Story: Seeing through the Lacerated Veil of the Campus Politics
There is an obliquity of idealism in human history. Biographies, autobiographies and historical records of knights, heroes and champions are replete with it, teaching us how these walls of idealism were kept intact and held grounds for revolution. But again history is nothing but a narcissistic impersonation of survivors. Very little light is cast on how these individuals turned into realists and recalled their basic instincts of reflexes for survival. The story of our Amaan is no different.
Amaan was expected to achieve excellence and not make peace with mediocrity. He was born into a family which spelled out with distinctive brutal clarity that he was not supposed to compromise on his ambitions, the same as his uncle, Mr. Zeeshan Abidi, who even amidst the greatest waves of polarization and in the teeth of the most terrifying odds, had achieved the monumental dignity of preserving a parliamentary seat in Begusarai, the place of Dinkar, on a communist party ticket.
Amaan was schooled at a prestigious institute in Lucknow, but when he walked through the lanes of the Aligarh Muslim University campus, he could feel the preponderance of its legends over history of any empire ever established. He thought that although the Taj Mahal’s extravagance testified the worth of people’s blood and toil, the red bricks of AMU projected the intellectual capability, platonic manifestation of affection and sacrifice of older generations. He ruminated on how the predecessors had cultivated devotion for this place.
He was in his first year of graduation studying philosophy, surviving in a room at Chungi, which always seemed to be overcrowded with pseudointellectuals. He was only two months into college when his father asked him about his time and acquaintance with the place, and all that he could muster was an expression of inquisitiveness and boredom in a new place with no friends.
One of his uncles asked him to see a Hazrat, who was pursuing a Masters degree in Sociology.
Hazrat was a good friend of Amaan's Mamujaan. When Amaan met Hazrat, he was immediately appointed as a courtier at Hazrat’s “haveli” in Aftab hostel. It was a great sigh of relief for Amaan to be among people again and by the time his first semester ended he loved Hazrat's company to bits.
Amaan was a voracious consumer of news but was an average student who loved to read and was mostly occupied with magazines and mobile games. When he came to Aligarh, the thing he found most amusing, among others, was the hysteria around “Assalamualaikum”. He asked Hazrat about its relevance while having dinner at the Sai Dhaba at Tasveer Mahal.
Hazrat stared at him and burst into a loud guffaw.
“Assalamualaikum is the nucleus of classic Aligarh relationship and tradition; it is a translation of respect. A lot has happened around Assalamualaikum; juniors have been bullied, harassed and thrashed mercilessly. People who have refrained from giving the salutation have been labelled as arrogant. Precisely, it's a sign of might for some and a signature of weakness for those who believe in self-importance. Its anatomy has many attributes. For decades it has been an instrument to decide the seniority of students. There are few who understand and believe in the concept of "Peace be upon you". Here in Aligarh, Zill-e-ilahi or Jahapanah is correspondent to Assalamualaikum. For most, it's just a word of affection and belonging, or an initiation of everlasting brotherly love. It’s also a warning for those who receive excessive salutations, to look into their inner self and have a serious introspection of the newfound socio-political extravagance, but usually they get rather lost in the seemingly new spotlight. This is an outrageous truth that needs to be expressed shamelessly.” Hazrat said with a smile.
Amaan was very interested about various things which were peculiar to Hazrat and he was never discouraged for his nosiness. It was one of the qualities of Hazrat that he would indulge Amaan’s innocuous inquisitiveness without any judgement. This absence of judgement was the ladder of love for Amaan. Hazrat was also a great storyteller and humour came pretty natural to him.
Every night, Hazrat's room would host an assembly of posers and mavericks and over puffs of cigarettes they discussed everything, ranging from "How Salafism is better than Barelvism" to "Why there is a Dalit, Jat and Yadav movement but no Muslim political movement.” But as the night went on, the self-important grandeur of the supposed intellect of these individuals in the end gave way to the humbling ruminations of the heart; and the meetings often adjourned as the lyrics of the famous Alig and poet Shakeel Badayuni summed up:
Kisi ne zikr-e-wafa kiya jab....
