Is it because I am a Muslim?

This piece is written by Areeb Nabi (BA LLB 2026). The author wishes to thank Lakshmi Nambiar and Pravidhi Rawat for their inputs. The illustration is by Pravidhi Rawat (BA LLB 2026).

If you know me, there is a good chance that I would have asked you the question, “Is it because I’m a Muslim?” For the longest time, I was unsure of why I even said this. It was just one of the jokes that I made that had a good success rate with laughter. What I do know is that it started around the time I started law school. 

Lakshmi had once come to my house. My mom was busy with something and asked me to serve her some water. In classic Areeb fashion, I asked her, "Is it because I'm a Muslim?". Yes, I know. That question does not make sense. It is the stupidity of this joke that makes it so funny. I love saying this to my mother. Usually, she gets a little annoyed, sometimes a little concerned. Once she asked, "Why do you keep making your Muslim jokes? You know, na, your Muslimness does not define you? Is there something troubling you?” That day she smiled at Lakshmi and said, “He makes muslim jokes a lot, it's his way of dealing with everything that is happening.”

In a lot of ways, I do not know what it is to be a Muslim. What does that mean? As my friend Dhruv once said, "Areeb is the most useless Muslim you would meet." No, he was not referring to my inability to blow things up but about how little I knew of my own religion. We had gone to Nizamuddin for the famous qawwali, and Dhruv buzzed with questions: “Why do Muslims cover their heads? How come women are allowed in this Mosque? Why does everyone want to go to the central room? What does doing the Namaz 5 times a day signify?”

I did not know. You see, I never was the religious kind. My parents tried to make me read the Quran by getting a Maulana Sahab. While my cousins fast outpaced me, I rebelled with small acts of defiance. I dragged my lessons and asked all sorts of nonsensical questions (if Allah was real, why didn't I get an Xbox?). From time to time, I even gave him ice-cold water to make him cough. My nanna ensured that I knew some Kalma's (prayers), but beyond that, I do not know much. I was the typical young, ‘I am too cool for religion, I believe in logic’ kind. My distance with religion probably started when my brand new Lightning McQueen Crocs got stolen from outside the Mosque. I was a furious 5-year-old. When I looked at the small grey chappals, I was red-faced. My nana made me sit on someone's cycle since the chappals did not fit me. I reached home, and I ran straight to my mom. I could not stop crying. How could someone steal at the place of god? 

I joked to my religious friend, Gulfisha, "You know, if my Crocs did not get stolen, I would probably be religious today." She laughed and asked me to shut up.

I smile sometimes when people reach out to me to ask if I am doing okay. Of course, I think, my hurt is nothing compared to others. I think of the time when my Kashmiri friend was called a stone pelter. I think of my little sister, who, in sixth grade, was called a pakistani. I think of my Muslim batchmate, who was forced to chant Jai Shree Ram outside the campus. I think of my young mother, who survived a lonely night in Aligarh when a mob rioted the town. I think of our Muslim driver and househelp, who have to live in Gurgaon amidst threats of exile by Hindu mobs. Naturally, I laugh at my “hurt”. My privilege shielding me from so much worse. 

But it still hurts sometimes. It hurt when the Maulana Sahab of my masjid in Gurgaon was killed. I have never felt terror like this. I always thought, not here. In some senses, I always felt like I belonged? I am the same as these people. We all give the bc's and dc’s of gaalis in the same tone. "Bsdk Chup Kr'' comes a bit too naturally to us. We equally love Dilli ki Sardi mai dhoop. Thus, it becomes impossible to imagine hate, in a place that has given me so much love. I feared when I saw videos of familiar men asking reporters to leave Gurgaon. My stomach dropped when my Uber Driver called his just gone Afghani customers, terrorists. He was happy they left, "Acha hua ye chale gaye, pata nahi Arabic mai kya atankwadi batein kar rahe thai ''. (Good that they went; I don't know what terrorist talk they were having in Arabic). Could he figure out by my name in the Uber app that I also was a Muslim? Communal hate was something we just talked about. Some far-off things in the past. Like how my parents would tell me about 2002 in Gujrat. Past. Riots in 1992. Past. The Partition, 1947. The past. Surely not here, not now?

So, it was strange to me when my mother gave survival tips for a mob. I was insistent that I get to meet my friend in Delhi when communal violence tore through Delhi’s east. My mother reluctantly agreed but made me promise that I was not to say my name, and if anyone asked, my name would be Dhruv. Presumably, A Hindu name for a Hindu mob. I chuckled internally, what if I were to be stopped by a Muslim mob? Lol. Would they not appreciate an Areeb Nabi more than a Dhruv Kumar? 

It is strange to feel like a minority in your own country. And I call myself a minority in the numerical sense. I am acutely aware that my mother's fear does not only belong to only Muslim mothers. My Hindu friends have been asked to not say Jai Shree Ram; one never knows what response one will get. After all, are we also not a country in which Kashmiri Pandits were forced into exile? Or what about the murder of a Hindu tailor in Rajasthan? My liberal friends tell me that statistically, the violence against Muslims is growing. In some senses, I remain unconvinced. Does this mean my Hindu friends don't feel fear? When was fear measured statistically anyway? I feel strange in situating my own fears in comparison with my Hindu companions. Perhaps fitting for the times.   

Sometimes it is disappointing to be a muslim. Why are my sister and mother not allowed in our neighbourhood mosque during Eid? Why did Eid begin for them when us menfolk returned from the Mosque? Or why is my sister the only one asked to dress appropriately out of the two of us? It is well known that I am by far the less presentable. As a self-proclaimed constitution lover, you can well imagine my shock when I found out some cities in the middle east bar entry to all non-muslims. Not just the premises of some temple or Mosque but the whole town. Seemingly 21st century capitalism does not forget your religion. 

Let me not paint a picture that it always sucks to be a Muslim. There are indeed many benefits. I liked it when my classmate came up to me in seventh grade and asked if I knew Urdu. She told me about how she had been watching Pakistani TV serials and how she thinks the language is very romantic. I blushed. I like that the most distasteful of my relatives hate the same politicians as me. I love the food in Muslim households. At one point of time, I dated my muslim friend Gulfisha. I remain grateful for my Muslimness: it got us closer to each other. In fact I asked her to thank me for being a Muslim. She obviously thought I was being stupid.  

I also admit now that I like making people uncomfortable when I make my Muslim jokes. When members of your community try to erase my muslim identity; the least you could do is squirm about your religious privilege. In some senses, I am grateful that at least I am not an upper-caste straight Hindu Man. I would not have any minority points. At least I have one now :). 

Finally, I love the laughs I get for my Muslim jokes. The ability to make someone laugh is the greatest gift. There is pure joy and adrenaline rush upon someone else's laughter. I imagine them forgetting about their worries, if only fleetingly (This article is definitely not an attempt for you to be more sympathetic and laugh more at my jokes). Somewhere, I hope even if some of my friends do not agree politically with me, perhaps they could still laugh at my stupid jokes. In that sense, if only for a moment we could laugh together, could we possibly also coexist together? Maybe not in perfect harmony, but in a peaceful, respectful coexistence? 

What I am trying to say is that, yes, my friend, Shruti is right. I do, indeed, deal with everything in my life with jokes. Bad CGPA? Grades do not matter. Bad Breakup? Ex does not matter. Bad Day? My life does not matter xD. It makes sense then that my Muslim jokes are my everything: my anger and my joy. My ignorance and my humour. My terror and my hope. My hope for an India more embracing of its diversity. My hope for an India where every individual can live with dignity. My hope for an India that embodies fraternity. But most importantly, my hope for more laughs.