Diary of a Muslim research student in a north Bihar village

A research project took me to a village in North Bihar last year. I was required to stay there and despite being a Muslim I had no difficulty finding a room on rent. I enjoyed the experience of meeting new people, learning new things… it was fun.

My work demands that I meet with people, talk to them, ask questions and get their response. In retrospect, my ‘work’ might have appeared strange to some people there. Research was not quite ‘work’, was it?

I had become friendly with Raman Mandal and spent a lot of time outside his shop chatting with people. The shopkeeper suddenly interrupted me and asked “Aapka naam kya hai (What’s your name?).”

I replied, “Ibrahim.”

He said, “Nahi, pura naam (No, the full name).”

“Ibrahim Afzal.”

“Afzal Guru?” he responded with a smirk.

Before I could recover from the shock, a friend of his asked “Aapko kaun sa desh achha lagta hai, Hindustan ya Pakistan (Which country is dearer to you, India or Pakistan?)”

It didn’t stop there. My friend Raman now chipped in again and declared to my horror, “Aapko humlog aatankwadi samajhte the, aapko kaisa lagta tha ? (We thought you were a terrorist, how do you felt about it?)”

Almost a year later, that conversation still shakes me up. But then that was just the beginning. After this ‘encounter’, I would often be quizzed by villagers and strangers alike.

Mahendra Srivastava, in his 30s, owned a ‘Gumti’ where he sold paan (betel leaf). We were friendly and he would often call me by my first name.

He once recalled a theft in his ancestral house. He informed me that the thieves were Muslims. Isn’t it what their religion teaches them? He went on to say, “Musalaman log ka kaam kya hota hai—loot, khasut, daketi, maar-peet. In log ka koi dharm hai kya (what else are they good enough at? They are always involved in theft, dacoity and violence. Do they have any religion?).”

I listened to him quietly and tried to keep calm as any retort from my side would have made things worse.

Even as I I tried to overlook these irritants, I would face them at regular intervals.

There was this occasion when I was passing by the house of a school teacher; both husband and wife were teachers in government schools. I was greeted by them and they asked me to sit down. We started talking and soon the conversation veered around to the recently concluded panchayat election.

He told me, “Mujhe toh Pratappur ki booth supervision ka kaam mila tha, bahut dikkat aayi wahan.” (I was assigned the work of supervision in Pratappur where I had a hard time).

On my prodding, he explained, “Kya batayen, waha toh wahi sab rehta hai… mohammedan sab… booth ko hadap leta hai banduk ke noke par” (What should I say, Mohammedans live there, they capture booths at gunpoint).

His wife interjected, “Musalman matlab aatankwadi.” (Muslim means terrorist).

I didn’t say a word and soon took their leave. I politely asked the husband’s name. In return, his wife asked my name. When I told her my name, she was shocked: “Aap Musalman ho?” (Are you a Muslim?). She said, “chai pi kar jana.” (Have a cup of tea). I sat down again and had tea with them.

Our neighbour, Bharat Singh, is a Rajput. While passing by his house one day he called out to me. “Aap yahan kya kaam karte hain? ” (What do you do here?)

I had already spent six months in the village. Over this period he had asked me this question several times and each time I would tell him about the research project. Though seething and upset, I once again told him about the project.

Unfazed he replied, “Aapko log yahan chor badmash samajhta hai, aapke bare me log ulta sidha bol raha hai” (People here think you are a thief and a rogue and there has been a lot of loose talk swirling around you).

I asked him who these persons were.

He told me, “Main naam thori le sakta hu, aapko koi letter mila hoga na, wah dikha dijiyega kabhi” (I can’t take names, you would have been given a letter, show it to me someday). I carried the letter all the time and took it out wordlessly.

There was this time when I was going to interview a person. I was carrying a bag with me, which had my notebook and pen. As I was walking down the main road in the market, I heard a voice, “Aey jholewale bhaisaab” (hey, brother).

I looked around and saw two men sitting on a bench. One of them was waving at my direction. “Haan, haan, aap hi, idhar aaiye. ”(Yes, yes, you, come here).

When I went to him, he said, “Aap ke jhole me kya hai” (What is in your bag).

I said, “ji, copy hai” (There is my notebook).

He said, “Aap Pakistani agent ho kya ?” (Are you a Pakistani agent?

I replied, “Ji nahin, main ek shodh karne aaya hu, aaplog ki zindagi ko samajhne aya hun.” (I am a researcher and have come here to understand people’s concerns and lifestyle).

He said, “Nahi hum nahi bol rahe, hume kisi aur ne bataya ki aap Pakistani agent ho, isliye aapse puch liya.” (I am not saying this, someone else told me that you are a Pakistani agent. That’s why I thought I might as well ask you).

This was new, rumours were being spread about me. Rumours are the most dangerous thing. One doesn’t know what actually is going on.

Now sufficiently alarmed, I informed my parents. I had not told them about these incidents, thinking that it would normalise with time. It was only my senior whom I regularly kept informed about the incidents.

Local activists suggested I call on the Superintendent of Police.

When I met him, he asked me different questions—why I was there, why I needed to live in the village, etc.

After I answered all his questions, he said, “Theek hai ap jaiye, local thana me mil lijye, aapke credentials hum verify karenge” (You meet the officer in local thana, we will verify your credentials).

By now, everyone in my family was calling me and asking me to resign and return. But I didn’t.

Last month a 10-day Bhagwat Katha was organised in the village. I visited it on two to three days.

On the very first day an acquaintance asked, “Aap jate hai Bhagwat katha me (Do you attend these events).”

“Ji, jaate hain. Kyun? (Yes, I do go, but why do you ask?).”

“Mujhe laga aap alag ho isliye (No, I thought you are different).

“Matlab (What do you mean?).”

“Matlab, hum log Hindustani, aap Pakistani (Means, we are Indians and you are Pakistani).”

These encounters make me break out in cold sweat.

I worry all the time. When will someone question me again? Why me? Why not my other colleagues?

(This article has been written by Zaheeb Ajmal, Research Fellow, Centre for Equity Studies. The study is on labour migration, economic growth and political democracy, funded by the Economic and Social Research Council of the UK. The research is hosted at the University of Oxford. Dr Indrajit Roy is Principal Investigator.)