“Between Hope and Despair”: Four Books to Make Sense of Contemporary India

Rishav Sharma

The political discourse in India underwent a drastic change with the coming to power of Hindu nationalists in 2014. Hindu nationalism and its political language, from the margins of Indian society, became a new ‘common sense’ among the masses and acquired state power. How does one make sense of the last decade in Indian politics? What are the manifest and latent changes occurring in Indian politics, society and its multicultural existence? The four books below, written by scholars, map the long-term changes Hindu nationalists were able to make in Indian politics and society.  

Hope is a Force, Even in our Darkest Hour

Prof Rajeev Bhargava’s book, Between Hope and Despair: 100 Ethical Reflections on Contemporary India, reflects on the predicaments plaguing Indian democracy. He offers a panoramic view of the intricacies that define our pluralist state in the modern era. He dissects the essence of our collective dreams, forging a path towards a deeper understanding of the ethos that shapes our evolving democracy.

Prof Bhargava introduces the book by compelling the readers to face a sobering truth - “India’s collective ethical identity is currently under duress”. This allegation of a pluralist state under duress underscores the encroachment of populism, with its tightening grip on society eroding the constitutional commitments outlined in the grandiose vision of social transformation. The author argues for rationalising public culture to try to prevent this erosion.

In the first part, Bhargava elucidates what a nation is; he writes that the nation is a “self-conscious awareness of commonality” among the people. Drawing on the insights of French philosopher and playwright Jean-Paul Sartre, he argues that intellectuals engage with a range of issues, making anyone's interests a subject of common concern in modern democracies. “If any nation is a people in conversation, then anyone stopping this conversation is damaging it,” he writes. Attempts to stifle the open dialogue are concerning, especially the mainstream media evading these concerns and seemingly working as partisan media or at the behest of their political masters.

Bhargava counters that the narrative from the Hindutva perspective has made the audacious claim that our Constitution is inherently anti-Hindu for bringing reforms in Hindu personal laws. Bhargava employs an evocative analogy and counters the notion that state intervention has been unjust to Hinduism. He writes that this is akin to a patient resenting the other for needing surgery they haven't been fortunate enough to receive. He goes on to label such beliefs as “absurd” and emphasises the 1956 reform as a means to save Hinduism from “decay”.

Prof Bhargava’s scholarly work on secularism has left an indelible mark. The fourth part of the book, ‘Our Religious and Secular Ideals’, navigates the intricate web of contemporary debates swirling around religiosity and secular values. He elucidates the role of secularism in liberal democracies, as many believe they are sufficient for combating all forms of discrimination.

However, he argues that the approach, if not wrong, is insufficient. He argues that secularism is the antidote to the perils of ‘religious fanaticism’, ‘intra-religious oppression’ and ‘domination of one religion by another’, aligning it with the visionary ideals of our forefathers and mothers. The inaugural chapter of this section pays homage to one such founding figure, Mahatma Gandhi and his vision of public religiosity: “The soul of religion is one, but encased in a multitude of forms. Wise men will ignore the outward crust and see the same soul living under a variety of crusts.” He also unveils despondency in the contemporary world to  “owning up to injustices and grave wrongdoings”. Marginalised communities endure deep structural humiliation, which is often ignored in the backdrop of societal complacency. The insidious nature of the issue has led to a distressing normalisation of such injustice. He points, as an example, towards the archaic belief held by religious conservatives that menstrual cycles are somehow polluting.

He adds that the ‘wilful humiliation’ of marginalised communities also occurs: when ‘the victim abjectly surrenders to the will of the perpetrator’. Such an act of humiliation, he writes, is “not only to disempower people but to ensure that the humiliating act is stamped forever and to render the resulting debasement vivid to them with the sole purpose of satisfying the humiliator”.

Concurrently, in India, the precarious existence of the Dalits, even within urban landscapes, remains a stark reality as they grapple with persecution and humiliation stemming from the persisting conservative tenets of Brahmanism. Amidst the shadows of despair that often loom large, the author extends a glimmer of hope. He wishes that the government would uphold the rule of law, craft policies that embrace and uplift the marginalised, safeguard the autonomy of institutions, foster a culture of tolerance for constructive criticism, and cherish and preserve our rich cultural heritage. Indeed, the pages of his book not only reflect the pressing challenges India faces but also shine a guiding light, reminding us that even in our darkest hours, hope remains an enduring force.

