When Life Was Just Life — Before Sanatan Became a Slogan

 

The Hollow Saffron Chest-Thumping of Our Times

There was a time when life was simple and quiet. People lived without the need to declare their faith every morning or defend it every evening. There were Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, and Christians, but they were never counted, categorized, or constantly reminded of who they were. Religion was a personal matter, something that guided the inner self, not a label carried in the marketplace of politics.

In those days, words like Sanatan and Hindu were known but rarely spoken in daily life. They belonged to scriptures and spiritual discourse, not to political rallies or social media posts. Faith was silent and sincere, practiced in homes and hearts, not performed on screens. A visit to the temple or a namaz at the mosque was an act of devotion, not a declaration of ideology. People were not divided into Sanatanis and anti-Sanatanis; they were just neighbours and friends.

But somewhere along the way, the sacred turned into spectacle. The essence of Sanatan Dharma, which meant eternal truth and universal harmony, has been reduced to a slogan of power and exclusion. The political class discovered that religion can mobilize better than governance. And so, the ancient word Sanatan was pulled out of the scriptures, polished with propaganda, and planted in the middle of political discourse.

The result is a new breed — the Political Sanatani. Unlike the spiritual Sanatani who seeks truth and self-realization, the Political Sanatani seeks validation and visibility. He is loud, angry, and forever offended. His idea of dharma is not about duty or compassion but about dominance. He confuses pride with piety and outrage with devotion. In his world, silence is weakness and shouting is strength.

What was once a path to inner peace has become a battlefield of identity. Temples have turned into political stages, festivals into campaigns, and symbols of faith into instruments of control. The Sanatan that once preached tolerance now fuels suspicion. The Hindu who once believed in universality is being told to choose sides. The spiritual richness that once defined India is being replaced by a culture of noise and narcissism.

The tragedy is not that religion has entered politics; it is that politics has entered religion. The quiet dignity of faith is lost in the echo of self-proclaimed defenders who understand neither spirituality nor service. True Sanatanis never needed to prove their belief through aggression. Their faith was reflected in conduct, in compassion, in respect for all forms of life.

There was a time when life was just life. No loud claims, no defensive postures, no television debates about gods and identities. People lived their faith, not displayed it. Perhaps it is time to return to that silence — where devotion was private and peace was public.

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When Sanatanism Became a Badge

There was a time when the word Sanatani evoked quiet reverence. It carried the weight of centuries, the spirit of compassion and tolerance, of a civilization that survived invasions and partition without losing its soul¹. Today, it has become a mere badge, flaunted with the pride of a schoolboy waving a forged report card. People scream kattar Hindu or kattar Sanatani, as if loud slogans can substitute for depth of understanding.

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Dharma: Lost in Translation

Dharma, the bedrock of our civilization, is not about costume dramas or aggressive sloganeering². It is a principle as old as the Rig Veda³, as subtle as the Upanishads⁴, and as practical as the Gita⁵. It is the law of righteousness, the path that maintains harmony in society and balance within oneself.

Ask today’s kattar Hindu about dharma, and he will look at you blankly. His understanding begins with “Jai Shri Ram” and ends with a WhatsApp forward about his neighbor’s diet.

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Lessons from the Real Sanatanis

The Sanatana tradition survived because of nuance, not noise. Ashoka turned from violence to nonviolence after Kalinga⁶. Adi Shankara united India through debate, not division⁷. Vivekananda called Hinduism the mother of all religions because of its tolerance⁸.

If they returned today, they would be appalled at the market of saffron chest-thumping — where noise is worshipped and wisdom ignored.

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Politics, Power, and Pretence

Chest-thumping sells. Politicians realized long ago that religious passion rouses the masses⁹. Instead of teaching the Gita’s lesson of selfless action, they hand out soundbites. Instead of spreading Upanishadic wisdom, they host venomous TV debates.

Those who scream Sanatan dharma khatre mein hai cannot recite two shlokas¹⁰. Their temples are in their bank accounts, where donations are tallied, and power worshipped. They are counterfeit priests in the marketplace of faith, selling slogans while delivering division.

