It is important, however, to understand the change in Vande Mataram’s status beyond the simple paradigm of it being a diversion tactic to shift debate away from the Jantar Mantar-NEET protests. Why?

Because some 122 years ago, the slogan Vande Mataram galvanised large sections of Indians against British rule and became an integral part of the national imagination. Now, Vande Mataram is being sought to be used as a tool by the BJP to further its project of cultural imposition upon Indians.

This essay argues that the 2026 Amendment represents a transition from the idea of a more personal nationalism to a paradigm of imposed nationalism, arriving in the wake of the loosening grip of the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party. The amendment, along with the push to bring Vande Mataram on par with Jana Gana Mana, fits neatly within the Hindutva project of rewriting the symbolism of the Congress regime. Through an examination of the song’s literary, political, and constitutional history, this essay will demonstrate that the 2026 Amendment does not represent historical continuity, but rather a contemporary majoritarian redefinition of a complex national symbol.

What does the law say?

Before I go further, it is important to state the change brought in by The Prevention of Insults to National Honour (Amendment) Act, 2026 (hereafter, the 2026 Amendment), which amends the Prevention of Insults to National Honour Act, 1971 (the 1971 Act).

Section 3 of the 1971 Act, before the amendment, read as follows:

Prevention of singing of Indian National Anthem, etc. — whoever intentionally prevents the singing of the Indian National Anthem or causes disturbance to any assembly engaged in such singing shall be punished with imprisonment for a term which may extend to three years, or with fine, or with both.

The 2026 Amendment substituted the above section with the following:

3. Whoever, intentionally — (a) prevents the singing of the National Anthem or the National Song; or (b) causes disturbance to any assembly engaged in such singing, shall be punishable with imprisonment for a term which may extend to three years, or with fine, or with both.

The question is why?

A simple question to ask while analysing any material event is to ask why. Why should any law be made? Naturally, to address and engage with an issue in society that needs the moral, political, and social force of the law for it to be solved. Why should this specific song be given protection? Because it is being disrespected, and therefore, a proper protection regime is needed.

However, if one looks at the Statement of Objects and Reasons (SOR) for the 2026 Act, one would be amused by the lack of a problem statement, that is, the issue the amendment seeks to address. The SOR is an interpretative tool used to understand the circumstances surrounding the enactment of a law, or the problem the law was intended to solve. The SOR for the Vande Mataram Act says, essentially, three things:

1. Jana Gana Mana is a protected National Symbol.
2. Dr. Rajendra Prasad said in a speech that Vande Mataram shall be equally honoured on par with Jana Gana Mana.
3. Therefore, to ensure that Vande Mataram is respected and protected, this amendment is being enacted.

There is no problem statement here. A problem statement would have looked something like this, even with minimum amount of effort on part of the government:

Owing to the fact that incidents of disrespecting the National Song have become frequent in recent times, it is fit to follow the ideal propounded by Dr. Rajendra Prasad to honour the National Song on par with the National Anthem, and to accord the former the same protection as the latter under the Prevention of Insults to National Honour Act, 1971.

We find no such basis for the amendment in the first place. We do, however, find the real reasons ex post. How? The government sent orders across the steel frame that is the Indian bureaucracy stating that official functions should be opened by singing the full version of Vande Mataram, that is, all six stanzas as opposed to the current convention of singing only the first two.

To put it in one sentence: the BJP wants India’s imagination with respect to its National Symbols reimagined in the way it sees them. Right now, Jana Gana Mana, the National Anthem, is written by Rabindranath Tagore, someone who a Modi can only try to imitate before an election but cannot claim to be either his guru or ideological predecessor. After all, Tagore’s nationalism was more humanistic than the most liberal ideas of nationalism. The flag, the song, and every other symbol bear the imprint of the Indian National Congress (INC) and its role in the independence movement. Therefore, the BJP wants to rewrite them using the means of law and power.

It is in this context that any further analysis of the current political developments, and of the Act, should be undertaken.

Reading between the lines

The operative provision of the act does two things. It punishes anyone who intentionally prevents the singing of the National Anthem or the National Song. It also punishes anyone who causes disturbance to an assembly engaged in that singing. Three years, a fine, or both.

Section 3A of the parent Act, inserted in 2003, adds a mandatory minimum of one year for a second conviction. Vande Mataram has thus been placed in the same level as Jana Gana Mana.

Weber’s old distinction between legality and legitimacy is useful here.[1] A statute may be perfectly legal, passed with the required majorities and notified on the appointed day, and still lack legitimacy, because it answers to the will of those in power rather than to any demonstrable public interest. The missing problem statement and reliance on a speech of a single leader is a testament to the fact that the government does not have a proper legitimate reason to do this, except for its aggressive enthusiasm to irk the cultural fabric of the country. Invoking Rajendra Prasad in these circumstances is a prop, not a justification. There is something faintly comic about a party pressing the words of a 1950 Congressman into service to authorise its own coercive statute.

What the government cannot invoke is more revealing than what it can. National integrity is off the table, because that would be a confession of failure over twelve years in office. The government’s own ideological ancestors on Vande Mataram are off the table too, because Savarkar, Golwalkar and Hedgewar were peripheral figures in the freedom struggle, and their writings on the song, where they exist, wilt on any honest comparison with those of Bose, Nehru or Tagore.

Historical Context

Origins

Bankim wrote the song around 1875 in a heavily Sanskritised Bengali and published it in Bangadarshan.[2] It was a regional lyric to the beauty of Bengal. It addressed the population of the Presidency and made no Pan-Indian claim. Seven years later Bankim placed it inside Anandamath, and its meaning was rewritten. The nation became a goddess, deified as a triad of Jagaddhatri, Kali and Durga. The song became the battle hymn of the santanas, the children who wage war for her honour. That war, and the point tends to get buried under a century of nationalist reception, is not fought against the British. It is fought against Muslims. The santanas torch houses, loot properties, and dream aloud of building temples on the sites of demolished mosques.[3] The novel’s climax welcomes British rule as friendly and necessary. A supernatural physician arrives to tell Satyananda to cease fighting, on the ground that the English will protect Hindu spiritual knowledge from further contamination.[4] It also important to note here that the current issue with the debate is not its origins. The analysis of the origins of the song should be done in a context that is more mature and is not charged with the fact the government wants every citizen to own it.

The slogan India chanted and the aftermath

Coming back to the timeline, in 1905, Lord Curzon partitioned Bengal along communal lines. Within months the opening stanzas of Vande Mataram were being sung at protests across the province. The stanzas travelled on their own, without the novel behind them. Protestors, weavers, students, boatmen carried the words into streets where most of those chanting had never opened Anandamath.

The ecumenical moment did not last. Aurobindo Ghose, writing in his weekly Bande Mataram between 1906 and 1908, undertook a deliberate sacralisation of the anti-colonial struggle. He called Bankim a seer. He called nationalism a religion. Patriotism, on his account, was Karma Yoga, Shaktipuja, a devotional discipline addressed to the Mother.[5] Aurobindo aligned the vocabulary of the national struggle with the theological structures of one religion, at the very moment the movement was acquiring a mass character.

The trouble was not that Hindus imagined the nation in Hindu terms. Every community imagines the nation in the vocabulary available to it.[6] The trouble was that this particular imagination was then offered as the imagination of all Indians, and those who could not sign on would be positioned first as reluctant, then as suspect. The line from Aurobindo’s Shaktipuja to the twenty-first-century slogan Iss desh mein rehna hai to Vande Mataram kehna hoga is neither short nor straight but it is a very real line.

The objections

By the late 1930s the fracture visible in the fine print of Anandamath had become audible in the public life of the Congress. Vande Mataram was by then the customary opening of party gatherings, and it was drawing objections. Muslim organisations found in it an idolatrous invocation of the motherland as a Hindu deity. Christian and Sikh groups objected too.

At the Muslim League’s Lucknow session in October 1937, Jinnah pressed this into a central charge against the Congress. His argument was that to insist on Vande Mataram was to insist on a majoritarian theological culture, and to require of the citizen that she be, in her aesthetic and religious sensibility, first a Hindu.

The Congress Working Committee met in Calcutta on 26 October 1937 under Nehru’s presidency, and it understood the danger. A subcommittee was set-up: Nehru, Gandhi, Azad, and Bose. The subcommittee with able advice from Rabindranath Tagore decided to endorse the first two stanzas of Vande Mataram and leaving out the later stanzas for they refer the country in a rather Hindu imagination or that other communities have objections to it.

The 1937 compromise is usually described as an accommodation of Muslim sentiment. That is true, and it is incomplete. What the CWC actually did was closer to what Isaiah Berlin later called value pluralism.[7] If a society is an amalgamation of communities with various commitments, be that of religious nature or otherwise, a single symbol cannot represent that society as a whole. The good thing about political wisdom is that in these kind of situations, it constructs bridges between various groups and creates a space that does not ask one section to fit into the imagination of the other. It is not a concession but a link in a long chain of actions that strive to create a pluralist society.

The Constituent Assembly and the Settlement of 1950

The compromise of 1937 cast a long shadow over the Constituent Assembly. As the Assembly moved towards finalising the national symbols, the argument that had been fought inside the Congress in the 1930s was fought again, this time on the floor of the House drafting the constitution of a new republic.

Purushottam Das Tandon led the conservative wing and pressed for the adoption of Vande Mataram as the sole National Anthem. The argument did have its force. The song had been sung on the gallows. It had been chanted in jails. It had been the last word on the lips of men and women marched to their deaths. To choose any other song, on this view, would insult the memory of the movement itself. Against Tandon stood a coalition of liberal Congressmen, minority representatives and others who saw that the historical memory of a movement cannot be the sole ground on which the symbols of a state are chosen. Jana Gana Mana had emerged in the interim as an alternative. Its language had no similar objections.

The Assembly did what has not been sufficiently appreciated. It chose not to resolve the argument by vote. It chose to resolve it by settlement. On January 24, 1950, Rajendra Prasad, in his capacity as President of the Assembly, made a statement rather than moved a resolution. Jana Gana Mana was the National Anthem. Vande Mataram was the National Song. The two would be honoured equally, and the National Song would have equal status.

Granville Austin noticed the framers’ persistent aversion to producing textual solutions that would freeze the resolution of live cultural disputes.[8] A statement by the presiding officer does not carry the force of law. It carries the force of morality. They were leaving room for the conscience of those who could not, for reasons rooted in the depths of their religious sensibility, sing the song without violence to themselves.

Compelled Speech and the Rights of Conscience

The 2026 Amendment converts this symbolic honorary status into a penal obligation. Its defenders will say, correctly, that the text prohibits only the intentional prevention of singing and the causing of disturbance to an assembly engaged in such singing. It does not, on its face, compel any citizen to sing. This is a formalist reading, and it disintegrates the moment one considers the environment in which the law will operate.

The Supreme Court addressed precisely this environment in Bijoe Emmanuel v. State of Kerala in 1986. Three Jehovah’s Witness children had refused to sing the National Anthem in their school, on the ground that their conscience forbade singing an anthem to anything other than God. Chinnappa Reddy J. held that standing respectfully during the anthem was sufficient, and that compelling the singing violated Article 19 (1) (a), which contains within the right to freedom of speech the right to remain silent, and Article 25, which protects freedom of conscience. The judgment is short. It rests on a proposition of considerable constitutional depth. The state cannot demand of the citizen a positive act of expression as the price of belonging. If the singing of the National Anthem itself cannot be compelled, the singing of Vande Mataram, whose theological register is far more textured, cannot be compelled either. Anything else would be a constitutional absurdity.

The trouble is that the Amendment does not need to compel singing on its face in order to compel singing in practice. In a polarised atmosphere the silent refusal that Bijoe Emmanuel protects can be re-characterised by a local complainant, an aggrieved neighbour or an ambitious sub-inspector as an act of causing disturbance or of showing disrespect. When the boundaries of a law are unclear and its penalties are severe, it poses a risk of citizens retreating well behind the boundaries. The right to remain silent becomes the risk of remaining silent, and the risk becomes prohibitive.

Briefly, the argument for the Vande Mataram Amendment is three pronged. One, if it was declared that anthem and song are to be treated same, then the statutory protections also should be the same. Second, the act does not ask everyone to sing. It asks people to not disturb the singing or prevent the singing. Third, the more boilerplate that the Parliament in its own wisdom has chosen to protect a national symbol and it does not need to give a layered justification for its decision.

These are respectable arguments but they fail for reasons worth spelling out.

If the framers wanted to legislate it or settle it, they would have, then and there. To make an active choice to not move it for vote shows that they let the national symbols be adoptable for all communities. Secondly, in an atmosphere where people have been deliberately charged with jingoism, the test in Bijoe Emmanuel will only hold until the Courts show the intention to. Once the crowd starts to expect that the whole of the song is to be sung, it is to the Crowd’s wisdom to act when someone does not sing the whole of the song, although it is not legally mandated. Thirdly, a polity’s right to protect its symbols cannot exceed the polity’s own core commitments. India’s foundational commitment, spelled out in the Preamble and vindicated across sixty years of adjudication, is to a plurality that does not require assimilation as the price of belonging and therefore, if the state wants to nevertheless protect the song, it should give not just a layered justification but also a constitutional one.

There is a deeper worry beneath all three of the above arguments. Ambedkar closed his final address to the Constituent Assembly with a warning about hero-worship in Indian public life. Bhakti in religion may be a road to salvation, he said. In politics it is a sure road to degradation and eventual dictatorship.[9] The 2026 Amendment is not, of course, a dictatorial measure. But its logic is the logic Ambedkar was warning against. It is the transfer of devotional intensity from the temple to the state, and the enforcement of such devotion, by criminal sanction. Once the state acquires the taste for compelling public affirmations of its own sacredness, the appetite tends to grow and that is a slippery slope.

Conclusion

The 2026 Amendment is best read not as a technical amendment to a sixty-year-old statute but as a political act of considerable ambition. Its ambition is to redraw the symbolic constitution of the Republic, and to accomplish through the ordinary instruments of legislation what its authors could not accomplish through the constituent process. It substitutes for the delicate settlement of 1937 and 1950 a punitive uniformity. And it does so in the absence of any demonstrable public harm that might justify the criminal law.

Defending the song against this treatment is not diminishing it. It is insisting on the terms on which the song became precious in the first place. It was sung by Bose in Berlin and by peasants in Chittagong. It was sung by Muslims in Bombay and by students in Madras. It was sung, in its truncated form, at Congress gatherings for a decade after 1937, and it was sung with more feeling for having been truncated, because the truncation was itself an act of respect towards those who could not sing the whole.

A republic honours its symbols by permitting their voluntary embrace. It dishonours them by conscripting the criminal law to enforce their recital. The framers understood this in 1950 with a clarity that their successors have chosen to forget. The task of the citizen in the years to come is to remember what has been forgotten, and to insist, patiently and in public, that a song sung under threat is not the song manifesting the true national consciousness.

(The author is part of the legal research team of the organisation)

[1]Weber, Economy and Society, on the distinction between legality and legitimacy in modern domination.

[2]Bhattacharya, Vande Mataram: The Biography of a Song, chapters 1 and 2.

[3]Sarkar, Hindu Wife, Hindu Nation, on the maternal figure in Bankim; Kaviraj, The Unhappy Consciousness, on the novelistic construction of nationalist imagination.

[4]Noorani, “How Secular is Vande Mataram?”, Frontline, 2 January 1999.

[5]Ghose, Bande Mataram (weekly edition, 1906 to 1908).

[6]Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments, on the “inner” spiritual domain of Indian nationalism and its Hindu inflection.

[7]Berlin, “Two Concepts of Liberty” and the essays in The Crooked Timber of Humanity.

[8]Austin, The Indian Constitution: Cornerstone of a Nation, on the framers’ preference for procedural over substantive resolution of cultural disputes.

[9]Ambedkar, address to the Constituent Assembly, November 25, 1949: “Bhakti in religion may be a road to the salvation of the soul. But in politics, Bhakti or hero-worship is a sure road to degradation and to eventual dictatorship.”

Related:

Rajya Sabha passes Vande Mataram bill as NCRB data reveals high pendency, low convictions

Vande Mataram Requiem for Jana Gana Mana

Identity issue to the fore: Vande Mataram controversy

The post Vande Mataram and the 2026 Amendment: From voluntary honour to penal coercion appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The Bharat Chodo Slogan was coined by none less than Yusuf Meherali, the historic venue for the launch of the Quit India Movement was the Gowalia Tank Maidan, thereafter named the August Kranti Maidan in Mumbai.
112 years ago, and 37 years before the Quit India Movement, the words and melody of the Rakhee Sangeet by Rabindranath Tagore filled the streets of Bengal and Hindus and Muslims poured out on the streets to say ‘No’ to the Partition of Bengal. The Partition was revoked and east and west Bengal were re-united on December 12, 1911 by the British. A new partition which divided the province on linguistic, rather than religious grounds followed, with the Hindi, Oriya and Assamese areas separated to form separate administrative units: Bihar and Orissa Province was created to the west, and Assam Province to the east. The administrative capital of British India was moved from Calcutta to New Delhi as well.

Rakhee Sangeet
During the swadeshi and anti-partition agitation people in both the Benglas took out processions in the streets of towns and villages and sang swadeshi and patiotric songs. An English version of one such song, originally composed in Bengali by Rabindranath Tagore, is reproduced below.

Let the earth and water of Bengal,
Let the air and fruits of Bengal, be sacred, be sacred, be sacred, my god.
Let the homes and marts of Bengal,
Let the forests and fields of Bengal, be full,  be full, be full, my god.
Let the promises and hopes of Bengalis,
Let the deeds and language of Bengalis, be true, be true, be true, my god.
Let the lives and hearts of Bengalis,
Let all the brothers and sisters in Bengali homes, be united, be united, be united, my god.

Excerpts from Gokhale’s Presidential Address
Bengal was at its peak of the united nationalist movement at the dawn of 19th century, which eventually emerged as a formidable threat to the British Raj. Divide and Rule has always been the policy of the rulers be it the British or those who rule from Delhi today.

To curb this nationalist movement, the Britishers decided to divide Bengal, a move vehemently opposed by various leaders of the time, including Rabindranath Tagore.

The decision was taken at a meeting between Lord Curzon and a Muslim delegation in Assam in June 1905, where the Muslims were convinced of the idea of a separate state to keep their identity. The plan was to divide the Hindu majority regions of West Bengal, Bihar and Odisha from Muslim-dominated areas of Assam and Sylhet. The British government passed the orders of partition in August 1905, which came into effect on October 16 of the same year. However, the date fell in the month of Shravan, when the festival of Raksha Bandhan was celebrated by the Hindu community.

Tagore masterfully used the concept of brotherhood, togetherness and ‘the thread of protection’ as a medium to protest against British’s partition policy by showing a picture of unity among the two communities.

