When Shadab becomes Sonu: On kanwar route, eatery workers use aliases to avoid mob attacks

Time of India

13-07-2025

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Agra: Tajammul never asked to be renamed. But when the dhaba owner leaned in one afternoon and said, "From now on, you're Gopal," he didn't argue. A kada — a thin, metallic bracelet — was slipped onto his wrist, a symbolic accessory meant to suggest he belonged.
He was working the tandoor that week at Pandit Ji Vaishnav Dhaba, a popular stop along the Delhi-Dehradun highway, where pilgrims pass by in convoys. "They were afraid," he said. "They heard someone was coming to check who we really were."
Among those "someones" was Swami Yashveer Maharaj, a self-styled seer from Muzaffarnagar who had launched what he called a "pehchan abhiyan" — an identity-check drive. Accompanied by supporters, he visited roadside eateries to verify if Hindu-named establishments were run or staffed by Muslims.
His rationale, delivered publicly and without apology, was that such naming misled devotees. He spoke of conspiracies being hatched, with no evidence but enough impact.
In the dhabas and fruit stalls lining highways, these checks have become more than occasional disruptions. They've reshaped the way some workers navigate daily life. Names are adjusted. Clothing choices reconsidered. For those with beards or wearing kurta-pyjamas, the safest decision is often silence or absence.
by Taboola
by Taboola
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"People like us — we go colony to colony, street to street," said Shadab Ahmed, a vendor from Meerut. "We can't afford to be noticed in the wrong way. So we use names that won't raise questions — Pappu, Sonu, Sanni." He said it without bitterness, but not without calculation. It was the kind of adaptation one makes quickly, without needing to be told twice.
In Muzaffarnagar's Bajhedi village, Mohammad Sabir recalled a time when such precautions felt unnecessary.
A former gram pradhan, he remembered the shift not as a single event, but as a slow erosion. "Eight or ten years ago, no one came to ask your name at a food stall," he said. "Now it's like people are searching for a reason to make you prove something."
The kanwar yatra has become a flashpoint. Each year, lakhs of saffron-clad devotees walk the roads collecting holy water. In towns along the route, many Muslim-run eateries now close temporarily to avoid being targeted.
"It's not written anywhere that we can't serve during the yatra," said a dhaba owner near Roorkee. "But we don't want to be the ones who get noticed."
Some workers have stopped trying to blend in. Others are learning when to disappear. Mohammad Waseem, a carpet seller in Nainital, didn't do either. He was approached last month by a group of men who asked for his Aadhaar card. "When they saw my name, they started yelling slurs," he said.
"Then they beat me." He was not accused of theft. He hadn't raised his voice. "If I had told them my name was something else, maybe I'd have been safe.
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For Asif Rahi, the issue is not only the attacks but the silence that follows them. As president of Paigham-e-Insaniyat, a group that used to organise relief camps for kanwariyas in Muslim-majority areas, he's watched the rhetoric grow sharper, while institutional response remains minimal.
"This fear isn't about the yatra," he said. "It's about how normal it's become to be asked to prove your identity. And when something happens, no one is held accountable.
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Rahi's group once served thousands of pilgrims — water, first aid, basic meals — on their journey. "There was no question of who was serving whom," he said. "Now even that is being politicised."
Not everyone sees the situation in the same light. Nitini Thakur, a bank manager from Muzaffarnagar, said, "People should not have to hide their identity.
But I also believe customers have the right to know who is cooking their food. The state should be responsible for managing this — not random groups."
The state, in some ways, has already weighed in. Kapil Dev Agarwal, minister of vocational education and skill development, made headlines during last year's kanwar yatra for proposing that Muslim-run dhabas use signboards declaring their ownership. "Even a child wears a cap and goes to madrasa — no one objects," he said recently.
"So why hide your name when you run a business? Hiding means you're lying. That won't be tolerated.
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Social worker Dilshad Pehlwan sees it differently. "If it's about being honest," he said, "then start with the factories owned by Hindus but run by Muslims. Or the hotels with Hindu names hiring Muslim cooks. You can't apply rules only when it suits your narrative."
Still, for workers like Tajammul, the argument is no longer about principle — it's about endurance. He left the dhaba soon after his identity became a topic of discussion. "Customers still call me Gopal," he said. "I don't correct them anymore." He spoke quietly, not out of fear, but fatigue. Hiding a name, he said, doesn't make it go away. "It just makes things quieter for a while. And that's sometimes enough."