He was lost, broken and scarred. As he approached the bridge, his feet felt the loss of friction. He noticed a faint light flickering at the end of the bridge but he did not associate it with hope. Rather, it irritated him. It reminded him of the fire that was raging past him. His mind kept going back to the screams of his family. ‘Abbu, why are we being marginalised’ was a question his daughter had asked a month ago but his answer then was ‘beta, it’s not that simple. Every right has a wrong somewhere’. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

Aziz Mirza had a humble beginning. He had found his humility growing up in the streets of Meena Bazaar in Old Delhi. He had built a flourishing garment export business from the hardships of daily wage labour and he knew the essence of what education, hard work and a little slice of luck could bring. He had five siblings, two younger brothers and three elder sisters. His father was a garment weaver by profession and had taught him early on to stay close to his roots. That meant, holding the family close, respecting his community, understanding what religion stood for and believing in hard work.

As a child, Aziz would go to school each morning and sit with his Abbu in the afternoon learning the art of weaving. He did so, not out of compulsion, but because he enjoyed the intricacies of threads that weaved into one another to make a fabric. Later in his life, he correlated that into how human existence evolved into diverse forms of thoughts and opinions. Interpretation is key, he would argue, with his friends and family, whenever the subject of community would come up on a regional and national scale. The thought of taking his father’s skill abroad originated from his progressive mind set. His entire family knew the skill and he became the perfect salesman. He would pitch his family’s skills to foreigners who would visit Old Delhi every day and turned his local existence into that of a global one. The technological advances of the 21^st century enabled him to expand his business and strengthen his reputation as someone who stood by his words.

Aziz married Ehsana when he turned twenty-five. Even though he liked a Hindu girl whom he knew since childhood, he decided against pursuing his love and settled into norms decided by his community. Love is not enough, he had reasoned then. They had a beautiful daughter in Noor who was growing up to be a potpourri of knowledge. Her curiosity to seek information was an enigma to Aziz. Every day, he would set aside some time to listen to her and demystify the world for her. Her questions would allow him to rebuild his own opinions around contentious issues and break it down to her in black, white and colour.

When Noor turned fifteen, she came up to Aziz with a strange request. As a birthday gift, she asked her father to take her to Afghanistan for a short trip. Not knowing what to make of this request, he asked her for the reason. I want to see, she just said, not delving into details. Knowing Noor, Aziz knew there was a purpose behind her request and he had never turned her down before. Therefore, he went about the task as if it were routine even though he feared the consequences of going into the war torn region. He diligently applied for the Visa and arranged for the travel tickets. The travel agent went to the extent of asking if he hailed from Afghanistan to which he tersely responded but that did not deter him from putting together the paraphernalia for the travel. As the travel date approached, there was palpable tension in the house. Aziz would constantly check the news to isolate the war zones and build his knowledge base. If Noor was nervous, she did not show it. When Aziz and Noor boarded the plane, Aziz recited a silent prayer for their safety.

Upon reaching Kabul, Aziz rented a local taxi to travel to the regions between Kabul, Kandahar, Herat and Mazari Sharief. This is what Noor had requested when she planned her trip. She had carefully put together an itinerary that included the worst affected regions of Afghanistan and Aziz realized that driving through the regions would require local expertise. As they began their journey, Aziz was filled with fear for his child and his safety. Noor on the other hand understood the risk she had taken but was keen to carry out her resolve. As they travelled from one place to another, they felt the story of the origins to ashes; place and people. Aziz and Noor did not speak much during the travel; they couldn’t actually. They just observed the mayhem that danced in the air. When they boarded the flight back home, somehow, they coalesced into a common being; as if they had specific goals to achieve upon reaching home and they were determined to carry it through.

The first night upon returning to India, Noor opened her diary and wrote:

‘I am at the cusp of a breakthrough in my life. I have finally known why human existence can reach the epitomes of glory and the nadirs of misery. I have understood why we created religion and why we enabled our lives to be dictated by anecdotes rather than free spirit. I realise finally.’

She did not elaborate her thought process further.

The next day, when Noor met her parents at the breakfast table, she opened the subject of a career in nursing. Aziz focused his gaze upon her and tried to understand his daughter. A part of him could but a part of him did not want to; the one, which prevented him from marrying the Hindu girl; his first love. Aziz knew that he would not win a debate with his daughter and only asked Noor if she was sure of her choice. When Noor replied in the affirmative, Aziz’s focus shifted to guide her to the best of choices, even though he knew she already had planned her next step. Upon finishing high school, Noor chose the Lady Hardinge medical college for her nursing program. Aziz smiled wryly as he looked at the options she had available and one she chose.    