An Economist’s Staggering Evaluation of Government Incompetence

In the book, The Crooked Timber of New India: Essays on a Republic in Crisis. Prabhakar exposes the fundamental issues that have plagued the country since 2014. They prompt readers to ponder the true nature of India’s evolving political landscape as he examines the layers of challenges that lurk beneath the façade of apparent progress; he unveils the fault lines often overlooked amid the clamour of the mainstream media.

He highlights the irony of government supporters seeking solutions to problems that have now been marginalised. The popular gimmick of urging people to be ‘positive’, pursued even by media channels, has covertly served as a convenient tactic to divert attention and evade accountability. The author emphasises that such narratives shoved down our throats are nothing but traps, a ‘sycophantic motif to manipulate public discourse’.

The author keenly observes the Modi-led government in its two tenures. The first tenure promised growth and development, a stronger federal relationship with the states, and a rejection of the ‘poison of casteism and communalism’. The second term brought new promises after the first ones were completely reneged on. In it, the BJP served the hemlock of hate to the masses through the mainstream media.

The author underscores the strategic nature of the Prime Minister’s speeches. Crafted in advance, they demand scrutiny of what he says and, more importantly, what he chooses not to say: His silence on India’s unemployment rate, the COVID-19 deaths, the turmoil in Manipur, which has displaced thousands and killed well over a hundred people.

Modi’s silence on Manipur is staggering.  An FIR has been lodged against the fact-finding committee members for stating that the violence was state-sponsored. Considering these instances, which occurred before and after the publication of Prabhakar’s book, his use of the word ‘egocratic’ to describe the government seems inch-perfect.

Prabhakar presents the reader with a series of hard-hitting data. At the dawn of this decade, India experienced an alarming surge in poverty, with an additional 7.5 crore people pushed into its clutches after the pandemic. It means a rise from 5.9 crore poor in 2020 to 13.4 crore in 2021. Worst was India’s further slip in the Global Hunger Index from 101 in 2021 to 107 in 2022. This slide accentuates the gravity of the situation. It is aggravated by the government’s puzzling silence on the skyrocketing unemployment rates, which reached a 45-year high in 2017-2018. Unfortunately, the lack of comprehensive data obscures the extent of the suffering of the jobless youth, which has led the government to leave their ravaged conditions unaddressed and exacerbate their struggles.

The middle-income category, too, suffered a severe setback. Some 3.2 crore people have slipped off the ‘middle-class’ bracket. This decline is particularly noteworthy, as India accounts for a staggering 60% of the global population that has tumbled from the middle-income to low-income category, becoming, in other words, poor. Comparing India with China, which has a similar population density and was just as affected by the spread of COVID-19, the author finds that those who slipped off the low-income cliff into the abyss of poverty were limited to just 10 lakh people. And as the middle-income category contracted in India, the middle-income class actually grew by three crore in China!

The author records the precarious situation of free speech in India and the concerning surge in internet shutdowns since the current regime came to power. Disturbingly, in 2020 alone, India accounted for 109 of the 155 reported worldwide internet shutdowns. This trend reflects a growing climate of censorship and control over digital spaces for speech and expression. However, the assault on free speech extends beyond internet shutdowns, as the government’s heavy-handed approach encompasses blocking 9,849 posts, URLs, and web pages.

In the concluding chapter, ‘A Pandemic Log Book 2021’, the author leaves no stone unturned in examining the multifaceted nature of the unprecedented crisis. The chapter explores not only the social and economic ramifications but also the glaring gaps in governance. One particularly concerning aspect is the profound impact on children and the visibly stark technological divide they faced despite the cheers of ‘Digital India’. A mere 3.5 crore out of 33 crore students had access to online education. This inequity was compounded by the disturbing fact that India is home to one of the largest populations of malnourished children worldwide.

