An African American interpretation of Buddhism, it is a collection of articles by scholars and Buddhist activists who, writing from their personal experiences of racial exclusion, explore “trauma, belonging, healing, and transformation,” even as they “wrestle with their suffering.”

Subtitled Buddhism Can Teach Us about Race, Resilience, Transformation & Freedom, the book prompted a thought even as I carried it in my hand: if Dalits in India have been embracing Buddhism in large numbers, why wouldn’t Black Americans do the same, given that they, too, have experienced a qualitatively similar form of discrimination?

Even before I began reading the book, which was published in 2020, I sought to find out what percentage of Americans are Buddhists and, of these, how many are Black. This is what I found: Buddhists represent approximately 1.0% to 1.3% of the U.S. population, or about 3.5 to 4.4 million people. A majority are of Asian descent—roughly 60% to 67%—while about a quarter to one-third are White.

As for Black Americans, they make up roughly 3% of all Buddhists in the United States. And within the broader Black American population, less than 0.5% identify as Buddhist. Yet, from my personal interactions in the United States, I have found that Buddhist cultural presence, visibility, and affinity appear to be growing rapidly.

Someone I know intimately is by no stretch of the imagination a Buddhist. Yet he is among the millions living in America who identify as Christian, Jewish, Hindu, or “spiritual but not religious,” while regularly practising Buddhist meditation or adopting aspects of Buddhist philosophy. Not without reason, according to one source, the absolute number of Buddhist practitioners in the United States grew by more than 20% between 2010 and 2020.

Yet, as far as Black Americans are concerned, they haven’t gone the Dalit way.

Buddhists in India may make up a minuscule 0.7% to 0.8% of the country’s population, or about 8.4 million people, but a vast majority of them are Dalits—around 85% to 90%.

In all likelihood, many of them followed their icon, Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, who publicly converted to Buddhism at the fag end of his life—in October 1956, just two months before his death in December 1956—after concluding that the caste hierarchy and the practice of “untouchability” were inextricably embedded in orthodox Hindu scriptures.

Returning to Black & Buddhist, I couldn’t find any direct reference to Ambedkar or Dalits in its chapters. This could be because the anthology’s primary focus is specifically on the African American and Black diaspora experience in the United States, examining intergenerational trauma, white supremacy, capitalism, and the distinctive resilience of Black Buddhist practitioners in America.

However, in the book’s introduction, the two editors, Pamela Ayo Yetunde and Cheryl A. Giles, explicitly name “caste designations” alongside racism, sexism, white supremacy, imperialism, and colonialism as inherent, exploitative features of the capitalist system that Buddhism must actively confront.

There is, of course, a critique of Mahatma Gandhi by one of the contributors, Sebene Selassie, similar to what some Indian Dalit intellectuals, as well as the well-known litterateur Arundhati Roy, have been saying.

Selassie writes: “When (Gandhi) was living in South Africa as a young lawyer, his stance on anti-Black racism was well-defined and expressed: he believed Indians and whites to be part of an Aryan brotherhood and inherently superior to Black people, which was not an uncommon stance of Indians living there at the time.”

I didn’t expect Selassie to go on to examine whether Gandhi changed his views thereafter.

But let me turn to the book now.

Each of the eight contributors—Cheryl A. Giles, Lama Rod Owens, Sebene Selassie, Lama Dawa Tarchin Phillips, Pamela Ayo Yetunde, Gyozan Royce Andrew Johnson, Kamilah Majied, and Ruth King—gives graphic details of the suffering and trauma they have experienced, which led them to adopt the Buddhist way of life as a way out.

They go on to conceptualize Buddhism by identifying the paths they believe have helped them overcome their suffering: Right View, Right Mindfulness, Right Intention, Right Livelihood, Right Concentration, Right Action, Right Speech, and Right Effort.

Given this framework, what appeared particularly interesting to me was the way the book looks at capitalism.

While pointing out that in the capitalist society in which they live there is “creativity and freedom,” the book also underscores—and let me quote here—that the system leads to “exploitation, poverty, classism, caste designations, racism, sexism (and other ‘isms’ related to sex and gender), ageism, white supremacy, human supremacy, imperialism, and colonialism.”

Further, capitalism “allows for shortened lifespans for poor people due to chronic stress, hunger, thirst, and treatable but untreated diseases.”

This is quite close to the Marxian analysis—something the powers-that-be in the United States would perhaps detest from the bottom of their hearts.

A closer look, however, suggested that it is nowhere near the typical Communist way of thinking—the proletariat versus the capitalists.

One of the solutions offered is “Right Action.”

The book wonders: “A question Black Buddhists ponder is ‘What is Right Action when confronted by a violent racist?’ Our actions are not just about our own self-preservation but”—and here I paused—“also about the well-being of those around us, including violent perpetrators.”

It says that Black actions, from a Buddhist perspective, should lead to “domino effects and we vow not to become oppressors even while being oppressed.” Insisting that “hatred does not transform hatred” and “only love does that,” it underscores the importance of responding without reproducing the very violence one is confronting.

Quite Gandhian, I thought.

Further: “Right Action, at its core, is love. Love in Right Action applies to everything we do, including our hobbies, vocations, work, and activism. Right Action is necessary in the economic system we live in.”

And how does one observe “Right Livelihood” in a capitalist setup?

Not by rebelling against the system, but by ensuring that one does not make “money in a way that harms others.” In fact, one must live as “spiritually integrated, nonexploitative, generous, and constructive human beings” by beginning with “examining if and how greed operates in our lives.”

The book warns: “Capitalism can breed greed if we have the wrong view that possessing a multitude of things, or having much more money than we need, brings real security and real joy.”

Here, it cites “studies in the US” to argue that “being rich does not make one happy and does not promote mental, emotional, or psychological security.”

Regretting that Black people have “been the objects of capitalism and exploited as property,” the book says that, through the generations, they “have created a collective psychological defense against the vulnerability of being seen as financially insecure.”

The result is that “some of us have come to value things that don’t bring lasting joy.”

Often, “a large home, a luxury car, precious gems and metals, and expensive designer clothing, and paying for these things through doing work that exploits, maims, causes addictions, or kills others” are considered “symbols of success,” feeding the delusion “that being wealthy or appearing to be wealthy protects Black people from exploitation.”

The book believes: “Right Livelihood promotes safety, truth, nonharming, and constructive enterprises. Right Livelihood is not the pursuit of greed and has no interest in impressing others with material excess.”

It adds: “It is not a way to demonstrate economic viability or invulnerability. It can be used as a springboard to create economic alternatives within the system in which we find ourselves. Right Livelihood is certainly a fitting description for Right and Noble anti-racism activism…”

And how does one achieve Right Action and Right Livelihood?

The answer the authors offer is through Right Concentration.

“Supported” by experienced meditation teachers and students, one can undertake “meditation retreats” for this purpose. But here, they warn, one must be selective. One should check whether the retreat centre would be in a position to support participants during what could be an emotionally and mentally vulnerable period.

The book underlines: “Long meditation retreats evoke mental and emotional vulnerability because returning to one’s object of meditation over and over again can trigger trauma.”

But this “should not be taken to mean that meditation is not right… The real questions are these: What type of meditation retreat is appropriate? How long? How often? To what end?”

Why would an African American anti-racism activist want to experience Right Concentration?

By committing to “cultivating peace of mind and peace of body as we struggle for liberation”; by helping each other so that “our collective souls and collective selves may be nourished for generations of communities to come.”

Right Concentration, the book believes, would help one know one’s “traumatized history, without the constructs of race, ethnicity, gender, and religion and without preferences and desires, fears and terrors, anger and rage—imagine how much freedom there may be.”

“We would come out of that experience knowing ourselves as part of the Universal Renaissance in Black Self-Knowledge…”

All this would have to be done, says the book, at a time when, in the United States, one often hears African Americans being told: “Go back to Africa where you belong!”

It says: “Black belonging has always been contested in the United States and we are now being asked to support the exclusion of Brown people at our borders, Black people from African countries, and the Muslim world which is largely populated by people of color.”

This, the book argues, ought to be overcome through “benefactor practice,” which “weaves together the threads of ancestral myth, memory, and connection with others, all of which may be modes of healing intergenerational trauma that lives in our bodies.”