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The Irony of Misguided Devotion

In the Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna to fight not out of hatred but duty⁵. Yet today’s champions distort dharma into diet, dress, and daily outrage. They weaponize gods who once represented love.

Khushwant Singh once said that religion in India had become more a matter of ritual than morality¹¹. The saffron scarf is worn not as a symbol of renunciation but as a uniform of intimidation. Loudspeakers drown out silence, hashtags smother reflection. We are left with noise without knowledge, anger without awareness, faith without foundation.

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History’s Warnings

Every time religion becomes a weapon, civilizations pay the price. The Crusades¹², the Taliban¹³, and India’s communal riots¹⁴ prove this. The Sanatana tradition never feared other paths, yet today’s self-proclaimed defenders attack difference. In doing so, they betray the very tradition they claim to protect.

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True Sanatanism Today

To be truly Sanatani today means returning to the essence of dharma — truth, compassion, balance, and self-restraint. It is not about what you wear or eat; it is about how you treat the other.

When we live this way, we will no longer need labels like kattar Hindu or kattar Sanatani. Faith will reclaim its dignity, and religion will regain its silence.

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The Last Word

The word dharma is held hostage by fools who know not its meaning. They scream louder than saints, parade in saffron, and preach purity but act in politics. They are not protectors of Sanatana — they are its greatest danger.

As Gandhi reminded us, dharma is found in truth, not temples¹⁵. Tagore warned against the prison of narrow domestic walls¹⁶. Ambedkar showed that caste and ritual are shackles, not dharma¹⁷.

Their words echo across time, but who listens in an age addicted to noise?

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Author’s Note

The writer, Siddhartha Shankar Mishra, is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India. He writes on politics, history, and society with a satirical edge inspired by Khushwant Singh.

📧 ssmishra33@gmail.com

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References

Footnotes

1. Romila Thapar, A History of India, Vol. 1. ↩

2. S. Radhakrishnan, Indian Philosophy. ↩

3. Rig Veda, Mandala 1. ↩

4. Upanishads, Chandogya Upanishad. ↩

5. Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 2. ↩ ↩²

6. Romila Thapar, Asoka and the Decline of the Mauryas. ↩

7. Swami Gambhirananda, Adi Shankaracharya: Life and Philosophy. ↩

8. Swami Vivekananda, Speech at the Parliament of Religions, Chicago, 1893. ↩

9. Christophe Jaffrelot, The Hindu Nationalist Movement and Indian Politics. ↩

10. Media accounts and public statements of right-wing activists. ↩

11. Khushwant Singh, The History of Sikhs. ↩

12. Thomas Asbridge, The Crusades: The War for the Holy Land. ↩

13. Ahmed Rashid, Taliban: Militant Islam, Oil and Fundamentalism in Central Asia. ↩

14. Gyanendra Pandey, The Construction of Communalism in Colonial North India. ↩

15. M.K. Gandhi, Hind Swaraj. ↩

16. Rabindranath Tagore, Nationalism. ↩

17. B.R. Ambedkar, The Annihilation of Caste. ↩

 

From Diyas to Dynamite: How Firecrackers Hijacked the Spirit of Diwali

 

When pollution becomes patriotism and crackers become culture, Diwali loses its light.

Diwali was once a quiet dialogue between the soul and the flame. Today, it has become a competition of noise, smoke, and self-congratulation. What was meant to celebrate light over darkness now celebrates defiance over discipline. The modern Diwali is less about devotion and more about decibels — and, under the shadow of political Sanatanis, even firecrackers have been recast as instruments of nationalism. The BJP and its ideological family have turned this ancient festival into a political performance, where bursting a cracker is not a matter of joy but an act of identity.