Zubaan pe tera hi naam aaya....
The only help Amaan could provide his seniors was Assalamoalaikum—ing and fetching them water. His indulgence in all the intellectual, emotional and absurd whatabouteries was supposedly enlightening, but not for him.
Hazrat was preparing for the civil services but at the same time he was well connected with the happenings at Aligarh. One night, when they were walking back to their room, Amaan asked him about the euphoria over being an Alig and the pride associated with it.
“It's natural you see!” Hazrat exclaimed.
“But isn't it true that the students take false pride and give themselves hollow assurances when they're doing nothing significant?” Amaan retorted.
“It's their love for the varsity, dear,” he remarked.
“When you are not honest in doing what you're meant to do, isn't it obnoxious and fake to live in a fool’s paradise and think you're better than the others?” Amaan said.
“Aligarh has ceased to be the Versailles of manners and the Mecca of education, but no one can question its quotient of richness even today. It thrives on its humongous roots dug deep into the baronial soil and its numerous old branches forming towering canopies, and one only realizes this when one leaves Aligarh. In every department, one can find several doyens who hardly give a thought to university politics. They mostly remain silent and only speak when asked, which in turn leaves a sense of decadence to the collective intellectual space,” Hazrat spoke vehemently. “Do you have a problem with this tag?”
“Of course not, brother” Amaan said, “I just think we are better than that. I haven't even completed my gestation period at Aligarh but I still feel it’s irrelevant to be proud of something you have not contributed to, yet.”
Hazrat was silent for a while. He opened his mouth as if to rebuke him, but changed his mind. “You will eventually fall in love Amaan, it's infectious and nobody has ever resisted.”
By the time his first year ended, Amaan came to the conclusion that AMU students were a strange breed. They throng from different parts of the world into this melting pot to converge and constitute a distinct breed that remains distinct, unlike other ethnic groups that constitute India. Their agreements and disagreements were as similar as any across the length and breadth of Northern India.
When he came back after his summer vacations he started to know about Marhoom, who was a frequent visitor at Hazrat's court. Amaan loved the insights that Marhoom's words provided and admired his ability to delve into the current socio-political situations in great detail. Soon he began to hang around listening to the sentinels of culture and education. He felt like he was exposed to a new medium of information. It was an attack on his understanding of how the world worked and he realized Aligarh was not only about chai, matri and regional politics. He started listening to the Habibs, the Alvis, the Farooquis, the Begs, the Haques, the Kidwais and the endless cannons of wisdom. Every time he visited a talk he used to feel how narrow his views were. He had a new interest now, Urdu; he loved prose more than poetry.
In his third semester, Amaan befriended Subhan, a hostel-mate at the Mohsinul Mulk Hall who happened to be a student of political science as a subsidiary. He mostly wore Che Guevara T-shirts and frequently missed his classes unlike Amaan, but never missed any of the rallies, public speeches, protests or dharnas. All in all, he was everywhere. He was not only a self-proclaimed communist but also a well-read man. Nonetheless, he knew he never missed his tahajjud.
Once, while he was delivering a sermon on Mao, Amaan interrupted him,
“Whom do you admire more, Subhan? Marx or Mohammad (PBUH)?”
Subhan's happy looking face turned pale and tears started to gather at the corners of his eyes. It became difficult for him to hide his emotions.
"I am so sorry! It was wrong of me to ask such a question,” Amaan failingly tried to pacify the situation.
Subhan could not meet his eyes.
“That's all for now.” he smiled nervously and vacated the chair lying in front of Amaan.
It took him around a month to convince Subhan that he wouldn't ask him such questions in the future. His apology was accepted and now they were going to college together.