It says: “Integrating these threads is a lifelong process that can be supported by bringing our benefactors into our meditation practice. We know trauma lives in the body. We carry it every day. Trauma cannot be buried, ignored, pushed aside, or denied. As long as we breathe, trauma reminds us it is with us and rises to the surface. Transforming trauma means being willing to address it in our lives.”

“In other words,” the book argues, “being Black-identified does not mean that I am also anger-identified. To be Black has come with significant woundedness and trauma from having to survive a white supremacist culture as well as having to hold the transhistorical trauma of (the) ancestors who also survived the same trauma and passed it on unknowingly” to the next generation.

Yet, through meditation practice, one can experience “Blackness” as something “based upon resiliency, community, deep joy in the face of violence, and a profound gratitude” for Black culture, “which continues to transform marginalization into celebration.”

Courtesy: CounterView

The post From caste to race: Reading ‘Black & Buddhist’ through an Indian lens appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Sent as a personal message, Prof Ghanshyam Shah drew my attention to the fact that, at one point, the sect’s top sadhus had declared that they were not Hindus during a case in the Supreme Court. He further told me that its temples once did not allow “untouchables” to enter.

Nothing unusual, I thought, for a groundbreaking study, supported by an Ahmedabad-based Dalit rights NGO, Navsarjan Trust, “Understanding Untouchability”, had found the widespread prevalence of untouchability in 1,589 Gujarat villages it surveyed. It said that more than 90 per cent of rural Dalits reported facing “no entry” in temples during religious ceremonies. The 2009 survey became such an eyesore for the state government that the latter sponsored a parallel study to counter the Navsarjan claim.

I looked it up, and sources told me that the case was Sastri Yagnapurushdasji and Others v. Muldas Bhudardas Vaishya and Another. It so happened that in 1947, the Province of Bombay passed the Bombay Harijan Temple Entry Act—later superseded by the Bombay Hindu Places of Public Worship (Entry-Authorisation) Act, 1956—to eradicate untouchability by legally granting Dalits (then referred to as Harijans) the right to enter and worship in all Hindu public places of worship on equal terms.

Following the law’s passage, leaders and followers (satsangis) of one of the major Swaminarayan sects, operating from Ahmedabad, filed a suit seeking a permanent injunction to prevent non-satsangi Dalits—those not initiated into the spiritual teachings of Swaminarayan—from entering their temples.

The sect’s argument for exempting its temples from the social reform legislation was that the Swaminarayan faith, or Swaminarayan sampradaya, was an entirely separate and distinct religion, not part of the Hindu religion. Hence, the Bombay temple-entry laws—which applied specifically to “Hindu” places of public worship—did not apply to Swaminarayan temples.

The case, which began in Ahmedabad, went up to the Supreme Court, whose Constitution Bench, led by Chief Justice P.B. Gajendragadkar, ruled on January 14, 1966, that the Swaminarayan sect was an integral part of the Hindu religion. The court observed that Hinduism, unlike prophetic, monotheistic religions, does not depend on a single founder, a single holy book, or a uniform dogma. It described Hinduism as a broad, inclusive “way of life” capable of accommodating diverse theological views, reform movements, and sub-traditions. It went on to trace the theological foundation of Swaminarayan (Sahajanand Swami) to the Vishishtadvaita philosophy of Ramanuja. It noted that the sect accepts the authority of foundational Hindu scriptures—the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita, and the Bhagavata Purana—and worships traditional Hindu deities alongside its founder. Consequently, internal reforms or distinct sectarian practices did not sever it from the Hindu fold.

The court held that freedom of religion under Articles 25 and 26 cannot override constitutional mandates aimed at ending social evils like untouchability. Article 25(2)(b) specifically preserves the state’s power to provide for social welfare and reform by opening Hindu religious institutions to all classes and sections of Hindus.

Therefore, Swaminarayan temples fall squarely within the scope of public Hindu temples, making it unlawful to bar Dalit Hindus from entry.

Sources tell me that neither BAPS nor the Maninagar group, the two largest branches of the sect, were parties to the litigation, and that the case was fought by followers and sadhus of the original Swaminarayan sampradaya—specifically the Northern Gadi, centred at the Shri Nar Narayan Dev Temple in Kalupur, Ahmedabad.

Yet, despite claims of equality before God, the fact is that historical and sociological evidence suggests that Dalits (formerly untouchables) faced significant exclusion and separate worship practices within the Swaminarayan framework, and BAPS was no exception between the late 19th and mid-20th centuries.

While BAPS and “modern” Swaminarayan organisations emphasise spiritual equality, there have been several ways in which caste distinctions were enforced.

The primary ethical manual for all Swaminarayan followers—including BAPS—is the Shikshapatri, was written the 19th century. The Shikshapatri no doubt sought to initiate followers across caste lines and preached against outward notions of pollution in bhakti, yet it explicitly accommodated traditional Varnashrama Dharma. It referred to Slokas 17–20 and 91 in order to instruct followers not to abandon the duties and ritual observances of their own caste. In fact, there were ritual purity rules which dictated that touching members of the “lowest castes” (antyaja or outcastes) caused ritual impurity requiring purificatory bathing.

An authoritative interpretation of Shikshapatri published by the temple authorities under the title “The Epistle of Precepts” states that the caste system is “designed for effective organisation and management of society. It provides a distribution of manpower for various necessary jobs.” Comparing it with “White collar/Blue collar separation of the work force in the West”, the write-up insists that it is “enforced by birth”, and that depending on “one’s past karmas”, one is “born to endure the miseries or pleasures arising from a particular caste”. It adds: “If the caste system and the duties for each caste were followed then there is no doubt that we could return the former glory of ‘Rama Rajya’. The caste system is in no way a burden and needs to be preserved.”

Because caste rules prevented low-caste followers from worshipping alongside upper-caste Patidars and Brahmins in major temples, the sampradaya is said to have historically addressed Dalit devotion by building separate shrines or requiring external worship. Sociologist Raymond Brady Williams is cited for documenting that in parts of Gujarat (such as Chhani near Vadodara), separate temples were maintained specifically for Dalit devotees, where they could manage and perform rituals themselves without entering dominant-caste shrines. Further, early colonial observers and 19th-century commentators noted that while untouchables were inducted as disciples, social conservatism among dominant-caste followers led them to build segregated shrines or sit outside during satsang assemblies.

It is within this framework that BAPS (or, for that matter, the Maninagar Gadi) never claimed to be non-Hindu. Unlike the orthodox Ahmedabad litigants in the 1948-1966 Yagnapurushdasji case—or groups like the Ramakrishna Mission, which in the 1980s famously petitioned courts for non-Hindu minority status under Article 30 to protect its schools—BAPS never made any legal, institutional, or theological claim of being a separate, non-Hindu religion.

Instead, BAPS took the opposite approach, establishing itself as an assertive, global champion of classical Hindu identity, identifying itself as a “socio-spiritual Hindu organisation” rooted in Vedic Sanatana Dharma, whatever that may mean. Today, its literature, constitutional charters, and global temples—such as the Akshardham complexes in Delhi, Gandhinagar, and Robbinsville, New Jersey—are officially branded as Hindu mandirs and centres of Hindu culture.

In fact, sources insist that BAPS protagonists have sought to justify the claim that the assertion “We are not Hindu” was primarily an expedient legal defence, not an authentic theological shift.

The 1948-1966 court plaint (Sastri Yagnapurushdasji v. Muldas Bhudardas Vaishya), originally filed on January 12, 1948, in the Civil Court at Ahmedabad, explicitly argued that the religion of the Swaminarayan sect was “distinct and separate from the Hindu religion”, just to bypass the Bombay Harijan Temple Entry Act.

Further, BAPS never sought to endorse the “non-Hindu minority” legal trend that prevailed across India during the mid-to-late 20th century, when several prominent Hindu-origin organisations filed official court petitions seeking status as distinct, non-Hindu religious minorities to protect their institutions from state control or social legislation—something the Ramakrishna Mission in West Bengal, as well as the Lingayats in Karnataka, did.

Yet, for a long time, in BAPS, while non-Brahmin dominant castes (predominantly Patidars) made up much of the sadhu leadership, Dalits were not accepted into the ascetic order. Dalit satsangis, it was claimed, historically observed customary caste restrictions as part of their caste duty (dharma), resulting in a virtual absence of Dalit ascetics. It was only beginning in the 1980s and 1990s, under Pramukh Swami Maharaj, that BAPS formally began breaking this precedent by initiating sadhus from Dalit and Adivasi backgrounds and integrating them into full temple rituals and sanctum priesthood.