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Diwali was never meant to be a festival of noise. It was, in its essence, the celebration of light, of inner awakening, of knowledge conquering ignorance. It was the evening when flickering diyas became metaphors for the human spirit — humble, luminous, enduring. Today, however, those lamps struggle to be seen amid the blinding flashes and deafening bursts of modern vanity. The festival of light has slowly turned into a theatre of explosions. What was once a spiritual symphony has become an environmental emergency wrapped in the smoke of misplaced pride and manufactured faith.

To understand how this happened, one must travel back in time. The earliest references to Diwali appear in the ancient Sanskrit texts of Padma Purana and Skanda Purana, where it was described as a celebration of the return of light, harvest, and prosperity. It was linked to the victory of Lord Rama over Ravana in the north, the worship of Goddess Lakshmi in the west, and the triumph of Krishna over Narakasura in the south. The oil lamp was its centrepiece. No firecrackers. No sulphur clouds. Only the soft glow of oil lamps lining the courtyards of homes, symbolising the eternal triumph of good over evil.

The story of firecrackers in India begins elsewhere — in China. Around the ninth century, Chinese alchemists discovered gunpowder while searching for the elixir of immortality. What they found instead was a formula that could fill the sky with thunder and colour. The technology travelled through Arab traders, reached Persia, and finally arrived in India around the fourteenth to fifteenth centuries. By the time the Mughal emperors began to rule, fireworks had become a form of royal entertainment, known as atishbazi. The Mughals used them to celebrate victories, coronations, and grand festivals. Akbar is said to have enjoyed magnificent firework displays that illuminated his palaces like daylight.

From there, the flame of fascination spread. Fireworks became a symbol of power and celebration. Wealthy merchants and zamindars began using them in weddings and festivals, including Diwali. Slowly, a ritual of light turned into a spectacle of noise. The transformation of Diwali from an occasion of spiritual reflection into a carnival of firecrackers was not a sudden event but a gradual cultural drift — a merging of tradition with imperial display, and eventually with commercial greed.

During the British period, fireworks became more accessible. The East India Company imported gunpowder and pyrotechnic materials from Europe. By the late nineteenth century, local workshops began producing small-scale fireworks in Calcutta and Bombay. However, the real explosion came in the early twentieth century with the establishment of the Sivakasi industry in Tamil Nadu. What began as a printing and matchstick business soon diversified into firecrackers. By independence, Sivakasi had become the heart of India’s fireworks production, supplying the nation with its annual dose of festive pollution. The sacred festival of lamps had now acquired a new avatar — one that came with smoke, sound, and child labour.

The irony is painful. Diwali, which once celebrated the victory of life over darkness, now fills the air with toxins that choke life itself. The Central Pollution Control Board records dangerous spikes in air quality levels every Diwali night. Cities like Delhi, Lucknow, and Kolkata witness air quality indexes soaring into the severe category. The morning after Diwali smells of burnt chemicals and suffocated lungs. Children and animals suffer silently. Hospitals report an increase in respiratory distress, eye irritation, and even heart complications. Yet, every year, the spectacle returns — louder, brighter, and deadlier.

And now, to this ecological chaos, politics has added its own brand of toxicity. The so-called Sanatani brigade and its political custodian, the BJP, have turned even firecrackers into a litmus test of religious identity. The right to burst crackers has become, in their vocabulary, a mark of nationalism. Any attempt by the courts or civic authorities to regulate fireworks for health or environmental reasons is projected as an “attack on Hinduism.” This deliberate distortion turns science into sacrilege and pollution into pride.

When a court says “do not pollute the air,” they say “save Sanatan Dharma.” When a doctor says “this will kill your lungs,” they say “this is our tradition.” The very people who preach discipline and purity have made defiance their political ritual. Firecrackers have become another weapon in their larger war of cultural assertion — not against darkness, but against dissent. It is not about faith anymore. It is about domination.

This selective religiosity does not protect tradition; it manipulates it. The BJP and its ideological parent, the Sangh Parivar, have turned every cultural practice into a battlefield. From food to festivals, every act of daily life is now loaded with a communal message. They want to tell you what to eat, whom to marry, and now, how loudly to celebrate. The idea is simple — to project Hindutva as Hinduism, and political arrogance as divine right. In that process, even Diwali’s soft light is weaponised to cast a shadow over other communities.

