Khursheed had a small family of four – a loving wife and two sons, Salim and Umar. He was a carpenter who eked out a living from a small shop under their modest, two-roomed residence, in a small town in the state of Uttar Pradesh in India. Their neighborhood was dominated by Hindus with a spattering of Muslim households amongst them.

Khursheed was a skilled carpenter and his furniture designs were popular with his clients. His earnings were enough for his family and him to get by, including schooling for the two boys. His wife used her stitching skills to augment the income of the family, for other little extra expenditures like music lessons for their younger son, Umar. During his formative years, the parents realised that Umar was a child prodigy. He was adept at playing the flute as if he had been trained at it for years. Even before he attended any formal classes he produced the most melodious tunes from it. He was often called upon by their Hindu neighbours, the Sharmas, to play devotional songs on it during many an occasion like a kirtan, a bhajan Sandhya, and popular numbers on birthdays, anniversaries, and other functions. The melody from his flute would leave them happily mesmerised. He was aptly nicknamed ‘Kanhaiya’, after the flute-playing Hindu God, Lord Krishna.

However, tragedy struck the happy family when Khursheed met with a fatal accident one fateful day. His wife was devastated. Her sporadic income was just about enough to put food on the table for her two young boys and herself and nothing more. It hence fell upon poor Salim, the older of the two siblings, to shoulder the responsibilities of the family. He quit school and took up his father’s profession of carpentry, invoking all that he had imbibed while tinkering around in his father’s workshop in his free time, since his childhood. The few employees, who had chosen to stay on with them, were all older than him. They were instrumental in helping him take on the reins of the modest business at such a young age. The family finances slowly limped back on track.

Salim was not only determined to see his younger brother through his education but also to not let his musical talent fall by the wayside due to a lack of funds.

Umar was also a conscientious boy and was aware of the sacrifice his brother had made for his sake. He often felt guilty about spending so much of the limited family resources on his music lessons. Nevertheless, he knew that it was not only his dead father’s wish but also his mother’s and brother’s too. So he pursued both his college studies and music lessons, with due diligence.

As the years rolled by, Umar finished his studies and landed a job with a modest salary, in the city of Mumbai. He moved there, got married, and settled down. His salary was only enough to make ends meet, but he did not forget his mother and brother back in his hometown. By curtailing his expenditures, often even the necessary ones, he never failed to eke out a small amount to send to his brother, every month.

Salim continued to live in his hometown along with his mother. In due course, he too got married and had children of his own. The bonhomie between the neighbours continued as in Khursheed’s time. Umar, aka Kanhaiya’s renditions on the flute, were missed by all. Nevertheless, just as there was never a Diwali celebrated without ‘moti choor laddoos’ or a Holi without ‘gunjiyas’ savoured by Salim and his family, there was never an Id which was celebrated without the Sharmas enjoying the delectable ‘savainyan’ from their neighbour’s kitchen. The women of the two households had exchanged recipes and these delicacies were prepared by both households often. It was not rare to find the men secretly (lest they annoy their wives!), appreciating the delectables from the other household. The kids in the Sharma household got new clothes on Id from Salim ‘chacha’, while Salim’s kids got crackers on Diwali from Sharma ‘tau ji’. It all felt so natural and they really couldn’t think of any other way of life. If any grandchild was not to be seen in the house, he or she was sure to be at the neighbour’s. The two families got along like a house on fire, their different faiths only adding spice and variety to their lives. The physical wall between their houses was the only barrier dividing the two families.

Unfortunately, ill luck was not done chasing Salim yet. One day, when he was away for a couple of days to the neighbouring town to get some supplies for his shop, riots broke out in his hometown. His house and shop were randomly targeted along with those of others, from both communities. They were set on fire along with the unsuspecting inmates by the angry, senseless mob. Salim rushed back on hearing of the riots, only to find his entire world burnt down to ashes. The sight left him numb, making him lose his mind. He slipped into a state of shock. The Sharma’s, who were more fortunate and had survived the riots, took him into their fold, giving him refuge in their house, even while endangering their own lives against the mobs, lest they return from their next destructive destination. They were themselves heartbroken too. The mob had been too large. They were unable to put up any resistance against it when their neighbours were being heartlessly burnt.

They took Salim in. It seemed like he had no wish to live anymore. He sat on his haunches, all day long, in one ante-room at the rear end of the house. He stared into space, expressionless. He had no appetite and had to be forced to eat.

The Sharmas had already informed Umar. Having heard about the riots in his hometown and when his calls to his brother went unanswered, Umar had not wasted any time. He was already on his way when the dreaded call came from the Sharmas. He was dumbfounded and shattered at the horrific tragedy that had befallen his dear ones. It was far worse than all the scary thoughts that had haunted him in the six hours that had taken him to reach his destination.

When he met his brother- the sole surviving member of the dastardly carnage that had struck their family, he found him to be nothing but a living corpse. Even Umar failed to evince a response from him. He wondered, sadly, whether he recognized him at all.

