The scenes that unfolded at TCS, Nashik, sound like a scene from a Bollywood crime drama or a film on corporate misconduct. But unfortunately, it is the headline in India currently.
At the Tata Consultancy Services (TCS) office, nine FIRs have been filed; eight by women employees alleging sexual misconduct and inappropriate religion-linked remarks, and one by a male employee, citing that religious sentiments have been hurt. Seven people have been arrested, with one—allegedly the key conspirator—still absconding.
As with many such cases, the facts are still emerging. But what has already become evident is how quickly the conversation has moved beyond the specifics of the allegations.
The fact that all the accused reportedly belong to the same community has turned this into a flashpoint. Instead of remaining focused on the claims, evidence, and accountability of individuals, the narrative in some spaces has expanded into something much broader—framing it as a pattern, or even as a communal issue.
On social media, this has translated into sweeping generalisations and warnings, urging Hindu women to be cautious of Muslim men as a category. It’s been alleged that Muslim men, as a group, are targeting Hindu women, with suggestions of exploitation and forced conversion becoming central to the narrative.
There are, of course, competing narratives emerging as well. Some accounts call the entire episode a case of a relationship gone wrong, suggesting a very different context to the allegations. Others, including voices like Arfa Khanum Sherwani, have framed the coverage itself as part of a pattern that risks stigmatising educated Muslims and making them more vulnerable in professional spaces.
High time to own up
The truth will emerge sooner or later. But what stands out to me is something else. Why is the instinct, within the community, so often to become immediately defensive?
If those accused are seen as “one of us”, why does that not also create a sense of responsibility—to question, to reflect, to understand what has actually happened?
Instead of stepping back with curiosity, the reaction often moves quickly toward dismissing such incidents as conspiracies against the community.
Why can we not choose another way to respond? One that does not begin with defensiveness, but with honesty and responsibility. One that allows us to stand with those who may have been wronged.
When we think of cases like the Kathua rape case or Bilkis Bano, don’t we expect that people should stand for justice, regardless of identity? Haven’t we felt unease in seeing support by some groups being extended to the criminals, with rallies, flags and garlanding them?
I understand the instinct to feel defensive. As a minority, that reaction comes almost naturally, especially in a case like this, which is still not proven. But it is important to be clear here. Holding individuals accountable is not the same as assigning collective guilt to an entire community. No group is defined by the actions of a few.
And it’s not like there aren’t issues within our own community that we need to address. In many societies, including our own, there are still deeply rooted ideas about gender. There is a mindset of male superiority, control over women, that continues to exist, no matter how carefully or nicely we try to frame it otherwise.
There are videos by unqualified maulvis giving sermons, where women are reduced to roles defined entirely in relation to men, like their existence is to only serve men on this planet earth and without any credible sources, and it passes without much challenge from the community.
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The hard truth
Over time, we have also tried to define what modesty should look like for women, instead of leaving it as a personal choice. And people who already live with a mindset of tribal misogyny easily combine it with such ideas and suggest that women who do not follow Islamic modesty standards are less deserving of respect.
And for some sick-minded individuals, this can lead to a double standard where non-Muslim women can be seen as “fair game” for temporary or “use” rather than serious commitment.
The response from Islamic scholars often follows a familiar line that such behaviours are rooted in misinterpretations of the Quran, patriarchal cultural norms, or individual criminal intent rather than the religion itself. Fair enough, but it makes you pause. Why does this argument appear mostly as a defence, and rarely as a way to question what is actually being practised in the name of Islam? How often do these clarifications translate into visible, consistent efforts to challenge harmful practices within everyday life?
If the distinction between values and practice is clear, then bridging that gap becomes a shared responsibility.
I get it, none of this is easy. For minority communities in particular, there is often an added pressure—the fear that any internal criticism will be used to stigmatise the group as a whole. That fear is real, and not without reason.
But perhaps that is where the balance lies, as a community, we cannot look away because there are other battles to fight, empowering the community from within involves having difficult conversations within.
Because if we expect fairness and justice from others, it cannot be conditional when it comes to us. It has to begin within. As a community, we need to have the willingness to question, to correct, and to hold ourselves to the same standard we ask of the world.
Otherwise, we risk repeating the same cycle, where truth becomes secondary, and identity takes its place.
Amana Begam Ansari is a columnist, writer, and TV news panellist. She runs a weekly YouTube show called ‘India This Week by Amana and Khalid’. She tweets @Amana_Ansari. Views are personal.
(Edited by Saptak Datta)