The story of the Muslim boy, raised by a Hindu man

Swami Gulagulaananda said:

"To think such great people exist in this day and age... I must really salute you, Sir"

It was later than usual when he got up. The cold outside had made him feel so comfortable under the blanket he had snuggled and he hadn't even realised he had passed the time he used to wake up normally. He woke up with a start and looked at the clock. “Darn it!” he cursed, as he set about his morning routine. As he was locking the door of his hut, his neighhbour's wife called out to him. “Kishan bhaiya, how come you are still here at this time? Isn't it later than your usual time?”. Kishan looked at her with a wan smile as he covered his ears with the orange cloth that he had around his neck. “You know how the cold is, sister. Makes me feel so lazy. Ok, I am off now. Have a great day”.

A few minutes later, he had his neatly organised push cart fully set up in front of the mosque. As he was busy heating the milk with his kerosene stove, two men came out of the mosque after finishing their morning prayers. “Oh Kishan! What is this we see? You are heating your milk now? It's quite late you know”. Kishan grinned at them as he hurriedly placed a small bench in front of his mobile tea shop. “Don't worry, brother. The tea will be ready by the time you finish the front page of today's newspaper” he said as he offered the morning paper.

In the park next to the mosque, three young boys, around 10 years old were busy playing hide and seek. One of the boys heard the weak cries of a child. He walked around looking for the source of the cries when he found a little boy, around 3 years old sitting alone in the grass, wailing. He quickly called his other friends, and together they asked where his mother was. The crying boy shook his head, and didn't say anything. The boys decided to get the help of adults, and they ran towards their homes. The boy who found the child had his house closest to the mosque. His mother had just come out of the door when the boys told her that there was a crying child in the park. “Did you beat him?” asked the mother in a stern voice on hearing that the child was crying. “Of course not. We don't beat small kids. He was crying when we found him” answered her son, slightly flushed on hearing the insinuation. The concerned woman went along with her son and his friends to the park. Along the way, they met Kishan, who on hearing the story decided to accompany them.

They found the crying child in the same spot. There was nobody around that place. So, Kishan asked the child to stop crying in a soothing voice. Once the child felt a little comfortable, Kishan coaxed the child to tell his name. “Imran” answered the boy in a soft voice. “What's your father's name?” asked Kishan. “Abbu...” answered the boy. “No, no, that's what you call him. What's his name?” asked Kishan patiently. “Abbu...” answered the innocent child. “Do you know where you stay?” and all other questions relating to his parents or anyone he knew reached dead ends.

Finally, they decided to take the boy to the police station to report that he was a missing child, when they found that the boy had a high fever. His eyes were slightly yellow. So, Kishan decided to take the child to a doctor, and then the police station. The doctor heard Kishan's story as he checked the boy. He turned to Kishan and told him with a tone of appreciation “You have done a very good job. The boy's condition is quite serious. We shouldn't delay any further. Listen Kishan, you don't worry about my fees or the hospital bills. I will waive them all off for you. Just ensure you get the medicines for him”. Kishan was very joyous on hearing this, and thanked the doctor with folded hands.

Even the police who were notified about this were not able to trace the boy's parents, and Kishan decided to take care of the boy himself. His neighbours and well wishers asked if that was the right choice. Kishan was not married, and it was fine as long as he was the only occupant of his house along with little Imran. But once married, he could not be sure if his wife would be alright raising someone else's child. Not to forget that the boy was of a different religion. A Muslim in the house of a Hindu? Are you sure? Why don't you raise him as a Hindu? Nobody will know it, he's just three years old. He won't even remember. Such suggestions were completely ignored by Kishan who looked at them all and said “No! I will know it. He is a Muslim, and I will raise him as a Muslim boy, with all the traditional values that a Muslim family would have taught him.” Some people thought that it could not be sustained. “Why don't you convert to Islam and marry a Muslim woman? I am sure she will understand” told someone to him. “Each person has his or her own beliefs and faith. Who says that two people cannot believe in two different Gods and yet live under the same roof?” said Kishan.

And he put his words into action. Kishan took the boy to a Muslim priest and brought him up with a Muslim background. He himself, however, being a Hindu continued to worship independently. A unique and wonderful situation had developed, we always hear about Unity in diversity, and here was a poor tea shop owner, who eked out a living selling tea, and yet had greater values than most of the educated and literate people.