Days went by, and now the demand for the Union elections was in the air. One day while having lunch with Hazrat, with a mix of miscalibrated emotion and limited knowledge, he asked, “One of my friends was saying that blood drips from the Union hall ceilings during the monsoons. Some were saying that the inefficient leaders who are still alive, their rooh roams mournfully around the lofty pillars, regretting what they did to their honourable positions. Others were saying that their treacherous heads and tongues hang in there. Is it so Hazrat?”
Giving him a goofy grin, Hazrat retorted, ‘I don’t know about all that, you need to see Marhoom to quench your curiosity’.
Later that evening, when Marhoom came to see Hazrat, Amaan bombarded him with the same questions. His face scrunched up with displeasure and he chided Amaan for talking nonsense. He advised him to be sincere in his studies and showed him the door to the reading room; but as he was about to leave, Marhoom took pity on him and told him that it was true that winning candidates did to student politics what the West had done to Persian poetry or they as humans had done to their environment. This statement was all Greek to Amaan, and dumbfounded, he resumed his course towards his books.
The next day, every wall was glued with ‘Vote, Support and Dua’ for the candidates. Every road was covered with leaflets. Every place was submerged with the thundering cacophony of Tempo high hai, Kyun pade ho chakkar mein and more such sloganeering. Amaan was confused with the change of personality he observed in Hazrat, who was now distant and became a man of few words. He would disappear for days on end and only surface to sleep. On one such night, Marhoom came to find him while drowsiness was coaxing Amaan toward deep slumber, and enquired where Mathadheesh was, which again, was a new word for him.
“Who is Mathadheesh?”
Marhoom meant Hazrat’s whereabouts.
“I haven't seen him in three days,” Amaan replied with his head hanging down.
It was Amaan’s fourth semester at college and by now he knew AMUSU elections was a blend of high drama, suspense, thrills, and enough romance to captivate the imagination of the new generation nurtured on a diet of westernized canvassing on social media platforms and desi deceits on the ground. He wanted to improve his talaffuz, his pronunciation; it was the core of appeasement. He had the content but was short on Urdu words.
From the experience of his first election at AMU he knew that casteism was not yet dead in AMU, like the rest of India, and its subtle presence could be seen in the supposedly chaste Urdu lingo. There was no denial of the fact that the concept of equality in Islam was highly engraved in the texts but it died once you stepped out of a mosque.
During the election campaign, Amaan went to the Women’s college with a presidential candidate. Sloganeering atop his lungs, distributing leaflets and paining trees with staplers. And that’s when he saw her. Her hands were pumping in the air chanting slogans, her Hum jeetenge more loud and confident than Amaan's Humara neta kaisa ho. He had seen her earlier speaking at a literary event, and this was the first time they were supporting different candidates for the same post.
She was clad from the tips of her toes to the bottom, her jugular notch in robes of various colours. A scarf sitting like a rose floret around her face; modest and unassuming, veiling her intellect. Amaan was familiar with her oratory skills and had already fallen victim to her prowess as a public speaker, and now, seeing her in her full glory, he knew she was anything but. He had tried meeting her as he was given to believe that she must be studying Urdu or Persian but again it didn't matter. She was exceptionally beautiful in articulation. Over the din of the rally, he managed to get her name: Tehmina Rahman.
The next time when he saw her hosting a programme at the Arts Faculty lounge, he mustered up the courage to talk to her. Weaving through the throng of participants leaving the hall after the event, he approached her, but as he got up close, his rehearsed lines melted away and all he could utter was; “Can you suggest some good books in Urdu for beginners?” She stopped what she was doing and turned to face him.
"I’m Tehmina, nice to meet you," she said with an amused smile.
“Yes, sorry, and I’m Amaan” Well, that was embarrassing.
“Sadly I don't know much about Urdu, and I like the way you play with Persianised Urdu idioms, so I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction and help a fellow out?” He was now rambling, getting redder by the second.
