Man, by virtue of his extreme Intelligence, has created so many ways and means for his survival. One of those ways is religion. By following a particular religion, he is creating a strong group that he uses to fight other groups that are loyal to other religions. In India, there was a near civil war between two major religions during Independence, due to Partition. Its effects were terrible when thousands of innocent people were massacred on both sides. While the effects were very severe in northern India, it was not so in the south. There is still the great threat of caste divisions that cause deep-seated animosity between people. After the Ayodhya dispute, communal violence spread across India. But these communal differences did not affect the true friendship of two schoolchildren. This is the story of those two students who had a friendship and affection that crossed the barriers of religion and the bond was transmitted to future generations.

THE HISTORY:

‘Guru Prasad’ was the name given to me by my father Viswanatha Iyer when I was born. My father had a candy stand that, although small, attracted customers from all over. Viswanatha Iyer sweets were popular across the country. Being a very orthodox Hindu Brahmin, he used to worship Guru (Master). For Hindus, the order of reverence is mother, father, Master (Guru) and finally God. Brahmins especially are in the habit of worshiping Master even above God because they are the dispensers of all bliss and knowledge. They are the real guides for devotees to reach the lotus feet of God. That’s why they called me Guruprasad, which means ‘Gift of Master’. Soon my name was shortened to Guru by friends and relatives except my parents who preferred to call me by my full name until they died.

“Guru, it’s time to go to school, leave immediately,” my mother would yell from inside the kitchen, which was her usual way of giving instructions. “OK amma”, saying that I started to go to school, carrying my school bag. I was ten minutes late. My friend would be waiting for me at the corner of the street. I soon joined him.

“Sorry Meeran, I’m late.” We walk as fast as possible. Yes, he was a Muslim by the name of Abdul Meeran, who was shot like Meeran. He belonged to a very orthodox Muslim family who prayed in the mosque five times a day. His father owned a bakery. It was very strange for our people to witness a Brahmin boy with a ‘lock’ on the back of his head and holy ash on his head walking hand in hand with a Muslim boy with a ‘kulla’ (cap) on his head. The people in our neighborhood could not stomach the fact that a Brahmin would accept a Muslim as his best friend and vice versa. Without thinking about his discontent, our friendship grew more dense day by day. It was only because of Meeran’s excellent character, his intelligence and his understanding of the subjects that I considered that I was very lucky to befriend him. We used to share ranks with each other on alternate exams and didn’t let anyone else break our records.

Our place was a semi-urban center with a population of about two lakhs. Most of the perverse effects of modernization had not yet reached that town. Yet people were frowning at us and saying, “Look, this orthodox Brahmin boy is holding hands with a Muslim boy. This is Kalyug and a sign of destruction.” Paying no attention, we walked fast and arrived at the school when the bell rang.

It seems that our class teacher had entered the class in advance. We entered the class right on time and the class teacher was waiting for all the students to take their assigned seats. “Welcome friends, are you coming slowly seeing all the movie posters?” he commented sarcastically. We both walked in with a shy face. I took my front row seat and Meeran the back row seat, as always.

After the regular lesson ended, the teacher announced, “Look, students, you should come to school cautiously tomorrow. There will be a dharna (protest) in front of our school by some political parties. Be careful and if you can’t stop come in, you can go home.”

We were stumped. Later, my father told me over dinner, “My son, this is against some castes, especially us Brahmins. They plan to cut the locks and ‘Poonul’ (sacred chest thread) as a protest against the Brahmins.”

I was worried. But he was determined to go to school.

The next morning, as usual, Meeran and I arrived at the school. Fortunately, only a handful of protesters were there, shouting slogans against the gods and the Brahmins. Only one policeman was posted for security.

My teacher came and told us: “Don’t risk it, leave, go home immediately.”

We started our journey to return.

It was my bad luck that two protesters saw me.

“Look, here is a Brahmin boy. Grab him.”

They approached me. I started to shake. People looked helpless.

