On January 6, I nervously landed at the Delhi airport. I say nervously because I wasn’t there as a tourist. I had gone to India as a researcher –to spend six months conducting research on the Indian media. As a Pakistani, I was uncertain if I would be able to get my work done without being suspected of any other activities “incompatible with my student status”.

On reaching India, however, it did not take long to for my nervousness to dissipate. My Pakistani origin, I soon discovered, was not a disadvantage at all. On the contrary, my Pakistaniat was not only helping me achieve desired research goals, it also began to pose gastronomic challenges: in the form of endless dinner invitaions.

That my arrival coincided with the alleged beheading of an Indian soldier at the LoC prompted an unknown fear within me. Four months later, Sarabjit’s murder terrified me as well for a while. A fear of the unknown would grip me even otherwise – particularly when alone or lonely. ‘Anything can go wrong and land me in trouble,’ was a thought constantly nagging at me. However, the hospitality extended by my Delhi friends and acquaintances would lay to rest all such fears. Most importantly, a sense of familiarity – at times transforming into a sense of belonging – hardly ever made me feel alien.

My language, skin colour, name, or religion – nothing is alien to Delhi. On the streets, people would stop by and ask for directions. In one incident, while at a metro station I asked a person standing next to me: “Which line goes to Rajiv Chowk?” Interestingly, I was standing right underneath a route-map, which happened to be in Hindi. Rather well dressed and holding a laptop, I hardly looked like the stereotypical unlettered person. The man I spoke to was perhaps in a bad mood. Pointing towards the map, he shouted, “Why don’t you read for yourself?” “I am from Pakistan, can’t read Hindi”, I replied in Urdu. At which he apologized immediately, shook my hand and politely guided me.

The similarities were even stronger in the case of Punjabis and Muslims – even though I am neither Punjabi nor religious. For about four months, I lived in Malviyanagar, a Punjabi neighbourhood. My Punjabi language skills produced such an affinity that within weeks I had an udhar system (credit accounts) working with two local grocery stores.

While, in the case of Muslims, I was welcomed as a curious member of lost tribe. Initially, I myself was confused over a curious development. I had developed a liking for azan (call to prayers). Before moving to Malviyanagar, I lived in Greater Kailash. Since I was attached to Jamia Millia Islamia, visiting the Muslim-dominated neighbourhood of Jamia Nagar was a daily routine. Everywhere, azan would follow me. ‘Is it the case that unlike our mullahs, muezzins in Delhi call the azan in a highly melodious way? Why somebody not religious has developed this fondness for azan?,’ I would wonder. I, in fact, discussed it with my Swedish-Pakistani friend Prof Ishtiaq Ahmed who also happened to visit Delhi during my stay. He helped me understand that the azan is also an assertion of Indian plurality.

As if to appreciate this plurality, I would candidly discuss the Kashmir question as well as the situation of Indian Muslims with my non-Muslim friends and comrades. My interaction with Muslim and Kashmiri students at Jamia Millia helped me enrich my understanding of their situation. While Kashmiri students – infested with conspiracy theories – visualized Pakistan as a perfect Islamic utopia, Indian Muslims had no such illusions about Pakistan even if, like any other Indian, they were concerned about the crises in our country.

Also, like any other religious community, Muslims are divided along ideological and sectarian as well as class and caste lines. Jamia Milliae epitomizes Muslim diversity as well as the cultural progress Indian Muslims have made.Imagine a campus in Pakistan with statues of Mirza Ghalib and Maulana Jauhar. While the road to the Mir Taqi Mir Hall is dedicated to Sa’adat Hassan Manto, a beautifully built auditorium is named after Noam Chomsky. However, my favourite hangout was the Castro Café surrounded by the M. F. Hussain Gallery and the Maulana Azad Hostel.

Beyond Jamia Millia, my favourite escape was Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU). Away from conservative Delhi, JNU covered in graffiti, with huge images of Marx, Lenin, Che, Bhagat Singh and Manto – offer immense relief to any frustrated progressive. However, it is Faiz one finds all over the place. But Faiz and Manto are not confined to the JNU’s romantic campus. They are all over Delhi. In fact, Delhi it seems has become Urdu’s last bastion in the subcontinent.

