father kept narrating and repeating it to many people who would understand such sharp wit. This conversation and rebuttal are unthinkable in “Naya Bharat.” Neither Roohi aunty nor my father took it seriously—it was all in good humour.

Challenging Stereotypes

Shortly after my parents visited Pakistan, another close family friend, Mohammad Sulaiman, visited Karachi and was asked if Muslims are made to change their names to Hindu names in India? Sulaiman uncle asked them why they were asking this, and they said a while back an Indian doctor visited Karachi who wore a Pathani suit and spoke in chaste Urdu—perhaps better than most of them. Sulaiman uncle reprimanded them for equating the clothes of someone with his faith and said no such thing happens in India. His actual name is Dr. Raj Kumar, and he is a Hindu by birth—very proudly.

We never felt the difference. On Holi, the Muslim friends would reciprocate by visiting us for sweets and “Holi Milan.” Lucknow was a hotspot for Shia-Sunni clashes during Moharram but never a Hindu-Muslim clash. The whole ethos has now changed. In Mumbai today, my wife and I never really did anything for Diwali—neither lights, nor pooja, nor any decoration. We would simply go to my sister’s house and participate in whatever she would do. But ever since my house help, Sadeja, has come to be with us, it is thanks to her initiative that we light diyas and she draws the rangoli at the main door. Mohammad, my AC mechanic, comes with one phone call now for years because I once told him he can break his Roza at my place but it is important to repair the AC.

A Time of Fear and Unfairness

So, when we see Hindutva fanatics disrupting Namaaz, Ramzan, Iftaar, etc., not only does our heart break, but we are shocked and appalled. Slogans like “Go to Pakistan,” “passport will be cancelled,” the abuse, the stopping of public prayers—for what? Today, on March 29, on Chand Raat, on my way back from work, I witnessed Muslim-owned furniture shops demolished, and a massive saffron procession blocking a Muslim neighbourhood just minutes before iftar. Could the demolition not have waited two days for Ramzan to end? Why organize a Ram temple procession with heavy police bandobast at such a critical time for Muslims? The reason—we all know.

The alienation is increasing by the day. And few of us, like Advocate Abdi and ourselves, are in abject minority, it seems.

It is not that one is romanticising Muslims as an epitome of virtue—no one is. Like any other community, they too have fault lines in their practices, lifestyle, and beliefs. But those fault lines cannot become grounds for targeted discrimination or Islamophobia. If flaws in a faith are to be the reason for hate, then the same yardstick must apply to followers of all religions—including those of the majority.