Gopal krishna Gokhale’s Presidential Address at the Banares  Congress Convention (1905), where the made a detailed analysis of the question  of the partition of Bengal and the Swadeshi movement are worth a recall:
“Gentlemen, the question that is uppermost in the minds of all at this moment is the partition of Bengal. A cruel wrong has been inflicted on our Bengalee brethren, and the whole country has been stirred to its deepest depths in sorrow and resentment, as had never been the case before. The scheme of Partition concocted in the dark and carried out in the face of the fiercest opposition that any Government measure has encountered during the last half-a-century, will always stand as a complete illustration the worst features of the present system of bureaucratic rule-its utter contempt for public opinion, its arrogant pretensions to superior wisdom… Lord Curzon and his advisers… could never allege that they had no means of judging of the depth of public feeling in the matter. All that could possibly have been done by way of a respectful representation of the views of the people had been done. As soon as it was known that a partition of some sort was contemplated, meeting after meeting of protest was held…. The Secretary of State for India was implored to withhold his sanction to the proposed measure. The intervention of the British House of Commons was sought, first by a monster petition, signed by sixty thousand people, and later by means, of a debate on the subject raised in the House by our over-watchful mend, Mr. Herbert Roberts. All proved unavailing…. To add insult to injury, Lord C m n described the opposition to his measures as “manufactured”-an opposition in which all classes of Indians, high and low, uneducated and educated, Hindus and Mahomedans had joined, an opposition than which nothing more intense, nothing more wide-spread, nothing more spontaneous had been seen in this country in the whole course of our political agitation.. . .

The tremendous upheaval of popular feeling, which has taken place in Bengal in consequence of the partition, will constitute a landmark in the history of our national progress. For the first time since British rule began, all sections of the Indian community, without distinction of caste or creed, have been moved by a common impulse and without the stimulus of extend pressure to act together in offering resistance to a common wrong. A wave of true national consciousness has swept over the province…. Bengal’s heroic stand against the oppression of a harsh and uncontrolled bureaucracy has astonished and gratified all India, and her sufferings have not been endured in vain, when they have helped to draw closer all pasts of the country in sympathy and in aspiration….”

On July 19, 1905, British governor-general Curzon announced the partition of Bengal into two provinces-Eastern Bengal and Assam, and the rest of Bengal which included Bihar and parts of Orrisa.

The main political aim of the partition decision was a divide the Bengal population and to weaken the nationalist movement of which Bengal was the most important entre.

The British move was also to disrupt Hindu-Muslim unity by convincing upper class Muslims that the newly created province with its Muslim majority was in their interest. However, it only served to arouse and bring in all sections of the people in Bengal into an unprecedented mass movement which soon spread too many other parts of the country.

The anti-partition agitation assumed a militant from on August 7, 1905 when thousands of people at a meeting in Calcutta resolved to boycott British goods until the partition proposal was withdrawn.

The Partition of Bengal came into force on October 16, 1905 which day was observed as a day of national mourning throughout Bengal. It was during this movement that Swadeshi or use of Indian goods and boycott of British Goods became an integral part of the freedom struggle. At thousands of meeting people took the pledge of Swadeshi and boycott. Resolutions supporting Swadeshi and boycott were also passed at the Benares session of the Congress under the presidentship of Gokhle in December 1905, although the Moderates then and later tried to restrict their scope. The message of Swadeshi spread to the entire country and helped in promoting Indian Industries. A large number of educational institutions were also opened by nationalists and a National Council of Education was set up. The movement which had begun in Bengal over the question of partition was transformed into a wider movement for freedom of the country. The British rulers, in order to crush the rising tide of nationalism, unleashed naked repression.

Congress Resolutions on Partition, Swadeshi and Boycott Movement

At the annual session of the Congress held in 1906 in Calcutta, the resolutions passed at the preceding session (1905) against the Partition, were re-asserted and further resolutions were passed, supporting the Boycott and Swadeshi.

Some excerpts from the resolutions VI, VII and VIII read”

VI.       The Partition of Bengal-This Congress again records its emphatic protest against the Partition of Bengal and regrets that the present Government, while admitting that there were errors in the original plan and that it went wholly and decisively against the wishes of the majority of the people of Bengal, is disposed to look upon it as a settled fact….

This Congress, composed of representatives from all the Provinces of this country, desires earnestly to impress upon the British Parliament and the present Liberal Government that it will be not only just, but expedient to reverse or modify the partition in such a manner as to keep the entire Bengali speaking community under one undivided administration and thus restore contentment to so important a province as Bengal

VII.     Boycott Movement-Having regard to the fact that the people of this country have little or no voice in its administration, and that their representations to the Government do not receive due consideration, this Congress is of opinion that the Boycott Movement, inaugurated in Bengal by way of protest against the partition of that province was, and is legitimate.

VIII.    Swadeshi-This Congress accords its most cordial support to the Swadeshi Movement and calls upon the people .of the country to labour for its success by making earnest and sustained efforts to promote the growth of indigenous industries and to stimulate the production of indigenous articles by giving them preference, wherever practicable, over imported commodities, even at a sacrifice.

Widespread Protests at Meeting in Agra and Surat

Protest meetings against the Partition of Bengal were organised in all parts of the country on and after October 16, 1905.

From the Archives of the Amrita Basar Patrika.
AGRA CITY, Oct 22
At the Swadeshi Mass Meeting held in the Mankameshwar temple, over ten thousand people, both Hindus and Mahomedans, were present. Native Christians sent a sympathetic message explaining their absence that it was a Sunday. Lala Kedarnath Vakil was elected Chairman. The meeting commenced and terminated with singing national songs. A resolution was passed for the adoption of country-made goods….

Surat, Oct. 23…Public meeting of over 5000 people was held here-Parsis, Hindus, Mahomedans…. Israel and Native Christians attended. Lawyers, merchants, landlords, pensioners, artisans-in short, men of all classes and creeds assembled in the ball which was crowded to overflowing. Rai Bahadur Krishamukhram Mahata, retired Small Causes Court Judge, presided, supported by Divan Bahadur Ambalal Des     ai (Ahmedabad). Ali Mohamed Bhimji (Bombay) and Maulvi Abdul Halim Monghyr spoke in favour of the Swadeshi movement. Great enthusiasm prevailed. The proceedings lasted for three hours…. Handicrafts were exhibited A committee was formed to carry out the objects of the meetings.

Background of theBengal Partition and the Swadeshi Movement

What were Curzon’s  Aims  in Partitioning Bengal ?
The following  excepts from Curzon’s letter of February 2, 1905 to St. John Broderick, Secretary of state for India, give an idea of his aims in partitioning  Bengal.
“Calculation is the centre from which the congress party is manipulated throughout the whole of Bengal and indeed the whole of India. Its best wirepullers and its most frothy orators all reside here. The perfection of their machinery, and the tyranny which its enables them to exercise are truly remarkable. They dominate public opinion in Calcutta; they affect the high court; they frighten the local government and they are sometimes not without serious influence on the government of India.

The whole of their activity is directed to creating an agency so powerful that they may one day be able to force a weak government to give them what they desire. Any measure in consequence that would divide the Bengali-speaking population; that would permit independent centres of activity and influence to grow up; that would dethrone Calcutta from its place as the centre of successful intrigue, or that would weaken the influence of the lawyer class, who have the entire organization in their hands, is intensely and hotly resented by them. The outcry will be loud and very fierce, but as a native gentleman said to me-‘my countrymen always howl until a thing is settled; then they accept it’.

Partition Proclamation   
The text of the Partition of Bengal Proclamation issued from Simla on  September 1, 1905 is reproduced below:
The following Proclamation to which the sanction of His Majesty the King-Emperor of India has been signified by the secretary of state for India in council is published:
The governor general is pleased to constitute the territories at present under the administration of the chief commissioner of Assam to be for the purposes of the Indian councils Act 1861…a province to which the provisions of that Act touching the making of laws and regulations for the peace and good order of the presidencies of Fort St. George and Bombay shall be applicable and to direct that the said province shall be called and known as the province of Eastern Bengal and Assam…

2. The Governor General in council is pleased to specify the sixteenth day of October,1905 as the period at which the said provisions shall take effect and 15^th  as the number of councilors whom the Lieutenant Governor may nominate for his assistance in making laws and regulations.
3. The Governor General in council is further pleased and appoint that upon the constitution of the said province of Eastern Bengal and Assam, the districts of Decca, Mymensingh, Faridpur, Backergunge, Tippera, Noakhali, Chittagong, the Chittagong Hill Tracts, Rajshahi, Dinajpur, Jalpaiguri, Rangpur, Bogra, Pabna, and Malda which now form part of the Bengal Division of the Presidency of fort William Shall cases to be subject to or included within the limits of that Division, and shall thenceforth be subject to and included within the limits of the Lieutenant –Governorship of the province of Eastern Bengal and Assam.

Calcutta in Morning
The first part of a news item, which appeared in the Amrita Bazaar Patrika of October 17, 1905 entitled “Calcutta  in Morning-A Unique Sight”, describing the situation in Calcutta on October 16, 1905, the day Bengal was partitioned, is given below.
Yesterday was one of the most memorable days in the history of the British administration of India. It being the day on which the Bengal partition scheme took effect, the day on which our unsympathetic government forced a measure by a proclamation in the official gazette against the wishes of the whole population, the day on which our rules tried to separate the Bengali speaking people of the East Bengal from those of the West Bengal, the people of Calcutta, irrespective of nationality, social position, creed and sex, observed it as a day of mourning. The leaders of the Bengali community-Hindus and Mahomedans-did not however silently mourn and weep. They did something more. They as a legacy to posterity and as a landmark to British administration laid the foundation of the Federation Hall. They also took a practical step towards the furtherance of the Swadeshi movement by opening the National Fund.

The Scene on the Bank of the Hooghly
From the small hours in the morning till noon, the bank of the Ganges from Bag bazaar to Howrah presented a unique spectacle. It looked, as if it were, a surging sea of human faces. From all streets, lanes and bye-lanes, leading to the bank a quick succession of streams of people all bare-footed-found their way to the bank to have a plunge in the sacred river.

As the day advanced, the gathering thickened more and more and by 10, about a lakh of the male population of the metropolis-all in mourning-thronged the bank and the Ghats of tender sex.

They cry of “Bande Mataram” now and then, broke the silence of the still air and reverberated through it imparting a chastening influence on the minds of those who gathered together there…innumerable processions consisting of scores and hundreds of men, after arriving at the bank of the sacred river and wearing Rakhi (yellow thread) proceeded in procession singing ‘Bande Matram’ all the way.

Several thousands of such processions passed all over the city especially the northern quarter of it from 8 am. To 2 pm. They accosted on the way everyone they met with “Bande Mataram” in embracing each other and putting on “Rakhi”. It was a sight for the gods to see….

Roads and Streets
The scene in the roads and streets of whole Calcutta was quite novel and was perhaps never before witnessed in any Indian city….No purchasers were there and thus no sellers had to exhibit their articles…All the mills were closed and the mill hands paraded the city in procession…The only cry that was heard was of “Bande Mataram” . Bands of Mahomedans and Marwari’s joined the processionists and greatly enhanced the enthusiasm.

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In this fifth and final installment of the series, the spotlight falls on the man Gandhi considered his own “fifth son”—Jamnalal Bajaj. Their relationship defied every conventional understanding of the bond between wealth and political leadership. Jamnalal was not content to remain a generous donor or a sympathetic admirer. He sought something far more demanding: to remake his life in accordance with Gandhi’s ideals, placing his body, his fortune, and his family at the service of a national and ethical mission.

For Gandhi, this was not a relationship founded on patronage but on transformation. Jamnalal did not merely finance constructive work or support political campaigns; he embraced the discipline of the ashram, the hardships of imprisonment, the burdens of public service, and the uncompromising ethic of trusteeship. In doing so, he dissolved the boundaries between industrialist and satyagrahi, between privilege and sacrifice, until his wealth became inseparable from his moral responsibility.

As this exclusive series reaches its conclusion, the story of Mahatma Gandhi and Jamnalal Bajaj offers its most profound insight into the Gandhian experiment. It reminds us that enduring social change is sustained not simply by ideas or institutions, but by individuals willing to transform themselves before seeking to transform the world.

Read on to discover the story of why Jamnalal Bajaj became not just Gandhi’s closest associate, but the Mahatma’s beloved “fifth son.”

When history recalls the industrial titans who fuelled the engines of twentieth-century political movements, it almost always paints them in the cold, strategic shades of pragmatism. We see men who stood safely in the shadows of power, writing massive cheques to secure their investments, purchasing political insurance while keeping their immaculate suits far away from the dust, the sweat, and the swinging batons of the police lines. History treats them as financiers, not fighters. But history breaks its own rules when it encounters Jamnalal Bajaj.

In the roaring current of the Indian freedom struggle, Jamnalal was neither a distant banker nor a cautious ally operating on the comfortable periphery of revolution. He was a man who allowed himself to be utterly dismantled and rebuilt by the moral genius of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.

Where other wealthy patrons gave their surplus wealth, Jamnalal gave his very flesh. He traded the soft luxury of a merchant prince for the rough, abrasive embrace of coarse khadi, the backbreaking chores of the ashram latrine, and the cold concrete of colonial prison cells.

When Gandhi looked across the vast landscape of his followers in 1942, his eyes softened as he wrote a profound truth in the pages of Harijan:

“There was no work of mine in which I did not receive his fullest co-operation in body, mind and wealth.”

This is the untold epic of the merchant who did not merely fund the Mahatma, but chose to become his son, collapsing the historic distance between capital and conscience to prove that a man can conquer his wealth before his wealth conquers him.

Conscience Finds Home

To understand the moral architecture of the man who would become Gandhi’s right hand, one must travel back to the late nineteenth century, to a modest Marwari household in the dusty village of Kashi-ka-bas in Rajasthan. Born on November 4, 1889, into humble circumstances, the young Jamnalal’s destiny took a dramatic, fairy-tale turn at the tender age of five. He was chosen and adopted into the colossal, glittering merchant empire of Seth Bachhraj in Wardha.

Overnight, the peasant boy was dropped into a world of unimaginable opulence. He was surrounded by ledger books that recorded fortunes, vaults overflowing with silver coins, and a family that equated human value with material display. Yet, the opulence never quite stuck to his skin. The boy possessed a strange, innate spiritual allergy to luxury.

The defining rupture of his youth arrived over a handful of heavy gold jewellery. His adoptive grandfather, eager to showcase the family’s immense wealth at a glittering social gathering, harshly reprimanded the young Jamnalal for refusing to deck himself out in expensive ornaments. To the grandfather, a naked neck was an insult to the family firm.

The boy’s response stunned the household. Rather than bow to the tyranny of pride, Jamnalal quietly stripped away what comforts he had and walked out of the mansion into the dark night, leaving behind a letter that burned with detachment. As historian B. R. Nanda notes, this was no petulant teenage tantrum. It was an early, visceral manifestation of a spirit that viewed material possessions not as a crown, but as a cage.

When Jamnalal eventually met Gandhi decades later, it was not a conversion from scratch. It was a spectacular moment of recognition. Gandhi did not invent Jamnalal’s conscience. He simply gave it a home.

Quest For A Master

By the time the First World War was fracturing the globe, Jamnalal Bajaj was a mature, fabulously wealthy merchant, yet his soul remained deeply restless. Like many sensitive spirits of his generation, he was profoundly disillusioned by the moral vacuum of colonial modernity. He travelled across India, seeking out the great religious figures and socio-political stars of the era, sitting at the feet of Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviya and wandering among local sadhus, but he returned from each encounter empty-handed. They offered dogmas, rituals, and philosophical abstractions. Jamnalal hungered for an ethical life that could be lived out in the marketplace.

Then, in 1915, a quiet lawyer returned from the battlefields of South Africa, carrying nothing but a walking stick, a spinning wheel, and an unshakeable faith in the power of Truth.

When Jamnalal met Gandhi, the effect was instantaneous. Here was a man who did not just preach the scriptures. He lived them out in the dirt. Gandhi’s radical synthesis of absolute inner discipline and explosive, non-violent political action was the exact key Jamnalal had spent a lifetime searching for.

But Jamnalal did not want to be just another wealthy patron writing cheques from a safe distance. In a move that shattered all conventional social boundaries, he approached Gandhi with an astonishing, deeply emotional request: he asked to be formally adopted as the Mahatma’s “fifth son.”

For Gandhi, who already had four biological sons with whom he shared a famously turbulent, demanding relationship, this was a moment of immense symbolic gravity. He looked into the eyes of the Marwari tycoon, saw the absolute, terrifying sincerity written there and accepted.

From that moment on, their letters shifted from the formal language of political allies to the intensely intimate, demanding, and loving dialogue of a father and a son. Jamnalal had successfully abdicated his throne of gold to inherit a kingdom of sacrifice.

Body As A Political Weapon

The world soon realised that Jamnalal’s adoption was no mere sentimental performance. In 1921, as the Non-Cooperation Movement began to convulse the country, Jamnalal walked into the public square and formally returned his title of Rai Bahadur, a highly coveted mark of distinction bestowed upon him by the British Crown. To the colonial state, this was an act of shocking class treason. A premier merchant prince was openly declaring that the King Emperor had no clothes. But the real shockwave hit when Jamnalal stepped away from his corporate boards to throw his actual physical body into the fires of mass agitation.

During the historic Nagpur Flag Satyagraha of 1923, when the British administration banned the hoisting of the Indian national flag, it was Jamnalal who took command of the peaceful volunteers. He marched directly into the forbidden zones, courting arrest with a calm smile.

When the heavy iron gates of the colonial prison slammed shut behind him, a vital boundary in Indian political history was permanently breached. Other industrialists gave money to keep the Congress alive. Jamnalal gave his liberty.

He was arrested again during the salt raids of 1930, and repeatedly thrown back into prison throughout the turbulent decade. Inside those damp, disease-ridden cells, Jamnalal steadfastly refused any special privileges, soft mattresses, or dietary exemptions that his immense wealth could easily have bought him. He ate the same coarse prison gruel, slept on the same stone floors, and endured the same humiliating searches as the poorest, most forgotten freedom fighter beside him. His wealth was completely decoupled from privilege. It had been entirely re-engineered into an instrument of voluntary suffering.

Rigours of Ashram Life

The true test of Jamnalal’s transformation, however, took place far away from the public drama of political rallies, within the quiet, uncompromising confines of Gandhi’s ashrams. The ashram was Gandhi’s moral laboratory, a place designed to systematically strip away every trace of ego, caste vanity, and class prejudice from its inhabitants.

The equaliser in this laboratory was manual sanitation work, the daily, mandatory task of cleaning the community’s dry latrines.

