“Why don’t you stay at my place tonight in Batla House?” said Syed Hasan, my new classmate in Jamia University. The question got me in a fix. It was 10.30 already and traveling now would mean two more hours of despair and another series of scolds from my parents. My father has been much disciplined all through his life. A conformist, but emotional to an extent where he gets a bit concerned towards me. Like a typical Indian father, he is a bit hesitant to express this concern to his 20 year old grown up kid, who is now pursuing his major in journalism from Jamia University.

I remember the way he advised me how I should be extra cautious in Jamia Millia University, Jamia Nagar. Last year in September two alleged terrorists from a group known as Indian Mujhahideen were gunned down in an encounter at Batla House in Jamia Nagar. Indian Mujahideen is believed to be an offshoot of Lashkar-e-Taiba or LeT, one of the largest and most active militant organizations in South Asia. It was responsible for the death of about 170 people and leaving many injured during five terrorist attacks on the major cities of India, including the capital New Delhi in 2008.

I had no option but to agree. I doubted whether five days of friendship are enough for this decision. I was going totally against what my father had demanded of me. As I entered Okhla, a muslim dominated area near Delhi border, I had already seen many carts carrying chicken and goats pulled by men wearing transparent skull caps. The women carrying the mystery behind their Burqas and those eyes behind the veils reminded me of the books by Khaled Hosseini. The splendid suns were not there and the hopes vanished when I passed a crematorium, few kids were in there with flowers.

A herd of low key tea shops waited for me at the main street entrance in Batla House and a bigger herd at each one of them of people. Those questioning eyes made me felt like an inmate, but the commotion was not for me. That night was as long as I had thought of. The only thoughts which remained in my mind were the stories of my grandfather about the 1947 partition of India and Pakistan. When every other hour, trains from Lahore to Amritsar and from Amritsar to Lahore, brought and took away gory corpses of Hindus and Muslims. I thought of the number of riots over destroyed mosques, massacres on unequal laws and burning trains over small tiffs in the following years till date.

I woke up late when Hasan asked me to get up to see the dawn at Batla House. The birds chirped the same here. The sun was as splendid here too. They were drinking the same water. They were also religiously human. The morning was no different than my home and I was glad but not at all pleased. Its only a matter of time, history and injustice which has brought us into problems like terrorism. But, what hurts more is the fact that when we think of a terrorist we have an image of a bearded man with a turban in long clothes; a Muslim. Perhaps there are many David Headleys around but we were only looking for that same old bearded man.