The news that Shahid Afridi smashed TV when he saw his daughter imitating aarti shocked and surprised me.

At my home, my son puts tilted triangular bhagwa flag on his cycle. I don’t know where-from he has got it. But he is very proud of it. He sees flags on government vehicles in and around in the CPWD colony, and thinks that the flag on his speed kids cycle is equivalent to the flag on a government vehicle. He says “पापा देखिये मेरे साईकल पर भी फ्लैग है।” He pedals the cycle in the room, oak-panelled corridor and the tarred-road under the shadow of the deodar and walnut trees. It never occurred to me that it is a Hindu flag.

When I was eight years old, I used to hear my grandfather reciting slokas from The Gita, during his free time, sitting over a charpoy in front of my joint family mud-brick house under a banyan tree. Later I learnt those slokas translated as: ‘I am the Way, the Master who watches in silence; thy friend and thy shelter and thy abode of peace. I am the beginning and the middle and the end of all things: their seed of Eternity, their Treasure supreme…Only by love can men see me, and know me and come unto me.’

My grandfather was a bearded man and offered namaz regularly. No one accused him of blasphemy. No one issue fatwa against him.

When I shift to a government quarter, I often come across the pictures and statues of the Hindu Gods. I never remove them. At most, I shift them from one place to another for aesthetic reason. I feel they are my own. All of them constitute what I am. They belong to me, I belong to them.

At one residence allotted to me, a small room was used as a temple by my predecessor. Statue of a goddess rested on a wall-shelf. I entered the room, looked at the milky white face of the goddess, her sweet, tender eyes. I felt it was a goddess of peace and beauty, pouring joy of life in my house amidst cedar. She stayed there and continues to bless my residence under blue sky.

I love listening to the Lagaan movie’s song ‘O Paalanhaare’. Once in a discussion over the music I told my IPS batchmate and friend Rajesh Kumar that I loved this song madly. He said, “It is the strength of India that a Muslim loves a Hindu bhajan.” That day for the first time I realised that the song I was in deep love with was words of prayer of helpless men to Krishna, and the music in the song was bell rung in a temple. But that did not change my love for the song. I often hear this song when I have a sinking feeling, when I feel tired and lonely. And it gives me strength to face the world.

One day I dialled my friend Javed Akhtar, an IRS officer, posted in Delhi to wish him on his birthday. I said, “और जावेद कैसे हो?” Then I realised that the person on the line was not the Javed Akhtar, who is my friend. But it was Javed Akhtar, the lyricist of ‘O Paalanhaare’ from Mumbai. I had collected his phone number from someone.

The lyricist Javed Akhtar, then also a Member of Parliament, said, “ठीक हूँ।” I immediately recognised the thick voice and realised my mistake. I told him, ‘Sir, I am sorry for calling you by mistake. But I must thank you for writing the lyrics of the song ‘O Paalanhaare’ which makes me strong and weep at the same time.’ Javed Sab thanked me in return for my appreciation of his song-bhajan.

Not only that, many times I sleep listening to the New Testament on Youtube on my mobile phone. It is so soothing, it immediately drives the chaos out of my mind. Sometimes I use it to court the elusive sleep, it invariably works like melatonin. I told this to a Christian gathering. The crowd clapped, which surprised me, as doing it appeared so normal to me.

I would not mention how the bhajans from the speakers of the temples filled the morning atmosphere of Gaya city. My Muslim upbringing and socialisation never made me think the bhajan belonged to others. It was so normal, melodious, I was at home with it. I was as comfortable with the sound of bhajan as with that of azaan. So were my many Muslim friends.

This reminds me of a 25-year-old dusky lady in shalwar kameez, dark blue shawl and brown-bindi travelling on AP Express. I was going to Police Academy at Hyderabad. Sitting cross-legged on her berth in the morning, while the train crossed Warangal station, she played ‘Piya Haji Ali’ song on her mobile. She listened to the song, in deep meditation radiating peace from her face. I could make out that the lady was not a Muslim.

These days my wife told me to buy a wooden miniature of Bhima Kali Temple of Sarahan, located in Shimla district, as a piece of decoration. It is costing me around seven to eight thousand rupees. When I get salary this month in January, I would try buying it. I am sure the temple would acquire a prime place in my residence.