The Story Of A Hotel Check-In, And An India That No Longer Exists

There is a profound, aching sorrow that accompanies the realisation that a nation is gradually losing its soul. For those who have long cherished India as a grand, inclusive experiment in pluralism, recent years have brought a steady accretion of disheartening news. Yet, occasionally, a singular incident cuts through the noise of daily politics and lays bare the sheer depth of our moral drift. One such unsettling moment was captured for me in a recent news report about what many might consider a trivial incident - headlined "'Hotel boot' for minority BJP leader".

The report details an incident involving Sajjad Yousuf Shah, the Bharatiya Janata Party's (BJP) Jammu and Kashmir media co-incharge and a vocal pro-India voice. While visiting Aurangabad in Maharashtra, widely regarded as one of India's most industrialised, progressive, and prosperous states, Shah checked into a hotel, only to be asked to leave an hour later. The reason given to him, as he recounted with deep sadness on social media, was linked directly to his Muslim and Kashmiri identity.

The tragic irony of this incident is stark. Here is an individual who actively worked within the ruling party's ecosystem, championing the mainstream national narrative in a sensitive region, only to find that the very identity-based biases fostered by his party's political discourse could not shield him. When the structures of prejudice become institutionalised and normalised, they do not discriminate based on political loyalty. They target the identity itself. This incident serves as a harrowing hook to examine a much larger, quieter, and deeper tragedy unfolding across our landscape: the normalisation of anti-Muslim bigotry in contemporary India.

How Did We Arrive Here?

For millennia, India's identity was anchored in profound civilisational graces. We took immense pride in the philosophy of "Atithi Devo Bhava" - the belief that a guest is akin to the divine, deserving of unconditional warmth, safety, and respect. Parallel to this was the concept of "Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb", a poetic and lived reality of syncretic culture where Hindu and Muslim traditions, languages, and daily lives flowed together like the sacred rivers, enriching the soil of our collective consciousness.

To witness these foundational civilisational virtues give way to an era where a Muslim citizen, as an "atithi", cannot securely rent a hotel room, is nothing short of devastating. How have we arrived at a juncture where the basic transactions of hospitality and commerce are filtered through the lens of communal suspicion? The refusal of accommodation is not merely an isolated commercial dispute; it is a symptom of a deeper malaise where everyday spaces - housing societies, workplaces, restaurants, and public transport - are increasingly being segregated by prejudice.

This normalisation does not happen overnight. It is built on a steady diet of daily provocations, dog-whistles, and the casual dehumanisation of an entire community. We see it when residential colonies quietly implement unwritten rules against selling or renting property to Muslims. We see it in the economic boycotts called against Muslim vendors during festivals, or when halal certification is turned into a flashpoint of manufactured outrage. We see it when young professionals, despite impeccable qualifications, find invisible barriers blocking their career advancement or housing needs simply because of their names. The civilities that once acted as the social glue of our vast country are fraying, replaced by a pervasive climate of mutual mistrust.

The Plight Of A Normal Muslim Citizen

It is against this backdrop that one must look at the political forces shaping our current reality. The ruling BJP must pause and reflect on the incident involving one of its own functionaries. Does the party leadership not see this as a profound wake-up call for where it has led the country in its relentless pursuit of polarising the electorate?

When polarisation is weaponised for electoral dividends, it creates a monster that eventually escapes the control of its creators. The political rhetoric that portrays a 200-million-strong minority as an existential threat, an "internal enemy", or an unassimilated collective, inevitably filters down to the ordinary hotel manager, the auto-driver, the landlord, and the neighbour. When a loyal party worker from Jammu and Kashmir is turned away from a hotel room in Maharashtra because of his faith, the message is clear: the fires of prejudice, once stoked, burn indiscriminately. It is a sobering reminder that a politics built on division ultimately undermines the social stability required to sustain any effective governance or economic progress. The ruling party must ask itself whether winning elections is worth the price of breaking the psychological integration of the nation.

This current atmosphere of alienation stands in heartbreaking contrast to the India in which I grew up and have long proudly presented to the world. For decades after Independence, Indian statesmen and citizens could look the global community in the eye and state with absolute conviction that Indian Muslims were full, proud, and equal stakeholders in the democratic project.