As we transition from the era of Amrit Kal (Ambrosial Era) to the Kartavya Kal (Dutiful Era), it is incumbent upon citizens to embrace their duty to ask the government relevant questions. Should these questions remain unanswered, it becomes imperative that we rally together and raise our voices, demanding a vibrant democracy that upholds accountability, efficiency and responsiveness. If not, the citizens should waste no time to change their rulers democratically.

Roots of India’s Tradition to Silence Critical Voices

Rohan J. Alva’s latest book, A Constitution to Keep: Sedition and Free Speech in Modern India, is an indictment of India's sedition law. Tracing the history of sedition law since colonial times, the author notes that in 1942, in the Narendra Dutt case, the Federal Court, created under the Government of India Act of 1935, set a precedent and limited sedition to ‘incitement of public disorder’. It was overturned in Sadashiv Narayan Bhalerao, as the Privy Council found that mere incitement of enmity towards the government was sufficient to justify a trial. The Council’s decision would culminate in providing fodder for sedition in India, supplemented by restrictions on Fundamental Rights.

The Constituent Assembly has often been criticised for lacking universal adult franchise, and allowing a meagre representation of those who fought to forge an anti-imperialist sentiment. The ones who first proposed the idea of a Constituent Assembly in India, the communists, were left out, barring Somnath Lahiri, a communist and trade unionist from Bengal, who would relentlessly fight for the rights of workers. He proposed an amendment to redact the sedition law and was a member of the Constituent Assembly for a brief period. On the debate about restrictions on liberties, an irate Lahiri said, ‘‘Many fundamental rights have been framed from the point of view of a police constable.” He remarked on the shallowness of rights and liberties since all were followed by a proviso restricting them with ambiguous wordplay.

After an incessant discussion on the nature of free speech in India, in the last hours of the Constituent Assembly, Dr BR Ambedkar seconded the opinion of KM Munshi to remove sedition as a restriction on free speech. Hence, on the day India became a republican democracy, the Constitution did not have the baggage of sedition on its back.

The Constituent Assembly removed sedition from the list of restrictions on liberty, but the sedition law was not thereby rendered obsolete. Parliament had not repealed the provision from the penal statute. For instance, Vallabhbhai Patel wrote to Jawaharlal Nehru, pointing out that allowing criticism as a form of public accountability, while recognising extreme cases where national security is at risk, may necessitate limitations on press freedom.

Similarly, Justice Sarjoo Prasad noted in the Shailabala Devi verdict in 1950, “I cannot with equanimity contemplate such an anomalous situation, but the conclusion appears to be unavoidable on the authority of the Supreme Court judgement with which we are bound.” The apprehension would soon mould the stream of liberties, as the First Constitutional Amendment introduced three new restrictions on free speech. This overturned the precedents set by the apex court in matters of free speech.

Lahiri’s speech in the Constituent Assembly expressed his apprehensions that the “meagre fundamental rights” were being whittled down at the executive's convenience. This came to pass in 1962 when the firebrand communist leader Kedar Nath Singh was convicted of sedition, the first such conviction in independent India. Later, its application became subject to blatant abuse by the executive. Alva throws light on Nehru’s speech in Parliament, wherein he castigated sedition as highly “objectionable” and “obnoxious”, and that the provision of public order had no relevance. The Allahabad High Court in the Ram Nandan case relied on Nehru’s speech in Parliament and held that sedition was not part of public order. (Although the apex court revived sedition in Kedar Nath Singh under the pretext of the ‘public order’ restriction inserted in Article 19(2).) The court not only erred in interpreting public order and public disorder but “donned the hat of the legislator” and made sedition consistent with a restriction which was neither the will of Parliament nor compatible with free speech. Moreover, the bench unconventionally overturned the Romesh Thappar precedent of a larger bench.

Unfortunately, the Indian executive failed to walk the talk. In 1963, the 16th Constitutional Amendment inserted a new restriction on freedom of speech and expression, namely, sovereignty and integrity. It led to the enactment of the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act or UAPA in 1967. At the beginning of the 21st century, the draconian law became even more lethal as the amendment equipped the law to deal with “terrorist activity”, but it was loosely defined. The UAPA bill of 2019 reincarnated the Rowlatt Act after a century, during which an individual could simply be labelled a terrorist.