Sunil Kumar was the older son of “Sharma Tauji”. He was now married, with two children of his own. His wife, Suneeta, was very good with her hands and particularly good at crochet. She often got and executed orders for crocheted items from various companies that sold them further. What she earned from this was her pocket money. Besides other items, one of the items she often got orders for was white skull caps. The skull caps worn by Salim and his family were always made and gifted to them by her.

Umar learnt from Sunil that a couple of days before the riots broke out, two youths from different communities had committed the ‘sin’ of loving each other without first checking on their respective religions! Sunil narrated what had happened. “A boy from our community and a girl from yours” —he paused here and pondered over a thought which had just struck him. Voicing it, he said “ These communities are hardly mine or yours, Umar. I think people who think like you and I, are from a different community altogether. And sadly, the numbers in this community seem to be depleting.”

With a resigned sigh, he continued, “The young couple had eloped from the nearby slum where they both lived. A man-hunt for them began. A group of hooligans on this job were passing by our service lane. They barged into our house. It would have been the end of us but for the pile of skull caps which had been kept ready to be packed and delivered by Suneeta. She had the presence of mind to gift one to each one of them. They all gladly wore them instantly, without a thought as to the peace and humility that the caps are meant to signify. Anyhow, it seemed to throw them off balance; enough, thankfully, to leave us alone and exit.”

“I hope that will shut up your relatives who used to disapprove of Bhabhi ji making skull caps for “them”, remarked Umar.

“This group did not bother your family,'' continued Sunil. However, hardly an hour later, almost as on cue, another group wearing saffron scarves and brandishing long sticks and knives arrived at your house. They entered from the living room, stopping short to stare at the many pictures adorning its walls. The pictures were of the many occasions- the Saraswati pujan, the Diwali pujan, the bhajan sandhya, the jaagran, the kirtan- all those occasions when you had played the flute for us. Remember how Babuji always made two copies - one for you and one for us? “Not only capturing but framing happy memories, '' he used to say. And your mother never failed to find a place for them on your walls.” These pictures confused the intruders. One of them entered the kitchen. As luck would have it, that day our meal consisted of only vegetarian fare, sent across to us by your bhabhi, on the occasion of your birthday. Yes, we still celebrate not just yours, Amar, but all our birthdays together, like in old times.”

Touched, tears brimmed Umar’s eyes. Sunil, to lighten the moment, quickly added, “ Yes, so all the food in our kitchen that day was “ghaas-phoos” like your father liked to jokingly call what vegetarians eat, to tease his friend, my father!”

“Coming back to that horrific day,“ continued the good neighbour, “ apparently disappointed, they decided to leave, and go and find a more ‘deserving’ victim for their wrath. But not before randomly ransacking and throwing our belongings all over the road. How could they have gone away without leaving their mark? They constantly ranted the air with chants of the names of their Gods, though, honestly, it sounded spine-chilling and devilish rather than praises of the Almighty!’

“Then how did this happen, Sunil?” asked Umar with anguish, pointing to the burnt debris that was once his home.

“By the following day, riots had broken out in other parts of the town as well. You know how these things spread like wildfire. The very next day, the raging crowds from both sides reached our lane too and in their frenzy picked on houses randomly and burnt them to ashes.”

Umar continued to stay with the Sharmas. It was his second home after all. They joined ranks with him in trying to soothe Salim out of his stupor. They arranged for doctors\therapists\’hakims’ to visit him, conducted a ‘havan’ for him, and procured ‘prasad’ from holy places that were known to have curative/magical properties. But all their efforts failed and Salim continued to remain in his impenetrable shell. One day, when Umar was going out to bring in yet one more doctor to see his brother, he glanced at the idol of Lord Krishna in the little alcove in the Sharma’s living room. He noticed a flute lying next to it. He recognized it as his own. Nostalgia washed over him as he remembered playing it on so many occasions in this house. On a whim, he picked it up and after sending out a small prayer to Allah, he started playing his brother’s favourite ‘bhajan’ on it. The melody wafted through the house like a breath of fresh air, carrying with it reminiscences of happy times gone by, times which seemed to have gotten lost in the cloud of morbidity that had engulfed the small town ever since the ghastly riots. Soon other members of the household joined him in front of the idol and started singing the ‘bhajan’, swaying to its rhythm as the soothing refrain from the flute engulfed the room.

When he was halfway through the rendering, Umar heard a shuffling of feet from the corridor connecting the living room to the rear of the house. He turned to look, and lo and behold, there was his frail brother making his way towards him! He could hardly believe his eyes. With tears flowing down his cheeks, he ran towards him and hugged him passionately. Salim’s face was still expressionless, his eyes seemingly unseeing. After freeing himself from his brother’s tight embrace, he reached for his flute and motioned to him to play it again. It was the first sign of any emotion in Salim since the dreadful tragedy.

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