The Moustache

The airport was already in the process of closing down when my flight landed in Chicago on September 11, and I was three hours late for our company meetings. Only half the usual number of people were there.

“I think we should nuke ‘em,” one of my colleagues said to me. “Hope you don’t have any relatives there.”

During the break, a fellow-Indian American cornered me in the restroom. “You better shave your moustache,” he said. “We don’t want to be mistaken for Muslims.”

“What’s wrong with being mistaken for Muslims?” I asked.

“You could get killed, for one thing. Besides, we’re not like them.”

“What are Muslims like?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know history, how Muslims killed people of other religions to spread their faith,” said Ravi. “Don’t you remember what happened at Somnath Temple?” Somnath was a Hindu temple for the Sun God in Western India. After the Turkic and Afghani soldiers ransacked it of its gold and jewels, they beheaded twelve hundred priests. The priests had bowed down before the soldiers to show that they respected the conquerors’ humanity.

“I do know history,” I said, “and not just a convenient portion of it. I know Christians killed Jews and dropped nuclear bombs on civilians, Jews killed Muslims and bulldozed their homes, and Hindus divided themselves into castes and fought against each other. One of them even assassinated Gandhi, because he was compassionate toward Muslims.”

Ravi shook his head. “I’m tired of this political correctness. If Islam stands for peace, then Jesse Helms should be the poster boy for diversity.”

I noticed that one of the restroom stalls was occupied. “Ravi, before your fears come true and someone mistakes us for terrorists, let’s talk about this later.”

I got back to the meeting, but my head felt like it was spinning as it searched every book I’ve ever read for solutions.

“Terrorism is what happens if we keep worshipping dead gods,” said Nietzche, popping up in my mind from nowhere.

“Violence is caused by sexual repression,” said another bearded person that I recognized as Freud. “Instead of dropping bombs on those countries, the United States should drop copies of the Kama Sutra and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.”

“Good and evil have been at war since the beginning of time,” said Jhansi Lakshmi the warrior queen who led an Indian revolution against the British. “War is sometimes a necessity.”

And then I saw him, sitting in a corner of the conference room. He looked saddened to the core.

“I think of you every time something like this happens,” I said to Gandhi. “But I wish I knew nothing about you so I could gladly take sides, wave a flag, and go to war instead of being torn to pieces like I am.”

“Maybe what your heart seeks today is not violence, but justice,” said Gandhi.

“What’s the difference?” My hands were shaking. “Right now what you taught, non-violence, seems like the opposite of justice.”

“No, they’re in fact more like twins. Non-violence without justice is cowardice. And justice without non-violence is hate. I don’t think you want to be hateful. You don’t want every love song you ever sang to be a lie.”

He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Violence, whether it’s called war or terrorism, is not just giving up on your so-called enemy. It’s giving up on yourself. Any forgiveness that you bestow on others is ultimately bestowed on you. Think of this as an opportunity to show non-violence works. Otherwise humanity has no future.”

The meeting was over. On my way down in the elevator, I ran into Ravi again. “I’m going to keep this,” I said, pointing at my moustache.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I am a Hindu, a Jew, a Christian, and a Muslim.” I shook hands with him and stepped out of the elevator.

(Nov 2002)