And what is the Dalit status today in BAPS temples? Sources tell me that while officially there are no caste-based restrictions on Dalits in its temples, neither BAPS nor any other Swaminarayan Gadi publishes an official caste census of its monastic order. Doctrinally, the sects maintain that upon taking initiation (diksha), a sadhu renounces their worldly identity and pre-monastic caste.

However, detailed field studies and academic documentation by sociologists and historians such as Raymond Brady Williams, Rachel Dwyer, David Hardiman, and Ghanshyam Shah provide some idea, stating that while BAPS formally ended caste-based exclusions for monastic initiation in the late 20th century, the actual proportion of Dalit and Adivasi sadhus is estimated to be well under 1%—representing a tiny handful of individuals out of more than 1,100 to 1,200 living sadhus. And most of the marginalised-community inductions into the sadhu order have come from Adivasi (tribal) communities in eastern and southern Gujarat, rather than Dalits. Adivasis, in the caste-based structure of Hinduism, do not fall under the “untouchables” category.

As for other Swaminarayan sects—the Vadtal and Ahmedabad Gadi (the original sampradaya)—the proportion of those wearing saffron robes is effectively 0%. Patidars overwhelmingly rank across almost all Swaminarayan sects and are heavily concentrated among dominant landowning and mercantile castes—estimated by sociologists to make up 60% to over 80% of the sadhus, while Brahmins and Banias comprise most of the remaining portion of the ascetic order.

In several Swaminarayan establishments, the low-caste candidates who entered the monastic path were permanently relegated to the status of parshads (also called palas or bhagats). They wore white clothes, performed manual labour, and were barred from receiving full saffron renunciation (bhagwati diksha).

As for BAPS, in the 1980s–1990s, as part of its expanded youth initiatives, there was tribal/backward-class outreach. At the 1981 Swaminarayan bicentenary mega event in Ahmedabad, Pramukh Swami initiated a massive cohort of young, educated men into the monastic order, beginning a formal systematisation of the training pipeline, which included initiating youths from backward-class and tribal (Adivasi) backgrounds into saffron robes, granting them new ascetic names and the sacred thread.

According to Williams, Pramukh Swami “abolished for BAPS the caste-related category of ascetics permanently in white”. From that period onwards, the parshad (white-clad) status in BAPS ceased to be an indicator of lower caste. Instead, it became a mandatory, temporary probationary phase (typically lasting one to three years) that every novice—regardless of caste or social background—must undergo before taking full saffron vows.

David Hardiman, a prominent subaltern historian and sociologist of modern Gujarat and Professor Emeritus of History at the University of Warwick, noted in “Class Base of the Swaminarayan Sect” (Economic and Political Weekly, 1988) that while the Swaminarayan Sampradaya historically served as an ideological vehicle for the upwardly mobile Kanbi/Patidar agrarian elite, the sect incorporated lower-caste and Adivasi groups through moral reform (temperance, vegetarianism), which structurally limited Dalits from rising into spiritual leadership or ascetic power within dominant institutions.

I would like to end with the following observation by Prof Ghanshyam Shah in “Untouchability in Rural India”, co-authored with Harsh Mander, Sukhadeo Thorat, et al.:

“While the evidence … suggests that the more blatant and extreme forms of untouchability appear to have declined, discrimination continues and is most prevalent in the religious and personal spheres.”

Further:

“Removal of untouchability was on their agenda; it was however primarily confined to removing the taboo of physical touch rather than socio-economic discrimination and inequality.”

Courtesy: CounterView

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BAPS’ exclusionary stance towards women is well known. I have personally experienced, and written about, their religious gurus’ behaviour towards women. In one instance, amidst the dastardly Akshardham terrorist attack in September 2002 in Gandhinagar, a Times of India colleague covering the event was stopped by BAPS sadhus from taking shelter in their residential area even as bullets were flying next to her.

Instead of pointing the finger directly at the monument’s operating company, SETE (Société d’Exploitation de la Tour Eiffel), for falling in line with the hijab protagonists in France, a section of enthusiasts preferred to mainly attack Bochasanwasi Akshar Purushottam Swaminarayan Sanstha (BAPS).

I have read numerous comments on social media attacking BAPS. One of them was from Shiv Sena (UBT) leader Priyanka Chaturvedi, who strongly criticized the sect, stating that the demand to remove women from the Eiffel Tower was “not a reflection of how India thinks — in policy or in the Constitution.” She insisted that if BAPS enforces such customs, they must “keep it restricted to those confined areas”, adding, “please don’t expect the world to follow the diktat.”

Not that I disagree with what Chaturvedi and others have to say. Their viewpoint on BAPS — or, for that matter, other religious sects, be they of any religion — is not only correct, it needs to be repeated umpteen times in India. In India, religious establishments are known to discriminate against women. However, what shocked me was that these reactions had little to say about the SETE directive to its female staff.

Hijab is known to be strictly regulated or prohibited in specific public institutions, roles, and contexts under the French doctrine of laïcité (state secularism). Yet, SETE seemed to violate the very principle it is supposed to uphold. It favoured the exact opposite logic. The underlying justification for religious veiling — or restrictions on interaction between unrelated men and women — is that female visibility and male-female contact must be regulated according to faith-based modesty standards.

When SETE management agreed to accommodate the BAPS delegation’s celibacy vows by directing female workers to clear their desks, hide in back rooms, and let male colleagues take over, it effectively legitimized the premise that a woman’s physical presence in a public workplace can be treated as a religious impediment. Clearly, SETE yielded to a conservative religious modesty doctrine at the expense of workplace equality.

Indeed, it was commendable that on September 7, 2026, the Eiffel Tower was forced to close for the day after its staff staged a walkout and strike. The industrial action followed anger over the management directive during the BAPS delegation’s visit on September 5 (Saturday), when female employees were reportedly ordered to step away from their workstations, stay out of sight, and be replaced by male colleagues. As anger escalated among the staff during the weekend, the primary trade union representing the workers, CGT, called an emergency meeting, leading to the strike on September 7 (Monday), shutting down the monument to tourists.

The staff union condemned what it described as a humiliating and discriminatory workplace violation. According to statements released by the CGT, the union objected to female employees being formally directed to leave their assigned duties and wait in separate back rooms or offices while the delegation toured the monument. At customer service, ticketing, and operational desks, women were directly swapped out and replaced by male coworkers so that no female presence would be encountered along the delegation’s route. Further, female workers were forbidden from walking through or entering common corridors, lifts, and platforms during the BAPS visit.

Workers emphasized that the Eiffel Tower is a preeminent global symbol of France and secular public life. They argued that coercing female public-facing staff to “render themselves invisible” because of their sex directly violated French labour laws, non-discrimination protections, and the fundamental principle of gender equality (égalité).

The incident provoked strong condemnation across French civil society and the political spectrum. Emmanuel Grégoire, the Paris deputy mayor, backed the workers’ strike as entirely legitimate, declaring: “Equality between women and men will never stop at the foot of our historical monuments, nor anywhere in this city.”

An official inquiry was launched into how management authorized the request. Former Prime Minister Gabriel Attal and French Equality Minister Aurore Bergé both issued statements affirming that no religious doctrine, belief, or visiting delegation can supersede French labour laws or dictate the presence of women in public spaces.

I personally seem to agree with those in India who assert that the blame should be directed at Eiffel Tower management. The management should have simply said “no.” Religious groups make accommodation requests everywhere; it was the duty of Eiffel Tower management to know French secular and labour laws and simply refuse the terms if they violated workplace equality. BAPS was a visiting delegation, not an employer in France, and had no legal authority to order French civil staff into back rooms. Therefore, SETE management caved inappropriately to customer preferences at the cost of its own workers.

Meanwhile, BAPS supporters are defending the sect’s monastic vows, arguing that the monks’ vows of celibacy and non-interaction with women are “voluntary” and centuries-old ascetic disciplines. They argue that European institutions “often bend rules” or “accommodate other religious sensibilities”, so what is wrong if SETE acted the way it did at BAPS’ request?

There appears to be reason to believe that SETE acted the way it did to appease the current French ruling establishment, which is known to be close to Prime Minister Narendra Modi. The BAPS delegation’s controversial visit to the Eiffel Tower took place a day after Modi virtually inaugurated the sprawling BAPS temple in Paris.

