In the dusty bylanes of Tokariya, a sleepy village nestled in the arid heart of Banaskantha district, India, the echoes of children reciting French phrases ring through the air. “Bonjour, monsieur!” they giggle, as a tall, slender man dressed in a modest white kurta-pajama and a Muslim prayer cap gently corrects their pronunciation. Mahat Jalan is an actor and model from New York City. But here, among the children of this predominantly Muslim hamlet, he is known as Ustaad Mahat.
Born to Hindu parents and raised in India and later in Parsippany, New Jersey, Mahat grew up straddling worlds—ethnically Indian, spiritually curious, and driven by a complex sense of identity. After years of navigating auditions and side roles in Los Angeles, and New York, Mahat returned to India for a brief respite. What was meant to be a quiet vacation in his ancestral town of Palanpur transformed into something far more profound.
“I came here to reconnect with my roots,” Mahat says, sipping masala chai under a neem tree near the local mosque. “But I found something more grounding than I expected—a purpose.”
That purpose emerged unexpectedly in the form of Ahmad Dauva, a teenager in a white skullcap with an eagerness to learn English. Ahmad, from nearby Tokariya, would often visit Palanpur to buy groceries for his family. One afternoon, a mispronounced question sparked a conversation—and eventually, a friendship.
“Ahmad would ask me things like, ‘How are you, sir?’ in the most charmingly broken English,” Mahat recalls. “There was a sparkle in his eye. I offered to help him, and he brought his friends. Then those friends brought their siblings. The next thing I knew, I had a class.”
It wasn’t long before Mahat found himself traveling daily from Palanpur to Tokariya in auto-rickshaw, not to act, but to teach. English lessons turned into French. “Why French?” he laughs. “Because if we’re going to dream big, why stop at one language?”
The children, most of whose parents are farmers or daily wage laborers, began saying oui instead of haan or yes. For a village where most adults have never heard the French language spoken aloud, the transformation is astonishing.
“He’s one of us,” says Hiffzur Rehman Chacha, an ex- member of Tokariya Panchayat a village elder, gesturing to Mahat’s kurta and prayer cap. “And yet, he’s not. He’s from America, but he sits with our children on the floor. He eats with us, prays respectfully beside us. We’ve never seen anything like this.”
What makes this story all the more remarkable is the political climate in which it unfolds. Gujarat, a state scarred by communal tensions in recent decades, is rarely associated with such interfaith acts of kindness. The broader Hindu community often maintains an uneasy distance from the Muslim minority, and vice versa. For a Hindu man from acting and modelling world of New York City to not only engage with but immerse himself in the daily life of a Muslim village is, frankly, revolutionary.
“There’s nothing political about what I’m doing,” Mahat insists. “These are kids. Innocent kids who deserve access to knowledge and imagination, like any child in the world.”
Yet the impact is undeniably political—in the most human sense. By simply showing up, by treating children with dignity, Mahat Jalan has done what many speeches and slogans have failed to do: build a bridge where once there was only suspicion.
Not everyone, however, is comfortable with his work. A few voices in Palanpur have raised eyebrows. “Why is he wearing their clothes?” one man whispered at a local tea stall. “He’s a Hindu. He should remember that.”
Mahat remains unfazed. “Clothes don’t define my compassion. If wearing a pathani kurta and topi makes them feel safer with me, why wouldn’t I do that?”
Back in Tokariya, the children continue their lessons. Mahat has printed makeshift flashcards, drawn diagrams, and even started a rudimentary library in a corner of the local madrassa. His presence has inspired other villagers to imagine possibilities they hadn’t considered.
“I want to go to London, one day,” says Ahmad, his eyes gleaming. “Then maybe to Paris!”
Mahat smiles. “They’ve got dreams now,” he says. “My job is to make them feel like those dreams are valid.”
In a region too often defined by its divides, Mahat Jalan’s classroom is a reminder that sometimes, all it takes to spark change is a little patience, a few kind words—and the courage to cross the line society drew.
