By Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay
In today’s India, religion is often wielded like a weapon—sharp, divisive, and political. The name of Ram, once a symbol of virtue and sacrifice, now echoes through our streets as a rallying cry for exclusion and supremacy. But if we stop to look back—truly look—we might find that much of what we blame on religion is, in fact, rooted in something far older and far more human.
Let’s rewind history—not just a few decades, but a few millennia. Five thousand years ago, there were no Muslims. Islam as a religion hadn’t yet been born. Even 1,500 years ago, the world had not known a single follower of Islam. So naturally, there were no Muslims in ancient India during that time.
Yet five thousand years ago, the Kurukshetra war unfolded—a brutal conflict among brothers from the same royal family, all followers of Sanatan Dharma. This was not a war sparked by religious differences, but one born of ego, power, greed, and betrayal. The Mahabharata, far from being a simple myth, is a chronicle of human ambition and weakness. And Muslims had no role in it, simply because they didn’t exist then.
Ram’s story, too, predates Islam. He lived—according to legend—some 7,000 years ago. His suffering, exile, and public humiliation were not at the hands of invaders or outsiders, but of his own people. He was betrayed by those closest to him—his stepmother, palace courtiers, even sections of his own subjects. Not a single one of them was Muslim.
Fast-forward to 1947. The subcontinent was carved up in the name of religion. India remained secular, though majority Hindu. Pakistan and East Pakistan were formed as Muslim homelands. But shared faith failed to hold even those two regions together. Less than 25 years later, East Pakistan broke away and became Bangladesh—after a horrific civil war. Thirty lakh people were killed. Two lakh women were raped. And all of it—Muslim on Muslim.
This should teach us something: religious unity is not a guarantee of peace. It can’t substitute for justice, empathy, or accountability. A Muslim can be another Muslim’s greatest threat. So can a Hindu to a Hindu. Religion doesn’t protect us from betrayal. Humanity does.
And yet, even today, politics clings to the easiest weapon: identity. If you’re Hindu, be suspicious of Muslims. If you’re Muslim, distrust Hindus. This tired narrative keeps getting recycled because it’s convenient—and because we let it.
But life tells a different story. Hindu couples get divorced. Muslim couples get divorced. Love fails. Trust is broken. Families fall apart. If shared religion could fix all of that, the world would be a far simpler place. But it doesn’t—because religion doesn’t equal compatibility. It doesn’t ensure kindness or decency. It never has.
If we’re honest, we’ve all been hurt—at work, in public spaces, in our homes. But ask yourself: was every insult or injustice you faced delivered by someone of a different religion? Were all your oppressors from the “other” side? Probably not. And Muslims, too, can ask the same question. The answer, more often than not, will be the same: no.
The truth is, brothers turned on brothers in the Mahabharata. Families crumbled in the Ramayana. Today’s violence is not a new disease—it’s a recurring symptom of an ancient human flaw: the hunger for power, the fear of loss, the illusion of difference.
Until we learn to see through the myth of religious rivalry, we will keep bleeding at the altar of imagined enemies.
Perhaps it’s time we broke that cycle.