It is not uncommon today to hear hate-filled slogans around Diwali that equate the bursting of crackers with revenge against “invaders.” This is the language of resentment, not religion. The same voices that talk about Lord Rama’s return to Ayodhya conveniently forget that Rama’s victory was not through noise or hate, but through dharma and restraint. Those who shout the loudest about Sanatan Dharma often practise the least of its values. They burn the skies in the name of God, while burning reason on the ground.

A noiseless Diwali is not an attack on faith. It is a return to faith. It is a reminder that light itself is enough. The diya never competes with the sun, yet it transforms the night. The silence of a lamp is not its weakness; it is its wisdom. When we abandon the sound of crackers, we rediscover the sound of conscience. When we clear the air of smoke, we make space for the fragrance of devotion. The true celebration of Diwali lies not in the destruction of the senses but in the awakening of the self.

Let Diwali be a festival that unites joy with responsibility, beauty with compassion, and celebration with conscience. Let us light our homes, not our skies. Let the only explosions be those of laughter and love. The world is already burning with enough hatred and noise; it does not need another fire.

The festival of light must return to its roots — luminous, peaceful, and pure.

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Author’s Note:

Advocate Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is a practising lawyer at the Supreme Court of India. He writes on law, politics, and society with a focus on reason and reform. He can be reached at ssmishra33@gmail.com.

 

When Snacks Unite and People Divide

 

Samosa came from Persia, jalebi from Arabia, and barfi from India. They share space on our plates, our festivals, and our cravings. They are not concerned with the politics of origin, the purity of culture, or the identity of their makers. Yet, in the same land where these delicacies coexist without quarrel, people continue to divide themselves in the name of religion, race, and faith. It is an irony as rich as the syrup of a jalebi and as bitter as burnt sugar.

History has always been a patient teacher, but we remain stubborn students. Long before the borders of modern nations, trade routes carried spices, sweets, and stories across civilisations. The samosa travelled with Persian merchants to Central Asia and then to the Indian subcontinent. The jalebi, known as zalabiya in Arabic, came with traders and soldiers who made India their home. Barfi, though born in India, carries a Persian name that means snow. Together, they reveal a simple truth — our culture has always been a fusion, not a fortress.

Yet today, we stand in a time when fusion is suspect, and purity is preached. Where once caravans brought recipes, now ideologues bring resentment. We debate who belongs, who does not, and who came first — forgetting that every civilisation worth its salt has been shaped by those who came from elsewhere. The kitchen, that humble laboratory of coexistence, tells a story far wiser than any sermon from a political pulpit.

Look at a plate of snacks in any Indian home during a festival. You will find samosas beside jalebis, barfi beside seviyan, and gulab jamuns alongside sheer khurma. The diversity on the plate mocks the division on the street. Food, like faith, is meant to nourish, not to divide. It does not ask whether your hands folded in prayer before touching it, or which god you invoked before the first bite. It asks only if you are hungry — and hunger, mercifully, has no religion.

Our ancestors understood this better than we do. The same civilisation that wrote the Upanishads also welcomed the Quran and preserved the Gospels. Ancient India was not afraid of ideas from abroad. It absorbed them, debated them, refined them, and made them its own. The samosa and jalebi are small edible monuments to that same spirit of assimilation. They prove that borrowing is not betrayal; it is civilisation itself.

But modern politics thrives not on unity, but on fear. It weaponises difference and sells division. It tells you that your neighbour is your enemy because his name sounds different, or his prayer is said in another language. It tells you that your past was pure until someone came and polluted it. Such narratives may fetch votes, but they rob us of dignity. They make us suspicious of the very richness that defines us.

It is time to step back and take lessons from the plate before us. The samosa does not reject the jalebi because it was born elsewhere. The barfi does not protest because its name came from another tongue. Together they make the meal complete. Should people be any different?