She continued to gaze at him steadily, trying to assess him. Then suddenly, as if making her mind up, she said, "I’ll do you one better, here you go" and gave him a leaflet she fished out of her bag. Amaan was still processing what had happened, when she walked past him out of the hall, got on her scooty, and sped away, leaving him alone in the cavernous space. He looked down at the piece of paper he was clutching and smoothed it out. She had asked him to join an Urdu forum. ‘So I didn’t completely mess it up,’ he smiled to himself, relieved.
When he attended one of her forums, it was as if a lamp had been illuminated. He knew he had come to the right place to quench his thirst. He came to appreciate Tehmina even more as time went on. She was one year junior to him, studying English Literature and Linguistics and he couldn't believe that she was trilingual. She was so well-read that every time they conversed she compulsively related his words with quotes from a Victorian novel. He hung on to her every word and realized he didn't like or love her; he revered her.
Gradually they started exchanging books; and by the time he graduated he had read the common Afsana and Inshaiya and major works of Rasheed Ahmad, Manto, Krishna Chandra, Qurratul A'in, Premchand, Ruswa and many more. Among them, he liked Faiz and Sahirs poetry the most. In return, Tehmina thanked him for gifting her Toni Morrison, Virginia Woolf, Orwell and Kafka and even compelled her to read Rushdie.
One particular starry night, Amaan was gossiping at the VM Hall canteen when he saw a stout, sherwani-clad man showcasing his Sunni theology degree, which, according to him, promised him his place amongst them, by the grace of the Merciful, the All-Knowing. He thanked Allah SWT as he wouldn't require anything else, in case he was to contest. He was happy for two reasons: that he was not a disbeliever and was not required to show his firqa certificate.
One day, while strolling in the premises of the Arts faculty, Amaan asked Hazrat, “Why is it that everybody has a negative perception of the Union? At the very least they represent us and the student community gets a position to declare in the University.”
Hazrat was tight-lipped for a few minutes, but then he said, “Since it’s an institutional body, the leaders must at least be representatives of the intelligentsia and calibre of that class and ideally must have a better intellectual grasp over their subjects”
“But the leaders are chosen by the students, so why do they fail to elect good people?” Amaan reiterated.
“Look, when individuals are morally corrupt in any society they are bound to choose someone like-minded. When you are immoral there are chances you will pick someone as vile as yourself. Also, when he who yields power is mostly decided either by he who yields a katta or by influencers and their minions, it does not matter what the personal opinions of individual students are; they will go whichever direction the wind sways. And hence, a corrupt system always begets corruption. It’s not the administration, it’s we who allow the bullies to get away with it, are to be blamed.”
“But what is the way out?” Amaan’s voice was filled with concern.
“Reform!” Hazrat smiled.
“What kind of reform?” Amaan further inquired.
“Moral reform. Our instinctive morality is the only way towards a revolution. I mean, the psychological revolution”, Hazrat answered.
“And how do we go about it?”
“Many individuals or so-called activists have sought to generate public debates on various decisions taken by the administration, and have even exercised their hegemony for mass mobilization by shaping public opinion according to their own perceived notions, but some interesting things emerge when the same officeholders of the Union start demonizing and trivializing various issues. Most of the time the pact is under the table between the student representatives and the administration, and nobody questions their hollow cleverness and moral bankruptcy. Many student activists have been beaten up by the office bearing goons because of something they wrote on social media” Hazrat reiterated.
“That's a bloody sick mentality”, Amaan stated.
“On the bright side, we have witnessed some really smart chair holders too,” Hazrat cheerfully claimed, “very seldom though,” he added under his breath.
“But do you know who the worst of them are?”
“I don't”
“The influencers!” Hazrat exclaimed.
“Why?” An even more confused Amaan asked.
