On Moradabad doctors and all the houses I never lived in

In Moradabad (UP), a doctor couple saw their home vanish before they could enter it. But this story isn’t theirs alone — it’s every Muslim’s fate in a country of closed doors and unspoken exclusions

There is no outrage for the houses we never lived in.

It recently happened in Moradabad (Uttar Pradesh) but, truthfully, it started everywhere. A Muslim couple, both doctors, bought a house in Moradabad’s posh TDI City. They must have, one assumes, imagined fresh paint on the walls, the scent of new beginnings. But before they could even move in there, their neighbours-to-be made it clear that they were unwelcome through their very public protest. A resident declared that the house had been sold “without consulting them.”

“We cannot tolerate a Muslim family living right in front of our temple,” declared Megha Arora, another resident. “This is also a question of the safety of our women.” With these words, she conjured the most tired but effective weapon in India’s communal playbook — the idea that a Muslim presence is inherently dangerous.

That idea is simple but effective: frame Muslims as threats, and suddenly, even the most unreasonable demands feel justified. It has become a catch-all defence for anything, from love jihad laws to bans on hijabs in classrooms. In the case of the doctors, it achieved its intended purpose. In less than 48 hours, the sale was reversed. The couple backed out because they became uncomfortable — a euphemism that cloaks the bruises of rejection. The seller, another doctor named Dr. Ashok Bajaj, who had known the Muslim family for 40 years, said he hadn’t expected the backlash.

“I never thought it would become national news,” he said, mournfully. So, finally, much to the relief of TDI City’s bigoted residents, the Muslim family would not move in. And the house would be resold to a Hindu family. It was presented as a compromise — as if an “amicable solution” had been found for an act of quiet exclusion.

As I read about it, I wasn’t in Moradabad. I was back in Gurgaon. I was back in Delhi. I was back in Ghaziabad. I was in every house I had stood in, hoping to turn it into a home. I was with that doctor couple. I was them. I had been them. But there is no outrage for the houses we never lived in. There is no protest, no video, no resolution brokered by the local MLA. There is only that bloodless violence that Muslims in India know oh so well (besides the bloodied ones, of course).

The geography of exclusion

I still remember my first house hunt in Gurgaon, the Millennium City rising out of the dust with its glass towers and glitzy cyberhubs, nearly 17 years ago. I was newly independent, with a stable job and a dream of finding a space to call my own. Armed with optimism, I set off on weekend visits with a broker, scanning those new concrete apartments that rose like Lego blocks along the skyline. Every house tour had the same rhythm: I’d walk in, inspect the layout, and nod politely as the broker would go on to deliver a breathless, well-practised spiel. I saw a beautiful 3 BHK flat. It was airy and spacious; it had clean tiles, large windows, and big balconies.

I imagined furniture, curtains, the smell of fresh food cooking in a kitchen I could call my own. I imagined sitting by a window, writing stories in a room that belonged to me. The broker was enthusiastic, patting the walls like they were his friends. “Modular kitchen hai, sir. 24-hour water. Owner bhi bahut achhe hain.” (It has a modular kitchen, sir. 24-hour water. The owner is also very good.) The air was filled with pleasantries until the moment that question dropped like a stone in a still pond. It always comes. “Aapka naam kya hai?” (What’s your name?)

There was a pause after I said it. A brief silence where something shifted in the air. The broker said, “Okay, sir” with all the performance of politeness. The tour continued, but the tone was different now. When I left, he said, “Main owner se baat karke aapko bataunga.” (I’ll talk to the owner and get back to you.) He never did. This happened three, four, five times. Sometimes the call would come the next day. “Sorry, sir, woh house kisi aur ko mil gaya.” (Sorry, sir, that house was given to someone else.) Sometimes there was no call at all. At one instance, I clearly remember, the owner happened to be an NRI, who dropped this information every now and then during our conversation. Spoke English with an acquired accent, but turned out to be hopelessly myopic.

How I learnt to disappear in Delhi

Before moving to Gurgaon, I had lived in Delhi, which was supposed to be different. Bigger, busier, more cosmopolitan. But the script remained the same. The search had felt like a routine I was too familiar with. The brokers, the pauses, the politeness that cooled into refusal. I would watch apartments slip away before they’d even been offered. When I finally did rent a house in South Delhi, I lived as though I were still outside. I didn’t hang anything on the walls. I kept quiet during festivals. I spoke softly on the phone. I lived like a guest. I played my music low. I didn’t cook non-vegetarian food in my kitchen.

