The premise of Geetanjali Shree’s 1998 book, which has been translated into English by Daisy Rockwell as Our City, That Year, is something we’ve heard often, in both fact and fiction. The us vs them debate, however, still needs to be assertively retold to remain in the country’s consciousness. The book is bold, direct and political.
Shruti, a writer, is married to Hanif. Hanif and Sharad are friends, such that the vegetable seller assumes them to be brothers. They teach history at a university. Shruti and Hanif live in Sharad’s home, where they enjoy the madhumalti vine that has risen on their balcony, and the jovial company of Daddu, Sharad’s dad. The three comprise the ‘liberal us’, the ‘secular us’, and the ‘intellectual us’.
As they roam around, documenting a city torn by communal riots, there is another character—an unknown narrator, only identified as “I”, who chronicles how the world within them changes.
Near the university is a swelling Ashram, breeding a cult of Devi devotees, with their cry of Jai Jagadambe that is less about religion and more about asserting majoritarianism. Although Shree doesn’t implicitly refer to the Babri Mosque, there’s a “neutered mosque-temple” in the city. There’s also a bridge dividing this side from that.
Amid the widening chasm, Hanif and Sharad set an example. “So which of us is Hindu and which is Muslim?” asks Hanif, asserting there isn’t any difference. However, as the frenzy of communal fervour takes over the city, the equation of friendship and brotherhood starts to change.
The churn isn’t abrupt. “The problem is with them, with those who are not us, and not you; it’s those people, the ones on the other side of the bridge, the ones that riot: those people,” Hanif is told at the university by a professor, as the communal divide becomes pronounced.
“Everything has become Hindu-Muslim, every colour, every word, every salaam-namaskar, achkan-dhoti, even green and yellow,” Shree writes. She fleshes out the contraction of vocabulary in minute details. Here, the inner conflicts of individuals, stirred by the conflict outside, warrant a reading that is slow and deep.
Shruti cannot find words to pen what is happening around her, so she ends up writing love stories. Hanif, once assertive, grows reclusive as the incessant Islamophobic rhetoric numbs him. Sharad, meanwhile, increasingly assesses his identity as a Hindu.