“Amongst the greatest bastards and hypocrites who have walked the earth, the worst are the influencers in these elections. They know everything but are firm practitioners of intellectual dishonesty and flow in the river of moral crisis. There are no qualms about their sharp wit, charm and street-smartness, but if you scratch a layer you will find a rotten heart and a wicked mind.
Personally, I don't see a problem in criticizing government policies and talking about various corruption issues, but sometimes you do feel like your own fingers are dipped in blood. The office bearers talk about every scam and scandal but never bat an eye to the self-finance admissions as there, they too are partners in crime. Hundreds of students get admitted every year, not on the basis of their academic merit but by the potent culture of jugaad of the chair-holders, who make a lot of money in the process. If the same cycle of corruption continues you'll definitely find graduation and masters evening classes thrown in as well.”
“The other major failure the Union, as a pressure group, faces, is that it always plays in the hands of various 'stakeholders', these are the individuals stronger than the influencers. They have a hand in the administration as well and are the primary reason that the jurisdiction of the Union has been limited to just a few admissions during their hold on power. These admissions are known to have watered more sherwanis than the monsoon itself.” In a sinusoidal tone, Hazrat vented his heart out.
Later that evening, when Amaan narrated Hazrat's view to Marhoom, he was further enlightened that most of the legal work is done by the students themselves and the role of the Union is only when it comes to illegal activities. They also lack in their approach as they only touch upon Muslim issues, whereas they need to understand that this country has a plethora of other problems plaguing the society, like the interests of farmers and backwards communities. Their mere expression of vague solidarity sprinkled here and there in their speeches just washes over their audience, not settles into their minds. They definitely need to do more.
Days went by, and before he knew it, he was in his fifth semester. One day, as he was struggling to get to his department, he found the main gate of the University, the Bab-e-Syed closed.
In his early days, he had seen how the road leading up to that gate would become a natural habitat of leaders, who, in the pretext of helping the general students, blocked it whenever they felt like it. Today, he listened to the tranquillizing hum of the wind whispering around the spotless white canopies positioned by the netas around the towering structure of red stone and concrete, under which many souls had been sold or bargained with unimaginable cash or promised with jobs at the university. Suddenly, the microphones started up with a roar of ferocious agitation of the dharna. He was pressed between thousands of students swarming like ants around him for their periodical ear drops of wisdom and thunderous speeches, which constituted mainly of verses from Faiz and Jalib, who, ironically, were hated for their beliefs in communism.
He saw students push each other to get closer to the dais to sense the words the loudspeakers were blaring, but their leaders who hadn't made any sense of their own hollow lives. He decided he had had enough, and excused himself from the ignorant rant and rhetoric pervaded with the often misquoted couplets of Indian Urdu poets and snippets of Dushyant Kumar, Dinkar, Paash and Nirala.
As was expected, Amaan found that his hostel canteen was closed that day. He asked Marhoom why the students had to bring their fights to the canteens.
“Although the student community is not devoid of humanitarianism and compassion, but unfortunately most of the times their efforts are hijacked by the ‘thekedars of tehzeeb’,” Marhoom grumbled. “The political pundits at Aligarh are intoxicated with ego and pride by their dint of self-formed arrogant conviction that they should get the various canteen tenders. If the regulation and allotment of canteens were central and more transparent, the usual fights in the campus and the canteens, for that matter, would decline by eighty percent consequently the idea of nourishing the 'criminals' by the administration will fall to its death when no 'student-turned-bhais' will be available to prosper their businesses.”
When Hazrat came back that night he asked Amaan if he had met Marhoom earlier that day. Amaan replied with a positive cervical bend and delineated what had transpired.
“Should there even be an election?” Amaan hesitatingly enquired.
“Is there any doubt about that? You can question their policies but you can't say that there shouldn't be a government if the leaders are not doing their duty,” Hazrat stated matter-of-factly, “people hideously insincere in their promises are those whose morality can be compromised by a dawat at a professor’s place. Still, there will always be a few exceptional individuals devoid of lies and immorality.” His opinion made Amaan partly content and he dozed off, wondering whether these so-called men of integrity and character were dead logs of wood that never faced the sun and died in the soothing ignorance of their intellect.
