A Passage to Freedom

I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN a nomad; packing up and moving cities, even countries, was the normal rhythm of my life. This nomadic life has taken me across India and beyond. Along the way I started writing, wrote novels and screenplays, and to my sur­prise, people read and watched. Some even remembered by name. And yet, beneath the new romance of recognition, there was a quiet, persis­tent question: Where do I really belong?

But then, after all the travels, I had finally ‘arrived’. My book had just been published in the US, and I found myself at a chic lunch with my editor, that kind of literary luncheon in the global capital of publishing, New York City. It felt like a Truman Capote vignette come to life.

And yet, I felt the faintest tug of hollowness. It wasn’t unhappi­ness, it was exciting and glorious. But there was something missing, and it was almost like I was an actor in a Woody Allen film. I was the stereotype, the happy kind, I was me and yet I wasn’t.

The feeling returned years later, in a different guise, when my film Kahaani won its string of awards. I was on a stage in Vancouver, receiving my award from Karan Johar, his assessing eyes sizing me up. Maybe the ultimate insider saw that I didn’t really fit in, despite the trophy. Another glorious moment and that familiar unease again.

So imagine travelling the familiar path, clocking the right milestones, only to feel lost. That was me. And that was when my path took a detour.

At one point the book world had a villain, his name was Dinanath Batra. A retired schoolteacher from the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) who had taken it upon himself to get books banned. His most publicised battle was with Wendy Doniger. I was writing a column for a newspaper and a Twitter (now X) friend—those were the early days before the trolls—asked me if I would meet Batra. My friend was a Sway­amsevak and we had struck up an online friendship. I told him plainly that I don’t like people who want books banned, and he said “at least meet him”. So I thought, in the classic tradition of lib­eralism, of meeting the publishing world’s bête noir. I went into the conversation after my research, convinced I would disagree with him on everything. Instead, I met an elderly man with the conviction to stand up for his beliefs, whatever I thought of them. And the big publisher, with its battery of lawyers and media con­tacts, didn’t even bother to show up for court hearings and defend their author. I didn’t agree with Batra. Yet I couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for his commitment. At the end of the amicable but feisty conversation, he walked me to the flight of stairs and said, “Take the stairs, it will keep diabetes away. Stay active.” The com­batant turned into a caring grandfather. I left, not converted, not convinced, but touched. It led to the realisation that people may violently disagree, be suspicious of motives in interactions, but what remains a memory is always the human gesture. Not the debating points but the unanticipated kindness. I wrote the column. It wasn’t flattering; it was fair, which was more than he had received so far. And that should have been it, but it wasn’t. It was the beginning.

When I think of those early days, the cinematic par­allel that comes to mind is that of Maria from The Sound of Music. I didn’t encounter firebrand ideologues and stern martinets, but like Maria who was a misfit among the Sisters, there was me, my deracinated self, making misstep after misstep. And yet like those nuns who, beneath their habits, revealed a softness and willing­ness to guide rather than judge, I had a similar experience. That was my parallel.

I arrived, much like Maria, with questions and a healthy dose of scepticism, expecting rigidity. What I received was humanity and humour, even warmth and zero judgement about who I was. After a lifetime of trying to fit in, here I was just being me. Imagine my surprise, the twin worlds of publishing and Bollywood expected you to be someone, have name recall. Here, it didn’t matter. There was respect but no hierarchy in interactions.

About a year after my first interaction, there was an opportunity to attend a meeting where the Sarsanghchalak would be speaking in Jaipur. I arrived by train with the rest of the contingent, that in­cluded a lot of women. Another surprise. We were all being boarded at a hostel. I took a long look at the accommodation. It was winter; beds were lined up in a row, dormitory style. There was a bathroom with a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. I turned on my heels. This was RSS luxury? I made an excuse about family in Jaipur who wanted to host me, and checked into the Marriott across the road. There was a lot I had to learn.

I overslept that first night and arrived about half-an-hour late for the meeting. I would slip into the back, I rationalised, no one would notice. Wrong. From the choice of colour of outfit (shocking pink) to the quiet calm of these meetings, a delayed and hurried arrival was memorable, for me and for them. So unusual was a late comer that movement at the end of the dimmed auditorium was enough to turn heads. The Sangh is known for many things and punctuality is paramount. It doesn’t subscribe to Indian Stretchable Time. Now I find this punctuality reliable, there is little time to waste, one knows when things start and finish. But that first time it was all a little too new for me. In my defence, I came from a space of hanging around, be it on movie sets or in publishing houses.