For a man born into the strict, orthodoxy-bound Marwari community, where notions of ritual purity were deeply entrenched and enforced by an army of domestic servants, this was a mountain of cultural resistance. Yet, biographical records by B. R. Nanda and contemporary witnesses confirm that Jamnalal did not flinch. He picked up the broom and the shovel.

The hand that signed multi-million rupee business contracts was the very same hand that regularly scoured the ashram toilets. This was the pure essence of Gandhian pedagogy at work: an ethical transformation that was not debated in abstract seminars but hammered out through the repetitive, daily rhythm of physical labour. Jamnalal did not merely read about equality. He scraped it out of the dirt.

Constructing Sevagram

In the mid-1930s, Jamnalal engineered an intervention that would permanently alter the geographic centre of the Indian freedom struggle. Desiring to anchor Gandhi’s vision deeply within the suffering heart of rural India, Jamnalal gifted the Mahatma a vast tract of land in an isolated, malaria-ridden village called Segaon, nestled near Wardha in the Central Provinces. This forgotten hamlet, entirely cut off from modern infrastructure, would be christened Sevagram, the Village of Service.

The radical austerity of this project is preserved in a remarkable, sharp letter written by Gandhi to Jamnalal on March 19, 1936. As he prepared to move into the wilderness, Gandhi gave his “fifth son” a strict, unyielding architectural mandate.

Gandhi demanded that the construction of his personal living space must not cost a single rupee over Rs.100, utilising only local mud, bamboo, and thatch. Jamnalal supervised the project meticulously, ensuring that not a single anna of industrial luxury crept into the sanctuary of rural poverty.

As the great leaders of the nation, Jawaharlal Nehru, Vallabhbhai Patel, Maulana Azad, and Rajendra Prasad, descended upon this remote village to consult the Mahatma, the logistical challenges became comical. The roads were non-existent, frequently turning into deep pools of thick mud during the monsoons.

To solve this, Jamnalal designed a brilliant, hilarious piece of folk engineering that became affectionately known as the “Oxford.” He took the chassis and body of an old, broken-down Ford motorcar, stripped away its engine, and hitched its front axle to a pair of strong, slow-moving village oxen.

Inside this bizarre hybrid vehicle, a perfect, rolling metaphor for the convergence of modern industrial design and ancient rural reality, the elegant, European-educated Nehru and the iron-willed Patel were bumped and rattled across the muddy terrain to see the Mahatma. As Madeleine Slade (Mirabehn) beautifully noted in her memoir The Spirit’s Pilgrimage, though Gandhi had officially retired from the Congress, “the Congress had not left him.” It was Jamnalal’s quiet logistical genius that transformed an isolated rural outpost into the de facto capital of the Indian nation.

Laxmi Narayan Radicalism

At the very heart of the Gandhian economic alternative lay the highly controversial concept of Trusteeship. Gandhi did not believe in the violent, bloody extermination of the wealthy class through class warfare. Instead, he made a radical moral appeal to their conscience. He argued that a rich man did not own his wealth. He merely held it in trust for the collective benefit of the starving millions.

While the intellectual elite of the era dismissed Trusteeship as a naïve, utopian fantasy designed to protect the rich, Gandhi had a devastating, living answer to his critics. He would simply point his finger at Jamnalal Bajaj. Gandhi openly remarked that whenever he sat down to write his theoretical framework on Trusteeship, he had Jamnalal “principally in mind.”

Mahatma Gandhi once remarked about Jamnalal Bajaj, “I can say with confidence that Jamnalalji did not earn a single pie through unethical means, and whatever he earned, he spent it all for the good of the people.” This observation captures the essence of Gandhi’s philosophy of Trusteeship, the belief that wealth is not a matter of absolute private ownership to be donated at one’s discretion, but a social trust held for the welfare of all. It went beyond charity or philanthropy, placing an ethical obligation upon individuals to use their resources in the service of society. Jamnalal did not merely endorse this principle; he lived it, dedicating his wealth, influence, and personal life to building a society founded on non-violence, social justice, and freedom from exploitation.

Jamnalal was deeply influenced by Gandhi and embraced his austere way of life. Jankidevi willingly walked beside her husband on this path of sacrifice. What followed was a remarkable series of personal transformations.

It began with the renunciation of gold ornaments. Gandhi’s general appeal was followed by a letter from Jamnalal to Jankidevi, who was then just twenty-four. They believed that gold was a symbol of Kali and that it bred jealousy, attachment, and the fear of loss. Jankidevi willingly gave up all her ornaments and never wore gold again for the rest of her life.

Next came purdah. At Jamnalal’s urging, Jankidevi abandoned this symbol of aristocratic respectability and encouraged other women to do the same as an act of courage and self-respect. In 1919, this single decision became a powerful statement of women’s freedom and dignity, inspiring thousands whose lives had long been confined within their homes.

Jamnalal soon extended this philosophy far beyond his personal life. He institutionalised Trusteeship on a remarkable scale, channelling his vast fortune into Gandhi’s constructive programme, funding the Gandhi Seva Sangh, serving as the tireless Treasurer of the All India Spinners’ Association, and strengthening the All India Village Industries Association.

Yet perhaps his greatest act of Trusteeship was not financial but social. On 17 July 1928, five years before Gandhi formally launched his nationwide anti-untouchability campaign, Jamnalal and Jankidevi opened the doors of their Lakshmi Narayan Temple in Wardha to everyone, irrespective of caste. For the first time in India, Dalits (then referred to as Harijans) were welcomed into a Hindu temple under the initiative of its own patrons.

In the late 1920s, this was an act of explosive social radicalism. Jamnalal was attacked by religious traditionalists, boycotted by wealthy merchants, and threatened with social excommunication. Yet he stood firm at the temple gates, insisting that if God could not welcome the poorest and most oppressed, then such a god was nothing more than stone. In doing so, he risked his business, social standing, and personal safety to ensure that his private property served the cause of human justice.

Death In The Family

The intense, burning pace of Jamnalal’s life, divided between the damp dampness of prison cells, the gruelling travels of rural mobilisation, and the immense stress of managing both a commercial empire and a national movement, eventually took its toll. On February 11, 1942, at the age of fifty-two, Jamnalal’s exhausted body finally gave way. He suffered a sudden, catastrophic cerebral hemorrhage and passed into the ages.

The news of his death struck Gandhi like a physical blow. The Mahatma, who had trained himself for decades to receive news of death with absolute, detached stoicism, was completely broken.

Mahadev Desai, writing in a raw, grief-stricken letter to C. Rajagopalachari, recorded the profound emotional devastation that filled the ashram:

“Bapu is in great need of consolation… his sorrow is as deep and profound as it was on Maganlal Gandhi’s death.”

The nation had lost its treasurer, but Gandhi had lost his son. Days after the funeral, Gandhi gathered the grieving family around him, his presence bridging the gap between public leader and family patriarch. He looked at Jamnalal’s two young sons, Kamalnayan and Ramkrishna, and distributed their inheritance not in terms of stocks and bank accounts, but in terms of moral duties. He advised the elder son, Kamalnayan, to take the reins of the family’s vast commercial enterprises, running them with strict ethical transparency. Then, turning to the younger son, Ramkrishna, he asked him to surrender his life entirely to finishing the incomplete rural service of his father.

Even in death, the Mahatma’s moral authority continued to shape the Bajaj lineage, ensuring that the legacy of the fifth son would not dissolve back into mere corporate capital.

A Historic Partnership

The epic partnership between Mahatma Gandhi and Jamnalal Bajaj challenges the cynical, simplistic assumptions that dominate our modern view of politics and money. It dismantles the rigid, old idea that leaders must always be ideological purists and that capitalists must always be exploiters.

Jamnalal’s life stands as an immortal proof that the human conscience is fully capable of staging a spectacular revolution against its own economic privileges. He redefined the very meaning of success, showing the world that true wealth is measured not by how much a man accumulates, but by how much of himself he can successfully give away.

In our current twenty-first-century landscape, an era driven by hyper-capitalism, corporate social responsibility that so often feels like corporate public relations, and a deep, toxic division between classes, the story of the Mahatma and his fifth son remains a brilliant, challenging blueprint.

Mahadev Desai’s magnificent funeral tribute in Harijan preserves the final ledger of this extraordinary life for eternity. He wrote that Jamnalal was not merely the treasurer of the nation’s wealth, but the “treasurer of the nation’s honour.”

Jamnalal Bajaj left behind a luminous, timeless lesson for the elite of every generation. The highest use of capital is its total surrender to conscience, and that the greatest title a billionaire can ever earn is to be called a servant of the poor.

To read more articles from this series, click here.

Courtesy: The AIDEM

The post Jamnalal Bajaj, The Fifth Son appeared first on SabrangIndia.

In this exclusive series, writer and researcher Anu Jain revisits Mahatma Gandhi’s closest political and personal relationships, uncovering the conversations, collaborations, and ethical dilemmas that shaped both the man and the movement he came to lead.

Long before Gandhi’s celebrated associations with Jamnalal Bajaj or G.D. Birla, it was the Tata family that quietly intervened at a defining moment in his South African struggle. Their support arrived not as an attempt to shape his politics, but as an affirmation of the moral courage and disciplined non-violence that lay at the heart of satyagraha. Gandhi, in turn, transformed this extraordinary generosity into a lesson in public accountability, insisting that every contribution—whether from a wealthy industrialist or an ordinary worker—was a sacred trust to be used with absolute transparency.

This five-part series explores the remarkable individuals who stood alongside Gandhi in different ways, revealing how their relationships illuminate the ethical architecture of India’s freedom movement. Together, they demonstrate that Gandhi’s greatest achievement was not merely mobilising people, but creating a moral framework within which power, wealth, and public service could coexist without surrendering to one another.

Read on to discover the unique relationship that Mahatma Gandhi shared with Sir Ratan Tata and the House of Tata.

The story of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s relationship with wealth, power and big business did not begin in the grand palatial houses of Indian industrialists during the height of the freedom struggle. Its foundation was forged much earlier, in the dust and heat of South Africa. There, the practical, everyday demands of running a resistance movement forced a young lawyer to confront a difficult reality. He understood that money is dangerous, yet entirely necessary. Long before he formally introduced his famous philosophy of trusteeship, the idea that the wealthy should act as custodians holding riches in trust for the public good, Gandhi was already experimenting with a radical political economy built on voluntary poverty, absolute accountability, and a deep scepticism of large-scale charity.

Even in the pages of his early South African newspaper, Indian Opinion, Gandhi was fascinated by how people used power and wealth. In 1905, he published biographical sketches of global figures like Leo Tolstoy, Abraham Lincoln and Florence Nightingale, praising their moral courage. Alongside these global icons, he highlighted an Indian pioneer, the industrialist Jamsetji Nusserwanji Tata. Gandhi admiringly wrote that the elder Tata “never looked to self-interest… nor did he ever take distinctions of caste or race into consideration… the Parsis, the Muslims, the Hindus, all were equal to him” (Gandhi, 1905). This observation was a vital prelude. It revealed Gandhi’s early belief that capital, if guided by an ethical compass, could be a force for social uplift rather than an instrument of colonial or class domination.

Crucible of South Africa

By 1908, Gandhi’s experiments in truth were facing a brutal trial. The satyagraha movement in South Africa had entered its hardest phase. As Gandhi later detailed in his history, Satyagraha in South Africa, peaceful resistance required massive financial commitments (Gandhi, 1928). When the white minority government threw striking Indian labourers and merchants into prison, their families back home were left with nothing. The movement had to feed, clothe and house these dependants for months at a time. Concurrently, Indian Opinion, the print lifeline of the struggle,was running out of money, yet its printing presses had to keep moving to document the community’s resistance.

To house the families of prisoners, Gandhi had helped establish the Phoenix Settlement, a communal farm dedicated to simple, austere living. While the residents grew their own food, they were not entirely self-sufficient. Paper, ink, transport, and basic medicine still required hard cash. Gandhi’s ideal of simplicity did not completely eliminate material needs; it simply disciplined them.

As the months dragged on, donor fatigue set in. The local Indian merchant community, which had funded the initial phases of the protest, was financially exhausted by continuous government fines and business closures. By late 1909, the financial strain was critical. Sailing back from London in November after failing to win concessions from British officials, a deeply stressed Gandhi wrote a letter to his nephew, Maganlal Gandhi. He insisted that Indian Opinion must be saved at all costs: even if they were reduced to printing a single page on a hand-press, the paper could not die (Gandhi, 1909). To Gandhi, the death of the newspaper would signal a moral retreat.

Lifeline from Bombay

On November 30, 1909, Gandhi stepped off the ship at Cape Town, bracing for bad news. Instead, he received a telegram that changed everything. Sir Ratanji Tata, the younger son of Jamsetji Tata, had sent a massive donation of 25,000 rupees to support the South African satyagraha. In 1909, this was a staggering fortune, equivalent to millions today.

The timing was miraculous. Gandhi openly admitted that this single act saved Indian Opinion and breathed new life into the struggle. But Ratan Tata’s intervention was not a random act of impulsive charity. It was a deliberate, principled political statement. Tata was a close ally of the moderate Indian nationalist leader Gopal Krishna Gokhale. He preferred constitutional reforms and disciplined, peaceful public action. What drew Tata to Gandhi was the pure ethical character of the South African movement.

In a letter to Gokhale accompanying the money, Ratan Tata expressed his deep admiration for the “undaunted and determined stand” of the regular people in the Transvaal (Tata, 1909). He wrote of his profound respect for everyday labourers who chose prison over loss of dignity, and their disciplined refusal to resort to violence. For Tata, this was not standard philanthropy. It was a wealthy captain of industry endorsing the moral stamina of the working class.

Gokhale immediately understood the power of this gesture. Labelling it “timely help,” he publicised the donation across India. The effect was immediate and cascading. Inspired by Tata, other wealthy patrons stepped forward: J. B. Petit in Bombay, Dr. Pranjivan Mehta in Rangoon, and Indian diaspora communities from London to Zanzibar sent funds. Tata’s money had legitimised a distant, experimental struggle, making it a unified cause for the global Indian identity.

The Sacred Trust

The way Gandhi managed this sudden wealth is just as revealing as the donation itself. In his autobiography, Gandhi argued that public money must be treated as a “sacred trust,” demanding far stricter accounting than personal wealth (Gandhi, 1927). Every single rupee had to be tracked, recorded, and publicly justified.

“Public money ought to be treated with greater care than our own. A trustee has no right to waste a single farthing of the funds explicitly placed in his custody.” M. K. Gandhi

Even with a full bank account, Gandhi refused to let luxury creep into the Phoenix Settlement. When some residents suggested using the Tata funds to build more comfortable housing and buy better provisions, Gandhi firmly refused. He believed that the self-imposed discipline of hardship was essential to the spiritual strength of satyagraha. To make life easy would ruin the movement’s moral edge.

Gandhi personally monitored the printing room of Indian Opinion, ensuring that paper and ink were never wasted. Whether a donation came from a millionaire industrialist in Bombay or a single copper coin from a poor indentured labourer, it was meticulously recorded in the ledger books. Transparency was non-negotiable. Furthermore, Gandhi remained deeply wary of becoming dependant on a few wealthy patrons. Even with Tata’s backing, he continued to collect small, pennies-worth subscriptions from the community, ensuring the movement stayed rooted in the masses.

Respectful Distance

The relationship between Mahatma Gandhi and Ratan Tata offers a starkly different model of engagement compared to Gandhi’s later, legendary friendships with other Indian tycoons.

Unlike Bajaj or Birla, Ratan Tata never became a personal disciple of Gandhi. There are no records of late-night heart-to-heart chats or long weekends at the ashram between them. Their interactions were handled through letters and intermediaries like Gokhale.

This distance was intentional and respectful. Tata did not try to control the movement or use his money to buy influence, and Gandhi never asked him to abandon his factories. When Gandhi returned to India in 1915, this pattern of respectful boundary-keeping continued with Ratan’s successor, J.R.D. Tata.

A natural ideological friction always existed between them. Gandhi was sceptical of heavy, assembly-line industrialisation, famously advocating for decentralised, village-based economies centred around the spinning wheel (charkha). The Tatas, conversely, were building India’s modern industrial infrastructure with massive steel plants, hydroelectric projects, and aviation lines. Yet, this economic disagreement never turned into bitterness. Gandhi sought to morally transform capitalism from the outside; the Tatas sought to humanise it from within.

Dawn of Independence

This deep, quiet respect survived the decades, lasting all the way to Gandhi’s final moments. On January 30, 1948, when a fanatic’s bullets ended the Mahatma’s life in New Delhi, the shockwaves travelled across the globe. J.R.D. Tata, who was away in Europe at the time, felt the loss deeply. In a private, poignant letter written from Switzerland to his colleague Ardeshir Dalal on February 6, 1948, J.R.D. reflected on the tragedy.

“I was horrified, as you all must have been, at the news of Gandhiji’s assassination,” J.R.D. Tata wrote. “It is a World tragedy but who knows whether his paying the ultimate price may not in the end have done more for the cause of peace, tolerance and communal harmony for which he gave his life than he would have achieved by remaining alive… I hope however, that the grief and anger caused by Gandhi’s murder amongst the great mass of the people of India and the realisation of the righteousness and soundness of what he stood for, will keep… the extremists from further mischief” (Tata, 1948).

J.R.D.’s words did not echo standard Congress party slogans. True to the Tata tradition, his letter viewed Gandhi through the lens of national stability, civic sanity, and moral order. Even in death, the industrialist recognised the Mahatma not just as a political figure, but as an indispensable moral anchor for a fragile, newborn nation.

The Moral Compass

In the grand tapestry of Indian nationalism, the intersection of Mahatma Gandhi and the House of Tata stands out as a unique experiment in political morality. It proves that the relationship between wealth and social activism does not always have to be corrupt, transactional, or compromising.

If Jamnalal Bajaj represented total surrender to Gandhi’s austere lifestyle, and G.D. Birla represented a continuous political negotiation with it, the Tatas represented something completely different: an honest recognition of Gandhi’s moral authority without the need to enter his personal circle. The historic 1909 donation remains a powerful historical example of how capital, when guided by clear ethics, can defend and sustain a grassroots struggle without trying to dictate its terms. Ultimately, Gandhi and Tata showed the world a rare, beautiful equilibrium, proving that money and morality can work together to transform a society, provided both sides respect the clean, uncompromising lines of a sacred trust.

Make sure to check back tomorrow for the next part of the series as we bring attention to how unwavering loyalty, financial sacrifice, and a shared dedication to rural upliftment forged an extraordinary bond between Gandhi and Jamnalal Bajaj.

To read more articles from this series, click here.

Anu Jain is a Doctoral Scholar at Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. Her research examines the intersection of Gandhian philosophy and Gender with a particular focus on the crucial role of Elected Women Representatives (EWRs).

Courtesy: The AIDEM

The post The Merchant and the Mahatma appeared first on SabrangIndia.

