The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh ecosystem mass-manufactures a simplistic and dangerous story about the Partition of India: that evil Muslims who hated India “broke it” into two, killing millions of Hindus in the process.
This fiction erases—and therefore absolves—the British Empire and the Hindu Mahasabha of their role in Partition and in the idea that India had to be broken. Curzon famously wrote, “Bengal united is a power; Bengali divided will pull in several different ways,” making clear that religious division was a weapon to weaken the Congress and the freedom movement.
This fiction ignores a fundamental fact. Communalism broke India. Communalism was stoked by the Hindu Mahasabha, the Muslim League and the British, leading to India's partition. Better known across all of Pakistan and all of North India in one word: batwaara (division).
Doosra Batwaara
In 2024, the state governments of Uttar Pradesh and Uttarakhand issued orders to street vendors to display their names, with the objective that Muslim vendors are identified and Hindus do not buy from them. Mercifully, these orders were stayed by India's Supreme Court.
The Bajrang Dal and other political heirs of the Hindu Mahasabha, however, implement them unofficially. In Uttarakhand, on India's Republic Day this year, Bajrang Dal members accosted Vakil Ahmed, the 70-year-old owner of a shop named Baba School Dress and demanded that Ahmed remove or replace the word 'Baba'. The etymology of the word or evidence of its use by people across religions is irrelevant.
The objective of this exercise is twofold: economic boycott and inflicting the pain of humiliation. It is to communicate that even though the law doesn't stop you from choosing this name, you have no rights here. The unsaid—sometimes said—part is, “Go to Pakistan.”
Go to Pakistan was the message that united the British, Hindu Mahasabha and Muslim League. It united Jinnah, Savarkar, and Shyama Prasad Mukherjee. Go to Pakistan was the fire they lit and recklessly played with. It led to India's partition.
The Video As Righteousness
Once upon a time, the recording of a crime on video would be something done by a witness or an extortionist. The video itself was evidence. Evidence of a crime must be destroyed. If the State found out, it would act punitively.
That is not so anymore.
The act of making a video is now an assertion of righteousness and communication to both society and the State—mobilise and protect me. Indians committing hate crimes, including murder, have recorded the act on camera and shared it on the Internet willingly, knowing well that this act will result in a host of rewards—social capital, applause, wealth and maybe even a half-decent career in politics.
This is a temptation difficult to resist in a country where graduates and post-graduates are increasingly turning to "gig-work" doing delivery for tech platforms.
At Vakil Ahmed’s shop, a bystander objects to the old man being harassed and says, what's your problem? They say it's the name of the shop—he should change it. He then points to other shops with the same name. The group's response—those are Hindu shops. When he asks, so what's the problem with being a Muslim?
Then comes the clincher from the Bajrang Dal mob. "Pehle bata tera naam kya hai" (first tell us what your name is). In this context, this question does a lot of work. It contains an attempt to ascertain the power balance. The moment it is asked, you know that if the answer is Abdul Khan, his fate will be sealed.
The group posing the question will immediately ease up and feel confident about bullying him. If the answer is Govind Mishra, the result will be confusion and perhaps persuasion. This reaction, the ease or the confusion, is instructive not only about the dynamic between the parties in conflict here but also about State support and social sanction.
You will find evidence of this in incidents where a Hindu has been "accidentally" lynched (here and here), and the murderers express remorse, saying, we thought he was Muslim. In this worldview, the morality and logic of violence against a Muslim is self-evident.
Deepak, The Light
The light in Deepak's answer is as extraordinary as it is banal, as is the darkness of the question put to him. When he says "Mera naam Mohammad Deepak hai" (My name is Mohammad Deepak),” he defeats the logic of the question posed to him and renders it irrelevant. You know that the answer has, at least briefly, stunned the person asking, when they repeat, "Mohammad Deepak hai aapka naam." They need a moment to process it. This is why it is extraordinary.
It is banal because it reclaims the foundational logic of the Indian Republic. "Hindu-Muslim-Sikh-Isaai, aapas mein sab bhai bhai (Hindu-Muslim-Sikh-Christian, all are brothers)," was not an extraordinary thing to say between 1950 and 2014. It is banal because it is the credo with which millions of Indians have always lived and continue to live even now.
It feels extraordinary not only because of the current socio-political moment, but also because in saying it, Deepak reminds us—it really is this simple. This reminder is not only to politics, to activism, to society, but also to the State. What my name is shouldn’t matter. The only thing that should matter is whether the act is right or wrong. Constitutional or Unconstitutional. Humane or cruel.
The Hindu Mahasabha and the Muslim League were united in believing that one’s primary identity is one’s religion. India rejected this argument in 1950 and insisted, as Deepak does today, that one’s religious identity is irrelevant. The contestation in India today is between those who want to bring about doosra batwaara and those who want to keep India united.
Ye kahaani hai diye ki aur toofaan ki. This is a story of the lamp and the storm.
(Dushyant Arora is a lawyer and writer based in Mumbai.)
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