Not without reason, the Indian government opted to distance itself entirely from the dispute. When asked about the incident during a press briefing in New Delhi, Ministry of External Affairs (MEA) spokesperson stated: “We are aware of the opening of a temple by the BAPS Sanstha in the Paris area. As to the particular issue pertaining to the Tower, this is a matter purely between the entities concerned.”

When questioned about Modi having virtually addressed the inauguration of the BAPS temple in Paris just a day prior, the MEA dismissed any political link, calling it standard protocol for the Prime Minister to send goodwill messages for major cultural milestones.

Modi thinks it’s a cultural milestone? Do the French authorities also think the same way?

I am really puzzled.

So far, the only Indian voice I have seen that has unequivocally stood with the Eiffel Tower workers themselves is that of the All India Democratic Women’s Association (AIDWA), which expressed solidarity with the Indian Alliance Paris (IAP) in supporting the workers’ strike. IAP is a Paris-based collective of Indian students, researchers and professionals, critical of BAPS and the spread of Hindu nationalism in Europe.

Significantly, IAP was not a group that suddenly discovered BAPS after the Eiffel Tower controversy. On September 5, even as the BAPS delegation was visiting the Tower, it had organized a public meeting in Paris, co-hosted by several organizations including the CGT trade union, to draw attention to BAPS’s conservative gender politics and its wider political connections. Activists and researchers from France, India and the US participated, a documentary was screened and a press statement was issued. IAP has said it had tried to warn French political parties about BAPS, but received little attention until the Eiffel Tower workers went on strike.

After the strike, IAP unequivocally backed the workers, while making another important point: the controversy must not become “fodder for more racism”. BAPS, it stressed, does not represent all Hindus and certainly does not represent India.

Courtesy: CounterView

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Recently, I received a message from someone I had known since my Gandhinagar days, when I represented the Times of India from 1997 to 2012. He wanted to send me the English translation of a memoir he had written: “Homes Without Windows“. Thin, short, and darker in complexion than me, he would occasionally come down to my office in Akhbar Bhawan. His name is Chandu Maheria.

Seen through a middle-class lens, Maheria had an unimpressive personality. But that didn’t concern me. I knew little about his background, except what he had told me — that he worked in the state education department, and if I am not mistaken, in its midday meal section. Whenever I met someone new, I would try to find out whether there was a story in them. Education interested me: that was my selfish reason for talking to him.

Once, speaking on the phone, I asked Maheria to stop by my office on his way home to Gandhinagar, as he said he had a story. I was momentarily hesitant: he would have to arrange a drop to my office and back, since he did not drive a scooter. So I decided to meet him instead in the canteen of the Old Sachivalaya, where he had his office. Meeting him there directly, I felt, was also a better idea than going to his office, which might have exposed his closeness to a journalist.

Much later, after my retirement, I discovered that he was regarded quite a buff — a respected one at that — in Dalit circles: an intellectual and a committed writer, one who could speak extensively on Dalit issues. I saw him speak at meetings at Dalit Shakti Kendra, an empowerment-cum-technical school for teenagers founded by the well-known human rights leader Martin Macwan, located off Ahmedabad. I found him very sharp.

Until I received the book, all I knew about it was that it had been praised by the eminent historian of modern India, Ramachandra Guha, who called it a “truly remarkable and compellingly readable memoir” — a comment that had appeared on Facebook. With the book in hand, I began to randomly glance through it.

But contrary to the anti-Gandhi views prevalent among most Dalit intellectuals across India, this is what I found him stating: “Gandhi might have been anything — call him whatever names — but one thing he was certainly not was anti-Dalit. Oh no, never. Alas!”

This made me take a deeper look at the book and see what Maheria, a Dalit and a firm follower of Dr B.R. Ambedkar, thinks about Gandhi. Though a very reluctant reader, I read through its approximately 230 pages in a couple of sittings.

Largely a personal account, the memoir describes how Maheria spent his early life in extreme poverty, growing up in a working-class chawl of Ahmedabad as the son of a mill worker — until he shifted to Gandhinagar on securing a government job. They lived in what he describes as “the squalid, tumble-down, cheek-by-jowl dwellings in the backstreets of the city, dubbed as the heart of the state.”

Maheria describes how Dalits from different parts of Gujarat had settled in the chawls: “Our chawl was inhabited by the Rohits, people of the tanner caste, who had migrated from Charotar, a large swathe of fertile land covering districts like Kheda and Anand in central Gujarat”, and “the Vankars, people of the weaver caste, from Mehsana, a district in north Gujarat.”

Belonging to different Dalit sub-castes, all of them would daily queue up for the dirty common toilet. He underlines, “A strange thing to say, but it was in these queues that I learnt my first lessons in social inequality.”

According to him, “All these people were extremely beleaguered, a harried lot that had come here to escape poverty, untouchability, oppression and exploitation, and yet they saw hierarchy and hatred as natural ways of being, such that even the slightest breach in the set order resulted in exchanges of expletives and blows.”

Pointing out that “all this cheek was for toilets that were no better than hellholes”, he states, “Though not untouchability in its conventional sense, these practices were rooted in direct discrimination, in an ordained difference between the high and the low, that had seeped right up to the bottom of the caste order.”

Offering an example of intra-Dalit casteism, he gives the example of Neno Ma’raj, a man of the priestly Garoda caste, considered the highest among the Dalits. “A mill worker of no consequence, Ma’raj would, in a blatant exhibition of his caste pride, lay his string cot out on the footpath every evening and lounge there like a maharaja, a veritable badshah holding his royal court.”

He explains, “In his exhaustive, eye-opening study of the forms of untouchability practised by non-Dalits and Dalits (among themselves) in Gujarat, my friend Martin Macwan has pegged the numbers at ninety-eight and ninety-nine, respectively.”

Explaining caste discrimination and related issues through personal anecdotes, Maheria reveals why he believes a section of Dalit intellectuals’ anti-Gandhi stance has gone overboard. None of them, he feels, will admit that no other leader fought untouchability like Gandhiji. Indeed, the book’s chapter “That Fellow, Gandhido” particularly excited me.

Maheria starts by stating that he likes wearing khadi as it suits his “short body and slim build”, and explains why his mother didn’t like it. The fabric was anathema to her. She would take a dig at him, saying, “You look like a ditto Gandhiyo in this pair.” An unlettered woman who had picked up the Gandhi-Ambedkar debate through household conversations, her “pet peeve was, ‘None but that fellow, Gandhiyo is responsible for erecting these caste enclosures’.”

Yet Maheria graphically describes how, growing up in the working-class chawls, much of his early education happened in the suburb’s Municipal School No. 3-4, whose principal was a man called Balawantbhai Parmar. “A Dalit by birth, he was a thorough Gandhian. Clad in khadi kurta and khadi dhoti, with a topping of Gandhi cap, when he moved around, the earth shook. Such a disciplinarian the man was.”

Stating that his “formative years were spent among Gandhian, Ambedkarite and communist activists and their respective liberal-radical activism”, Maheria reminisces about the Gandhians’ “prolific welfare activities and women-centric programmes” of Majoor Mahajan Sangh and Jyoti Sangh, respectively.

He says, “Our lonesome chawls received substantial footfall of Gandhian leaders and activists on an almost daily basis. As a result, the atmosphere in the chawls in general remained electric. I received my pre-primary education in a wonderful, Jyoti Sangh-supported Anganwadi, a childcare centre unlike its present-day, state-funded counterparts that are mired in corruption and inefficiency.”

He continues, “The service-oriented women of the Jyoti Sangh made repeated rounds of the chawls during summer vacations, unbothered about the baking sun overhead or the squalor all around, to persuade Dalit mothers to send their children to the Anganwadi. Little wonder that the image of Jasubehn, our loving Anganwadi teacher, in her signature white khadi saree and a winsome smile about her eyes, has survived intact in my mind after all these years…”

He adds, “It was she who first held my hand and helped me trace the lines of Gujarati alphabets and numerals. It was from her that I first learnt the sarvadharma prarthana, the all-religion prayer so close to Gandhi’s heart.”

Further: “Those ‘sisters’, from posh families and in swank white sarees, plodding the narrow, labyrinthine chawls and selflessly working for the welfare of women and children, had won people’s hearts; the chawlwallahs acknowledged and appreciated their single-minded devotion to service no end.”