In this exclusive series, writer and researcher Anu Jain revisits the defining personal and political relationships that shaped Gandhi’s life, revealing how his interactions with a small circle of trusted contemporaries profoundly influenced both his public leadership and private convictions.

Few of these relationships were as paradoxical, or as consequential, as his lifelong engagement with G.D. Birla. One was India’s most influential industrialist; the other, a leader who deliberately embraced poverty as a political and ethical discipline. Their association was neither one of unquestioning patronage nor ideological agreement. Instead, it became an enduring conversation about responsibility, public service, and the moral obligations that accompany wealth.

This five-part series explores the individuals who stood closest to Gandhi, not as passive admirers but as collaborators, critics, and fellow travellers in the making of modern India. Together, these relationships illuminate how Gandhi’s greatest influence often lay not in commanding power, but in reshaping the values of those who possessed it.

Read on to discover the remarkable bond that Mahatma Gandhi shared with G.D. Birla.

History is fond of neat, tidy equations. The powerful rule, the wealthy purchase influence, and the saintly retreat into cloistered isolation. Yet, the extraordinary bond between Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi and Ghanshyam Das Birla defiantly shatters these easy categorisations. Theirs was not a conventional saga of a rich patron bankrolling a political movement, nor was it a story of uncomplicated friendship or calculated alliance. Instead, it was an arena of permanent moral tension, a beautiful, complicated dance between radical renunciation and massive capital accumulation.

What makes this relationship a vital chapter in the story of modern India is not merely that the nation’s wealthiest tycoon supported its most ascetic revolutionary. The true significance lies in a profound inversion of power, the billionaire did not shape the Mahatma, rather, the Mahatma entirely re-architected the moral universe of the billionaire.

When Gandhi returned to the red soil of India from South Africa in 1915, he did not yet wear the undisputed crown of national leadership. He was a curious, enigmatic figure, experimenting with communal living, dietary restrictions, and radical simplicity. Yet, India’s emerging merchant class, particularly the ambitious Marwari community, watched him with intense curiosity.

Among them was a brilliant, fiercely driven young businessman named G.D. Birla. He discovered something unprecedented in Gandhi. A leader who wielded immense power without possessing a single rupee, who could mobilise millions without promising material rewards, and whose very presence stood as a living rebuke to the pampered social elites of the British Raj. Birla was instantly transfixed. Gandhi, however, did not open his arms unreservedly. He had already walked through a furnace of betrayal, and his caution had been forged in a bitter crisis that would cast a long shadow over the rest of his life.

The Ghost of Kochrab

Between 1915 and 1917, at the newly established Kochrab Ashram near Ahmedabad, Gandhi sought to build a living laboratory for his core ideals, truth (satyagraha), non-violence (ahimsa), and radical social equality. Here, principles were not meant to be debated in academic comfort, they were tested against the raw, jagged edges of Indian reality. It was here that Gandhi collided head-on with a defining moral crisis, learning a lesson he would carry to his grave. Money is never neutral, it arrives with invisible strings, unspoken expectations, and subtle mechanisms of control.

The explosion occurred when Gandhi made the deliberate choice to admit an “untouchable” family, Dudabhai, his wife Danibehn, and their infant daughter Lakshmi, into the ashram community. In an era where caste lines were policed with religious ferocity, this was an act of open social rebellion. Gandhi viewed untouchability not as a minor social blemish, but as a cancerous moral evil. For him, if the ashram could not practise absolute human equality within its own four walls, its ethical foundation was a sham.

The blowback from orthodox society was swift and merciless. Several wealthy merchant-donors who funded the daily upkeep of the ashram were horrified. They didn’t just voice their disapproval, they used the ultimate weapon of the wealthy, they slammed their checkbooks shut. Financial contributions dried up almost overnight, plunging the young ashram into terrifying financial precarity.

The cold, unmistakable message hung in the air. Our charity is conditional. Fall in line with our social prejudices, or we will starve you into submission.

Gandhi found himself standing at a dangerous crossroads. He was entirely broke, responsibilities were mounting, and his experimental community was on the brink of collapse. Yet, his response was magnificent in its unyielding defiance. He flatly refused to reverse his decision or compromise the dignity of his new guests to placate his wealthy backers. As recorded in the Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, he calmly informed his companions that if the money ran out completely and they were evicted, they would simply pack up their few belongings, move directly into the Bhangi (sweepers’) quarters, and survive entirely on manual labour.

This moment of supreme vulnerability transformed into an epiphany. Gandhi realised that financial dependence on elite patrons was not merely a logistical challenge, it was an acute ethical vulnerability. This realisation became a permanent, protective armour he wore whenever he dealt with the wealthy and powerful.

The May 1918 Manifesto

By the time G.D. Birla firmly entered his orbit, Gandhi was no longer an untested idealist, he was a battle-hardened strategist who had engineered a strict internal framework to govern his interactions with wealth. This icy clarity is beautifully preserved in his very first correspondence with the young industrialist, dated May 4, 1918.

Acknowledging Birla’s enthusiastic offers of financial backing, Gandhi dipped his pen in ink and drew a sharp, non-negotiable line in the sand. He thanked the young tycoon for his generosity but made it explicitly clear that while his money would be accepted for public work, it would never buy a single ounce of leverage over Gandhi’s decisions, his worldview, or his principles.

The tone of the letter was a masterpiece of polite iron. It was courteous, devoid of hostility, yet utterly unmoving. Gandhi did not reject the capitalist’s resources, he knew that journals like Young India and Harijan, along with massive rural development programmes, required vast rivers of capital. But he established an immutable law. Capital must remain entirely subordinate to moral autonomy. There would be no room for expectations, no backroom understanding, and absolutely no dilution of values. Gandhi was not stepping into a trap of dependency, he was drafting the strict terms of Birla’s surrender to a higher cause.

Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, this dynamic solidified into a fascinating public reality. Birla’s money poured into Gandhi’s vast network of social engineering, funding schools, digging village wells, and printing revolutionary literature. Yet, Gandhi enforced an almost military fiscal discipline. Every paisa was tracked, luxury was forbidden, and Birla’s immense financial power was systematically broken down into small, transparent currents of social repair. The direction of influence was resolutely one-way. Wealth was being continuously purified by the demands of the ascetic.

Transforming Stone into Justice

This ongoing moral negotiation found its most dramatic architectural expression in the late 1930s with the construction of the Laxmi Narayan Temple in Delhi, universally known today as the Birla Mandir.

To G.D. Birla, the spectacular, sprawling temple complex built between 1933 and 1939 was an expression of deep religious devotion, civic pride, and cultural renaissance. But Gandhi viewed such grand architectural projects with a degree of critical detachment. For him, true religion did not live in towering structures of stone and gold, it lived in the ethical treatment of the human being. He was deeply wary of magnificent temples that functioned as exclusive clubs for the privileged while shutting out the broken and the marginalised.

When Birla urgently requested the Mahatma to officially inaugurate the grand temple in 1939, Gandhi did not offer a polite, empty compliment. He issued an ultimatum. He agreed to bless the inauguration on one absolute, non-negotiable condition. The temple gates must swing wide open to every single human being, regardless of caste, including those deemed “untouchable” by orthodox tradition.

As Vivek Shukla meticulously documents in Gandhi’s Delhi, Gandhi stepped onto the premises only after securing this binding vow, declaring that a house of God that excluded human beings based on the accident of birth was not a temple at all, but a moral crime.

In 1939, this was a radical, explosive demand that sent shockwaves through orthodox Hindu society. By anchoring his participation to this condition, Gandhi pulled off a brilliant act of symbolic alchemy. He took a monument built by private corporate wealth and transformed it into a battleground for social liberation.

The thousands of ecstatic citizens who flooded the temple grounds on that festive opening day witnessed something far greater than the opening of a building, they saw an industrialist publicly surrender the sovereign terms of his own monument to the moral command of a saint. Tellingly, his point having been made, Gandhi never set foot in the Birla Mandir ever again.

Rejecting a Mansion

As India entered the turbulent mid-1940s, hurtling toward a chaotic, blood-soaked independence, the intimacy between the two men deepened, but Gandhi’s moral scrutiny only grew sharper.

Gandhi is often mythologised as a man who completely rejected spaces of privilege. In reality, his practise was far more nuanced and challenging. When political negotiations with the British or failing health demanded it, he would occasionally stay at Birla’s expansive, manicured estates in Delhi or Bombay. But he inhabited these elite spaces like a passing ghost, using them purely as functional transit stations without ever becoming anchored to their comfort.

This distinction exploded into sharp focus in 1946. Arriving in Delhi to navigate the agonising pre-Partition negotiations, Gandhi was warmly invited by Birla to stay at his luxurious mansion. Gandhi flatly declined. Instead, he marched straight to the edge of the city and pitched his camp in the Valmiki (Bhangi) colony on Mandir Marg, a squalid, neglected settlement of Dalit sweepers. For Gandhi, the impending birth of a free nation required not a celebration in a palace, but absolute physical identification with the lowest rungs of Indian society.

The material conditions in the sweepers’ colony were miserable, lacking basic sanitation, running water, or electricity. Deeply distressed by the thought of his frail master living in such harsh conditions, Birla acted with his characteristic corporate efficiency. He rushed technicians and labourers to the colony, installing electrical wiring and fresh water lines directly to the humble shack where Gandhi slept.

It was a generous, well-intentioned gesture of devotion. Yet, Gandhi turned upon it with the clinical precision of a surgeon. He sent a sharp, handwritten note to Birla through his secretary, Pyarelal. He wrote that he sincerely hoped these newly laid water lines and electrical grids were permanent fixtures for the community. He added a devastating warning. If the wires are pulled out the moment I leave this colony, this entire exercise will be exposed as a pathetic farce.

With those few words, Gandhi cut to the heart of the corporate-philanthropic delusion. He rejected the concept of temporary benevolence that treats human dignity as a theatrical prop for a VIP guest. By demanding that the infrastructure remain forever, Gandhi pulled the intervention out of the realm of soft charity and thrust it into the realm of permanent justice. The electricity was no longer a gift to a saint, it was a basic human right owned by the sweepers of Delhi.

The Final Sanctuary

In the twilight months of his life, circumstance, not desire, finally bound Gandhi to Birla’s doorstep. Returning to a fractured Delhi on September 9, 1947, from the riot-torn fields of Bengal, Gandhi found the capital consumed by the fires of Partition. The streets were swimming in blood, and anger was boiling over.

Sensing the extreme danger, his closest companions, Vallabhbhai Patel and Rajkumari Amrit Kaur, intercepted him at the station and begged him to stay at Birla House on Albuquerque Road. They argued that the sweepers’ colony was no longer safe from the volatile mobs. Gandhi quietly acquiesced. It was an adjustment to an unfolding tragedy, not a compromise of his core principles.

Birla House was a majestic, opulent palace located in the aristocratic heart of New Delhi, surrounded by expansive, manicured lawns. Birla immediately transformed his estate into a fortress of support for the Mahatma. He built a wooden platform on the grass for Gandhi’s daily multi-faith prayer meetings, installed advanced microphones and loudspeakers so that his fading voice could reach the masses, and placed a private car at his disposal. The industrialist’s palace quickly became the nerve centre of the fracturing nation, where prime ministers, refugees, and generals converged.

Yet, the atmosphere was thick with dread. Furious Hindu refugees, inflamed by Gandhi’s uncompromising defence of Muslim rights, frequently gathered outside the iron gates, shouting bitter, hostile slogans. Gandhi was fully aware that death was closing in, a bomb had already detonated on the garden wall just days prior. Yet, he adamantly refused to allow barbed wire, police cordons, or weapons to insulate him from the public.

On the evening of January 30, 1948, leaning on his grand-nieces Manu and Abha, Gandhi walked out onto the green grass of Birla House for his customary prayer meeting. It was there, against the backdrop of corporate wealth and imperial architecture, that Nathuram Godse stepped forward and fired three bullets into his chest.

The geography of his death is profoundly symbolic. Gandhi did not draw his last breath in an ashram of his own making, nor in the guarded chambers of state power. He died in the home of India’s grandest capitalist, a man who had spent three decades offering him shelter, yet a man whose immense fortune could never buy, insulate, or protect the fierce, independent spirit of the man who walked his gardens.

The 1971 Negotiations

The story of Gandhi and Birla does not conclude with the echo of those three gunshots. It contains a final, fascinating epilogue that took place decades later, revealing the stark, unvarnished boundaries of their lifelong association.

In 1971, after years of intense public pressure and debate, the Government of India moved to acquire Birla House from the family to preserve it as a sacred national monument. What followed was not a sentimental, tearful surrender of property, but a cold, hard-nosed commercial negotiation.

The transaction was conducted with meticulous attention to market valuation. The industrialist K.K. Birla led the negotiations, and the state ultimately paid the Birla family a massive cash sum of ₹54 lakhs, alongside an exchange of approximately seven acres of premium urban real estate elsewhere in New Delhi.

To this day, contemporary accounts note with astonishment that even the individual fruit-bearing trees scattered across the lawns were counted, valued, and factored into the final price tag. The negotiations were protracted, legally calculated, and firmly anchored to the clinical laws of property ownership.

To an outside observer, this hyper-commercial transaction seemed to clash awkwardly with the historic narrative of the Birlas as selfless devotees of the Mahatma. The idea that the ground soaked with Gandhi’s blood was sold to the nation through an exacting financial audit felt, to some, like a betrayal of an ideal.

Yet, this apparent contradiction contains the deepest truth of the entire storey. It proves that Birla’s devotion to Gandhi was an entirely personal, voluntary act of the heart, an engagement with a moral titan that existed completely outside the mechanical structures of modern economic life. When dealing with Gandhi, Birla operated in the realm of the soul, when dealing with the post-colonial Indian state, he operated in the realm of the market. The two worlds were distinct, and neither collapsed into the other.

The Sovereign Blueprint

Following its commercial acquisition, the estate was renamed Gandhi Smriti and opened to the public on August 15, 1973, on what is now Tees January Marg. Today, the footprints of the Mahatma are cast in stone across the grass where he fell, a permanent place of pilgrimage for the world.

In the final analysis, the relationship between Mahatma Gandhi and G.D. Birla remains a magnificent, unresolved paradox. It was neither a story of corporate capture nor one of pious exploitation. It offers a masterclass in how an ethical movement can courageously engage with massive wealth without ever being swallowed by it, and how an organisation can utilise immense resources without ever allowing them to dictate the terms of its soul.

Gandhi never retreated into the easy safety of moral purism, he walked directly into the palaces of capital, looked the richest men in the world in the eye, and subjected their fortune to the fierce, burning light of ethical accountability. Birla, in turn, never abandoned his identity as a hard-headed industrialist, yet he chose to remain in a lifelong conversation with a philosophy that challenged the very foundations of his empire.

In an era like our own, where global democracies are deeply compromised by hidden campaign funding, corporate capture, and the corrupting leverage of billionaire philanthropists, the clean, uncompromised boundary between Gandhi and Birla stands as an urgent blueprint. It reminds us across the decades of an immortal lesson. That true power does not belong to those who hold the gold, but to those who hold the truth.

Make sure to check back tomorrow for the next part of the series as we bring attention to how patriotic generosity, principled resistance, and a shared dream of self-reliance forged an unlikely bond between Gandhi and Sir Ratanji Tata.

Read the previous article in the series here.

Courtesy: The AIDEM

The post Money, Morality and Discipline of Power appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Writer and researcher Anu Jain revisits Mahatma Gandhi’s closest political and personal bonds in this series, offering a timely reminder that transformative movements are built not merely on charismatic leadership, but on the unyielding sentinels of conscience who surround it.

For Gandhi, leadership was never a solitary endeavour. It was a collaborative, often demanding dialogue with a close circle of confidants who possessed the moral courage to hold up a mirror to him.

This exclusive five-part series explores Gandhi’s deeply complex relationships with five of his remarkable contemporaries. Together, these five bonds did more than just steer the course of the independence movement; they directly shaped the deeply personal, moral, and political choices of the Mahatma himself.

Read on the unique bond that Gandhi shared with Chakravarti Rajagopalachari here.

In mid-June 1920, a letter arrived at the Sabarmati Ashram in Ahmedabad that would make the most powerful moral leader in India stop and think.

The sender was neither a British Viceroy threatening imprisonment, nor a political rival launching a public attack. It was Chakravarti Rajagopalachari, affectionately known as Rajaji, a brilliant lawyer from Madras with a razor-sharp intellect and a quiet, unassuming demeanour. At a time when millions across the subcontinent were beginning to view Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi as an infallible saint whose every word was law, Rajaji dared to do the unthinkable. He held up a mirror to his Master’s soul and told him he was on the brink of ruin.

Gandhi was entangled in a deeply intense, emotionally charged relationship with Saraladevi Chaudhurani, a brilliant and charismatic nationalist writer. He had begun to call her his “spiritual wife” and was privately contemplating a public declaration of their unique bond. To the outer world, Gandhi seemed unstoppable, reshaping the Indian National Congress into a thunderous mass movement. But in the quiet corners of his private life, he was navigating a profound emotional labyrinth.

Question of Accountability

Rajaji refused to remain silent while other members of Gandhi’s inner circle, such as his loyal secretary Mahadev Desai, watched in nervous silence and submitted to the Mahatma’s whims. He realised that Gandhi’s unwavering moral purity, rather than political strategy, was his greatest weapon against the British Empire. To jeopardise that purity would be to capsize the ship that held the hopes of a whole country.

This is the story of an extraordinary bond, what Mahadev Desai called an “intellectual wedding.” It is the chronicle of a friendship that proved the Gandhian movement was never a cult of blind obedience, but a crucible of fierce moral accountability.

Born into a traditional Iyengar Brahmin family in the Madras Presidency, Rajaji was a man built on classical learning, strict ethical reasoning, and the analytical precision of a seasoned legal mind. When he answered Gandhi’s call to join the nationalist struggle, he left behind a highly lucrative law practise. But he did not leave behind his critical faculties. To Rajaji, loyalty did not mean the suspension of judgement. He loved Gandhi, but he loved the moral clarity of the cause more.

When Gandhi wrote to his Tamil protégé hinting at a deeper, public acknowledgement of his relationship with Saraladevi, Rajaji’s response was immediate, urgent, and fiercely protective. Though Gandhi’s original letter to Rajaji has been lost to time, fragments of Rajaji’s reply from June 16, 1920, survive as a testament to ultimate moral courage.

Rajaji did not mince words. He warned Gandhi that any public step toward validating this “spiritual marriage” would bring “unutterable shame and ruin,” effectively destroying “all saintliness, all purity, all asceticism, all India’s hope.” To drive his point home, Rajaji invoked a magnificent and terrifying metaphor:

“How could you venture out… when in your boat was the faith and fate of millions of simple souls who, if the boat had capsized, would have seen neither beauty nor love nor grandeur, but unspeakable shame and death.”

