In the mid-1990s, when email was still a novelty and the Internet felt like science fiction, I was on the editorial page of The Indian Express. One afternoon, my colleague and friend Pratik Kanjilal — an award-winning translator, and someone who dislikes being described only as Nobel laureate Amartya Sen’s son-in-law — introduced me to a new email service called Hotmail.
Pratik already had an account and insisted that I should not be left behind in the digital age. He patiently sat with me and helped me open my very first email account on Hotmail. It felt as if I had stepped into a new world.
When Sabeer Bhatia sold Hotmail to Microsoft, many Indians like me felt a strange sadness. We saw Hotmail almost as our own, because it was pioneered by one of us. But Bhatia had a larger vision. With the $400 million he earned, he began building new technology ventures in the US, instead of resting on his laurels.
Recently, he triggered a storm — not by launching a product, but by praising values. In a post on X, Bhatia highlighted five Islamic practices: daily gratitude (shukr), self-discipline through fasting, zakat (charity), ritual cleanliness before prayer, and compassion for all living beings. “Faith aside — these are paths to a better human,” he wrote, urging people of all faiths to adopt these virtues.
Had he praised meditation, yoga and charity, social media would have applauded him. But because the practices belonged to Islam, a section of users attacked him. They saw not gratitude or compassion, but only a faith they mistrust.
I wished those critics had read Swami Vivekananda. The monk who electrified America with “Brothers and sisters of America…” saw Islam, not as an adversary, but as a vital contributor to India’s soul. He believed India’s future would be built on “Vedanta brain and Islam body” — meaning the spiritual depth of Vedanta combined with the equality, discipline and social practicality he saw in Islam. He recognised that Islam offered dignity and refuge to the oppressed and broke the cruelty of caste barriers.
From this lofty philosophy, let me come to a simple anecdote narrated by one of the sons of industrialist Rahul Bajaj, who passed away in 2022. When the Bajaj brothers — Rajiv and Sanjiv — were young, they once travelled to Pune in their family Ambassador car driven by Hussain, a trusted employee. As boys will be, one urged Hussain to drive faster. Hussain calmly declined. “Your father has trusted me with his only sons. I cannot betray that trust,” he said. It was a lesson in responsibility and honour — beyond religion.
That story returned to me recently, in a very different context. I booked a cab through an app. Strangely, several drivers asked for the destination and then cancelled. After a while, one driver pleaded, “Please don’t cancel, sir.” Curious, I asked him why on the ride. With hesitation, he revealed a painful truth — many passengers cancel rides the moment they see his Muslim name. They do not trust him to drive them safely.
Imagine the humiliation. To live in your own country, earn an honest living, pay your taxes — and still face suspicion for your name. From Hussain, who was trusted with the Bajaj sons, we now have Hussains who must plead for trust in a taxi queue. What has changed? Not the character of the Hussains — but the character of our prejudices.
As I pondered this, I came across a powerful column by historian Ramachandra Guha in The Telegraph. Guha, a scholar who is not generous with praise unless it is deserved, had read a doctoral thesis on the tribals of Jharkhand. He admired the research and the writing. The scholar?
Umar Khalid — in jail for five years without bail, without charges framed. One of the accusations? He supposedly wanted “regime change”. As senior journalist Pamela Philipose asked in a recent Facebook post, which Opposition politician does not seek regime change? Democracy depends on it. If Umar Khalid had been born elsewhere, he might today be a young professor shaping students and scholarship. Here, he waits behind bars.
When scholarship becomes suspect because of identity, the nation must introspect.
I often remember the days when newspapers celebrated diversity, dissent and sharp thinking. When R. Rajagopal, a Malayali, edited The Telegraph, journalists across India waited each morning for his page-one headlines. Recently, I heard him speak about Kerala’s transformation.
Kerala was once poor; today it stands tall in human development. And who fuelled that transformation? Malayalee workers in the Gulf — “Muslim money,” Rajagopal says bluntly. Men who worked as drivers, masons, waiters, and labourers under the scorching sun sent money home. Their earnings built houses, funded education, and lifted a whole society.
Today, those same Muslims invest heavily in Kerala. Meanwhile, some others lament that their pews will empty because the youth migrate West. Yet it is Muslims who stay rooted and contribute here. Let me add that among the wealthy Indians emigrating permanently, Muslims form a tiny fraction. And yet, suspicion targets them most. It is not logic — it is prejudice.
From Sabeer Bhatia’s praise of universal virtues, to Vivekananda’s vision of a harmonious nation, to a loyal driver trusted with the heirs of an industrial empire, to a cab driver pleading not to be judged by his name — the thread running through is trust and dignity. And the painful realisation that both are now filtered through religion.
India’s strength was never in homogeneity. It was in harmony. Our civilisation grew not by exclusion but by absorption — ideas travelled, cultures merged, faiths debated and enriched each other.
We do not honour our heritage by fearing our own people. A nation does not fall because of diversity; it falls because of distrust. When trust acquires a religion, democracy loses its soul.
Let us think before we cancel a ride because of a name, or dismiss a thinker because of a faith, or mock virtues because they come from “the other”. Ultimately, gratitude, discipline, charity and compassion do not belong to any one religion. They belong to humanity.
The question before us is simple: Do we wish to be the nation where Hussain was trusted with the Bajaj sons? Or the nation where Hussain must beg for a ride? The choice is ours — and the consequences will be ours too.