One of them, Shantabehn Patel, a senior sister of the Sangh, had made a small-time mill worker her sworn brother, just to rid him of the habit of drinking. “Tying a rakhi on his wrist in the presence of the chawl residents, she had made him promise, placing the life and love of a sister at stake, never to touch liquor again.”

“Today”, he regrets, “when I see small children sell liquor and lurch around in drunken stupor in Rajpur — where Maheria’s chawl stood — a mix of painful realisation and profound remorse weighs me down, that now no upper-caste woman worth her salt will come forward to swear the addicts as her brothers or sons and wean them off the bane of booze.”

Maheria describes how, despite being a consistent topper, he was never given an opportunity to speak publicly at school events, including the school’s prayer assembly. However, he adds, his inborn talent was first spotted and then “lovingly nurtured by those Gandhi pathshalas” that imparted him with “informal, but life-transforming, education.”

“Back then”, he notes, “the Majoor Mahajan Sangh celebrated Gandhi’s birth anniversary and other programmes only in working-class suburbs and with great fanfare… As a part of these celebrations, huge public meetings were held where various competitions for mill workers’ children were organised. True to my temperament and expertise, I participated in elocution and essay-writing competitions…”

During those competitions, he would “win household essentials like hankies, towels and bedsheets.” The “precious lesson” in public speaking and discursive writing he received in the Gandhian institution later made him represent his school in an interschool elocution competition, where he received a copy of ‘The Story of My Experiments with Truth‘ as a prize from Babubhai Patel, the then Chief Minister of Gujarat.

According to Maheria, “Majoor Mahajan Sangh, in those days, was a name to reckon with; it held sway over a large chunk of the public imagination. Leaders of the Sangh like Arvind

According to Maheria, “Majoor Mahajan Sangh, in those days, was a name to reckon with; it held sway over a large chunk of the public imagination. Leaders of the Sangh like Arvind Buch, Shantilal Shah, Manhar Shukla, Navinchandra Barot, and others showed up in the chawls every other day and held public meetings.”

Maheria further recalls, “Those were not the days, unlike today, of every house having a dedicated toilet. The chawlwallahs used public toilets whose squalid condition, in a way, reflected the destiny of those Dalit suburbs. I vividly remember Bhailal Patel, the Gandhian chairman of the municipal corporation’s Health Committee, who was often seen in Rajpur at seven sharp in the morning, literally breathing down the neck of the sanitary worker on duty to clean every single corner and cranny of those reeky, soiled toilets.”

He comments, “I don’t recall if he ever recoiled in disgust or involuntarily curled up his nose while overseeing the execution of that dirty, dishonourable job.” Yet he regrets, “As I grew up, the frequency of the Gandhians’ rounds to our chawls appreciably tapered off.” He points out, “The last time I saw a Gandhian activist pace up and down Dalit chawls was during the anti-reservation riots of 1981; it was Babal Mehta, the last of the thorough Gandhians whose heart was lacerated by the torn social fabric of his city.”

“To put it bluntly”, he comments, “the dicey, dithering position of the Gandhians on the idea of and the movement for reservation became the root cause of their retreat — not only from Rajpur but from emergent Dalit political discourse altogether. It was a turning point in history. A point of departure, more accurately.”

According to Maheria, “In contemporary Dalit discourse, it is a taboo to utter even a few words in favour of Gandhi — for a lay Dalit individual, to say nothing of a Dalit karmashila or writer — so dominant and pervasive is the climate of Gandhi-bashing among Dalits.”

He underlines, “There are some legitimate reasons for it; no one can deny that. But I refuse to be smothered by them. I have criticised Gandhi in no uncertain terms whenever the context justly demanded it, but at the same time I have not turned tail whenever I felt that Gandhi needed to be defended from trumped-up charges.”

Believes Maheria, “The role of the Gandhians in Gujarat during the anti-reservation riots of 1981 morphed the Dalit bitterness towards Gandhiji into deep hatred… Today, things have come to such a pass that one rarely encounters Gandhi’s photograph in a Dalit household, especially in cities… The Gandhians have played no small part in bringing about this sorry situation.”

Yet he firmly believes that it was Gandhiji who “helped place the Dalit question at the centre stage of India’s social and political life”. Indeed, Gandhi “courageously allowed a ‘Harijan’ family to take residence in Kochrab Ashram at the risk of outraging many of his associates and endangering the financial security of the ashram.”

Gandhi’s fight against, suggests Maheria, has had its social impact. Ahead of his retirement in the second half of the 2010s, Maheria was transferred to Dhoraji, a town near Junagadh, which he agreed to accept as it came with a promotion. Here, he writes, “I must confess that none of the people who knew about my being a ‘Harijan’ ever practised untouchability with me. Every day, I took lunch with my non-Dalit colleagues as their equal.”

And yet, he underlines, “The attitude of the upper castes wasn’t above board all the time. For I didn’t even realise when and how my initial residential address in Jamanavad, a non-Dalit area, got changed to Baharpura. In weddings and other social ceremonies, non-Dalit staff invited their Dalit colleagues — but they wouldn’t attend similar events that their Dalit colleagues organised.”

Further, while he was greatly impressed to learn of a common crematorium in the town serving the entire Hindu community, he was shocked to discover that a separate space was earmarked for Dalits to bury their dead. “Thus, though the crematorium was common, it was partitioned along the logic of caste.”

Courtesy: counterview.in

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The other day, a discussion broke out among ten friends on love marriages—a contentious issue in Gujarat following moves in the corridors of power to regulate them by making parental consent mandatory. One of us claimed that, unlike in the past, nearly 70 percent of weddings today are love marriages. Another person, who had eloped to get married years ago, remarked, “Problems exist everywhere, whether it is a love marriage or an arranged one.”

I asked my friends what they thought about the Gujarat government’s proposal to bring in such a law. The woman and her husband who had themselves run away to get married without parental consent (and are happily married ever since) insisted the proposal was meant only to curb what is described as “love jihad.” “They just want to protect Hindu girls who are lured away by Muslims,” they said.

When I suggested that if such an obligation—parental consent for marriage—were introduced, it would apply to all marriages and not just to the supposed victims of “love jihad,” the woman immediately objected. “That would be bad,” she said. “How can parental consent be made mandatory? It goes against personal freedom and the Constitution.” However, another woman insisted that the government would have to ensure that such a rule applied only to cases of “love jihad,” not to all marriages.

I could not help wondering how deeply anti-Muslim sentiment has seeped into sections of Gujarat’s middle class. Love marriages without parental consent seem acceptable as long as they are within the same religion, but not when a Muslim man seeks to marry a Hindu woman.

Be that as it may, looking at the overall socio-political atmosphere in Gujarat, there appears to be a broad consensus on parental consent. The only difference is that while the BJP rulers speak openly about “love jihad,” the two main opposition parties in the state—the Congress and the Aam Aadmi Party (AAP)—avoid using that phrase.

In a statement in the state legislature recently, Gujarat’s home minister, who is also deputy chief minister, Harsh Sanghavi declared that the Gujarat Registration of Marriages Act, 2006 might need to be amended to make parental consent compulsory for legalising any marriage. Raising the spectre of “love jihad,” he said, “There is no objection to love. But if some Salim posing as a Suresh traps a girl, we will not spare them.”

From all appearances, this seemed more for public consumption. It appeared designed to pacify recent all-male caste gatherings—especially among the numerically strong Patel and Thakor communities—which have expressed concern over a rising number of love marriages taking place without parental approval.

Not without reason. While Sanghavi claimed that in the Panchmahals district there were a very high number of “fake marriage certificates,” particularly in cases of inter-religious weddings—even in rural areas where he said there were “no Muslims or mosques”—the government itself appears reluctant to immediately amend the law.

In fact, it has shown little urgency. The government has announced a 30-day period for public suggestions and recommendations on the proposed changes, after which a review committee will be formed before any amendment is drafted. In effect, this means no immediate change to the law is likely in the coming months.

All indications suggest Sanghavi’s remarks were aimed at placating influential Patel and Thakor caste groups that provide an important electoral support to the ruling party. For quite some time, they have been approaching Gujarat authorities demanding that parental consent be made compulsory for the registration of marriages.

Early this year, a Thakor community meeting was held in Patan where a new “social constitution” was read out and oaths were administered to allegedly eliminate old customs and build a more disciplined society. The gathering announced that elopement marriages would not be accepted and introduced around sixteen new rules, including bans on DJs and sunroof cars at wedding ceremonies. The slogan “One Society, One Custom” was adopted to promote unity.