Rajaji had briefly met Saraladevi, and his legal mind was entirely unimpressed by her charms. In an unusually harsh and candid assessment, he wrote to Gandhi:

“I fail to see any ‘greatness’ in the lady. She is like a hundred other women, whom a little education makes very attractive. I have seen scores of bigger-minded and better-souled women.”

Then, turning his gaze toward Gandhi’s steadfast wife, Kasturba, he drew a stinging contrast. To compare Saraladevi to Kasturba, Rajaji noted, was like “comparing a kerosene oil lamp to the morning sun.”

Rajaji did not spare Saraladevi further, criticising her “reckless indifference to consequences.” His final directive to his Master was absolute: “Pray disengage yourself at once completely. No delay is allowable when you hold such great trusts.”

This letter was a magnificent act of bravery. In 1920, Gandhi was fast becoming a deity in the Indian imagination. To challenge him on his private affections was highly dangerous. But Rajaji understood a fundamental truth about Indian society. Gandhi’s public authority rested squarely on his ascetic image. While old Hindu traditions technically permitted polygamy, the heartbeat of Indian social practise fiercely favoured monogamy. Had Gandhi publicly embraced another partner, even under the lofty banner of a “spiritual union“, he would have fractured his credibility among ordinary citizens, crippling the moral foundation of the freedom struggle.

Gandhi was visibly shaken by the raw frankness of Rajaji’s intervention. Though the emotional disentanglement was slow, agonising, and complex, the warning worked. The grand idaea of a public declaration was dropped. By December 1920, Gandhi took the definitive step to close that chapter of his life.

Writing back to Rajaji, Gandhi quietly confirmed the victory of his friend’s counsel:

“Yes, your guess is correct. The fair friend is Saraladevi. She wants to bombard me with more stuff but I have refused to give further accommodation.”

The Mahatma had been saved from his own vulnerability by his conscience keeper.

Public Triumph

While this private storm was being weathered, the year 1920 saw Gandhi achieve unprecedented heights on the public stage. The contrast between his private crisis and his public triumph was breathtaking.

Gandhi threw himself into a massive tour of the Madras Presidency, travelling alongside the flamboyant Muslim leader Shaukat Ali. They were an unlikely pair, Shaukat Ali, loud, booming, and dressed in striking, theatrical outfits. Gandhi, soft-spoken, slender, and wrapped in simple homespun cloth. Yet, Gandhi deeply admired Ali, describing him to the English missionary C.F. Andrews was “one of the most sincere of men I have met… generous, frank, brave and gentle.”

As they moved through towns like Kumbakonam, Madurai, Trichy, Calicut, Kasargod, and Mangalore, giant crowds gathered. Crucially, women poured out to join these meetings, signalling a massive shift in the social fabric of Indian politics. Standing right beside Gandhi throughout this gruelling tour was Rajaji, acting as his voice, translating his complex ethical ideas into fluent, evocative Tamil, and seamlessly connecting the Mahatma to the masses.

That same year, at the historic Nagpur session of the Indian National Congress, Gandhi completely revolutionised the party’s architecture. He dissolved the old British administrative divisions and reorganised the Congress along linguistic lines, ensuring people could participate in their own mother tongues. He established a beautifully organised hierarchy of elected committees stretching from remote rural taluks and districts all the way up to the All India Congress Committee (AICC) and the executive Congress Working Committee (CWC).

Most importantly, he opened the doors to the poor. For a tiny, nominal fee of just four annas, any adult could join. Within a single year, the Congress transformed from an elitist, English-speaking debating club into a roaring mass movement of nearly two million members. Gandhi was building a nation, even as he was correcting a personal misjudgement.

By 1921, the political landscape grew heavy with tension. The movement was fracturing under the weight of the violent Moplah rebellion and a general sluggishness in the adoption of Khadi. During this dark period, Gandhi’s appreciation for Rajaji deepened immensely. He saw in the Tamil leader a rare combination of “wisdom, integrity and ability,” noting with relief that Rajaji was one of the very few who “fully understood the meaning of our struggle.”

It was during this southern tour, in the historic city of Madurai, that Gandhi made a decision that would forever define his visual legacy. For years, since his days in Barisal, Bengal, he had contemplated shedding his traditional clothes to fully identify with the poorest of the poor. Everywhere he went, poor labourers told him they simply could not afford khadi. It was too expensive compared to cheap, imported British mill cloth.

In a moment of profound empathy, Gandhi decided to discard his shirt and cap, adopting the simple, humble loincloth for the rest of his life. It was a radical, embodied identification with India’s destitute.

When he broke the news to his inner circle, a fierce debate erupted. Maulana Azad understood the brilliant moral logic immediately. But Rajaji, ever the cautious pragmatist, was deeply unsettled. He worried that such a drastic, sudden transformation would alienate the public, making Gandhi look eccentric, erratic, or as Gandhi himself later recalled, a “lunatic.” Rajaji’s criticism was grounded in political prudence. He looked at symbolic acts through the cold lens of social intelligibility and political fallout.

Conversely, C.F. Andrews embraced the move with deep sympathy, seeing it as an authentic, beautiful act of solidarity. This friction perfectly highlighted the unique ecosystem around Gandhi. Rajaji’s practical scepticism and Andrews’ moral idealism acted as vital guardrails, shaping the conversational, evolving nature of Gandhian leadership.

Yerwada Jail

The ultimate test of this intellectual intimacy came in March 1922, when the British colonial state finally arrested Gandhi. The great Non-Cooperation experiment was paused, and Gandhi was escorted under heavy guard from Ahmedabad to Poona, passing through the iron gates of Yerwada Jail on the evening of March 21.

The prison bureaucracy attempted to strip the Mahatma of his historical magnitude, entering him into the ledger as routine text: Inmate No. 827, charged under Section 124A of the Indian Penal Code for exciting disaffection towards the government.

But walls could not contain the movement. On April 1, 1922, during his very first permitted visitor window, Rajaji arrived at the prison gates alongside Gandhi’s son, Devadas, and the social reformer A.V. Thakkar.

Rajaji carefully observed his Master’s life behind bars and penned a vivid, moving account for Young India. He described a leader living under relentless surveillance, locked away in solitary conditions, yet maintaining an iron-clad, joyful routine of prayer, reading, and spinning. These written dispatches were crucial. They kept the flame of Gandhi’s moral authority burning bright in the hearts of the public, proving that the Mahatma remained unbroken even in captivity.

Their conversations in jail were a continuation of a profound intellectual dialogue that had begun years earlier in 1919. Back then, Gandhi had shared his deep anxieties with Rajaji regarding rising Hindu-Muslim tensions and the terrifying prospect of a militarised India, warning that normalising armed forces would turn the liberated nation into nothing more than “an armed camp.”

Medical Crisis

In January 1924, this bond of trust faced a sudden physical crisis. Still a prisoner, Gandhi developed acute appendicitis. In the dead of night, during a raging thunderstorm, he underwent emergency surgery at Sassoon Hospital in Poona. Facing extreme physical vulnerability, Gandhi’s immediate instinct was to surround himself with his trusted circle, summoning V.S. Srinivasa Sastri and Dr. V.D. Phatak to his bedside before the scalpel touched his skin.

Throughout these dark intervals of imprisonment and near-fatal illness, Rajaji remained the unshakable interpretive bridge between the secluded leader and a waiting nation. Following his subsequent release, Gandhi moved to a beachfront bungalow in Juhu to recover.

Once he was out of jail, Gandhi’s daily schedule was modified. He still woke up at 4:30 a.m. and said his prayers. At six he had a light breakfast, then took a short walk within the compound of the cottage. From then until midday he attended to his correspondence in English and in Gujarati, dictating letters and articles to a shorthand typist. He rested in the afternoon, saw visitors, and then took a forty-minute walk on the seashore. On his doctor’s advice, he had not yet resumed spinning.

Juhu, the suburb where Gandhi was recovering, was easily accessible from the city by rail and road. A stream of visitors, mostly uninvited and unannounced, descended daily from Bombay. Gandhi was finally forced to issue a public appeal, asking people to come see him between five and six in the evening only.

“The capital of energy at my disposal is very small, and I want to utilise it only in service. I wish to resume editorship of Navajivan and Young India from next week. And I need absolute quiet for that work. If all my time and energy are taken up in seeing and entertaining you, it will not be possible for me to edit the weeklies in the way I desire.”

Among those keen to see Gandhi was M.A. Jinnah’s young wife, Ruttie. She sent a basket of strawberries, with a note saying she wanted to come too, but was nervous lest it interfere with his health.

“I should hate to think that what to me is a source of pleasure must inevitably prolong the struggle for recovery. But you must know, that like the rest of the world, I too am dying to see you, so when I can legitimately do so, I shall expect a line or a word of permission.”

It is not clear whether Mrs. Jinnah in fact visited Gandhi. But plenty of other admirers descended on the cottage in Juhu. Almost immediately, Juhu became what Rajaji described with characteristic irony as a “general ward” of visitors. Writing to Mahadev Desai, Rajaji sarcastically complained:

“I understand that Juhu has become another general hospital. At Poona it was a special ward. but it is now a general ward of all consumptives and melancholics, and a ward without divisions for sexes.”

Rajaji’s remark was not merely administrative irritation. It reflected his consistent, protective concern that Gandhi’s physical body was being overexposed to the relentless demands of political devotion, treating his critical convalescence as public access.

Logistical Custodianship

This tension between intimacy and overload reappeared repeatedly over the following decade. In 1927, when Gandhi fell seriously ill again while touring Nandidurg, it was Rajaji who ensured not only medical care but also continuity of comfort and routine. He went so far as to meticulously arrange for fresh goat’s milk to be sent daily from Madras via train to Bangalore, collected at Tumkur, and carried up to the hill station so it was available for Gandhi during his health recovery stay. The detail is small, but revealing: Rajaji was not only a political interpreter of Gandhi, but also a literal logistical custodian of his fragile body.

The intimacy of this care sat alongside Rajaji’s growing unease with Gandhi’s relentless pace. In private correspondence, he increasingly expressed anxiety about overwork, overexposure, and the structural exhaustion of the movement itself. Yet this concern never became withdrawal. Instead, it deepened his function as Gandhi’s stabilising interlocutor, someone who absorbed strain so that Gandhi could continue outward expansion.

By the late 1920s and early 1930s, this relationship had become completely central to the functioning of the Congress movement itself. During Gandhi’s Tamil Nadu tour in 1927, it was Rajaji who designed the entire itinerary, coordinated meetings, and shaped the organisational logistics of mass mobilisation. The spinning campaigns that followed, where donation boxes moved through crowds after each meeting, depended heavily on Rajaji’s unique ability to translate high Gandhian ethics into airtight administrative practise.

Following the Poona Pact of September 1932, Mahatma Gandhi renamed his weekly Harijan, reflecting his conviction that the abolition of untouchability was as vital to India’s future as political independence. The term soon gained widespread acceptance among the Hindu middle classes and the nationalist press, although Dr. B.R. Ambedkar firmly rejected it and never used it for the community he represented.

The Anti-Untouchability League, established after Gandhi’s fast, was also renamed the Harijan Sevak Sangh (Servants of the Harijans). The change was intended both to popularise Gandhi’s preferred term “Harijan” and to distinguish the organisation from the Anti-Untouchability League already run by social reformer V.R. Shinde.

Rajaji, however, strongly objected to the new name. He argued that calling the organisation the Harijan Sevak Sangh implicitly accepted the continued existence of “untouchables” as a separate group. Instead, he proposed the name Untouchability Abolition League, emphasising that the real objective was not merely to serve a community but to eradicate the social evil itself. As Rajaji explained, they were striving for “the abolition of a slave status,” and the word “abolition” conveyed the purpose far more clearly than “service.”

Gandhi did not consider the issue decisive, remarking, “the Sangh will not succeed or fail because of the name. It will be judged by its work.” Nevertheless, because the suggestion came from Rajaji, whom he deeply respected, Gandhi asked G.D. Birla and A.V. Thakkar to examine the proposal.

Although Thakkar acknowledged that Rajaji’s reasoning had “much logic,” the proposal was rejected on practical grounds. The organisation’s name had only recently been changed from the Anti-Untouchability League to the Harijan Sevak Sangh, the Board had approved it, the press had announced it, and official stationery had already been printed. Thakkar argued that proposing another change so soon would invite ridicule from both the Board and the public. Consequently, despite admitting that Rajaji’s suggestion was reasonable, the Board considered it inexpedient.

The episode illustrates the tension between principle and administrative convenience. While Rajaji’s proposed name more directly expressed the mission of eliminating untouchability and avoided the paternalistic overtones of “Harijan Sevak Sangh,” bureaucratic inertia and concern over public perception ensured that the existing name remained unchanged.

Social Challenge

Gandhi’s son Devadas, still unmarried and a brahmachari, was deeply loved by his mother and also by his father. Indeed, it was only with his youngest son that Gandhi shared something like a normal relationship. However, Devadas had fallen in love with Lakshmi, the daughter of C. Rajagopalachari (Rajaji). While Gandhi and Kasturba were in Ceylon, they received a letter from a family friend describing how Devadas was wishing for Lakshmi and was determined to marry her. Gandhi replied that Devadas’ condition was pitiable and Rajaji was unlikely to permit the marriage and Lakshmi would not act without her father’s consent. While she remained cheerful, Devadas, Gandhi wrote, had “gone mad” in love, suffering deeply. He added that if such devotion were directed towards God, he might have become a saint. Yet Gandhi also acknowledged that Devadas was torn between obedience and inner rebellion, even resenting his father as an obstacle. Unsure of how to resolve this, Gandhi urged that he be guided towards peace and dharma, admitting he himself might be misunderstanding him.

The situation was further complicated by social realities. Rajaji was a Tamil Brahmin, Gandhi a Gujarati Bania, making this an inter-caste and inter-regional union. Gandhi worried that orthodoxy might seize upon such a marriage to portray him as a dangerous radical, undermining his campaign against untouchability. However, he was mistaken in one respect, Lakshmi’s love was fully reciprocated. The two had first met in June 1924 in Bangalore, where Devadas reportedly declared his love. He later formally approached Rajaji for permission. Rajaji, though fond of Devadas and familiar with him since 1918, remained hesitant.

After consulting Gandhi, the two fathers placed the couple on probation, no meetings or correspondence, to test the durability of their love. If, after some years, their feelings endured, the marriage would be allowed. This arrangement, later recalled by Rajmohan Gandhi, required the couple to wait five years without contact, after which they married with parental approval.

On 16 June 1933, Devadas married Lakshmi in Poona. At the ceremony, Gandhi remarked that Devadas had “robbed Rajagopalachari of a cherished gem” and must prove worthy of it, while praising Lakshmi as true to her name. He expressed hope that the marriage would deepen his bond with Rajaji. Significantly, Gandhi prefaced his remarks by stating that nothing had been done against dharma, an implicit acknowledgement of the inter-caste nature of the union, one typically disapproved by orthodox authorities. Gandhi had by this time come to argue more explicitly that inter-caste marriages were not only permissible but socially desirable, as they could help break down caste barriers and advance the moral regeneration of Hindu society.

This marriage also concretely bound the two families. Lakshmi, Rajaji’s daughter, became Gandhi’s daughter-in-law, further deepening the personal and political relationship between the two leaders.

The Ultimate Testimony

The profound depth of this lifelong bond reached its historical crescendo in the bloody twilight of British rule. When India gained independence amid the horrors of partition in 1947, Gandhi was fasting in Calcutta and Noakhali to stem the tide of communal madness.

The newly appointed Governor of West Bengal, C. Rajagopalachari, looked at his old friend’s fragile body and tried hard to persuade Gandhi not to go on a fast. If he died, warned Rajaji, “the conflagration would be worse.”

Gandhi calmly and beautifully answered: “At least I won’t be there to witness it. I shall have done my bit. More is not given to a man to do.”

Realising the Mahatma’s unyielding resolve, Rajaji then turned around and made a passionate, public appeal to the people of Calcutta. He urged that they must, as soon as possible, restore communal peace and goodwill in the city, as “Mahatma Gandhi had hard work before him in the Punjab, for which he must be spared.”

The city listened, and the miracle of Calcutta was achieved. Reflecting on this monumental triumph, Rajaji told the city’s Rotary Club:

“Mahatma Gandhi has achieved many things in his lifetime, but I do not think he has achieved anything so great, so grand, as he has achieved in Calcutta.”

Architecture of Freedom

The extraordinary relationship between Mahatma Gandhi and C. Rajagopalachari, perfected across the turbulent decades following the early 1920s, reveals a foundational truth about the internal engine of the Indian national movement. Gandhi was a visionary, but he was also human, prone to errors of the heart and miscalculations of the mind. His greatness lay not in a lack of flaws, but in his deliberate choice to surround himself with individuals who possessed the supreme moral courage to stand up and correct him.

Rajaji was never a passive disciple basking in the reflected glory of a saint. He was an independent, brilliant intellectual force who stabilised Gandhi’s image during moments of profound personal and political vulnerability. He translated the Mahatma’s speeches for the masses, but more importantly, he translated Gandhi’s ethical responsibilities back to Gandhi himself.

In the grand design of ‘Lesser Known Gandhi,’ this chapter reminds us that true leadership does not survive on blind adulation or the silent acquiescence of yes-men. The unyielding strength of the Gandhian struggle did not rely on the exercise of absolute, uncritical authority. It thrived because of independent sentinels of conscience like Rajaji, men who stood firmly at the threshold of power and ensured that absolute moral accountability was never sacrificed on the altar of political destiny.

Make sure to check back tomorrow for next part of the series as we explore how financial support, morality, and industrial resources forged an unlikely bond between Gandhi and G. D. Birla.

Read the previous article in the series here.

Courtesy: The AIDEM

The post Gandhi’s Conscience Keeper appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Today, a day after reports of the death of Justice MS Liberhan at the age of 87, Sabrangindia is reproducing this article for the benefits of two or three generations of younger readers who did not have the benefit of these insights available herein. Besides Communalism Combat, where the article may be still read, it has also been re-published on Sabrangindia and may be read here.

We are also re-publishing this here again today, August 4, 2026.

Rath Yatra Retraced

First published in Communalism Combat in April 2001

Unless he, too, prefers to suffer from ‘memory failure’ before the Liberhan 
Commission as Uma Bharati did, Union home minister LK Advani would benefit from a quick survey of news reports that recorded his words and deed for posterity – during the bloody rath yatra in 1990, till the demolition of the Babri masjid in 1992 and subsequently

After eight years of procrastination, the proceedings of the Justice MS Liberhan Commission investigating the demolition of the Babri Masjid on December 6, 1992 have reached the conclusive stage. Evidence of the key accused in the entire episode, however, still requires to be led, before arguments from either side can begin. This includes the evidence of former BJP president, best remembered for his bloody rathyatra to Ayodhya in 1990, Lal Krishna Advani. Today he is India’s home minister. Others to depose are another former BJP president and presently Union HRD minister, Murli Manohar Joshi, and former chief minister of Uttar Pradesh, Kalyan Singh.