The next morning was brighter than usual for him. He met Tehmina.
“Do you like politics, Amaan?” Tehmina asked.
“Yes I do, you know that already” he smiled. “What made you ask that?”
“Oh, it’s just that I saw you active during the elections,” she said.
“So you don't have a high opinion on politics, is it so?” teased Amaan.
“You see, student leaders invoke the constructed pasts of glory, virility, victory and war. The present is therefore perverted and the future a nightmare. You know perspective and education are immensely valuable, but we are lacking because of ephemeral orgasmic activism. We don't read, evaluate and judge situations and hence we fail often”, she shrugged.
“Isn't there anything that could be done, or is it all dark?”
“What I am saying is that everybody blindly wants to be a leader, but nobody wants to think about why they want to be one, and those who do understand what goes into it never come forward because they think it’s the filthiest of the businesses. I'm not against politics, because in a democracy every living creature under the sun, be it above the soil or beneath it, is political.” She added.
For Amaan she was like a mirror who reflected back the absent rather than the present. She had the ability to provoke and then mollify him with her fragrant ideas. Her majestic companionship was like a library of the choicest books. She was unpredictable but reliable. They were friends who cared about the best interests of each other. They enriched each other.
By the time Amaan completed his fifth semester, Hazrat had left for Delhi to join a coaching class to prepare for the civil services. The love, care and the guidance he used to get from the sarparast, 'His Holiness', Hazrat, was gone. He missed his gyaan, support and encouragement for having an interest in politics and for pursuing it. He happened to be one of those that can't believe in themselves until someone believes in them.
After Hazrat had left the varsity, Amaan generally hung out with Subhan. The sense of Subhan’s camaraderie was sprightly.
Once, while returning back to his hostel Amaan asked him, “Why is it that sanity never prevails in student politics?”
Subhan awarded him with a rather pleasant opinion. “Sane voices come rarely from well off backgrounds. And these poor students.... they don't have a cushion to fall back on. This is the reason most people are concerned about their own insecurities. It is insane to squeeze lakhs of rupees for such elections when one knows the kind of family one belongs to. It is also the reason why students earning premier degrees hardly pay any heed to such activities.
“Well, I don't think it can be the only reason,” Amaan muttered under his breath.
“Yeah, there are plenty more. Another thing which is relevant is...”
“Relevant is?” Intrigued, he interrupted.
“That for most, the idea of identity is more geographically frozen, fixed and limited and hence they don't want to push themselves out of their cultural cocoons. The sense of belonging should rather be more fluid and open; otherwise, it’s always the "us better than them" narrative that compromises the essence of it all.”
Meanwhile, Hazrat got selected for the civil services and joined Indian Foreign Services, and after his training, he got posted in Rabat, Morocco. When he came back to India, the Residential Coaching Academy invited him to the varsity to deliver a talk on "How to qualify the UPSC exam" and he chose to stay with Amaan at the Mohsinul Mulk Hall.
“What will you wear tomorrow?” asked Amaan.
“Not the sherwani, for sure.”
“Why not?”
“It's heavy, not in ounces it weighs but the integrity and character it demands.”
Amaan gave one of his infectious giggles and mocked him. “Come on Hazrat, it’s just an hour-long session with all the locals.”
“You used to say that one day you'd be back on this stage, wear the sherwani and pour your heart out about how much this beloved institution had done for you, remember?” Amaan reminded him of his promise.
“See, hypocrisy makes people happy and truth makes them sad; verbose and decorative articulation makes them momentarily aroused and questioning their privilege makes them insecure and numb. I simply mean, would I be able to speak and maintain the dignity of the sherwani?”
“Don't 'thinking animals' hurt themselves too much in the process?” Amaan interrupted.
