This morning, I burned my toast. Black crumbs scattered on the counter, and I laughed—a small, shaky sound that reminded me I’m still here, still human. The rain outside my window pattered like old memories, pulling me back to Pakistan’s crowded alleys, where fear chased me like a stray dog. My name is Shayan Ali Krishna, and I’m writing today because something stirs in me—a fire kindled by the Waqf Amendment Act 2025. This isn’t just a law to me. It’s a lifeline for the Pasmandas, the Ajlafs, the forgotten Muslims of India, and it sings of justice in a voice I can’t ignore. I know what it’s like to be silenced. In Pakistan, I watched a handful of Punjabi Sunnis hold the country like a tightly wound kite string, while Baloch, Sindhi, and Pashtun dreams fluttered out of reach. I was a social media influencer then, young and stubborn, posting truths that pricked the wrong egos. The ISI didn’t like that. They cornered me, called me a Jewish agent, an Indian spy, demanded I spin their story about Kashmir into a song. I said no. That one word cost me everything. By 2019, I was running—heart pounding, bag slung over my shoulder, leaving behind a life I’d barely begun. Exile tastes like ash, let me tell you, but it sharpens your eyes. I saw the same pattern here in India, among Muslims, where Ashraf elites—Syeds, Sheikhs, barely a fifth of the community—clutch Waqf boards like their birthright.
Waqf properties—mosques, orchards, schools—are meant for all Muslims. They’re treasures, holding crores in value, promising homes for the poor, books for the young. But too often, they’re locked away, their profits trickling into Ashraf pockets while Pasmandas—tailors, potters, sweepers—watch their kids go to bed hungry. I heard about a Pasmanda man once, standing outside a grand mosque, told to pray in the back because his caste wasn’t “pure” enough for the front. That story hit me like a stone. It was my story, too—pushed to the edges in Pakistan for daring to be me. The Waqf Amendment Act 2025 feels like a shout against that shame, a chance to smash the old hierarchy.
This law’s got guts. It says Waqf boards can’t be Ashraf-only clubs anymore. It pulls in Shias, Sunnis, Bohras, and—here’s the part that makes my heart leap—backward Muslims like the Ajlaf and Arzal. Pasmandas, the 85% who’ve carried the weight of labor and scorn, get to step up now. I close my eyes and see it: a Pasmanda weaver, fingers cracked from work, voting on funds to build a clinic. An Arzal girl, bright as dawn, knowing Waqf money might send her to school. The act even lets non-Muslims help manage things—not to meddle, but to keep an eye out, to stop the land sharks and elite games that’ve drained Waqf for too long.
Not everyone’s clapping, though. I’ve seen the protests, heard the whispers calling this law a betrayal, a grab at Muslim rights. I get the fear—change is scary. But I’ve lived real betrayal. In Pakistan, they said I’d turned my back on faith when I only wanted honesty. Here, I see the Ashrafs doing the same dance, wrapping their privilege in words like “autonomy” to keep Pasmandas quiet. Autonomy for who? The elite sipping tea in big houses, or the majority scraping by in slums? This act doesn’t break the community—it stitches it together, giving every sect, every caste, a say.
Krishna’s with me as I write this. I found Him in my darkest days, when Pakistan’s shadows nearly swallowed me. Not in a temple’s glow, but in the stubborn beat of my own heart, in a stranger’s smile when I had nothing. His flute plays for everyone—highborn, lowborn, Muslim, Hindu. This law’s like that flute, calling us to lift the weak, to share the load. I don’t hate the Ashrafs. I just want a Waqf board where a Pasmanda’s dream matters as much as a Syed’s.
India’s in my blood, though I’ve yet to touch its soil. My grandparents spoke of its rivers, its chaos, its heart. This act makes me believe in that India—a place where a Pasmanda boy can climb without being kicked down. It guards Waqf lands from greed, sets up courts to settle fights, opens ledgers for all to see. Pakistan taught me how a minority can crush a majority. India’s got a chance to choose better.
I’ve spent my life hunting for home—not walls, but warmth. The Waqf Amendment Act 2025 offers that warmth to Pasmandas, a place to stand tall. To them, I say: speak loud. To the Ashrafs, I say: make room. To everyone, I say: let’s walk in Krishna’s light, toward a Muslim world where no one’s left behind. This law’s a seed. Let’s plant it deep.
Shayan Krishna, a Political Commentator and TV Panelist once known as Shayan Ali, California, USA.