Notably, the convention was overwhelmingly male. Only one woman was present (photo): the Congress MP Geniben Thakor, who read out the so-called social constitution. A year later, she publicly supported Sanghavi’s declaration about banning marriages without parental consent, describing such a move as “meeting the demands of the current times.”

She argued that some criminal elements were “trapping” young girls into love marriages whose consequences “often prove tragic,” which is why, she said, “all communities have been demanding that the law related to love marriage be amended to make parental consent mandatory, and that villagers be included as witnesses.”

This was not a new position for her. In 2019, as a Congress MLA, she supported a decision by sections of the Thakor community to ban the use of mobile phones by unmarried girls. In 2023, she, along with BJP MLA Fatesinh Chauhan, demanded an amendment to the marriage registration law to make parental signatures mandatory when adult children chose their own partners.

Curious about whether the Congress as a party supported Sanghavi’s proposal, I called up a party spokesperson in Gujarat. Instead of offering a clear position, the spokesperson simply forwarded Geniben’s statement, which I have quoted above. “She is our esteemed MP—the only one from Gujarat,” he said. “There is little reason to believe this is not the Congress view.”

As for AAP, one of the first things its leader Gopal Italia (photo) did after winning the Visavadar assembly seat in a by-election last year was to write to the chief minister demanding a law to prevent young women from eloping with their boyfriends to get married.

Italia, a Patel and one of AAP’s most prominent leaders in Gujarat, argued that the large number of “incidents of girls running away or being made to run away at a legally adult but socially immature age” needed to be stopped. Among other things, he proposed that marriages should be registered only at the permanent residence of the bride.

Calling love marriages a “huge social problem,” he claimed that in many cases girls are “targeted and trapped in a web of love at an innocent age while still studying in school.” According to him, “a well-organised and systematic conspiracy is underway to arrange marriages for runaway couples.” He alleged that such couples are often taken to remote villages in distant districts where marriages are registered for money without proper documentation.

Italia cited what he called data from several villages: in Panchmahal district’s Bhadrala village, he claimed, 560 such marriages were registered; in Amreli district’s Dhampur, Jamka, Mujyasar and Tulindhya villages, the numbers were 1,341, 944, 380 and 258 respectively; and in Anand district’s Sandh, Rel and Vali villages, the figures were 365, 1,193 and 113.

He alleged that these registrations were frequently based on fake documents and involved various irregularities. According to him, “private agents, ‘love mafias’ and gangs”—some allegedly from outside the state—facilitated such “fake marriages,” often exploiting young couples financially and physically in the name of providing protection.

Italia’s letter, written in Gujarati, appeared primarily aimed at reassuring dominant sections of the community he belongs to—the Patels—where, particularly in rural areas, love marriages without parental approval are often viewed with deep disapproval. Notably, neither his letter nor Geniben Thakor’s statement touched upon another pressing social issue within these communities: the skewed sex ratio.

Courtesy: Counterview

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Announcing this, senior High Court advocate Anand Yagnik, who heads the Gujarat chapter of the People’s Union for Civil Liberties (PUCL), said that a committee has already been formed to examine the pros and cons of SIR. “While the SIR exercise began in Gujarat on November 4 and is scheduled to continue for a month, we will file a supporting petition in the case against SIR in the Gujarat High Court or the Supreme Court after observing how it proceeds in the state,” he said.

Yagnik’s announcement followed senior advocate Shahrukh Alam—who is arguing the SIR case in the Supreme Court—urging Gujarat’s civil society to also file a petition. She said there was an urgent need to create public awareness and build pressure against SIR, especially in the apex court, and that this could only be achieved if petitions were filed from different states.

Supporting the view of Gujarat activists that SIR is an exercise aimed at excluding marginalized sections from the electoral rolls, Alam said that the SIR, which began ahead of the Bihar elections despite a revision having already taken place in January, should be seen against the backdrop of an overall attack on democracy, freedom of speech, and the Constitution itself. However, she regretted that the political class remains “largely indifferent” to what is happening.

According to Alam, “We must remember that the space for free speech is shrinking—universities are cancelling lectures and refusing discussions. The state is seeking to decide everything: what to wear, what to eat, whom to marry. Exercises like the UCC, NRC, and actions around Waqf are all about the state deciding your identity. Today, state endorsement has become essential for everything. We are living as if in an open jail.”

Continuing, Alam said that in the same vein, it is now the state that seeks to decide whether one is a voter or not. “Civil society must take up the larger issues around SIR. Voting is based on the universal adult franchise, and it has always been the state’s job to ensure that no eligible citizen is left out. But now, the burden is being shifted—citizens are being asked to prove they are voters by submitting citizenship documents. The state is abdicating its responsibility,” she said.

Alam questioned why the ECI spent a huge amount of public money to revise the electoral rolls in Bihar in January, only to begin another “intensive revision” within six months, allegedly to “purify” the rolls. “Who is accountable for this waste of public funds? The ECI has not been questioned on this,” she emphasized.

On the legal front, Alam noted that while the ECI has the right to create electoral rolls, problems arise when it makes it mandatory for individuals to prove citizenship to qualify as voters. The ECI claims it will verify this on the basis of 11 documents, excluding Aadhaar and ration cards. “The ECI cannot act arbitrarily,” Alam asserted. “The Representation of the People Act merely requests citizens to assist in creating complete electoral lists. For 70 years, teachers went door-to-door recording names without asking for documents. Now, the onus has been reversed—each resident must prove citizenship.”

Countering the ECI’s initial claim that SIR aimed to remove “infiltrators,” Alam said, “Only three infiltrators were found.” When challenged, the ECI changed its justification, saying it was to “remove dead people” from the rolls. “But even that proved flawed—instances of deceased individuals remaining on the lists continued. The Supreme Court has yet to hear the case, even though Aadhaar has now been allowed,” she added.

Addressing the meeting, Sarfarazuddin of PUCL Bihar, who played a key role in opposing the ECI, called the exercise “dangerous” and “without legal basis.” He said it began in Bihar on June 24, requiring individuals to verify that they were on the 2003 electoral list to remain eligible voters. “No rationale was given. The timing was deliberate—monsoon floods begin after June-end. Would people save their lives or their documents in such a situation?” he asked.

He explained that block-level officers (BLOs) distributed enumeration forms requiring verification from 2003. In the absence of that, 11 alternative documents were allowed—but Aadhaar and ration cards were excluded, while passports, school-leaving certificates, birth certificates, and residence proofs were accepted.

“This was designed to exclude marginalized communities,” he said. “The Manjhi community, for instance, has only about 10 percent literacy. How can they be expected to comply? Many people had to bribe officials to get documents, leading to rampant corruption.”

In an instance of how marginalized sections are being excluded, Sarfarazuddin said that an 86-year-old poor woman’s name was missing from the draft voter list, following which her widow pension was also stopped. “Women are likely to suffer the most because of SIR,” he warned. “The ECI requires parents’ proof as one of the 11 documents. How do poor married women cope with this?”

He recounted an incident in a Muslim locality where residents protested after their duly completed forms were rejected. “A schoolteacher acting as BLO called her superior and said, ‘You told us not to accept Muslims’ forms. People are protesting—what do I do?’ Embarrassed, the officer told her to accept all the forms,” he said.

Similar protests were reported elsewhere. Initially, 64 lakh voters were found excluded in the revised draft. Following protests and legal interventions in the Supreme Court, many were restored, but the case remains pending. “This will be a long, drawn-out battle,” said Sarfarazuddin. “The ECI knows it has erred, but it has made it a prestige issue.”

Mujahid Nafees, who heads the Minority Coordination Committee and is PUCL Gujarat’s general secretary, pointed out that thousands of houses of fisherfolk on Bet Dwarka were demolished, though residents had Aadhaar cards with those addresses. “No one knows what will happen to their voting rights now,” he said.

Another Gujarat activist, Pankti Jog of the Association for Democratic Reforms, questioned how the ECI plans to “purify” electoral rolls amid Gujarat’s large-scale internal migration. Economist Hemant Shah asked whether the ECI’s aim was to prepare a voters’ list or to assess citizenship.