Through rather dubious claims in a writ petition filed before the Delhi High Court, Singh has sought to avoid appearing before Justice Liberhan altogether. It is to be hoped that the Delhi HC judge in question will call Singh’s bluff and compel him to appear in this significant investigation.

Advani, too, has been avoiding appearance before the Commission, pleading “other pressing commitments” as an excuse for some time now. He is scheduled to appear before Justice Liberhan on April 10 and 11. Further cross-examination of former Prime Minister, Narasimha Rao and some other witnesses are also due.

Only after these depositions and cross-examination will the arguments begin and the key issues under investigation be raised. The issue being probed relates to the crucial question of rule of law under the Indian Constitution. A place of worship and a historical site was destroyed in broad daylight with no resistance from the police and the paramilitary deployed. Equally important is the instigation to violence that resulted in systematic and violent attacks on the lives and properties of Muslims, before and after the demolition of the Babri Masjid.

For the first time in the half-a-century old history of the Indian republic, a mass movement was orchestrated and thereafter blatantly used to subvert the law and defy basic norms of equal and fair protection of all sections of the population by the law and order machinery. The purpose of the investigation, however delayed (as unfortunately all such public investigations have been in the past) and subverted, too, by key witnesses accused of criminal conspiracy yet holding positions of power today is to nail and punish those guilty.

As Advani’s date with the Liberhan Commission draws close, CC proposes to recall — through documents and press clippings — the events that led to the demolition. This will remind our readers of the issues raised by the movement that resulted in the demolition of the Babri Masjid and the widespread violence it brought in it’s wake. A reminder of the past words and deeds of the key leaders of the sangh parivar, something they would like us all to forget today.

In this issue, CC looks back for answers to the questions:

Ø What was Advani’s role in leading the rath yatra in 1990 and again in 1992? Through public speeches and silent mobilisation, in the demolition of the Babri Masjid on December 6, 1992? In inciting crowds and thus triggering rounds of communal riots countrywide through his rath yatra?

Ø  What did large sections of the mass media report and record about the trail of blood that the rath yatra left behind in its wake?

Ø  How did Advani and the BJP react to the demolition soon after it took place?

Ø  What has Advani said on the issue, from the time the BJP adopted the Ramjanmabhoomi programme initiated by the VHP in 1986, until the demolition, and since, even as Union home minister?

Ø  Which is Advani’s realspeak and which his doublespeak?

1993

A month after the demolition of the Babri Masjid, on January 25, 1993, Advani expressed “no regrets over the demolition” adding, “it was the hand of providence that willed the fall of the Babri Masjid”.

The Indian Express dated January 26, 1993 reported on his public meeting in Ahmedabad under the headline: ‘No regrets over demolition, says Advani’. The text of the report read — “Ahmedabad: Bharatiya Janata Party leader LK Advani told a largely attended public meeting at Narangpura in Ahmedabad at the end of his three-day visit to the state on Sunday that what happened at Ayodhya on December 6 would change the course of Indian history. Mr. Advani said he did not regret the demolition of the mosque though he was sad that day because his fervent pleas to kar sevaks not to damage the monument had been ignored. Reciting a couplet from Tulsi Ramayan, ‘Hoi So Soyi Jo Ram Lekhi Rakha’, he said the disputed structure was destined to fall because Providence had ordained it so.”

Another report of the same event in The Economic Times dated January 26, 1993 had the headline ‘Providence willed fall of Masjid, Advani’.

Soon after the demolition, despite occasional outbursts of remorse at the event, LK Advani was unequivocal in his assessment that the political gain to the BJP from the demolition far outweighed outpourings of secular remorse. December 6, 1992 meant increased voter support for the BJP, or so Advani felt. At no place is this more clearly evident than in the foreword to the BJP’s white-paper on Ayodhya, authored by Advani and triumphantly released by him at the party office in New Delhi in April 1993.

The Frontline dated May 21, 1993 carries a report on the event titled, ‘Black, and White’. “The feeling in the rank and file that after December 6, 1992, the BJP has come into its own was corroborated by its leader, LK Advani at a press conference in New Delhi on April 18 to release the document, when he claimed: “It was because of Ayodhya and the people’s perception of it that the BJP increased its voter support.”

In the foreword to the paper, Advani amplifies his claim.  “…But the kar sevaks did more. They did not just erase a symbol of our subjugation. They did not just begin building a symbol of resurgence. They showed us as if in a flash, how far we have to travel. For the country reacted in two diametrically opposite ways, as virtually two different peoples. For a handful — those in government, in political parties, and in large sections of the English press, for instance — what happened were a ‘national shame’, it was ‘madness’, and it was ‘barbaric’. For the rest of the county it was a liberation — a sweeping away of cobwebs. The depth of anger at the recent policies, surprised me, as I said; the depth of the chasm between these two nations — the microscopic minority and the people — did not.”

The Blitz of May 1, 1993 in an article under the heading, ‘I Accuse…’, quotes Advani in the foreword: “Sri Rama is the unique symbol, the unequalled symbol of our oneness, of our integration, as well as of our aspiration to live the higher values. As Maryada Purushottam, Sri Rama has represented for thousands of years the ideal of conduct, just as Ram Rajya has always represented the ideal of governance. And one saint of our land after another, one saintly tradition after another has immersed itself in devotion to Him: the sacred Sri Guru Sahib celebrates and invokes Sri Rama about two thousand four hundred times, Gandhiji died with His name on his lips.

“It is natural, therefore, that the place of His birth has been an object of the deepest devotion for Hindus through the millennia — the inscription which has been found at the site and which speaks of a magnificent temple with a pinnacle of gold, dedicated to Lord Vishnu Hari who had humbled King Bali and defeated the wicked Dashanana, that is, Ravana; the record of the unremitting struggle of the Hindus to regain the site; the pathetic history of their worshipping the spot from a distance when they were denied access to it, of their circumbulating it — all these bear testimony to their deep and abiding, and indeed stirring, devotion to Sri Rama.

“On the other hand, the structure which Mir Baqi put up on the orders of Babur never had any special significance from a religious point of view. It was purely and simply a symbol not of devotion and of religion but of conquest. Correspondingly, quite apart from its being an obstacle, preventing Hindus from worshipping the birthplace of their idol, Sri Rama, it was for the country the symbol of its subjugation. This is how in 1989 the Bharatiya Janata Party formally decided to lend its shoulder to the cause — the party was responding to the deepest urges of our people.”

1990

To go back three years, when Advani led his rath yatra from Somnath through Gujarat, Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh, Delhi, and Purulia in West Bengal until it’s culmination, news reports portray the then BJP president in a defiant and angry mode, as he challenges the law and order machinery to dare act against him or his rath initiative. Incidentally, news reports of the period warn of the fast-deteriorating ground reality around the trail of the rath yatra that caused deep polarisation and brutal and violent communal outbursts.

The Telegraph dated October 16, 1990 records the defiant mood of Advani as he dares the government to arrest him. A report titled, ‘Advani defies govt to stop rathyatra, arrest him’, reads:

“New Delhi, Oct. 15: The BJP president, Mr LK Advani, today warned the government not to “stand in the way” of building the Ram Janmabhoomi temple and said any obstruction on its part would prove costly… Speaking from atop his rath, Mr Advani challenged the government to arrest him and his associates and impound the rath.
He warned: ‘If the government stops us, it should be ready to face the consequences.’”

The Sunday Times of October 14, 1990 similarly records Advani in a defiant mood. ‘No one will stop this rath yatra’, is the headline of the interview he gave to Swapan Dasgupta.

“Q. Now that the rath yatra has taken off, there is a demand that it be banned on the grounds that it is inflaming communal passions. You have said it will provide a healing touch. Is there some failure in communicating this view to those who demand a ban?

Advani: No, I do not attribute it to any such failure to understand the message of the rath yatra. I am sure that everyone knows that it has provided a healing touch; it has not caused any tensions or has not inflamed passions. These demands are being made by people who felt that they could ride roughshod over the sentiments of the Hindus. But now the sentiments of the Hindus have been manifested and articulated in such a powerful fashion without arousing any communal passion that their case has become indefensible. It is the indefensibility of their own case which makes them react with such vehemence.

“I am pained by the casual comments being made here and there about the rath yatra leaving behind trails of blood and communal passions. Actually, these have nothing to do with ground reality; I can admit that I was very apprehensive when it started. As everyone knows, Gujarat and particularly certain places such as Baroda, Ahmedabad, Surat and Bharuch have become very susceptible to riots over the slightest provocation.
Therefore, I was particularly keen to ensure that nothing happened. You may have noticed that as the first reaction of the rath yatra, there was the blood tilak, vessels of blood and the collection of shastras. All this is symbolic, they don’t mean anything. Even then they saw that I didn’t approve of the slogans that are being raised. Babri Masjid todo, jo hum say takrayega sidha upar jayega’ and I think this disapproval had a very salutary effect on them”.

A spate of news reports, analyses and editorials around this period warn of the grave consequences to harmony and unity caused by the divisive politics of Advani’s rath. This editorial in The Times of India, dated October 5, 1990 called ‘Playing With Fire’ really sums it up:

“If the BJP president is congratulating himself on the success of his Rath Yatra – and going by his recent utterances in Maharashtra he seems to be doing just that — the rest of the country has reason to be greatly worried. For, with the conclusion of the Gujarat chapter of the programme, it should be plain that Mr Advani’s campaign is leaving a trail of destruction in it’s wake. Communal riots have already broken out in Baroda and Banaskantha. It is difficult not to see the connection between the Rath Yatra and the Ram Jyoti campaigns on the one hand and the heightening of communal tensions in different parts of the country on the other… Indeed the collection of lethal weapons, particularly of trishuls, gory ceremonies and performance of other rituals designed to create a spirit of militancy… it would be something of a surprise if violence did not follow it.

“By taking the lead in the campaign whose divisive and destructive potential is just going to unfold …he has considerably lowered his political stature. His inflammatory speeches, his indulgent wielding of glittering Sudarshan Chakras in public and his endorsement of the most bigoted among the militants threaten to identify him with the likes of Acharya Giriraj Kishore of the VHP… If Mr Advani is concerned about the unity and integrity of the country and stands for the defence of law and order, he should reconsider his course.”

Advani paid no heed as a succession of news reports from different newspapers show. ‘Stop Rath Yatra, government told, read a headline in The Hindustan Times, October 7, 1990. An article in The Sunday Observer, dated October 14, 1990 titled, ‘The Communal Flare-up’ was authored by none less than Sudheendra Kulkarni, then assistant editor with the paper and today officer on special duty to Prime Minister Atal Behari Vajpayee. The article read:

“Tumkur, Mandya, Kodagu or Coorg, Chitradurga, Mysore, Mangalore, Shimoga, parts of Bangalore city itself and even Dharwar in North Karnataka, have all reported instances of mounting tensions and even minor clashes. What is new to this present round of communal violence in this state, is the extent to which it has succeeded in penetrating the villages. The burning down of an entire hamlet of Muslim farmers near Chennapatna is only the most shocking among the cases reported so far. In Kolar district, too, Muslim houses in several villages have been reported to have been attacked by unknown outsiders.

“Even as the state was reeling under the sudden spurt of religious strife, yet another piece of inhumanity was committed in Bah Malkheda, a village in the north-eastern district of Bidar (which borders Maharashtra and Andhra Pradesh). Seven persons, including a woman and a child, were roasted alive, in a clash that was set off by nothing more than a minor altercation between two drunken youths… There is no doubt whatsoever, that the Muslim community (which constitutes about 35 per cent of the town’s population) bore the brunt of the rioting, both in terms of lives lost and property damaged — of the 17 dead, 13 were Muslims. Muslim hoodlums, in turn, attacked a colony of Tamil speaking Adi Dravidas (adivasis) and set ablaze 15 houses. ‘They asked us angrily why we received the Ram Jyoti at our colony on Dussera,’ recounted Venkatayya, who was one of few old men present when the attack occurred.

“But what Hindu lumpens wreaked on the Muslims was on a far larger scale. Yaarab Nagar, a colony of poor Muslims, engaged in beedi-rolling, toy-making and other low-paying forms of self-employment, was attacked by a mob 500 men wearing ‘khaki shorts’ (as Saab Jaan Saab, a local resident described them). A Muslim watchman of a nearby plastic factory was roasted alive when it was set ablaze. Sikandar Pasha, a lottery ticket seller, was burnt alive in front of his house. Amir Jaan, a beedi roller, was axed to death while Khairun Bi, an elderly deaf woman, was knifed and killed inside her little hut”.

Other news reports of the period published by the national press record with chilling similarity the trail of violence that Advani’s rath yatra inspired. ‘Fears of another round of communal frenzy dog Gonda’, read a headline in the Blitz dated October 14, 1990.

In a long report, The Telegraph (Insight) dated October 14, 1990, was scathing in its comment. The newspaper has likened Advani’s rath with ‘Chariots of Fire.’

“…The extent to which communal passions have been heightened is evident simply by taking a look at what is happening in UP today: even before Mr Advani’s rath has entered the state, the death toll in communal clashes has gone up to 44. And with the BJP chief about to enter UP, there is apprehension that this figure might shoot up…When the rath moved into Maharashtra from Surat, the armed Bajrang Dal activists were less prominent — but the speeches of the BJP leaders were as full of venom…

“It was not just coincidence that communal riots should break out in Karnataka, within days of Mr Advani and his Ram rath passing through Solapur, near Maharashtra’s border with Karnataka. On October 3, communal clashes claimed nearly 20 lives in Kolar, Chennapatna and Ramanagaram towns and another 12 a few days later in Davangere. At least in Davangere, the instigation once again was VHP volunteers, who insisted on taking the Ram Jyoti procession through the heavily Muslim populated areas of Davangere town.

“In neighbouring Mandya and Hasan districts miscreants desecrated places of worship, set fire to houses and vehicles and assaulted women. But what needs to be pointed is the failure of the Veerendra Patil government.

“In Madhya Pradesh, where Mr. LK Advani’s rath wound its way through 13 of the state’s 45 districts, the BJP message was clear: the Muslims in India had to choose between Maryada Purshottam Lord Ram and lootera Babar. This was repeatedly stressed by BJP leaders in the course of Mr Advani’s whistle stop tour from October 6 to 10. In fact, at Mandsaur, from where chief minister Sunderlal Patwa hails, Mr Pramod Mahajan, the BJP leader in the course of a fiery speech asked the Muslims to either have faith in Lord Ram or else leave the country. Mr Advani all the while nodded in acquiescence and the hundreds of youths who surrounded the podium brandished their swords and trishuls and hailed the speech. The result, of course, was inevitable: communal clashes broke out in Raipur.”

‘When the Pink City ran red with blood’, The Sunday Observer, by Nirupama Subramanian, dated October 28, 1990, reads: “Death arrived at Mohalla Koliyan and Rishi Ghalib Nagar in the congested Ramganj area this week with a savageness that has few parallels in this part of the country. The Pink City acquired several shades to turn a crimson red, the colour of blood and mindless violence.”

Similarly, The Telegraph report on October 28, 1990 in ‘Purulia violence after Yatra’ by  Barun Ghosh says: “The communal flare-up that rocked Jhalda in Purulia district on Thursday claiming 9 lives, is a direct fall-out of the rathyatra of Mr. LK Advani which passed through the town on October 20.”

The Independent, dated November 2, 1990 in a story titled, ‘Communal riots take a new turn in Indore’, depicts the grisly violence in that town. “Communal Frenzy and out-bursts are nothing new to Indore. These are like festering sores and this sprawling industrial town, over the years, has learnt to live with them. What is remarkably different in the on-going clashes is that rampaging mobs armed to the teeth have clashed with the police attacking them with firearms and, of all things, tear gas grenades. Curfew orders have been violated with impunity and families of policemen have been attacked and their houses damaged. That the riots were pre-planned is evident from the large haul of stored arms and weapons from several houses — petrol bombs, country made pistols, guns, Molotov cocktails, swords, spears, knives, tear gas grenades, glass shards and soda water bottles.

The events in Ayodhya on December 6, 1992 and countrywide in the dark month that followed are testimony that the assessments of scribes were proved woefully correct.

1992

After the demolition, here are some of the newspaper headlines. ‘Over 200 killed in nationwide frenzy’, reads The Indian Express, December 8, 1992; ‘Anarchic situation in Ayodhya,’ is the headline of The Hindu, December 8, 1992; ‘SC hints at trial of BJP leaders,’ said The Pioneer of December 8, 1992; ‘Violence toll crosses 500,” was the headline in The Indian Express, December 9, 1992; “Violence Unabated, toll mounts to 700”, The Economic Times, December 10, 1992; and, “Shoot at sight in Calcutta: Toll mounts to 950, TheEconomic Times, December 11, 1992.

The Frontline on January 1, 1993 in it’s story headlined ‘Wounds all over — The violent aftermath’ said: “It may well go down in history as the worst round of widespread violence the country has seen since Partition: over a thousand people were killed in the week following the Black Sunday. The states of Maharashtra and Gujarat were burning and bleeding with more than 200 of their people consumed by the communal fury in less than a week. Anarchy reigned in Bombay and Surat where the tolls were as high as 191 and 155 respectively five days after the vandalism in Ayodhya. Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, Assam and Karnataka were also reeling under the impact of riots. Surprisingly, while West Bengal remained by and large peaceful initially, a belated bout of violence broke out in Calcutta and adjoining districts.”

1994

Two years later, this report in The Independent dated July 25, 1994 is a sombre reminder of just what the Ayodhya movement was really all about. “Fears of ‘ethnic cleansing’ in Ayodhya; ‘Shuddhikaran’ programme includes fight against ‘Islamikaran’ of holy city by Janardan Thakur. “Behind the surface calm of this besieged town, a sinister plot is being executed. Its goal: to scare away the Muslim population, take over their land and property — and their holy places. Leaders of the community wake up to threatening calls by unidentified callers demanding that they ‘quit Ayodhya or die’. Muslim shops are ransacked and burgled at night and the police refuse to register their cases lest the shopkeepers claim compensation from insurance companies to keep their establishments going.”

Clearly, Advani, the man who played a pivotal role in the movement that led to the demolition of the Babri masjid, with callous disregard to its implications for the rule of law, or its human consequences, will have a lot to answer before the Liberhan Commission.