“During my stay in Aligarh, I have seen plenty of people growing beards and cloaking sherwanis just to make someone happy and be in their good graces. I know it was not always because of their love for the elegant dress or the Sunnah” said Hazrat.
“How can you say such things, you’re too cynical!” he hurtfully stated.
“Hey kid, it’s easier to fight for principles, values and traditions than to live up to them. And please, I don't want to discuss this any further.”
Both remained silent for a few minutes. Amaan’s apologies were ignored but nonetheless, he came up with a new question. “What if they ask you to wear a topi before the speech?”
“People who don't even care to perform namaz, who may not even remember which was the last fajr they attended, want me to wear a cap. I mean seriously, for them it could mean something, but for me it means nothing. These hollow traditions have never mattered to me.” Hazrat told Amaan.
“When you are at Aligarh it's like a double identity, if you fail in whatever you do, the other side suffers naturally. You are an ambassador of this institution; I like that you like politics but please be educated enough.”
Tehmina had applied for JNU. They used to see each other on a daily basis but she never told him about her preparations. She was nervous and unsure. Nervousness was the one thing that always held her back from realizing her full potential.
“Do you think I can make it through the competition?” Tehmina quizzed him.
He wanted to say 'he believed in her,’ but remained silent. There was not always logic to faith. He didn't want to get a second heartbreak; Hazrat's non-presence had affected him already.
After a long pause, she assumed that he may have the same doubts as to her.
Tehmina had different colours, a million moods, and a few people to charge her up. Two elder brothers, one roommate and Amaan were there to help her out of her distress. She had fought with her friend a day ago, and already it felt like she hadn’t talked to her in aeons. She didn't call her brothers, because they couldn't bear to see her weak even though the eldest one was only a call away. The absence of her mother since a tender age had burdened her elder brothers to pay the price of their earlier birth, but they did so without complaining. She wasn't delicate but that was how they treated her.
After years of trying to satisfy his curiosity regarding AMU’s politics, in his final year, he decided he had sufficient knowledge about the workings of the place, and wanted to fight in the AMUSU elections. He dragged himself to Marhoom’s place and implored him to canvass for him. After Hazrat and Tehmina leaving the varsity, the closest aides he found were in Marhoom and Subhan. He requested him to come back later as he was busy with something important.
The next day Marhoom came back with Jimmy Bhokaal to see him.
Bhokaal said it wouldn't be favourable for him to run this season as the administration had fielded their candidates on each seat, due to the Vice-Chancellor’s election within a few months.
Bhokaal was well-sought after Mathadheesh, who, although an ex-student, was frequently involved in tenders, illegal admissions and appointments. His negative attitude left Amaan annoyed.
Tehmina's intellectual longings were now no more like an imprisoned princess, with restricted and supervised days of outing from her fortress. She was free; chained only by her own thoughts and emotions. From a madrasa to AMU to JNU, to an internship at the United Nations, she felt like she had climbed the ladder of opportunities, growing more calm and stoic. The abysmal representation of Muslims and women in general, in various fields at large, was making her more and more depressed. The harsh statistical realities, participation rates, massive disparities, the idea of secular freedom in university life, the ease of drinking, sleeping around, taking drugs and going to raves was traumatizing her inner soul. She had no answer for her anguish.
That evening when Amaan called her, even before he could ask her how she was doing, she asked him, “Why are we a total failure on every indicator known to man?”
“What do you mean by we?” Amaan laughed.
“Muslims”
“It's too Muslim of you to ask this.” he teased.
“No, I'm serious.”
“Well, I don't have an academic answer to that. Everybody is saying I must not run for the elections this year.”
“You want to?” Her voice was filled with a renewed interest.
“Of course”
“I have a presentation on Monday, so I’ll see you on Tuesday. Also, before I reach Aligarh, inform everyone you are running for the presidentship.”