Two years into the program, Noor managed to find herself surrounded by love. Mihir, an army officer, who had come to the hospital to get treatment for his ailing mother caught Noor’s attention while she was assisting the duty doctor. Mihir did not notice Noor at first and went about explaining how his mother fell sick. She observed his empathy towards his mother and his regret that he couldn’t take care of her the way he wanted to. She realized that his mother meant more to him than the country. In his conversation, she could gauge that he was in the army to defend. She felt Mihir might be someone who would let an enemy live as long as the enemy no longer threatened. In that brief ten-fifteen minutes, she had built a theory about Mihir and did not realise that she was watching him intently. Mihir felt her gaze, looked at her smilingly and complimented her name. She smiled back.    

Upon completing her nursing program, she joined the emergency response team of a high footfall government hospital. Aziz, by now, understood his daughter. He was proud that she had found the courage to stand up for her beliefs. He was constantly learning from her stories and he tried to bring her learning into his life. She had redefined his notion of what a community stood for and was the catalyst behind his catharsis. He moved residences not only so his daughter could get enough rest between her work schedules but also expand his notion of a community. He revisited every aspect of his life, introspected every decision that he made for bias and fixed them. When Noor introduced Mihir to Aziz one day as someone she loved, he smiled. ‘Pathways’, he said to himself.

When Mihir left for Pulwama that evening, Noor, for once, did not think for a second how the ribbons of her life would change colours. 48 hours after, she knew. He was dead and she couldn’t do a thing to save him. She sat in a corner of her room while Aziz watched silently. There was rage everywhere, communities were suspicious of one another but there was no violence. The government imposed curfews in sensitive areas, restricted movement of citizens and monitored social media access for unwarranted aggression. Noor resumed her the duties at the hospital in a few days but work was not the same anymore. She felt the warmth vanish from the smile of her colleagues and staff and replaced with a gaze that alienated her from her surroundings. She understood the changing circumstances but she had to find a way to deal with her inner demons and she persevered.

In a few months, the government attacked the neighbouring country to defend its territory. Noor felt sad; she missed Mihir and wondered how many Noors were out there sitting in the corners of their rooms. When she went to work the next day, she felt the gaze of her colleagues change again. It was as if their smile had a sense of satisfaction and they expected her to respond likewise. She smiled her usual smile ignoring the bait and went about her work with grace and dignity. She was upset when she reached home. She quietly left her bag in the living room, entered her room, closed the door and took the vase she had brought from her trip to Afghanistan and smashed it against the floor. A piece from the vase pierced her feet and she let out a small cry. Aziz walked into the room and held her steady. She sobbed on his shoulder for a long time and asked him a question:

‘Why this marginalisation. Why?’

 Aziz replied: ‘It’s not that simple, beta. Every right has a wrong somewhere. Communities have developed by being marginal to one another. We are comfortable being marginal and that is the essential truth. Conviction that progress as an entity cannot be fulfilled in a marginal space is something we will not realise as long as religion plays a dominant role in decision making’  

His answer seemed to pacify Noor only briefly but her agitation continued in the coming days. Even though she recovered well enough to live, she was no longer alive; the spark had gone missing. That she was not able to stand up to her belief for the first time in her life continued to gnaw at her.

Fortunately, the situation was short lived. The government came to her rescue by creating a citizenship amendment bill where it kept Muslims out of the bill’s ambit. She finally had a ground to stand on and fight marginalisation. ‘It is my calling, Abbu’, she said when Aziz asked her why she was joining the protests. Knowing how wilful his daughter was, Aziz was gripped by the same fear that he had while departing for Afghanistan. His Noor was taking on the system and he could not defend this time. On the tenth day of the protest, some miscreants threw an acid laced bottle into his home.

That night, Noor wrote on her blog:

‘Progress is about delivering a system that thinks for all and works for all, irrespective of prejudices; past, present or future. ‘I stand up’ is a movement that stands for progress. Progress is an entity; it is believable and achievable as long as we take decisions in people’s interests. Bring a bill that values education; that values orphans and children; that values dignity of labour; that values kindness. Amend citizenship amendment bill to be inclusive based on progressive thinking. I also recommend a religion amendment bill that resets religious disciplines and paradigms keeping the needs of the twenty first century in mind. I stand up to remove bias from our smiles; to build a system that keeps our loved ones safe and the not so loved ones safer.’

Noor was eager the next morning. She smiled at people’s reaction to her blog post and called her mom. As she moved to the balcony to get some fresh air, she saw a man standing in front of her house. When their eyes met, he pulled a revolver from his pocket and took a shot at her. He fired three rounds. Noor screamed in pain and was about to fall when her mother rushed to hold her. He fired three more rounds and they both collapsed in each other’s arms, writhing in pain.

There was a faint breeze floating across the Yamuna. Aziz looked at his bloodstained shirt. He could not distinguish between Ehsana’s and Noor’s blood. He laughed out aloud.