We may be Muslims, saab, but we cannot cut this peepal tree. His name is Rahim and his band of workers sound Muslim too. The carpenter — Maulana saab. The painters — Abdul and Ismail. The plumber — Yaqub. I didn’t hire him because of who he was (or who he thinks he is) but because he’s a competent contractor. And among the many other jobs that a house needs, cutting the peepal tree on the terrace of our landlord’s apartment was one. The tree, like thousands on Delhi buildings and millions across north India, was a hazard to the building. My generally invisible neighbours brought it to my notice. The tree had to go. Period.

Which faith considered the peepal holy and whose adherents would not cut it, was no concern of mine. Likewise, the fact that Rahim was a Muslim meant nothing to me while negotiating the tree job at hand. Besides, if the contractor was a Hindu and had refused, I may not have been surprised. But Rahim is a Muslim. I told him as much. “We may be Muslims but our culture is not and we cannot cut that tree,” was his reply. “Get another one, for your god’s sake,” I said, exasperated. “Will do.”

In a country that’s constantly sitting on a short fuse of religion, the somewhat uncooperative Rahim stood like an icon of unity. His belief system goes beyond religion. He is proud to be a Muslim (the Namaaz breaks, for instance) but is equally proud of his cultural heritage and his stubborn refusal to cut the peepal. Behind his inability and unwillingness to cut the peepal lies a deep-rooted conservatism that’s simultaneously sublime. If Sadhguru Jaggi Vasudev talks about outdated superstitions — the cat crossing the road, for instance — and how we need to contemporise our belief systems, Rahim is a simple soul for whom superstition is the glue that bonds him with a Hindu.

... contd.