In the years since meeting the Sarsanghchalak, he always greets me with an “Is all ok?” and a twinkle in his eyes. It’s a sim­ple greeting but it always reminds me of my rushed and almost frantic first arrival. And then comes his advice, timeless in its simplicity: hasten slowly. It is advice that may seem almost para­doxical at first, to hurry but with patience. And yet the more I run it through my head, I understand that it captures the Sangh’s rhythm. Their projects and outreaches unfold over decades and their vision stretches across generations. They work with hasten­ing conviction, but expect slow results, if at all. For me, it was an anchor—a new way of moving through the world, devoid of the hunger and urgen­cy of numbing ambition. It was liberating.

And there were hidden delights as well. The best mango milkshake I have ever tast­ed is the one served in a small steel glass at Resham Bagh, the RSS headquarters in Nag­pur. Now replace that mental image with the conspiracy theories about Nagpur. Not possible. The thing about the Sangh is that the only way to know them is to interact with them.

Through the years, I have stepped on to many railway platforms across the country and found family waiting to re­ceive me. It isn’t a grand reception like a neta would get; it’s the simple act of be­ing received with love. It’s someone with their wife and children, reaching for my suitcase, asking about my journey like we haven’t just met but are reuniting. That person is the Swayamsevak. My travels have taken me across India, and while the Sangh has a different temperament from state to state—like the Haryana Sangh has a great sense of humour and the Kerala Sangh is more activist— the swayamsevaks are always familial. The accents, the food on the table may change; but the warmth is consistent.

I have lived in many places. When you move around, you learn to adapt quickly and decode the landscape, mimic niceties and forge bonds. But what remains ever present are the threads that tether people together.

IT WAS WHEN I began to interact with the Sangh that I rec­ognised that old familiarity of family beyond blood ties. The Sangh has its own faith, not one that is the same as religion but one that is of belonging to community, to country and to a civilisa­tion. The rootedness is often mischaracterised as rigid ideology, but its rootedness is not in response to doctrine or dogma but to community. Hence Sangh. Hence Pariwar.

My growing association with the Sangh did not come without its costs. As word got around that I was spending time with the ‘Sanghis’, I began to notice a quiet retreat in some quarters of my world. The invitations to literature festivals started to dry up; the movie offers despite the awards became less frequent; and calls went unanswered. A major newspaper had offered me a regular column, but I never heard back. Awkward silences now replaced easy chatter and conversations often stalled at “How are you?” It was new to me; I was not familiar with the way RSS was treated by ‘polite’ society. I was on a path of discovery, un­mindful of the feathers I was ruffling, unaware that others were embarrassed on my behalf. The kinder ones thought I was brainwashed. If mango milkshake is a persuasive instrument of intimidation, they were right. But beyond that it was all dysto­pian fantasies. I was merely meeting new people and embracing a novel experience, as I had always done.

One day, I confided in a Sangh elder about this reaction I was experiencing. He listened keenly, his eyes amused, as often elders are when they have lived through the hypocrisies of the world and see them repeating. “See how free you are,” he said, “You don’t have to worry about how it looks on you if you meet someone, but they have to!” He was right. I had unintentionally freed myself from convoluted perceptions. I was free because my existence and associations were not performative but spontaneous.

In the time I have known the Sangh, my life’s rhythm has changed, but I am still who I always was. I didn’t have to follow any form of orthodoxy. I could be me.

And I could move beyond radical individualism. My world expanded, my country became more real to me, my writing had purpose not just for book sales and box office numbers.

Like Maria who didn’t abandon her songs but found a new harmony when she left the convent. My journey has been simi­lar. I didn’t lose my voice; I found it resonating in unexpected company. The Sangh has to be experienced to be understood, it cannot be reflected in one article or a book. It cannot be pinned to ideology, because it is so much more than that; it is human. Some­times the conversations can transport you to the 1800s and some­times to 2047. It is as diverse as India, and every part of the country resonates with it, in its own terms and context. Meanwhile, the gradual unfolding of RSS continues. We only participate in its journey for a period of time, as so many others have before us and so many more will after. And every once in a while, an unsuspecting free spirit will stumble into its fold and find a surprisingly soft landing.

cultureHindu nationalismideologyRSS centurySwayamsevak