“You idiot Brahmin, why should you have a forelock? Why should you have a cross strand? Is it for insulting us? Do you want to prove that we are inferior to you? No, it can never be.” He roared and pulled me to his side and hugged me tight. He forcibly removed my shirt in such a way that he was standing bare-chested. His fellow protester took out a pair of scissors in his hand and approached me with a menacing look. Although there were dozens of people around me, no one came forward to help.

The next moment, the scissors should have cut my sacred thread, but a sharp blow to his hand made him throw the scissors away and scream in severe pain.

The blow was delivered by my friend Meeran. I was amazed to see his ‘Viswaroopam’ (magnificent gigantic gaze) who was otherwise a calm personality.

“Hey, what is this? You are a Muslim. Why are you fighting for a Hindu?”

Meeran’s response was “get out of here or I’ll kill you”.

They were ready for a fight. But the sound of the siren indicated the arrival of the police van and the violent protesters fled the scene.

Meeran walked me home. Seeing that she was crying, my parents were shocked. They then came to know the sequence of events. My father told him, “Meeran, you have not saved my son’s life alone, but you have saved the prestige of our religion.” Saying this, he gave him some packets of sweets and said goodbye to him.

My friendship with him continued for only another four years. After completing the school final exam, he went to Kolkata and joined a university there. I later learned that he became an IPS officer and joined the Police service.

Some tragic events happened in our family. My father died due to a massive heart attack at the age of 50. At the age of two, my mother went to her heavenly abode. I had to drop out of school and took over my ancestral estates and the candy stall.

Times have changed a lot. The incidents in Ayodhya, in which a mosque was demolished to make way for a Ram temple, have renewed the Hindu-Muslim enmity across the country with more vigor and heat. There was clear animosity between the two sects and in my town, they moved to a separate colony outside of town. Since that day we do not know what happened to the people in that area.

Even a small fight will spark a big riot. Our place was declared a sensitive area in communal violence by the Government.

Despite the vigil, communal violence broke out again. It was reported that a boy from one religion eloped with a girl from the other. The stores were set on fire. Nearly a dozen people on both sides were killed in the senseless violence.

He was sitting in the store. There were no customers and I was alone. I saw a boy running to my store in a complete panic.

“Lord please save me, they are coming to kill me”

I observed that it was a Muslim boy. The noise of the frantic people chasing him was clearly audible from the next lane.

There was no time to think. I asked him to come into my store.

In five minutes the crowd arrived at my house.

“Ayyar, did you notice someone from the nulla (Muslim settlement) coming in here?”

I did not answer. They looked around the store.

Only one boy was taking his position on the stairs arranging the sweet packets. Seeing the holy thread on his chest and back, a hooligan declared, “Hey, he’s a Brahmin, leave him alone.”

“Where could he go? We won’t let him live. We’ll look elsewhere.”

They left.

The boy went down the stairs.

“Thank you sir, you have adorned me with the sacred thread, removing it from your body, which no Brahmin dared to do and thus saved me. My entire family is in your debt. Allow me to bid you farewell sir “. He started walking.

I stopped him and asked him: “Where are you going?”

“To my colony sir” he replied.

“Don’t go alone, they will track you down and kill you. I’ll take you on my two wheels”

He took the back seat and I drove my scooter to his house, which was a settlement of fifteen years, almost three miles away. I could see a lot of devastation along the entire route.

“Sir, this is my place, I’ll go down, sir”

I saw that your people guarded the colony like a fortress with weapons.

“Okay. Come down”

After he got off, I asked him “What’s your name?”

“Sir, Abdul Meeran”

I was shocked. With little faith I asked him “Are you related to Abdul Meeran IPS?”

“Yes sir, I’m your big sound.”

They took me back. “Are you, really?” In utter disbelief I struggled for words

“Where is he now?”

“Sir, he was killed in an ambush with terrorists in North India, sir. After his death, we moved to this place.”

My heart broke. What a pity! The communal division did not allow me to know the supreme sacrifice that my dear friend made for the country.

At least I was able to save his grandson’s life by worshiping him with the sacred thread and making him a Brahmin for a while.

Abdul Meeran, the boy I saved, could not understand why his savior tearfully paid him a royal salute.

That was my tribute to a great friend who fought for the underdogs, until the end.