Every culture, like every kitchen, is a conversation between old and new. To deny that is to deny evolution itself. When we accept that our food, our language, our art, and our festivals are the products of mingling minds, we become less fearful and more human. The more we mix, the more flavour we create — in taste, in thought, in life.

Perhaps it is time we learn from our snacks what our politics refuses to teach. Civilisation is not about drawing lines on maps or guarding temples of memory. It is about celebrating the beauty of exchange — of ideas, of ingredients, of hearts.

Next time you bite into a samosa or swirl a jalebi in syrup, remember the journey it made to reach your plate. Remember that it crossed borders, religions, and centuries to bring joy to you. And then ask yourself — if food can unite us so effortlessly, what stops us from doing the same?

Because in the end, hatred has never fed a nation. But a shared meal always has.

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— Siddhartha Shankar Mishra
Advocate, Supreme Court of India
✉️ ssmishra33@gmail.com
He writes on law, politics, and society with a touch of satire and conscience.

 

The Vadnagar Express: Non-Stop to Political Mythology

 

Since 1881, Vadnagar station has seen many passengers, but none marketed as vigorously as its most famous chaiwala. From tea stalls to missing certificates and Himalayan wanderings, Modi’s journey reads less like history and more like a political mythology running non-stop.

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Of Tea, Tracks, and Certificates: The Modi Origin Story

History, like tea, tastes different depending on who is brewing it. In India’s political kitchen, the most over-boiled concoction is the story of a boy who sold tea at a railway station and then ascended to the throne of Delhi. Stirring this tale with facts, dates, and a pinch of satire, one finds a brew that is less divine elixir and more political marketing.

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The Setting of the Stage: Vadnagar 1881

Let us begin not with Modi’s birth in 1950, but with the birth of his stage: the Vadnagar railway station. Built in 1881 during the British Raj as part of the Mehsana–Vadnagar narrow-gauge line, the station stood there decades before Modi’s first cry echoed through Vadnagar.

By the 1960s, it was still a sleepy station. Few trains, fewer passengers, but — according to political folklore — the perfect place for a child entrepreneur to launch his tea empire. If one believes the campaign posters, this wasn’t a boy pouring hot water into an aluminum kettle; it was the Indian Dream incarnate, brewing itself on a wooden bench.

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1950: The Birth of the Brand

Narendra Damodardas Modi was born on 17 September 1950, to Damodardas and Hiraba Modi. The family belonged to the Ghanchi community — traditional oil pressers, later petty traders.

In most biographies, this is where the violin music starts: a poor child helping his father at a railway tea stall. In most political speeches, this is where the violin becomes a marching band: “A son of the soil, a chaiwala!”

But satire, like truth, demands an awkward question: if the station existed since 1881, why was it rediscovered only in 2014 election rallies?

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1960s: Of School Bells and Steam Whistles

Modi’s schooling in Vadnagar during the 1960s has been described as modest. Teachers called him average in academics but keen in debates and drama. He loved playing the role of a saint on stage — a foreshadowing of how politics itself would later become his theatre.

Meanwhile, the railway station, that eternal supporting actor, became the centrepiece of the story. As if the planks of its benches held the prophecy of future prime ministership. One wonders if the British engineers of 1881 knew that their humble platform would one day be marketed more vigorously than the Taj Mahal.

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Certificates: The Scriptwriters’ Headache

Education is usually a ladder. In Modi’s case, it is a mystery novel.

• School Leaving: Yes, he studied in Vadnagar. That much is certain.
• Higher Studies: Here comes the suspense. Modi claims a BA from Delhi University (1978) and an MA from Gujarat University (1983).
• The Twist: In 2016, when RTI activists demanded proof, universities produced documents, but the plot thickened with spelling errors, mismatched details, and missing records.

The opposition cried forgery; supporters cried foul. Meanwhile, the Prime Minister maintained saintly silence, perhaps thinking: why bother with degrees when you can confer doctorates on yourself through electoral victories?