Courtesy: Counter View

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Frankly—call it my inertia or whatever—I am not very familiar with Sainath’s recent writings, though from time to time I do read some of the very in-depth reports focusing on rural India on the excellent site he has been running for about a decade, People’s Archive of Rural India (PARI), which is, for all practical purposes, a virtual database for learning or understanding anything about how people live and work in rural India.

Not that I wasn’t familiar with Sainath earlier. As part of a Times of India project, I remember reading his in-depth reports in the paper in the 1990s, after I joined in Ahmedabad in 1993. However, at that time, from what I can remember, he concentrated more on doing stories on rural India. The latest lecture, which he gave in Ahmedabad on September 6, 2025, for the first time familiarised me with his worldview on the increasing concentration of wealth in India—especially in the media—and how it is adversely impacting Indian democracy.

According to Sainath, this concentration of wealth began soon after Independence, when the Nehru government, in its bid to give a helping hand, gave away land to top media houses for peanuts at prime spots—for instance, in Nariman Point in Bombay (now Mumbai) and Bahadurshah Zafar Marg in Delhi. This, he said, turned them into real estate barons: building multi-storey buildings on these prime plots, the media houses rented out all other floors—except for one, kept for publishing the newspaper—helping them amass huge wealth.

Today, said Sainath, these media houses are also powerful real estate developers. He quoted an interview Vineet Jain, one of the owners of the Times of India group, gave to the New Yorker. Jain, according to him, said, “We are not in the newspaper business; we are in the advertising business.”

I immediately wondered if this was a sharp change from the view held in the mid-1990s, when, while addressing a few of us “seniors” of the Times of India, Vineet Jain’s elder brother, Samir Jain, had said we should remember the paper was in the business of news, emphasising that the Times of India was a family business and had no social agenda. Then he turned to the whiteboard behind him and wrote “liberal social agenda”, crossing it out. He turned to me to ask if I agreed, and out of curiosity, I asked him, “Sir, what about a liberal political agenda?” Visibly embarrassed, he quietly said, “That of course is there…”
Stating how media has changed over time with the rise of television and digital media, Sainath said the corporate hold over media has further solidified, with top tycoon Mukesh Ambani controlling nearly 40 percent of all media in India today, buying up stakes in one outlet after another. Also referring in passing to Gautam Adani’s takeover of NDTV, he pointed out that politicians too are now deeply involved in the media business—owning several TV channels across India, especially in the South.

Stating how this has adversely impacted media coverage, Sainath said, there are several reporters covering Bollywood and business, but was for poverty and rural India, which makes up to nearly two thirds of India, there is no reporter.

Giving figures worth trillions of rupees related to corporate ownership of Indian media, Sainath then discussed how, with the rise of digital media, there has been further concentration of wealth. According to him, four major corporate houses across the globe now control the strings of digital media—they have access to all the data uploaded to digital platforms. With the Government of India seeking to further control digital media by proposing new laws, an attack on press freedom seems imminent, he added.

Giving examples, Sainath said there was an attempt during the Covid period to control media after Reporters Without Borders ranked India 161st out of 180 countries in the World Press Freedom Index. A committee was formed, consisting mainly of government bureaucrats, to counter the index results. Only two journalists—including himself—were included. He said he joined on the condition that media freedom would be ensured. However, after finding his interventions too strong, the committee, which was headed by the Cabinet Secretary, eventually “disappeared”.

Now, said Sainath, there is a move to introduce a law that would impose a huge income tax on non-profit media houses. Pointing out that non-profit organisations like PARI, which he owns, and The Wire, are likely to suffer the most as a result of this move, he said the intention is to squeeze independent media outfits that have emerged over the last decade. This would take away ₹1 crore out of the approximately ₹2.5 crore that PARI raises annually to run its digital operations. He called upon the largely receptive audience—gathered at the invitation of top veteran Gujarat economist Prof. Indira Hirway—to financially support such independent media.

Later, talking informally, I asked Sainath a pointed question: would PARI, which is a digital media platform, have been possible 10 or 15 years ago, when internet penetration was low? He replied that he had started thinking of the PARI project 15 years ago. However, he admitted it was impossible for him to go into print or TV media, as it was too costly—one reason why he opted for the digital route.

I further asked him whether it was possible for ordinary journalists or people aspiring to share news to do so 15 years ago, as is now possible through blogging platforms and social media. To this, he replied that reaching out to readers is a huge issue. Algorithms control what gets propagated. If you’re willing to pay for services on platforms like X, for instance, you have a chance of reaching a wider audience—otherwise not.

Courtesy: CounterView

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Following my blog “AAP’s rising star in Gujarat or guardian of patriarchy? The Gopal Italia dilemma”, I received an interesting comment from social activist Sudhir Kariyar, who works among tribal workers in Gujarat. The blog discusses how Italia, who won a by-election, wrote a letter to the Gujarat chief minister claiming that, on getting involved in love affair, young girls are being “lured” and “trapped” by wedding mafias across the state, urging the authorities to take legal action against this.

In his message, Kariyar said that the well-known Gujarati writer Pannalal Patel’s novel, written in 1931, “about the inter-caste love story between Patel and Barber caste individuals,” should be sent to Gopal Italia. He referred to a social media post by Dalit rights leader Raju Solanki, whom I have known for some time, which featured the cover of Patel’s novel Malela Jeev (Meeting Souls).

I looked up Raju Solanki’s timeline and found that he not only shared the novel’s cover but also posted a write-up on it. In his powerful piece—without once mentioning Italia by name—Solanki dismantles the AAP rising star’s contention that love marriages are an organized racket. Solanki titled his post Balela Jeev (Burnt Lives), a pun on Malela, symbolically referring to Italia.

Let me quote Solanki. He calls Malela Jeev a remarkable novel, recommending it to anyone who has not read it. The novel, he says, tells the “love story of Kanji, from the Patel caste, and Jeevi, from the Valand caste. Because of caste restrictions, they cannot marry. On the advice of his friend, Kanji convinces Jeevi to marry Dhulo, an ugly man from her village, so that she can remain close to him.”

Jeevi agrees and marries Dhulo. “A suspicious and violent man, Dhulo beats Jeevi daily. Kanji moves to the city for work, while Jeevi, weary of her life in the village, one day tries to commit suicide by mixing poison into bread. By mistake, Dhulo eats it and dies. Widowed Jeevi becomes the subject of public slander and eventually loses her sanity. Kanji returns from the city and takes her away with him. The story ends there.”

Providing historical context for when Pannalal Patel wrote the novel (1941), Solanki says, “it was still 14 years before the system of ganot (forced agricultural labor) would be abolished. The Patels were ganotiya (bonded labourers) of the landlords. In the Sarth Gujarati Dictionary, Kanbi was defined as slave and Valand as useless person. Thus, at that time, both Patels and Valands were considered Shudra castes of equal status, yet marriage between them was unthinkable. It still is today.”

Solanki quotes Kanhaiyalal Maneklal Munshi, a well-known Gujarati litterateur, as telling the Gujarati Sahitya Parishad in 1934 that among Gujaratis “men outnumber women,” pointing out that in the Bombay region, which included Gujarat, for every 1,000 men there were 900 women; in India as a whole, there were 950; but as for the Patel community, “there were only 772 women for every 1,000 men.”

Adds Solanki, “Because of this shortage of women, Patels became a gender-challenged caste. Patel youths married tribal girls, and even fairs were held to bring brides from the Kurmi caste of far-off Bihar.” Yet, alluding to Italia’s opposition to love marriages, he adds, “When it comes to their own daughters marrying for love, they oppose it.”

He wonders, “In 1941, Pannalal Patel wrote a great novel on the theme of love marriage. Who today will write about the burnt lives who oppose love marriages?”

Praising Malela Jeev in an online lifestyle journal, one Snehal Parmar writes, as a “huge fan” of romantic Gujarati novels, that in Malela Jeev Pannalal Patel “illustrates the power of true love: it always lasts, always wins, and always has won. In contrast, false love quickly fades and cannot stand up to the power of true love.” Parmar adds, “The writer expresses the difficulty of finding and sustaining true love in today’s age.”

Indeed, Pannalal Nanalal Patel (1912–1989) is renowned for his seminal novels Malela Jeev (1941) and Manvini Bhavai (1947), having written over 61 novels and 26 short story collections. He is celebrated for using the local dialect and idioms of the Sabarkantha region, making his characters and settings feel vividly authentic.