“But Marhoom and Jimmy are asking me not to.”
“Who the hell are they to decide? It's final. You're listening, right?”
“Yup.”
It spread like wildfire. Tehmina had not even arrived when social media was abuzz with the news of a final year political science student running for presidentship. Most of Tehmina’s friends were now earning their masters degrees, and she had a huge social capital, even if, in her own words, she had no political persona. During her a week-long stay in AMU, she played the role of every character she had come across in the novels she read, the films she loved.
The generosity was overwhelming in the girl’s hostel. Although they had little interest in student politics, they wanted Tehmina to share every detail of the campaign with them. With their collective efforts, within a few days the electoral climate changed and the environment reeked of only one name.
No one imagined such an outpour of public affection for Amaan, not even Amaan himself. At faculties, at canteens, in dining halls, in lecture theatres, his speeches were lauded with the greatest of applause and enthusiasm.
In one of his speeches filled with Iqbal and Ambedkar at the canteen of Hadi Hasan Hall, he turned many heads. He stated that it was true that the Muslims of India look up to the dead leadership of various Muslim institutions which have turned into a cohort of rabble-rousers. His questions such as ‘Aren't we responsible for it?’ and ‘How can they make such mistakes when they are the leaders of our people?’ left the audience introspecting among themselves that this sort of fallacy was bound to happen when leaders were elected emotionally and not rationally.
It was now the final day of his speech, and he got on the dais as his name was announced. He took hold of the microphone and his deep breath broke the silence that fell over the crowd. He had dreamt of this moment, he was prepared for this, but suddenly he fell short of words. The gleam of the crowd made him nervous. It was the first time he felt unsure of himself, of his ability to do justice the position demanded. He closed his eyes.
“Moral reform. Our instinctive morality is the only way towards a revolution; I mean the psychological revolution,” Hazrat’s word echoed in his mind, only to be replaced by Subhan’s version of sanity “….sane voices come rarely from well off backgrounds.” This was not what he needed right now; he could not bring himself to speak.
He needed some comfort if he were to bury the chaos, and Tehmina’s logic provided the refuge.
“I saw someone making sense during his final speech, from the so-called tareekhi faseel.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“He was annihilated at the polls the next day. Promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Please don't make sense; all you have to do is spew emotional dialogue.”
“You know it’s not possible, don't you?”
He could now speak again, and felt a rush through his veins, as if he was leading his men into battle. With renewed fervour, he began;
“Brothers and sisters,
Politics is the science of analyzing problems of society and the art of solving them. It is when individuals from the public, common people like you and me, collectively come together to solve problems and improve their society. That's why you, the audience yourselves, need to educate others around you about the people from your own midst, that are running for the elections. You're the best of the best students there are in this country, make no mistake; don't get deceived by regionalism, because at the end of the day it doesn't matter. Ignorance, be it in academics or the perfect candidature; acknowledged, is an opportunity and ignorance denied is a closed door.
There's nothing more beautiful to wake up every day and know that you are holding in your hands the full measure of your integrity, the sureness in your heart, the will to be open and accepting and unafraid to take new risks, to trust new people. Bhaaiyo’n aur beheno’n,
Power grows by what it feeds on.
At times we have seen, a plate of Biryani or two ignites more decaying brain cells than decades of education. Isn't it a matter of shame? That, people who are not even qualified to make two or three statements declare their candidacy and win on hollow promises that are never taken care of? Aren't we more intelligent than that?
When I decided to contest I knew it was going to be tough, having such worthy opponents, but I decided whatever comes my way I am going to face it head-on and give everything to further the legacy my predecessors have left for me if I get elected. This is the future of our beloved university; this is my life.”
He destroyed everyone.
Amaan was the new president of the Students' Union.
Dr. Shahnawaz Ahmad holds MBBS from J.N. Medical College, Aligarh Muslim University, Aligarh. He is now pursuing PG from the same institute.
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