Related:

Ram Rajya Rath Yatra: The road to Power

How it Took CBI 24 Years & Still Conspiracy Charges were Not Pressed: Advani & Others

The making of “Ram Ke Naam”: a Hinduism that is the mirror opposite of Hindutva

The post Rath Yatra retraced: Evidence presented to the Liberhan Commission appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Writer and researcher Anu Jain revisits Mahatma Gandhi’s closest political and personal bonds in this series which offers a timely reminder that transformative movements are built not only on charismatic leadership, but on the communities of conviction that grow around it.

For Gandhi, leadership was never a solitary endeavour. It was a collaborative, often demanding dialogue with a close circle of confidants who held up a mirror to him. 

This exclusive five-part series explores Gandhi’s deeply complex relationships with five remarkable contemporaries. Three visionary captains of industry who funded and anchored his radical socio-economic experiments, and two towering intellectual peers who served as his ultimate conscience keepers , who were willing to challenge his decisions when no one else dared. 

Together, these five bonds did more than just steer the course of the independence movement; they directly shaped the deeply personal, moral, and political choices of the Mahatma himself.

Read on the unique bond that Gandhi shared with Rabindranath Tagore here.

When the French philosopher Romain Rolland looked across the global landscape of the early twentieth century, he observed a magnificent, unprecedented spectacle unfolding on the Indian subcontinent. He described it as the simultaneous gathering of “two great rivers”, towering, majestic currents of human thought flowing from vastly different geographical and spiritual sources. Yet, rushing forward to nourish the very same civilisational soil. One river was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, the other was Rabindranath Tagore.

Theirs was a relationship that defied the ordinary grammar of political alliances or personal friendships. It stands as one of the most remarkable intellectual and moral engagements in human history, a thirty-year “noble debate” that fundamentally expanded the moral vocabulary of freedom.

They did not always walk in lockstep, in fact, they disagreed on almost everything from the economy of the spinning wheel to the very meaning of a nation. Yet, their relationship was defined by a rare, luminous intellectual companionship where dissent itself became an act of profound love. They did not argue to defeat one another, but to refine one another.

In an era where differences so often degenerate into hatred, the story of Gandhi and Tagore reminds us that a nation’s soul is not built on a fragile, forced consensus, but on the capacity of its greatest minds to disagree with absolute dignity.

“Mahatma” and “Gurudev”

The very names by which history remembers these two titans are beautiful, poetic gifts they bestowed upon each other. To the world, Gandhi became the Mahatma (The Great Soul), and Tagore became Gurudev (The Divine Teacher). Yet, the historical roots of these titles reveal a far more fascinating, layered evolution than popular memory suggests.

The sacred title of “Mahatma” was not suddenly invented by Tagore in a vacuum. Long before it became a household word, Gandhi’s closest confidant and financial supporter, Dr. Pranjivan Mehta, had quietly used the term in private correspondence, most notably in a deeply perceptive letter to the moderate leader Gopal Krishna Gokhale, recognising the saintly quality of the lawyer returning from South Africa.

But it was Tagore who took this private whisper and transformed it into a thunderous national reality. Using the immense weight of his global literary authority, Tagore publicly crowned Gandhi with the title, giving the illiterate millions of India a vocabulary of reverence for the man in the loincloth.

Gandhi, in turn, bowed before the poet’s towering cultural and philosophical mastery, christening him Gurudev. This exchange of titles was a beautiful, public contract of mutual recognition: an acknowledgement that while one was the undisputed master of political action, the other was the sovereign ruler of the human mind.

Capital and Culture

Nowhere did this hidden current of solidarity manifest more beautifully than in the physical sanctuary of Santiniketan, Tagore’s legendary open-air educational experiment in Bengal. Founded on the romantic ideals of intellectual freedom, artistic expression, and global humanism, Santiniketan was a paradise of the soul but a recurring nightmare for the checkbook. The ashram-school was chronically broke, permanently burdened by debt, and dependant entirely on personal donations and the fading physical energy of its ageing founder.

By the mid-1930s, the crisis had reached a breaking point. Tagore, already in his frail seventies, felt compelled to pack his bags and travel across the country with a student performance troupe, staging plays in cities like Delhi just to collect a few scattered rupees to keep his school alive. Hearing of this, Gandhi was deeply shaken.

Though Gandhi had spent decades publicly criticising elite, literary, and urban-centred education, advocating instead for basic manual training (Nai Talim), he refused to let his ideological disagreements blind him to Santiniketan’s civilisational value. He recognised that if Tagore’s school died, a vital lung of the Indian spirit would stop breathing.

Gandhi immediately dipped his pen in ink and sent a deeply emotional letter to the poet, telling him that it broke his heart to see the great Seer of India begging for funds on the public stage. Gandhi vowed to strain “every nerve” to lift this financial anvil from the poet’s shoulders.

True to his word, Gandhi deployed his silent network of wealthy industrialists. Within a matter of months, he slipped a Rs. 60,000 bank draft, an astronomical fortune at the time, into an envelope and sent it to Bengal with a triumphant message:

“God has blessed my poor effort. And here is the money. Now you will relieve the public mind by announcing the cancellation of the rest of the programme.”

With characteristic moral delicacy, Gandhi never told Tagore where the money came from. He purposefully concealed the fact that the entire sum had been cut from the checkbook of his close supporter, the industrialist Ghanshyam Das Birla.

This single episode completely dismantles any simplistic caricature of Gandhi and Tagore as bitter ideological enemies. Here was Gandhi acting as the silent, invisible bridge between industrial capital and artistic culture, using the wealth of a billionaire to protect the independence of a poet who regularly criticised his political movements. Santiniketan was no longer just Tagore’s dream, it had become a shared moral investment for the entire nation.

Fault Lines of Two Minds

The grand public debates between Gandhi and Tagore were carried out in the pages of journals like Young India and The Modern Review. They were watched with bated breath by millions of citizens, offering a masterclass in intellectual integrity. Their arguments were not petty squabbles, they were foundational clashes between two completely different visions of human liberation.

For Gandhi, Satyagraha was the ultimate weapon of human liberation, a “soul-force” or “love-force” rooted in absolute truth and self-suffering. Gandhi believed that by fasting and absorbing suffering without retaliation, an individual could melt the heart of the most brutal oppressor.

Tagore, however, watched this with deep intellectual scepticism. While he marvelled at Gandhi’s personal purity, he terrified himself with the thought of what happens when Satyagraha is mass-produced for millions of uneducated followers. He feared that for the masses, Satyagraha would cease to be an active moral choice and would instead become a form of blind, hypnotic obedience, a mechanical ritual that substituted one form of conformity for another. Tagore argued that India’s deep disease was a “slave mentality,” and the cure was a sharp, intellectual awakening of the individual mind, not the emotional intoxication of mass rallies.

Gandhi defined Swaraj (Self-rule) as something far deeper than merely replacing a British governor with an Indian prime minister. He defined it as not by the acquisition of authority by a few, but by the acquisition of the capacity of all to resist authority when it is abused.

For Gandhi, Swaraj was an exercise in rigorous self-restraint, localised governance, and decentralised village power. Tagore, conversely, was deeply suspicious of the very machinery of the modern political state. In his seminal essay The Call of Truth, he warned that an indigenous government could be just as cold, cruel, and oppressive as a foreign one if the minds of the people remained chained to dogma and superstition. To Tagore, true Swaraj was not a political flag flying over a parliament building, it was the total liberation of the human spirit, a mind that was completely fearless, creative, and open to the cosmos.

The Charkha

Perhaps no object symbolised their deep divide more dramatically than the Charkha, the wooden spinning wheel. Gandhi elevated the Charkha into a holy sacrament. He demanded that every Indian, whether doctor, lawyer, or peasant, spend at least half an hour every single day spinning cotton. For Gandhi, the Charkha was a brilliant economic weapon against British textiles, a direct link to the suffering of the starving millions, and a beautiful lesson in physical labour.

Tagore openly revolted against this directive in his provocative 1925 essay, The Cult of the Charkha. He argued that forcing a brilliant scientist, an artist, or an intellectual to spin a wheel for thirty minutes a day was an insult to human intelligence. He called it a monotonous, mind-numbing exercise that deadened creativity, pointing out that India’s crippling poverty could only be solved through modern science, agricultural machinery, and creative engineering, not by turning the entire population into uniform, spinning automatons.

Gandhi hit back with fierce, poetic passion, writing that to a starving man, God can only appear in the form of bread, and that spinning was a beautiful form of collective prayer for a broken country.

Clash of Reason

The most explosive and revealing confrontation between the two men occurred in the early months of 1934, following a monstrous, cataclysmic earthquake that ripped through the province of Bihar, flattening cities and killing thousands.

Gandhi, travelling through South India at the time, made a public announcement that stunned the intellectual elite. He declared that the devastating earthquake was not a random geological accident, but a direct, divine punishment sent by God to avenge the ancient sin of untouchability. He argued that the earth had literally fractured because high-caste Hindus had spent centuries fracturing the dignity of their Dalit brothers and sisters.

Tagore was profoundly appalled by this statement. He immediately published a blistering, public rebuke, accusing Gandhi of spreading dangerous, unscientific irrationalism. Tagore argued that physical laws operate blindly across the universe, entirely independent of human ethics. To tell uneducated villagers that a physical earthquake was caused by moral sins, Tagore warned, was to reinforce the very forces of blind superstition and fatalism that kept India backward.

Yet, even in this moment of raw, public collision, the exquisite tone of their engagement remained intact. Gandhi did not attack Tagore’s character, nor did his followers burn the poet’s books. Gandhi published his defence in Harijan, calmly stating that while he bowed to the poet’s superior scientific knowledge, he possessed an unshakeable faith in the mysterious connection between cosmic events and human morality.

Their public letters became a legendary historical archive: an unforgettable proof that two human beings could fiercely debate the laws of physics and God without losing a single ounce of mutual love.

Conversions at the Horizon

For all their spectacular public battles, if one travels down these two great rivers to their ultimate destination, they converge on the exact same moral horizon. Beneath the surface noise of their debates lay an absolute, unbreakable unity of purpose: a shared, uncompromising devotion to human dignity.

Tagore spent his entire life warning the world against the horrific, mechanical monster of aggressive nationalism, describing it as a soul-crushing apparatus that destroys human freedom. Gandhi, though the commander-in-chief of a massive nationalist movement, arrived at the exact same conclusion. He repeatedly stated that his vision of nationalism was completely inclusive, and that he supported independence only so that a free India could voluntarily surrender its sovereignty to a democratic world federation grounded in non-violence.

This deep spiritual convergence was recognised by Tagore himself during a quiet visit to the Sabarmati Ashram. Standing before the community, the poet remarked that the true meaning of the “Mahatma” was a man who had successfully realised his own inner self within the heartbeat of all humanity, completely melting away the artificial walls of nation, caste, and identity.

The Modern Verdict

The long, brilliant dialogue between Mahatma Gandhi and Rabindranath Tagore was never resolved. When Tagore drew his last breath in 1941, followed a few years later by Gandhi’s martyrdom in 1948, they left behind two completely distinct, unmerged blueprints for the liberation of the human race. Tagore passed away still sceptical of mass politics, Gandhi died still committed to it. Tagore remained the champion of intellectual cosmopolitanism, Gandhi remained the high priest of localised ethical discipline.

Yet, the ultimate significance of their relationship lies precisely within that unresolved tension. They proved to the world that harmony does not mean uniformity. In our modern twenty-first-century landscape, a fractured world deeply polluted by tribalism, echo chambers, cancel culture, and instant polarisation, their “noble debate” shines across the decades like a burning beacon of hope.

They leave behind an immortal, luminous standard for the intellectual life of global democracy. A lesson that true respect does not mean silent acquiescence, and that critique is the highest form of solidarity. Gandhi and Tagore remind us until the end of time that we can hold completely different versions of the truth, we can fight fiercely over the pathways of freedom, and yet we can still march hand-in-hand toward the liberation of the human soul.

Courtesy: The AIDEM

The post Gandhi and Tagore: Reverence, Argument and Intellectual Courage appeared first on SabrangIndia.

In support of this claim, Shrivastava has relied on a purported account attributed to former British Prime Minister Clement Attlee, who was not in office during the Quit India Movement, to argue that it was the Indian National Army, and not the Quit India Movement, that ultimately compelled Britain to leave India.

“The leaders, be it Maulana Azad, Jawaharlal Nehru, J Prakash Narayan, or Aruna Asaf Ali, all of them accepted that the movement was a flop,” said Shrivastava. These statements were met with loud applause from members of the audience in the video.

It certainly would be an oversimplification to attribute India’s independence solely to the Quit India Movement of 1942, and would overlook several other significant developments that shaped the British decision to leave India. The role of the Indian National Army, the Royal Indian Navy mutiny, growing labour unrest, and Britain’s severe economic exhaustion after the Second World War were all undeniably important factors in hastening the end of colonial rule.

Yet acknowledging these factors does not diminish the importance of the Quit India Movement which profoundly altered the political landscape, a fact reflected in reports and British correspondence, including those sent to the then Prime Minister Winston Churchill. This will be examined in greater detail below but to dismiss the significance of the 1942 Movement altogether is not a serious and independent reading of history as claimed by Shrivastava.

For decades, a recurring theme in Hindutva discourse has been to downplay the significance of the 1942 Movement and recast India’s freedom struggle as a contest between competing movements. It serves a broader political purpose. This framing, first, diminishes the mass, cross-community, non-violent, anti-imperialist, and secular civil disobedience popularly associated with Gandhi and Nehru, and second, undermines the idea of a secular, democratic republic that emerged from it- a constitutional vision that is at odds with the ideological project of the RSS, and affiliated Hindutva organisations.

The push to diminish 1942 today comes from the political tradition that did not participate in and in some documented instances actively counselled against that very Movement.

What was the Quit India Movement?

In protest against the British decision to involve India in World War- II, without consulting Indian political leaders, the Congress ministries in the provinces resigned from office. By contrast, V.D. Savarkar, then president of the Hindu Mahasabha, had met Viceroy Linlithgow in October 1939 and called for Hindu-British cooperation. The Hindu Mahasabha, Savarkar even went on to say, “favoured an unambiguous undertaking of dominion status at the end of the war.” He also offered that the Hindu Mahasabha would replace the Congress in provincial governments if the Congress ministries resigned. Reported in the National Herald.

The failure of the Cripps Mission in 1942 had intensified public discontent with British rule. Until then, Gandhi had largely followed a policy of avoiding actions that would hinder the British war effort. Following the collapse of the Cripps negotiations, however, he called for an open non-violent revolution. On July 14, 1942, the Congress Working Committee adopted a resolution declaring that the immediate end of British rule was essential not only for India’s freedom but also for the success of the Allied cause. The Quit India Resolution generated widespread enthusiasm across the country.

Meanwhile, RSS speakers had urged members to stay away from the Congress-led agitation, and these instructions, according to the British Home Department, were duly followed. Syama Prasad Mookerjee, a Hindu Mahasabha leader and minister in the undivided Bengal government, went a step further when in July 1942, he wrote to the British Governor of Bengal advising on measures to suppress the Quit India Movement in the province while arguing that Indians should continue to place their trust in the British for the region’s defence.

Gandhi was entrusted with leading the movement. Addressing a gathering, he said “There is a mantra, a short one, that I give you. You imprint it on your heart and let every breath of yours give an expression to it. The mantra is ‘do or die’. We shall either be free or die in the attempt …. Every one of you from this moment consider himself a free man or woman and even act as if you are free and no longer under the heel of this imperialism.”

The Congress urged people to undertake ten forms of non-violent resistance which included refraining from any commercial transactions with the British or the colonial government, displaying the tricolour on every home and window, boycotting cinema halls on the ground that the proceeds benefited the colonial administration, avoiding the courts, refusing to purchase foreign goods, withdrawing money from government banks, socially boycotting those who served the British government, avoiding any transactions that required recourse to colonial courts, leaving cities for villages, and ensuring that grain and other produce remained with the peasantry.

Subhas Chandra Bose, broadcasting from Azad Hind Radio on August 17, 1942, himself did not dismiss it and called it “non-violent guerrilla warfare,” and told listeners the “administrative machinery can be brought to a standstill” if the campaign continued. Bose, whom Shrivastva implicitly elevates over Gandhi, was on record treating 1942 as a serious and continuing front in the freedom struggle, not a failure to be measured against Congress.

What was the impact of the Quit India Movement?

Over 60,000 people were arrested by the end of 1943 alone, mass fines were levied, and demonstrators were subjected to public flogging. Official casualty figures stood at 1,028 dead while Nehru’s own estimate put the toll closer to 10,000. Many national leaders went underground and continued their struggle by broadcasting messages over the clandestine radio stations, distributing pamphlets and establishing parallel governments. The underground Congress Radio run by Usha Mehta during Quit India recorded messages from Gandhi and other leaders, moving location to location to dodge authorities. It reported on events from every nook and corner of the country and was the first to inform the nation about the Chittagong raid, the atrocities in Ashti and Chimur, and the strike in Jamshedpur. It operated for nearly three months before their arrest in November 1942. When the police arrived, the programme was coming to an end with Vande Mataram playing. Upon being asked to stop the record, Mehta reportedly commanded the police to stand at attention for the national song. The film Ae Watan Mere Watan directed by Kannan Iyer was a fictionalised tribute to Mehta and the historic Congress Radio that kept the Quit India flame alive against overwhelming odds.

Fifty-seven battalions of the British Army, alongside the entire police force, were deployed to suppress the movement. The sabotage of communications was so extensive that ground forces often could not reach certain areas, leading the Viceroy Linlithgow to suggest machine-gunning mobs from the air to regain control.

While the revolt was underway, Viceroy wrote a telegram to Churchill, the then Prime Minister:

“I am engaged here in meeting by far the most serious rebellion since that of 1857, the gravity and extent of which we have so far concealed from the world for reasons of military security. Mob violence remains rampant over large tracts of the countryside and I am by no means confident that we may not see in September a formidable attempt to renew this widespread sabotage of our war effort. The lives of Europeans in outlying places are in jeopardy.”

Contrary to his public pronouncements, Churchill gloomily disclosed to King George VI at one of their Tuesday luncheons in July 1942 that “the idea of the transfer of power in India had become an admitted inevitability in the minds of the British Party leaders.”

The movement’s structure, once its leadership was arrested within 24 hours, became spontaneous and largely leaderless. Parallel governments were established and functioned for extended periods.  In Ballia, UP, protestors overthrew the district administration and freed prisoners; it took the British weeks to reassert control. Railway lines, telegraph wires, and government buildings across the country were targeted to paralyse the war effort. The British kept a battleship on standby, reportedly to remove Gandhi and Congress leaders from India entirely, a step they ultimately judged too risky to take.

Exposing the Distortion: Why Attlee?