Keen observers note that the timeless tragedy of Pannalal Patel’s Malela Jeev resonates with chilling relevance in today’s Gujarat, particularly in light of recent remarks by AAP MLA Gopal Italia concerning inter-caste love marriages. Italia’s controversial statements, questioning the social harmony of such unions and suggesting they sow discord within communities, starkly contradict the core message woven into Patel’s classic.

It is pointed out that Italia’s assertion that inter-caste love marriages lead to “social and community tensions” attempts to shift blame from the entrenched caste system and its proponents to the individuals daring to defy it. Malela Jeev, by contrast, powerfully refutes this notion by demonstrating that the tension does not arise from love itself, but from the judgmental, exclusionary responses of the community.

Courtesy: Counterview

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Maninagar, I have been told, was Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s initial political karmabhoomi during his formative years. While covering Sachivalaya for the Times of India (1997-2012), a senior bureaucrat told me that during the Emergency days (1975–77), Modi would hide in the house of an RSS pracharak to avoid arrest. This babu, who retired a few years ago and lived in Maninagar, told me he personally knew this RSS pracharak, “a simple soul, always ready to help.”

A known Hindutva bastion, Modi represented the Maninagar constituency in the state legislative assembly thrice — 2002, 2007, and 2012. Expectedly, following the stabbing incident, in which the accused happens to be a Muslim and the victim a Hindu, there was strong protest led by the saffron brigade over the alleged failure of the administration, led by a Christian principal, to keep outlaws in the school under control.

Following the ghastly incident, I happened to interact with the principal of another school. Fear was writ large on his face: what if such an incident happened in his school? Wouldn’t he be beaten up like the Seventh Day School principal was? What if a similar crowd entered his school premises? He had no clue how to control it, nor any idea how to deal with what he called “increasing incidents of violence among schoolchildren, which we are witnessing in front of our own eyes.”

Even as I was speaking with this principal, I came to know that the Ahmedabad district education office (DEO) had called a meeting of school principals where discussions were held on how to prevent incidents like the one in the Maninagar school. I asked this principal what had happened in the meeting. While I wasn’t apprised of the details, he told me he had taken “a few precautionary measures.”

And what were these? “We have started checking the school bags of all the children studying in secondary classes, and we confiscated whatever sharp objects were found,” the principal revealed, adding, “While scissors were found in many children’s bags and we took them all, telling them they were in our lock and key and would be returned when they had crafts period, three children had knives in their bags.”

The principal claimed — and this struck me like a bolt from the blue — “All three were Muslims. One of them carried a rather long knife, which the child told me was used for slaughtering goats. We called the child’s father, whose immediate reaction was that his son was being targeted because he was a Muslim. I told him, we don’t discriminate on religious lines; otherwise, we wouldn’t be admitting Muslims in our school.”

The principal, who headed a private school, further claimed that he had “observed” violent incidents happening “mostly among students admitted under the 25 percent quota for socially and economically backward children under the Right to Education Act. They study for free, for which the government compensates us. We cannot fail them till they reach the eighth standard. They have to be compulsorily promoted. They can’t be rusticated either. So, they become careless. In my school, 50 percent of these children are Muslim.”

A teacher with whom I later interacted told me that in his school — one of the better ones providing “quality” education — following the school authorities’ directions, “we search the children’s bags of one classroom every day. It’s such a headache. Many children — especially those admitted under RTE — are found to keep some sharp object in their bags. Some remove the screw from the pencil sharpener and keep the blades in their bags. Do we teach children or do this security check?”

I mentioned all this to someone close to me. This person, who did not want to be named, said that while he couldn’t comment on the Seventh Day School incident per se, in the late 1990s and 2000s, when he studied at a top Ahmedabad school, he personally witnessed how Muslim children were targeted. “One of the very decent boys, a brilliant one, would be called ‘Oy Miya,’ used as an insult; he was rarely addressed by name. He wouldn’t react, but surely this is the type of atmosphere that prevails in many schools. One must understand the psychology of such children.”

I was reminded of what a well-known cultural personality told me when we met around the time I joined the Times of India in 1993 as part of my acquaintance drive. He told me about a top school, preferred by Gujarati parents for their children. Telling me his daughter studied there, he said, “A day ahead of the 15th August function, the teacher told the children they must compulsorily attend flag hoisting, underlining, ‘those who don’t attend are Miyabhai.’ My daughter asked what is this Miyabhai… I was at a loss to tell her the teacher was spreading communal hatred through such a statement.”

Courtesy: CounterView

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In a passionate defense of Urdu’s rich heritage and its rightful place as a language of India’s heart, in an article shared on his Facebook wall, former Supreme Court Justice Markandey Katju delves into its origins, evolution, and cultural significance, describing it as a uniquely Indian language with a dual character—both aristocratic and rooted in the common man’s experience. Titled “What is Urdu,” the piece challenges the notion that Urdu is a foreign language, asserting its indigenous roots and its deep connection to the Indian populace.

Urging its revival and recognition as a unifying cultural force, Justice Katju explains that Urdu emerged from the superimposition of Persian vocabulary and features onto a Hindustani (Khariboli) foundation, making it a hybrid language, once called Rekhta. “Urdu is a language created by the combination of two languages, Persian and Hindustani,” he writes, emphasizing that its verbs, derived from Hindustani, classify it as a special kind of Hindustani rather than Persian. “The fact that it is a special kind of Hindustani shows that it is a desi or indigenous language,” Katju asserts, countering claims that Urdu is foreign.

Tracing the historical context, Katju notes that Hindustani, the foundation of Urdu, developed as the common language of urban markets in North India, facilitating trade across diverse regions. “A trader traveling from Bihar or Madhya Pradesh could easily sell his goods in a city in Uttar Pradesh or Rajasthan or Punjab because there was a common language, Hindustani,” he explains. Urdu, built on this base, incorporated Persian sophistication due to the latter’s status as the court language during the Mughal era, particularly from Emperor Akbar’s time.

Katju highlights the transformation during the decline of the Mughal Empire after 1707, when the later Mughals, reduced to nominal rulers, adopted Urdu as the court language. “Urdu is thus the language of aristocrats who had become pauperized, but who retained their dignity, pride and respect,” he writes, citing the example of poet Ghalib, who, despite financial struggles, maintained his aristocratic pride. Katju quotes Urdu poet Josh to encapsulate this dignity: “Hashr mein bhi khusrawana shaan se jaayenge hum / Aur agar purshish na hogi, to palat aayenge hum” (Even on judgment day I will go in style / And if not given respect, will turn back).

The article underscores Urdu’s dual nature: “It is both an aristocratic language as well as the commoner’s language.” While its content reflects the struggles and aspirations of the common man, its polished, sophisticated style draws from Persian influences, making it a powerful medium for expressing human emotions. Katju praises Urdu poetry’s elegance, stating, “In no language does the voice of the human heart emerge with such power and elegance (andaz-e-bayan) as it does in Urdu.”

However, Katju laments the damage inflicted on Urdu post-1947 Partition, when it was branded as a “foreign” or “Muslim” language in India. He criticizes the systematic replacement of commonly used Persian words with obscure Sanskrit ones, such as replacing zila (district) with janapad. “This policy of hatefully removing Persian words… resulted in almost genocide for Urdu in India,” he writes. Despite this, he remains optimistic, pointing to the enduring popularity of Urdu in mushairas, Hindi film songs, and the sale of Urdu poetry books at railway bookstalls as evidence of its vitality.

To revive Urdu, Katju suggests making it compulsory in schools for five years, alongside Sanskrit, to connect it to livelihoods and ensure its cultural preservation. He also advocates for publishing Urdu works in both Persian and Devanagari scripts to make them accessible to a wider audience. Quoting Urdu critic Shamshur Rahmaan Farooqui, who called Urdu a “dead and buried” language, Katju disagrees, asserting, “The language which speaks the voice of the heart can never be stamped out as long as people have hearts.”

Katju concludes by urging Urdu and Hindi writers to use simpler language to address contemporary issues like poverty and unemployment, making literature a tool for the masses. He celebrates Urdu poetry’s ability to capture historical transitions, citing Firaq’s couplet: “Har zarre par ek kaifiyat-e-neemshabi hai / Ai saaqi-e-dauran yeh gunahon ki ghadi hai,” which he interprets as a profound depiction of India’s ongoing transition from feudalism to modernity, marked by societal upheaval and clashing values.

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