India's Rich Social Fabric

Our history books and public life were filled with icons - from Dr APJ Abdul Kalam and Ustad Bismillah Khan to corporate leaders, senior bureaucrats and diplomats, sportspersons, senior military officers and judges - who embodied the ultimate synthesis of being profoundly Muslim and intensely Indian. When the global geopolitical landscape was fractured by the rise of transnational Islamist extremist groups in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, India stood out as a spectacular anomaly. Security analysts and foreign observers would frequently marvel at how, out of a population of over 140-160 million Muslims at the time, barely a handful were ever tempted to join organisations like Al-Qaeda or global terrorist networks.

When asked how India achieved this remarkable resilience, the answer was simple and elegant: democracy, secularism, and institutional inclusion. Indian Muslims did not look outside for validation or justice because they believed implicitly in the Indian Constitution. They knew that their rights were protected, that they had a stake in the nation's democratic destiny, and that the state did not view them through the prism of suspicion. We successfully managed a massive minority population not through discrimination or repression, but through the quiet assertion of equal citizenship. To look at that legacy today and contrast it with the current environment of suspicion is a source of profound dismay.

It is deeply painful to contemplate the psychological toll this shift takes on millions of our fellow citizens. We are talking about people whose ancestors have lived, died, loved, and laboured on (and are buried under) this soil for centuries. Their sweat is mixed with the mortar of our monuments; their intellect has shaped our sciences; their creativity has defined our cinema, music, and literature; and their blood has watered the battlefields defending our borders.

A Collective Moral Failure

To make their descendants feel like unwelcome strangers in their own land is a moral failure of monumental proportions. Imagine the quiet indignity of a father or mother having to explain to a child why they cannot live in a certain neighbourhood, why a classmate says "I cannot play with you because you are a Muslim", or why a name draws sudden, cold stares at a check-in counter. This structural and social alienation chips away at human dignity, replacing the joy of shared citizenship with a corrosive, defensive anxiety.

Beyond the profound moral and ethical arguments, we must also confront the hard, practical consequences of this alienation. India is home to over 200 million Muslims, making it one of the largest Muslim populations in the world. From a purely pragmatic, governance-oriented perspective, one must ask: what happens when you systematically alienate a minority of this scale?

If a community is repeatedly told, through state action and societal behaviour, that they do not belong, that their loyalty is perpetually under suspicion, and that their rights are conditional, the social contract begins to dissolve. Even if we look at this through a cold, mathematical lens: if the systemic humiliation pushes just a tiny fraction, say one percent, of that massive population toward hostility or destructive despair, the country would become fundamentally ungovernable. No amount of police force, surveillance, or state power can manage a society where a sizeable portion of the citizenry feels it has no stake in the nation or in the preservation of its social order, and that it has nothing to lose by hitting out where it hurts. 

Social harmony is not a luxury; it is the absolute prerequisite for economic growth, national security, and political stability. By tolerating and normalising bigotry, we are actively undermining the foundations of our own national security and strength.
In the final analysis, we must look into the mirror and ask ourselves a simple, sorrowful question: What have we reduced ourselves to?

A great civilisation is not measured merely by its GDP growth, the length or breadth of its highways, or the sophistication of its defence systems. A civilisation's true greatness lies in how it treats its most vulnerable, how securely its minorities can sleep at night, and how effortlessly a stranger can find shelter within its borders.

The incident in the  Aurangabad hotel should not be weaponised for petty political point-scoring, nor should it be dismissed as a minor, isolated misunderstanding. It must be treated as a moment for collective introspection. We must find it within ourselves to reject the politics of casual malice and reclaim the mature, inclusive pluralism that once defined us. We must restore the broken civilisational graces of Atithi Devo Bhava and the Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb, ensuring that every citizen, regardless of their name or faith, can walk into any corner of this vast country and feel unmistakably, beautifully at home.

(Shashi Tharoor has been a Member of Parliament from Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, since 2009. He is an esteemed author and a former diplomat.)

Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author