Like Shrivastava, many have relied on a purported statement by former British Prime Minister Clement Attlee to downplay the significance of the Quit India Movement. The claim originates from a second-hand account written in 1976 by P.V. Chakraborty, former Chief Justice of the Calcutta High Court, who recounted a conversation he claimed to have had with Attlee during the latter’s visit to India in 1956. According to Chakraborty, Attlee identified the activities of the Indian National Army and the Royal Indian Navy Mutiny as the principal reasons for Britain’s withdrawal. “When asked about the extent to which the British decision to quit India was influenced by Mahatma Gandhi’s 1942 movement, Attlee’s lips widened in a smile of disdain and he uttered, slowly, ‘Minimal’.”

But why Attlee? This is the question that is never asked, and it deserves scrutiny.

Attlee was the British Labour Prime Minister from 1945 to 1951 the man who, as head of the postwar British government, oversaw and ultimately signed off on India’s independence in 1947. He was not the incumbent prime minister when Quit India Movement took place and therefore, his assessment of the movement’s impact is questionable. The argument asks one to accept a private, unverifiable, retrospective opinion as the authoritative verdict on which Indian freedom movement “really” mattered while dismissing Linlithgow’s real-time telegram, Churchill’s statement to the King, Bose’s real-time broadcasts, and the testimony of Indians who lived through the movement, as insufficient.

In fact, according to Churchill, the Attlee government was from the outset keen to leave India as soon as possible, regardless of the political situation. On December 12, 1946 he deplored “the ruthless logic to quit India regardless of what may happen there.”

But a moot question here should or ought to be, should we as Indians living in an India free of colonial yoke rely on colonial documentation and sources? Or seek independent assessments and verifications of how India and Indians achieved freedom from centuries of exploitative British rule?

No serious historian claims 1942 alone delivered independence in isolation. The Indian National Army trials, the Royal Indian Navy Mutiny, and Britain’s post-war financial exhaustion were all real and significant pressures, arguably the more immediate triggers of the 1947 transfer of power. That is a defensible historical position. But there is a wide gap between ‘1942 was not the sole cause’ and ‘1942 was a flop with no contribution’ According to Bipan Chandra, the INA’s public sympathy and the 1946 mutiny did not emerge in a vacuum and were given ‘fillip’ by the anti-imperialist sentiment and mass mobilisation that 1942 had already built. The movements were links in a chain, not rivals competing for sole credit. “After Quit India there cou1d be no retreat. Any future negotiations with the British Government could only be on the manner of the transfer of power. Independence was no longer a matter of bargain. And this became amply clear after the War,” Chandra wrote.

As for Aruna Asaf Ali, a figure Shrivastava names as having accepted the movement was a flop, is remembered specifically as the movement’s defining figure for hoisting the flag at Gowalia Tank.

Why This Matters

Reducing India’s freedom struggle to delegitimise the mass, cross-community, non-violent civil disobedience associated with Gandhi and the Congress follows a broader pattern in which organisations that have documented, historically-recorded records of aloofness from or active opposition to the 1942 movement now seek to rewrite it as inconsequential, while elevating alternative narratives more compatible with their own political lineage.

Acharya Kriplani (who was INC President in 1946-47) said, ‘It is my opinion that India could not have achieved its independence, but for the accession of strength which the nation received by the successive struggles started by Gandhiji. A nation which could throw a challenge to the Empire at a time when the armies of all the Allies were on Indian soil could no more be held in thraldom.’  Reported in Janata Weekly.

RS Sharma, Romila Thapar, Irfan Habib, Ramchandra Guha, and such historians Shrivastava has moved to discredit and insult without engaging their actual, published arguments, have also been separately accused in the current political establishment of distorting history through the education system.

But as Shrivastava claims, “All the letters of the leaders, all the books of the leaders, all the newspapers, reporters, the diaries of the British officers, the letters of the British officers, everything is in the National Archives. Take a look at it, the truth will be revealed.”

Sources that are interesting to examine also are:

Several American journalists famously covered Mahatma Gandhi, most notably United Press correspondent Webb Miller, who provided worldwide eyewitness accounts of the 1930 Salt Satyagraha. Other prominent figures include Louis Fischer, who spent a week at Gandhi’s ashram in 1942, and Chicago Tribune reporter William L. Shirer

The definitive account of the Congress Underground Radio was documented by historian and academic Dr. Usha Thakkar in her book, Congress Radio: Usha Mehta and the Underground Radio Station of 1942, published by Penguin Random House India. [1, 2]

National Archives of India (NAI): Located in New Delhi, the NAI holds the Home Political Department files that contain intercepted correspondence, censorship reports, and data on the suppression of the “Secret Congress Radio” spearheaded by Usha Mehta. [1, 2, 3]

The film based on the historic Congress Radio is Ae Watan Mere Watan. Directed by Kannan Iyer, the 2024 Hindi-language historical thriller stars Sara Ali Khan as Usha Mehta, a 22-year-old college student in Mumbai who operated an underground, anti-British radio station during the Quit India movement of 1942  For many in Assam, citizenship isn’t a birthright taken for granted—it’s a legal battle fought after decades of living in the only home they’ve ever known.

Remembering the courageous Aruna Asaf Ali today. Her historic act of hoisting the Indian flag at Gowalia Tank during the Quit India Movement remains a powerful symbol of defiance.

Readers encountering this argument should ask questions: What is the primary source? Is it contemporaneous or retrospective? And who benefits from the comparison being drawn?

(The legal research team of CJP consists of lawyers and interns; this resource has been worked on by Tanishka Shah)

Related:

How Hindutva forces colluded with both the British & Jinnah against the historic ‘Quit India’ movement: Archives

Past and Prejudice

The post Debunking the ‘Quit India Was Useless’ Myth appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The Rashtriya Swayamseval Sangh (RSS) as the Gurukul (university) of Hindutva (the ideology that advocates India being a majoritarian theocratic state) specialises in regular training of their cadres at which truncated (read manipulated and selective) versions of history are dished out, ingrained. As the latest evidence of this, we find on the 51^st anniversary of the Emergency [1975-77], a number of RSS-BJP leaders enlightening us Indians on “how the RSS opposed the Emergency, how valiantly its cadres challenged the dictatorial rule of Indira Gandhi and made great sacrifices during anti-Emergency movement” etc. The newspapers are filled with advertisements announcing ‘Samvidhan Hatya Divas’ in which none less than Prime Minister Modi is depicted bowing to the Constitution.

[The Indian Express, Delhi, June 25, 2026]

Only last year, the RSS English organ of the RSS, the Organizer (June 24, 2025) presented PM Modi as a singular symbol of the fight against Emergency and wrote:

“The lesson had been burned into public memory. The Emergency became more than a chapter in history. It became a warning. For Narendra Modi, it was not just a past event. It was part of his personal journey. As Prime Minister, he has often reminded the nation of those dark times…It was about imprisoning free thought, art, and expression. That period left behind not just scars, but reminders. It taught us that freedom is earned, not gifted.”

 [‘National Emergency 1975: The murder of the Indian republic on June 25,  https://organiser.org/2025/06/24/298840/bharat/national-emergency-1975-the-murder-of-the-indian-republic-on-june-25/]

Let us evaluate first, the claim that the RSS-BJP rulers are/have been committed to the liberal democratic values as a faith. The most prominent ideologue of the RSS, MS Golwalkar, also known as ‘Guru of Hate’ [whom PM Modi credits for grooming him into a political leader] while addressing the 1350 top level cadres of the RSS in 1940 declared,

“RSS is inspired by one flag, one leader and one ideology is lighting the flame of Hindutva in each and every corner of this great land.”

[Golwalkar, MS, Shri Guruji Samagar Darshan (collected works of Golwalkar in Hindi), Bhartiya Vichar Sadhna, Nagpur, nd., vol. I, p. 11.]

With such a philosophical love for totalitarianism the RSS has always balked against the sharing of power. It has also been in strong opposition to the federal structure of the constitution, a ‘Basic’ feature of the India polity. Golwalkar declared in 1961,

“Today’s federal form of government not only gives birth but also nourishes the feelings of separatism… It must be completely uprooted, constitution purified, and unitary form of government be established.”

[Ibid. vol. III, p. 128.]

So far as the claims of the outfit battling the Emergency is concerned the RSS, these “claims” need to be evaluated in the light of contemporary narratives including the RSS documents. In this connection two narratives one by a veteran thinker and journalist of India, Prabhash Joshi and the other by TV Rajeswar, former Intelligence Bureau [IB] chief who was the deputy chief of IB during the Emergency are of immense importance. Both, one a senior official of the government of India and the other, a senior journalist in the Hindi language, recounted the days of Emergency (or state terrorism) when RSS surrendered to the repressive regime of Indira Gandhi, assured her and her son, Sanjay Gandhi to enforce faithfully the draconian 20-point programme announced by the Emergency regime. They in fact negotiated surrender with the Indira Gandhi regime. A large number of RSS cadres came out of jails by submitting MAAFINAMAAS (mercy petitions). This account by Prabhash Joshi appeared in the English weekly Tehelka on the 25th anniversary of the Emergency.[1] According to him even during the Emergency “there was always a lurking sense of suspicion, a distance, a discreet lack of trust” about RSS’ joining the anti-Emergency struggle. He went on to recount that,

“Balasaheb Deoras, then RSS chief, wrote a letter to Indira Gandhi pledging to help implement the notorious 20-point programme of Sanjay Gandhi. This is the real character of the RSS…You can decipher a line of action, a pattern. Even during the Emergency, many among the RSS and Jana Sangh who came out of the jails, gave mafinamas. They were the first to apologize. Only their leaders remained in jail: Atal Behari Vajpayee [most of the time in hospital], LK Advani, even Arun Jaitley. But the RSS did not fight the Emergency. So why is the BJP trying to appropriate that memory?”

Prabhash Joshi concluded that “they are not a fighting force, and they are never keen to fight. They are basically a compromising lot. They are never genuinely against the government”.

TV Rajeswar, who served as Governor of Uttar Pradesh and Sikkim penned a book, ‘India: The Crucial Years” [Harper Collins] corroborated the fact that “Not only they (RSS) were supportive of this [Emergency], they wanted to establish contact apart from Mrs. Gandhi, with Sanjay Gandhi also”[2]

Rajeswar in an interview with Karan Thapar also disclosed that Deoras:

“Quietly established a link with the PM’s house and expressed strong support for several steps taken to enforce order and discipline in the country. Deoras was keen to meet Mrs. Gandhi and Sanjay. But Mrs. Gandhi refused.”

[Ibid]

According to Rajeswar’s book,

“Sanjay Gandhi’s concerted drive to enforce family planning, particularly among Muslims, had earned Deoras’s approbation.”[3] Rajeswar also shared the fact that even after Emergency the “organization (RSS) had specifically conveyed its support to the Congress in the post-emergency elections.”[4] It will be interesting to note that even according to Subramanian Swamy during the Emergency period, most of the senior leaders of RSS had betrayed the struggle against the Emergency.[5]

The contemporary documents from the RSS archives also corroborate that the narratives of Prabhash Joshi and Rajeswar were/are accurate. The third supremo of the RSS, Madhukar Dattatraya Deoras wrote the first letter to Indira Gandhi within two months of the imposition of Emergency. It was the time when state terror was widespread. In letter dated August 22, 1975, he began with the following praise of Indira:

“I heard your address to the nation which you delivered on August 15, 1975, from Red Fort on radio in jail [Yervada jail] with attention. Your address was timely and balanced so I decided to write to you”.   

[Madhukar Dattatraya Deoras, Hindu Sangathan aur Sattavaadi Rajneeti, Jagriti Prkashan, Noida, 1997, p. 270.]

Indira Gandhi did not respond to it. So Deoras wrote another letter to Indira on November 10, 1975. He began his letter with congratulating her on being cleared by the Supreme Court of disqualification which was ordered by the Allahabad High Court, 

“All the five Justices of the Supreme Court have declared your election constitutional, heartiest greetings for it.” It is to be noted that opposition was firmly of the opinion that this judgment was influenced by the ruling party, the Congress. Deoras also also stated that

“The RSS has been named in context of Jaiprakash Narayan’s movement. The government has also connected RSS with Gujarat movement and Bihar movement without any reason…Sangh has no relation with these movements…”

[Ibid., pp. 272-73.]

Since Indira Gandhi did not respond to this letter either, RSS chief got hold of Vinoba Bhave who supported the Emergency religiously and was a favourite of Indira Gandhi. In a letter dated January 12, 1976, Deoras begged that Acharya should suggest a way by which the ban on RSS was removed.

[Ibid. pp. 275-77.]

Since Acharya too did not respond to Deoras letter, the latter in another letter without date wrote in desperation,

“According to press reports respected PM [Indira Gandhi] is going to meet you at Pavnar Ashram on January 24. At that time there will be discussion about the present condition of the country. I beg you to try to remove the wrong assumptions of PM about RSS so that ban on RSS is lifted and RSS members are released from jails. We are looking forward for the times when RSS and its members are able to contribute to the plans of progress which are being run in all the fields under the leadership of PM.”

 [Ibid. p. 278.]

[All these letters in Hindi are being reproduced from a publication of the RSS at the end of this article.]

Even a prominent Hindutva ideologue Balraj Madhok who as an RSS whole-timer founded Bhartiya Jana Sangh (1951) on RSS command confessed:

“Sarsanghchalak of the Sangh Shri Bal Saheb Deoras was a MISA prisoner in Pune’s Yervada Jail…his life was full of comforts. Therefore, he wrote two letters to the jailed Indira Gandhi on August 22, 1975 and November 10, 1975 to change her attitude towards the Sangh and lift the ban on it. He also wrote a letter to Shri Vinoba Bhave and requested him to try to remove the feeling of opposition towards the Sangh from Indira Gandhi’s mind. These letters were leaked by the government, and they were published in many newspapers. This naturally had an adverse effect on the morale of the Sangh volunteers and the Satyagraha movement became almost dead.”

[Madhok, Balraj, Zindagi Ka Safar –3: Deendayal Upadhyay Ki Hatya Se Indira Gandhi Ki Hatya Tak (Journey of Life-3: From the Murder of Deendayal Upadhyay to the Murder of Indira Gandhi), Dinman Prakashan, 2003, pp. 188-189.]

It is also historically significant that former President of the Indian Republic, Pranab Mukherjee was invited by the RSS chief, Mohan Bhagwat as the chief guest at the graduation ceremony of its new recruits must be working over-time to convert India into a Hindu state. Pranab Mukherjee had been indicted as one of the top leaders of Congress for Emergency excesses by the Shah Commission.

Given this history, it is quite regrettable if not downright shameful that despite these facts thousands of RSS cadres continue to get monthly pension for their ostensible “persecution” during the Emergency. The BJP ruled states like Gujarat, Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan and Maharashtra decided to award a monthly pension of Rs 20,000 to those who were jailed during the Emergency period for less than two months, and Rs 10,000 to those who were jailed for less than a month. This rule took care of the financial interest of those RSS cadres who submitted mercy letters completing only one- or two-months’ jail term. For securing this not insignificant amount in pension there was/has been no condition imposed that the beneficiary should have been in jail for the whole period of the Emergency!

Interestingly, in the case of anti-British freedom struggle there has not been even a single RSS cadre to claim the freedom fighter pension. It may be noted that nobody remembers hundreds of Communist youths, branded as Naxals killed in fake encounters during the Emergency. Interestingly, Maharashtra-based Shiv Sena, the Hindutva co-traveller of the RSS openly supported the Emergency.

Renowned senior journalist and one of the most widely read political commentators in India today, Coomi Kapoor evaluating the RSS-BJP over the past last 12 years forthrightly has observed:

“Increasingly, those in power believe they are not directly answerable to the people. The government’s radio silence over major mess-ups in the NEET and CBSE examinations, affecting lakhs of students, is a telling example. To respond to public complaints is perceived as a weakness by today’s regime. The lack of internal debate in the ruling party, too, is perturbing. The BJP parliamentary board rarely meets and when it does, it merely rubber stamps decisions taken elsewhere. The surprise elevation of inexperienced junior party persons as chief ministers, without any prior consultations, is yet another instance of the absence of inner-party democracy. No less concerning is the falling standard of independence and probity of constitutional bodies meant to uphold democratic values.

“The Election Commission’s blatant exclusion of over 90 lakh names from the West Bengal SIR rolls unnecessarily put a question mark over an election where the public mood was clearly against Mamata Banerjee…The crux of a true democracy is securing a majority in Parliament through an ethical recourse to the ballot box, not by winning over opposition legislators by whatever means, fair or foul, post elections. In the ongoing ruthless mission to secure a two-thirds majority, one recalls uneasily just how Indira Gandhi utilised her brute two-thirds majority to subvert our Constitution and push through Emergency rule.

“As the country marks the half-century anniversary of the Emergency, many ruling party supporters wax eloquent on Indira Gandhi’s Emergency excesses as a warning to future generations not to go down that discredited path and derail democracy. Ironically, many of the practices of the Emergency are actually being emulated today. Even the unnecessary sycophancy of rulers in advertisements, bill boards and at public events seems ominously reminiscent of that black period and recalls Congress President D K Barooah’s fawning slogan, ‘Indira is India and India is Indira’.’’

Coomi Kapoor, ‘Five decades after the Emergency, difficult questions, unheeded warnings’, reported The Indian Express.

So, the writing on the wall is clear. Indira Gandhi had imposed the Emergency, using Articles (352-360) of the Indian constitution; the same Indira Gandhi within 18 months announced general elections on January 18, 1977 and officially lifted the Emergency on March 21, 1977. Political prisoners who had been imprisoned were released and free to contest the elections that were held soon thereafter. Despite the robust opposition to the Emergency, there was never a question or doubt that the elections of 1977 would be free or fair. Under the present Modi regime (a minority government in its ‘third’ term), there is no question of withdrawing the state of undeclared emergency that has never been formally imposed. As institution after institution is sought to be, and is subverted, including the hitherto independent Election Commission of India, an unscrupulous regime continues with its agenda of snatching all democratic freedoms!

Disclaimer: The views expressed here are the author’s personal views, and do not necessarily represent the views of Sabrangindia.

[1] http://archive.tehelka.com/story_main13.asp?filename=op070205And_Not_Even.asp; this copy is available in libraries

[2] https://www.indiatoday.in/india/story/rss-backed-indira-gandhis-emergency-ex-ib-chief-264127-2015-09-21

[3] https://indianexpress.com/article/india/india-others/ib-ex-chiefs-book-rss-chief-deoras-had-backed-some-emergency-moves/

[4] https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/RSS-backed-Emergency-reveals-former-IB-chief/articleshow/49052143.cms

[5] https://medium.com/@hindu.nationalist1/double-game-of-senior-rss-leaders-during-emergency-74abc07a4fa8

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Womens Reservation Bill 2026: Women’s Rights & the RSS

Have Hindus always been Vegetarian?

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