Five years had passed, and 3 year old Imran was now 8 years old. Everyone was happy that the boy had been growing so well. Kishan had still not been married. One day, a local news reporter came to that tea shop, and some time latter heard about this unique story. She decided that this unique story should be known to the world. And quite soon, the story was heard by thousands of people, all of whose hearts were touched by the noble Kishan's deed. However, the news also reached the ears of Imran's biological parents. They decided to get the child back, and soon, there was a confusion. Imran and Kishan didn't want to part with each other. For Imran, Kishan was both his father and mother. And Imran was Kishan's son, though not legally. And thus followed a lawsuit. Imran's parents wanted the child back, and then after the DNA test proved that they were indeed his parents, the case was fought in court.

It seems Imran's father had been heavily drunk, and in the stupour, had left his son in the park and forgotten completely. It was only after his horrified wife raised a ruckus that he realised his folly, but unfortunately he didn't even remember where the child was. Kishan's lawyer said that the father might be his biological father, but didn't exhibit the behaviour of a responsible parent. Moreover, he was a habitual drunkard, and his bad influence would be disastrous on an impressionable child. The opposing lawyer, brought out all the points against Kishan, which were known. Including them being of two different religions, that his future wife might despise him, and so on. The case seemed to be tilting in favour of the Muslim couple, Imran's biological parents. Imran and Kishan were praying that they should never be separated. When asked why Kishan wanted to take care of Imran so desperately, Kishan only smiled and said that he felt that Imran was a gift of God, and he had been attached to him. The lawyer asked him why he had not given the boy his name? The lawyer went on putting words in his mouth, said that the name was not given because Kishan never intended for Imran to be his son, so that all connections and ties could be severed at will. Kishan said nothing. Do you even know how suffocating it is for a Muslim boy to grow up in a Hindu household? Tell me Mr. Kishan, how would you feel if you were raised in a Muslim household, where everyone around you were Muslims? Would you not feel suffocated?

And then, suddenly, a man wearing a white shirt raises his hand and addressed the court, requesting for permission to speak. This was a strange turn of events, because this man was not called to appear by either lawyers. The man seemed to know Kishan however. He came and patted on Kishan's shoulder, and took his place in the witness stand.

And then narrated the most incredible story. The man's name was Mohammad. When he was a child, his father had brought home a little boy, a boy who had no knowledge about his parents or their whereabouts. This boy, was Kishan. The young Mohd had asked his father if he would take the name of Khan (which was his surname) to which his father had told him, “No, my son. He has his own identity. His name is Kishan, and he will continue to be a Hindu as he was meant to be.” His wife was upset. She had refused to prepare food separately for the Hindu boy who didn't eat Muslim food by habit. The husband coaxed her, and convinced her, told her that a little extra rice and one small portion of curry wouldn't hurt anyone. The wife, on the husband's insistence, had agreed. Years passed, and the Hindu Kishan grew up in a Muslim household. His foster father had been on his death bed. Mohd and Kishan were at their father's side along with his foster mother. “You are both my sons, and it is time for me to leave this world. I want you both to have an equal share of my property.” The father had said. But Kishan spoke to his father first, and with folded hands said that all the property rightfully belonged to Mohd. He thanked his father and mother, for raising him. He told them that they were greater than God to him, for they had provided for him. That, in itself was greater than anything else he could have ever asked for. Mohd stepped in and chided his brother. He told him that Kishan was being silly, that they were a family. But Kishan refused. The mother's eyes welled with tears on seeing how noble her foster son was.

Kishan had insisted that he would start his own tea stall, and instead of continuing with his father's business, had set out to find a path for himself. Mohd, in the meanwhile had gone off to Dubai, and it was only the last week that he had arrived. On reaching Lucknow, he came to know about this situation, and it was then he realised what his noble brother had set out to do. He had realised that nature had given him the same situation, the situation his father had had with him. And he had decided to repay his debts to nature, to God, by taking care of this boy, by raising him with the same values as his own father had done. And that is the story of Kishan, your honour. I know he is too noble to have told this story, and I wanted to share this with you. I don't know if you will take this into account for your decision, but I felt you should know this.

Kishan won the case, and the custody of Imran, and even the next appeal in the high court. The unique case is now pending in the supreme court. But the Muslim Imran continues to happily stay with his foster father, the Hindu Kishan.

This is a true story – the original names of Kishan and Imran are apparently Aiku Lal and Akbar. This story appeared in Crime Patrol with these changed names, and I wanted to share this touching story with you guys. Incredible India, don't you think? It makes me really proud to think such people still exist in this day and age, where people of different religions continue to live in unity. No conversion was attempted. They retained their original identity and yet they are far superior at heart.


I would really appreciate it if you can share this story with others. Not necessarily this post, but the story itself... Let us spread this story, let everyone know what India is really about.


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