WHEN RUSHDIE MET HASAN

WHEN RUSHDIE MET HASAN
By Sanjay Jha

( Amidst the cacophony in our daily lives, sometimes one individual can become a symbol of hope. Nurul Hasan is one such).

He invariably calls me on every auspicious occasion, whether it is the New Year, Diwali, Ramzaan or Holi. His voice has an unmistakable identity, deeply gruff and somewhat fissured , his long sentences punctuated by an intermittent hiatus , and he speaks with the labored precision of a man who has seen many moons, experienced vicissitudes of life. When he asks me about my family’s whereabouts, it has a unique solicitude about it, a caring disposition that is indescribable. When I tell him that Insha Allah all is well, he responds with deep satisfaction in his baritone: Bahut Accha! The conversations are usually one-sided as he enquires separately about everyone’s health, studies, career, future plans et al and I utter monosyllabic responses with a calculated mix of restrained exasperation and smothered impatience. But he carries on notwithstanding, his relentless curiosity for the mundane and the meaningless quite unfathomable. Often I just interrupt and ask him a diversionary question to prevent explanations with an orchestrated artifice; what’s happening otherwise? Is it really cold? When is he likely to peregrinate in a holy pilgrimage? He answers them all with perceptible exuberance, overjoyed at my seeming interest in his life. The conversations thereafter become like one long-winded monologue of a travel enthusiast returning from an adventurous spree but gives me enough room to navigate my e-mails on my Blackberry. Of course, I do the ritualistic interruptions to convey my active engagement with a recurring Really? That’s nice! When we do finally terminate the imbalanced exchange, he waits for me to hang up, perhaps secretly hoping that I would linger on , encourage his mindless intrusions into my calibrated corporate life. I don’t give him that opportunity. This old gentleman who calls me with uncanny predictability and indulges in one-sided marathon conversations where I am a mere eavesdropper is called Nurul Hasan.

In the mid-1960’s Nurul Hasan had met my father when he was a professor of economics in Bhagalpur University, Bihar. He desperately needed a job, and apparently my father had assiduously engineered a temporary role for him in the administrative department which subsequently became a permanent one . Hasan was overwhelmed, obligated beyond description. But in those days, instead of attending to secretarial work, he spent more time taking us kids out for rickshaw-rides, cinema-watching , toy-shopping and generally entertaining us with story-telling. He was like a quasi-family watchdog, passionately overseeing the domestic constitution with painstaking involvement. The joint family system had an extended appendage; Nurul Hasan was its inelastic glue. He was a Muslim, in a household where we were traditional, archetypal Brahmins but without the natural condescending streak normally associated with it. We grew up under his watchful eye, my parents fully reassured that we were in safe hands. Bhagalpur was then considered to be a communally susceptible zone and Hindu-Muslim riots had scarred the local population. But Nurul Hasan was our guardian angel. When my father died a few years ago, Hasan called to assuage me that heaven will be in distinguished company. It helped. I know he still calls me as he thinks it is now his moral duty, an unfinished task as it were.

Hasan is now in his late seventies but sheepishly confesses that matriculation certificates usually buffered up to ten years to provide for extended career lifeline and higher pension benefits , but his monumental anxiety is getting his son a job as a computer operator. Albeit he is awkward when he talks about a favor, he seems an extremely worried man these days. For fear of nepotism and favoritism, I have told him that we cannot recruit him in our own organization in Mumbai. I don’t think he is entirely convinced, given his own delirious heavenly experience with my father. Times have changed , I tell him. I will though check with others amongst fellow colleagues who could be more magnanimous. He nods patiently, perhaps telling himself that I am doing excellent cosmetic lip service or have insurmountable handicaps. But the fact is that I have done nothing for him.

In a country of 177 million Muslims, Nurul Hasan is not a solitary example of goodness. If you go to Mohammed Ali Road during Ramzaan you will be submerged more by the prodigious warmth and incredible hospitality of the people than those mouth-watering delicacies at Sulaiman Mithaiwala. Some of the most endearing simple folk with a gentle refined sophistication in their articulation, reminiscent of the legend of Lucknow will come from bearded taxi-drivers in Mumbai. Muslims in India have added a majestic colorful hue to our social and cultural character. Besides three former Presidents, including Dr Abdul Kalam , top-notch civil servants such as Wajahat Habibullah, music lyricists and composers such as Sahir and Khayyam, Zakir Hussain, the inimitable Mohammad Rafi, the patriotic belligerence of cricketers Zaheer Khan and Yusuf Pathan, the cinematic charms of the Khans, the mesmerizing poetry of Javed Akhtar, it is one exciting , electric, eclectic mix. Azim Premji has made Wipro into a global software behemoth. If even .01% of our fellow brothers were to become disillusioned or misled by hate-mongers that works to a staggering 17,700 delicate yet confused, potentially dangerous susceptible minds. The process of assimilation is never-ending. India’s beauty lies in our unique diversity, in a world fractured with suspicion and rising extremism, we could be symbolic of a pluralistic, tolerant and thriving society.

As the Salman Rushdie brannigan at the Jaipur Literary Festival grabs limelight, and there is the expected outpouring of inflammatory sentiments from several quarters , one thinks of Hasan. I can hardly visualize him in a tempestuous state no matter how annoying the instigation. India’s collective consciousness needs to embrace its multifarious mishmash , and resist the diabolical virulence of those few at the periphery. Economic growth and religious fundamentalism are not inversely related as was often fallaciously believed. Mere job reservations and empty platitudes will also not be enough. Maintaining social harmony is always a work-in-progress in an interconnected world, with communities interspersed all over. In every community there are good and bad. But the bad are usually in a minority.

A few days ago I got a missed call late at night. It was from Nurul Hasan. For the first time in a long while , I returned his call. He was palpably overjoyed. A simple gesture, but it meant the world to him. I promised that I will get him to come to Pune where my father spent his last few years. It’s a promise that I intend to keep.