A Case of Love Jihad

         Ram Sharan Mishra was an old Sanskrit pandit of quiet dignity and serene wisdom. His life revolved around his daily rituals, the temple bells, and the rhythmic recitation of Vedic chants. He lived in a modest tiled-roof house in a small town of Odisha, surrounded by mango trees and jasmine bushes. His wife, Padmini, was the kind of woman whose gentle heart had healed many—whether it was a hungry child at the door or a stray calf left abandoned by the roadside. Their only daughter, Suhasini, had recently graduated in Science. She was ambitious, sharp-minded, and determined to clear the competitive examinations to secure a government job. Ram Sharan often said with pride, “My daughter will be the lamp of this house when my old eyes grow dim.”


        Life moved quietly, predictably—until one morning, fate hummed a different tune. It was a cool winter day when Ram Sharan was walking towards the temple of Lord Shiva, carrying a basket of flowers and bel leaves. The sound of conch shells echoed faintly in the air. As he crossed the road near the new school building, he heard a voice—clear, sweet, and soulful—singing a popular Bollywood song. The voice seemed to ripple through the air like a divine vibration. Following the sound, he found a group of labourers laying bricks for the boundary wall. Among them was a thin boy with dusty clothes, eyes bright like the early sun. He sang as he worked, his trowel moving in rhythm to the melody. Ram Sharan stood listening, spellbound. When the song ended, he asked the overseer, “Who is this boy?” The man replied, “His name is Rafiq Khan. He lost his parents long ago. Works wherever he gets a day’s wage.” Something stirred in the pandit’s heart—a strange mixture of pity and admiration. “Such a voice,” he murmured. “Born among bricks and dust, yet it touches the heavens.” He walked up to the boy and said kindly, “My son, do you wish to learn singing properly?” Rafiq looked up in surprise, unsure how to respond. The pandit’s eyes were full of compassion. That evening, Ram Sharan returned home with Rafiq, offering him food and a small room at the back of the house. Padmini welcomed the boy warmly, serving him a plate of hot rice and dal. For the first time in many days, Rafiq ate until he was full. He felt like he had entered another world—a world of kindness, learning, and light. Soon, a local music teacher named Harinath came daily to train the boy. Within weeks, Rafiq’s voice blossomed. His songs filled the house with life and longing. Sometimes, Suhasini would sit nearby, correcting his pronunciation or clapping softly to his rhythm. Rafiq called her “Didi," as he was 22 and she was 27. Months passed. The house that once echoed with chants now echoed with songs—bhajans, ghazals, film tunes. Ram Sharan and Padmini grew very fond of Rafiq. The old man even said one day, “Music is beyond religion, beyond caste. It is the language of God.”

 Yet destiny, ever unpredictable, was weaving a secret thread between the young hearts that shared those melodies. Suhasini was twenty-seven now, and her parents had found a suitable match—an engineer working for an international firm in Dubai. The family had already bought gold ornaments and fixed an auspicious wedding date. But in the quiet corners of the night, Rafiq and Suhasini spoke softly about life, dreams, and love. What began as innocent affection turned into a forbidden passion.


 One day, when Ram Sharan returned from the temple, he found a letter on Suhasini’s desk. It said simply: “Forgive us. We have married. We belong to each other now.”

 The news struck him like a thunderbolt. Rafiq and Suhasini had eloped and married in a mosque. The girl who had once recited Sanskrit shlokas now bore the name “Suhana Begum.” The old couple wept silently. Neighbours whispered. The Pandit withdrew into silence, his chants turning into sighs. Years rolled by. Five winters later, when the pandit was returning from the market, he saw a woman standing by the banyan tree near the bus stop. She was veiled, holding a small girl by the hand. Her eyes, though half-hidden, told a story of love and loss. It was Suhasini. Behind her stood Rafiq, wearing a white kurta and a prayer cap. He touched the pandit’s feet silently. “My daughter,” said Ram Sharan, his voice trembling, “what have you done to yourself?” Tears streamed down Padmini’s face as she embraced her daughter. For a few moments, the family stood together—Hindu father, Muslim son-in-law, and a small child who belonged to both faiths and neither. They spoke little.

Ram Sharan only said, “May Lord Shiva and Allah both protect you.” Then he turned away. Two years later, Suhasini returned—alone. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow. She carried burn marks on her hands, scars on her back. Her husband had taken another woman and thrown her out. His family had tortured her for months. She came back not as a daughter full of dreams, but as a wounded bird seeking shelter. When Ram Sharan saw her standing at the gate, he felt anger and despair rise within him. “Go away,” he said harshly. “You have broken our trust and our honour.”

 But Padmini could not bear it. She took her daughter into her arms, whispering, “A mother’s heart cannot refuse her child.” She gave Suhasini a small room at the back, the same room where Rafiq had once lived. Life began again, quietly. Suhasini joined the village primary school as a teacher. She taught children the alphabet, told them stories, and sometimes sang softly during the morning prayer—songs that carried both the sweetness of devotion and the ache of sorrow.

Villagers pitied her, but no one came forward to marry her. She was, in their eyes, a woman scarred by scandal and misfortune. At night, Padmini would light a lamp before the household shrine and pray silently. Ram Sharan would sit nearby, fingering his rudraksha beads. He had aged beyond his years. The sacred thread across his chest had grown faint from wear. Sometimes he would hear his daughter singing a lullaby to her little girl—half in Hindi, half in Odia—and something within him would tremble. He could not forgive, yet he could not forget. One evening, when the monsoon rain poured relentlessly, Suhasini came to her father’s room. “Baba,” she said softly, “I have named her Asha—hope. Maybe she will have a better life than I did.” Ram Sharan looked at the child, sleeping peacefully beside her. Her innocent face glowed in the lamplight. Slowly, his fingers reached out to touch her head. “Asha,” he whispered, “may your song never end.”

 For the first time in many years, tears rolled down his cheeks. Perhaps, he thought, the sins of one generation could be washed away by the love of the next. Perhaps God, who is beyond name and form, still sang through every heart that loved truly. And outside, amid the rustle of rain and the fragrance of wet earth, a faint tune rose from Suhasini’s lips—a tune that once belonged to a poor boy who had sung among bricks, a tune that had broken lives but also kept their memories alive. It was the song of two
faiths, mingling in pain and in
 beauty forever.