I didn’t realise it at the time, but I was following an unwritten rule of Muslim tenants in Hindu-dominated areas: Live so quietly that they forget you’re there. You never fully unpack. You live as if you might have to leave. You live as if the walls are not yours. You learn to shrink yourself, to live invisibly, unremarkably. You are not living in a home; you are living on borrowed time. I had learnt how to make myself smaller. You become invisible. You become a tenant who never makes noise.

Over the years, I have learnt the little signs of a house I wouldn’t get. It’s the polite landlord who suddenly remembers there’s ‘work’ to be done in the flat. It’s the broker who says, “Hindu-only area hai, sir, thoda issue ho sakta hai.” (It’s a Hindu-only area, sir, there might be a problem.) It’s the way everyone smiles at you just a little too much.

The unwritten code in Uttar Pradesh

In Uttar Pradesh, the exclusion has perceptibly been more systemic in the last 10 years. Builders of high-end apartments now have unwritten rules: no flats are to be sold or rented to Muslims. This is, of course, not advertised or mentioned in brochures but is enforced with chilling consistency. Years after the house-hunt in Gurgaon, I had a family of my own. This time, I wasn’t just looking for a house. I was looking for a home. For my child. For my family. I thought it would be different. After all, I had grown older, more successful, more ‘respectable.’ But it has become worse. In one instance, a broker told me candidly, “The builder has made it clear — this society is not for Muslims.” When I asked why, he shrugged. “It’s just how it is,” he said, nonchalantly.

A few years ago, we found a 3BHK flat in a gated community in Ghaziabad. It was perfect. It was newly built and had sunlight pouring in through wide windows. The price was within my range. My son ran through the empty rooms, his small feet thudding on the tile floors; perhaps he was already placing his imaginary toys on imaginary shelves. He was already imagining his new home. But then it happened. The broker stepped out to make a call. When he returned, he said he was sorry. “Sir, thoda issue ho gaya hai.” (There’s a small issue.) I knew the line by heart. I knew the choreography. The ‘issue’ was always the same. It was me. My name. My son asked me later, “Why didn’t we take that house?” I didn’t have the heart to explain.

A country of closed doors, and minds

It’s one thing to carry the weight of rejection yourself, to feel the sting of prejudice and find ways to bury it deep within. But how do you explain this to a child who is still discovering the world, who looks up at you with wide eyes full of trust, and asks, “Why don’t they let us live there, Papa?” How do you explain to a child, who’s been taught about fairness and kindness, that those lessons don’t always apply to the world outside his textbooks? That sometimes, people don’t care who you are or what you’ve done — they only see your name, your faith, and make their decisions before you’ve even had the chance to speak.

When I tried to explain it to him, I stumbled. How do you find words that don’t break his spirit? I told him that some people are afraid of things they don’t understand, that they build walls in their minds to keep others out. But he didn’t look convinced. “But you’re a journalist,” he said, confused. “You did not tell them that?” His innocence cut me in ways no rejection ever had. It was harder than any door slammed in my face, harder than any excuse thrown at me. Because in his eyes, I saw a flicker of something I feared the most — doubt. Doubt in the fairness of the world, doubt in his own place in it.

As parents, we want to protect our children from the harshness of reality for as long as we can. But this isn’t something you can shield them from, not when it knocks on your door with such regularity. I tell him that it’s not always like this, that there are good people, kind people, who will see him for who he truly is. I want to believe it, for his sake. I want to tell him that he will grow up in a kinder India, a better India. But as I speak, I can’t shake the feeling that my words are as fragile as the promises this country once made to me.

When I read about the Moradabad doctors, it was as if every house I had ever been denied was staring back at me. I saw myself in that doctor couple. They are more accomplished than I am; they are doctors, people who save lives. People ask why they didn’t fight. They ask why they didn’t “stand up for their rights.” But I know why. I’ve lived it. You get tired. You break a little every time. And sometimes, you just don’t have the energy to fight strangers for a house that will never feel like home.