While the annual Jashn-i-Baharan Mushaira symbolised Delhi’s role in preserving Urdu, a qawali session during the Khusro Week at the National Museum or an evening with Ustad Wasifuddin Dagar, the dhrupad maestro, at the India International Centre (IIC) convinced me that Delhi was also protecting other forms of culture that Muslims have greatly contributed to.

There is a vibrant Urdu press and a flourishing publishing business. At the International Book Fair held in February at Pragati Maidan not merely offered a glimpse into Urdu publications, it was interesting to see an Ahmadiyya bookstore next to a stall set up by Tahirul Qadri’s Minhaj-ul-Quran. While the Urdu press and publications promote a conservative agenda, progressive Muslim voices have found refuge in the recently-launched DD Urdu.

Visits to Doordarshan were always a great experience owing to the warmth shown by its additional director general, Ranjan Thakur. However, Faiz’s life-size portrait – surrounded by those of Gandhiji and Tagore – at DD’s reception would add a special touch to every visit. Once a profitable enterprise, DD is now making huge financial losses. However, it remains fully committed to its social responsibility.

Apart from DD, the Indian television medium is by and large sensationalist. Ratings-hungry channels have compromised themselves – journalistically and morally. Admirably, a section of the  press such as The Hindu and Frontline have stayed committed to quality journalism. No wonder, The Hindu is widely considered the finest newspaper in South Asia. Interestingly, India is the only major newspaper market that has expanded since the advent of the digital age. Not many people in Pakistan know that with a circulation of 3. 1 million, The Times of India has become the most popular English-language newspaper in the world.

But  the television  has outdone newspapers. The sprawling Noida Film City, on the outskirts of Delhi, is a testament to this growth. An enviably modern and efficient, though overcrowded, metro is the best way to reach Noida. Ironically, from metro station one can reach huge media houses via cycle-rickshaws. Initially, I tried to avoid using cycle-rickshaws pulled by skinny migrant workers from Bihar. But they were unavoidable as well as a testimony to India’s ‘combined and uneven development’, a theory brilliantly propounded by Leon Trotsky (1879-1940).

Beyond glaring class contradictions, one also comes across sights that would be very familiar for a Pakistani. The traffic is messy; manholes are usually uncovered; and with a few exceptions there is an utter neglect of monuments and old buildings. Apart from some posh areas, most streets are littered with garbage. While there may be no power cuts, there is a real water crisis.

Once an acquaintance working with the BBC Hindi Service, who had never been to Pakistan, subjected me to a volley of questions about every aspect of Pakistani society. After an hour-long interrogation, he asked me a rhetorical question: ‘Sala, saath saal ho ga’y hain alaidha  hoay, ye dono  mulk phir bhee aik jaisay kay aik jaisay kyon hain’ (Why the hell two countries remain so similar despite 60 years of separation).

Since my return on June 4, I have been quizzed by siblings and cousins, friends and acquaintances. ‘What do they think about us? Do they hate us?’ I am asked. ‘I do not know. However, I had wonderful time,’ is my standard reply. Honestly, such simple questions cannot be answered in a similarly simple manner. Also, I do not have any documentary evidence to substantiate or deny any claims. I can only narrate my impressions. And I think Pakistan is not the most hated country in India. We could say that about perhaps Bangladesh or Afghanistan where Pakistan is disliked near-universally. However, I can safely assert that the only country where I have been warmly received as a Pakistani is India.

(The News published a shorter version of this article on June 11, 2013.)

Farooq Sulehria is doing his doctorate in media studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies in London. Previously, he  worked with Stockholm-based Weekly Internationalen. In Pakistan, he had worked for The Nation, The Frontier Post, The News, and Pakistan. He did his master’s in mass communication from the University of Punjab, Lahore. He also contributes to Znet and various other left-wing publications.