Alva makes a compelling case for repealing the sedition provision from Indian statutes. The book has many well-cultivated minute details. It offers a descriptive history of sedition and is pertinent considering the attacks on journalists, academicians and activists. The Supreme Court recently said the Constitution is a tradition breaker. How far it has come in breaking the tradition of silencing critical voices is yet to be seen. As several former British colonies in the Third World have removed sedition from their statutes, India too must wake up to its promised tryst with destiny.

Remedy for India’s Hindutva Haze

In Politics, Ethics and Emotions in ‘New India’ (Routledge, 2023), Ajay Gudavarthy takes a worm’s eye view of Indian politics. Instead of using a macro-sociological or historical framework, he couches his understanding in the micro-category of ‘emotions.’ His chief thesis is that if the twentieth century was the Age of Revolutions a la Eric Hobsbawm, the twenty-first century is the ‘Age of Emotions’. There is a two-fold reason for this: Firstly, it is not a rationalist balance sheet of successes or failures in delivering public goods, but the intensely emotional appeal of its vile ideological agenda that has come to have a cross-class/caste acceptance that explains the Hindutva-corporate regime’s continuance.

Gudavarthy recounts a conversation during his daily nocturnal visits to his regular paan-wala. The latter was unhappy at his insistence that, despite Modi’s lofty promises, India remains poor and retorted, ‘Who says India is poor? This is just meaningless talk by educated people like you. These days, even a beggar takes home a thousand rupees a day. Please don’t talk ill about the country.’ A carpenter confided that despite the price rise, ‘I will vote for Modi, he is a dangerous man, he can do anything’. The answer was puzzling. A taxi driver in Bangalore showed him a photo on his mobile wherein Congress leader Rahul Gandhi was wearing a skullcap and surrounded by three burqa-clad women. He said of Gandhi, ‘This man is immoral. How can he marry three women?’ The encounter with a Buddhist driver in Dharmshala was worse. He said, ‘I never allow a Muslim passenger to sit in the back seat…don’t know when he would slit my throat’.

Cumulatively, the source of such indignation among the under-classes is a micro-emotional manifestation of Hindutva’s crudity, which was earlier the preserve of the upper-class/caste elites. Gudavarthy thinks that ‘narratives such as these look random, happenstance, illogical, and ill-informed…what underlies these popular perceptions that become the basis for the emergent emotive majority is their emotional content. They absorb emotions that lie subsumed by a liberal order.’

The Narendra Modi phenomenon is the ability to connect to ‘latent emotions and everyday ethics’. The packaging of Brand Modi has another crucial add-on that all his other political opponents lack: trust. It is based on the ‘adulation of ethics of sacrifice, selflessness, compassion, and a commitment towards the larger good’.

People’s general ‘non-critical’ attitude is another crucial element to the persistent dilemma. Gudavarthy argues that ‘fear is silently playing its role…it can lead to a degree of self-censorship where even the obvious begins to create doubt if one is reading the situation correctly or missing the point. In everyday conversations, people were generally confident, bordering on self-righteousness, but today they sound tenuous, unsure, and therefore not prepared to critique the government. The diagnosis seems to hit the nail on the head. During the protests against the UPA II regime and Anna Hazare’s melodramatic soap opera, criticism of the government was always forthcoming and ‘desirable’. The middle classes then hit the streets, almost ‘fearlessly’ against black money and corruption. Now, despite the Rafale scam, a botched demonetisation policy, and the Adani scandal, the streets are empty.

Gudavarthy offers a two-fold prescription for coming out of the current miasma. Firstly, he argues that India needs a solid dose of ‘positive emotions of love, compassion, and care’. He does not define love as such but means it in contradistinction to hate, which is being pedalled by the Sangh Parivar and its constituents.

Hundreds of instances of inter-communal harmony that exist in India can represent it. A formidable political project to integrate such narratives must be woven into the programs of all opposition parties so that they counter the unified, monolithic, and vicious Hindutva narrative. Secondly, the promise of a genuine welfare state which could sustain ‘compassion and love not as an abstract ideal but as an everyday ethic’. The book is a must-read for those who still have compassion left in the closet of their emotions and are willing to take it out for the purpose of ‘politics’.