K. Saradamoni passed away in 2021. She wrote the following article in January 1993 soon after the Babri Masjid demolition. Her family found a note pinned to it, saying, ‘The Editor of the Times of India regrets that he is unable to make use of the enclosed contribution. New Delhi.’ It was untitled. The Wire is producing it in full in the aftermath of the inauguration of the Ram Temple at the site where the Babri Masjid stood.As a social scientist I have often had the need to use the word majority and I was sure of its meaning. However, when surveys and field work increased as part of my work I began to feel not too happy and satisfied with “50% and above”. But we could bring in the minority, small or tiny segment’s views by resorting to purposive sampling and studying special or individual cases separately, so that we got an idea of the whole. My understanding of majority never included any kind of superiority or special claims. Today I am hearing the word constantly and yet I do not know what it means. This piece is mainly to think aloud and understand what it means or does not mean. The reason for this exercise is simply this. I was born a Hindu and nothing has happened in my life to make me think of leaving the Hindu religion. But today with all that happens in the country in the name of religion I am trying to examine what religion meant to me and how it got moulded, all because what I hear around is not my religion. Born into a Hindu Nayar middle class family I absorbed my ideas of religion in the normal course of growing up and not by any special initiation. As my father had died when I was very small it was my mother – devout, orthodox, well read in the Puranas, but not a regular temple-goer – who brought me up. We lit the traditional lamp at dawn and dusk, and prayed mainly in the evening by singing hymns in praise of gods: Bhagavathy (Devi), Krishna and Shiv. They were simple and beautiful. It was common in households like mine to read the Ramayan, Mahabharat and Bhagavatam rather regularly. So the story of Ramayana was known to all of us, but there was nothing special about Ram as a god. In fact, even the epithet “maryada purushottam,” I heard much later when I was living in Delhi. Ayodhya was the capital of Dasarath and it was fascinating to imagine Ram’s pushpakavimana (flying chariot) landing there, after his victory over Ravan and completion of the period of exile. Important places of pilgrimage were Kasi (Varanasi) and Rameswaram; not Ayodhya. Through all this we also developed ideas of an omnipotent, omnipresent god.In those days caste distinctions and distances were practised in many homes and mine was no exception. That way I knew who could draw water from the well and who could enter upto where, etc. I grew up in Quilon (Kollam) and studied in a convent which was chosen by most prominent parents in the town for the education of their daughters. We were Christians, Muslims and Hindus. Many of our teachers were Anglo Indians coming from the nearby British enclave of Tangassery. The Catholic students had to attend catechism classes in the morning. This left the rest of us with extra time to play, run around or intermingle in any other way. No one preached to us about hatred or harmony. I have nothing but happy memories of this period. Bonds of friendship were not linked to religion. Also read: To Combat Communal Hysteria, the Idea of Inclusive India Must Be ReinforcedMy closest childhood friends were a Muslim, Jameela, and a Christian, Anna Jyoti. Jameela’s grandmother was my grandmother’s friend and, and her father, my uncle’s friend. That way we were close family friends. Anna Jyoti was a Nadar Christian from Nagercoil. She was in Quilon because her father was working with a British firm, the Harrisons and Crosfield. I never knew anything about her after I left that school, but she has a place in my memory. Jameela too did not study much but she got a job in a state government department when her husband died. I met her after many years. I brought her to my Trivandrum house and we spent a couple of happy hours, not remembering our religions. I have no intention of painting an idyllic picture of my childhood days. There were communal clashes, and there might probably have occurred misunderstandings and suspicions, but they were not so loud and dominant to influence our thinking and relationships. That is why I do not have any affinity towards those Hindus who consider themselves a special lot with a special mission to “ save” the country and who spread the message of dislike, hatred and/or intolerance towards members of other religions. I am anguished at what happened at Ayodhya and elsewhere, at the cruelty and destruction everywhere. I would like to remind my friends who think that they are the custodians of the Hindu religion that all those who steal precious and rare idols from sanctum sanctorums and smuggle them are not always members of minority or other religions. I also want us to remember that we ourselves have destroyed the forms and places of worship of the people who lived here before us. The process still goes on, when Ram is elevated as a super-god and planted above our Bhagavathy, Krishna and Shiv. Gods and prayers were not the only ingredient of the religious beliefs I imbibed. Cleanliness, truthfulness, morality (sadacharam) in all aspects of life and a sense of right and wrong were an essential part of those beliefs. Very early in life I learned a poem on Abu Ben Adam which has left a lasting impression on me. Loving human beings is more pleasing to god than loving Him. From Vivekananda I got the inspiring message, ‘Believe in yourself first, then believe in god. Awake, arise and stop not till the goal is reached.’ Having reached an age when people I had known, loved, admired and respected are leaving one by one, I feel lonely at times. At the same time I have an urge to keep their unfinished struggles for a better world, and a united yet diverse and flourishing country going. For this I realise I need much more of strength, quiet and clarity. All that happens around are contrary to this. In my quest for spiritual strength and inner tranquility I see that only love and peace can ensure them to me. Hatred, violence and destruction have no place there. To me those who indulge in them are anti-nationals and criminals. Yet they are the ones who are called for talks and discussions to sort out national issues, all because they are “organised “ and can shout to be heard. Don’t the invisible, not vocal, not organised, yet concerned persons like me have a place in our democracy? Am I a minority in the majority? How is it decided? K. Saradamoni was a distinguished historian, economist and specialist in Dalit and gender studies.