In a new book, a journalist tries to understand India’s deep suspicion of Hindu-Muslim couples

On a hot May evening in 2025, I arrived at the office of the superintendent of police in Uttar Pradesh’s Sambhal district. The journey from Delhi had been long, but the sight of seasonal blooms, a mix of bright red gulmohar and white champa that lined the entrance, instantly re-energised me.

Outside the main building situated in Bahjoi, the administrative headquarters of the district, half a dozen constables were scattered around the gate, twiddling their batons. The gatekeeper pointed towards a parking spot under the shade of an old mango tree. “Desi aam – local variety,” one of the constables sitting in a small room outside the premises told me with pride.

I looked up once again. The mango tree indeed was one of the biggest I had seen. It explained the earlier sweet smell. “Sir [referring to the SP] really likes greenery,” he added. Then, he pointed towards a nearby jamun tree.

I spent a few minutes familiarising myself, making small talk about crimes in the area with the inspector and support staff I met at the gate. The entrance led through a waiting room with rows of stiff, synthetic chairs designed to look like sofas meant for complainants and visitors.

I was spared the wait. A nod from one...

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