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Early 1970s: The Wandering Monk

After finishing school, Modi reportedly left home, seeking spiritual enlightenment. He is said to have wandered the Himalayas, stayed at Ramakrishna Mission ashrams, and lived a life of meditation.

The problem is — no diary, no witness, no railway ticket survives from this wandering. It is as if history itself chose to respect his privacy. In storytelling terms, this is the convenient “interval” — the hero disappears, only to return transformed.

One can’t help but suspect that the monk’s robes were less about renunciation and more about rehearsal: practicing solitude before embracing power.

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Mid-1970s: RSS, Emergency, and Political Birth

By 1974, Modi returned to Vadnagar, this time not with a kettle but with pamphlets. He joined the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) and plunged into the Navnirman Movement, a student agitation against corruption in Gujarat.

During the Emergency (1975–77), he worked underground, distributing anti-government literature. For the RSS, he was not yet the star, but a backstage hand, arranging lights and props for the ideological theatre.

From tea-seller to underground activist, the biography was already acquiring cinematic pace. All it needed was a national stage and a good director.

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Satire Brewing

Now let’s pause and sip the contradictions.

1. The Station: Built in 1881, yet sold to us in 2014 as if Modi had personally laid the tracks.
2. The Tea: A humble family occupation turned into an epic saga, proof that poverty is not to be eradicated but glamorized.
3. The Certificates: Produced late, riddled with errors, but defended like holy scriptures.
4. The Wandering: A decade of supposed spiritual search that no one can confirm, but everyone must believe.

If a novelist wrote such a character, critics would accuse him of exaggeration. In India, we elect him.

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The Larger Irony

The tea-seller story was once a tale of humble origins. Today, it has mutated into a corporate brand. Government ads, election posters, and foreign tours all boil the same kettle: he rose from nothing, therefore everything he does is right.

But should poverty be used as a perpetual campaign poster? Should selling tea at a station in the 1960s guarantee immunity from questions in 2025? By that logic, every rickshaw-puller is a prime minister-in-waiting.

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Timeline Recap (for those who prefer railway schedules):

• 1881: Vadnagar railway station built.
• 1950: Modi born in Vadnagar.
• 1960s: Schooling; assisted at family’s tea stall.
• Early 1970s: Leaves home, wanders Himalayas, joins Ramakrishna Mission ashrams.
• 1974: Returns, joins RSS during Navnirman agitation.
• 1975–77: Works underground during Emergency.
• 1978: Alleged BA from Delhi University.
• 1983: Alleged MA from Gujarat University.

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In Sum

In sum, the Modi narrative is a clever blend of half-truths, omissions, and exaggerations. Yes, there was a tea stall. Yes, there was a wandering phase. Yes, there are certificates. But around these fragments, an empire of political mythology has been built — one that transforms a man’s modest life into a legend, while leaving inconvenient facts by the roadside.

About the Author

The author, Siddhartha Mishra, is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India. He writes frequently on law, politics, and society, blending legal precision with sharp satire. He can be reached at ssmishra33@gmail.com  

References

Andersen, W. K., & Damle, S. D. (2018). RSS: A view to the inside. Penguin Random House India.

Caravan Magazine. (2014, July). Myth and the making of Modi. The Caravan. Retrieved from https://caravanmagazine.in

Dasgupta, S. (2014, April). The political phenomenon called Narendra Modi. India Today. Retrieved from https://www.indiatoday.in

Delhi University & Gujarat University. (2016, May). RTI responses on educational qualifications of Narendra Modi. Reported in The Hindu, The Indian Express, & NDTV.

Election Commission of India. (2014 & 2019). Affidavit filings by candidate Narendra Modi. Retrieved from https://affidavit.eci.gov.in

Indian Railways Archives. (1881). Records of the Mehsana–Vadnagar narrow-gauge line under BB&CI Railway. Western Railway Heritage Section, Mumbai.

Marino, A. (2014). Narendra Modi: A political life. HarperCollins Publishers.

Mukhopadhyay, N. (2013). Narendra Modi: The man, the times. Tranquebar Press.

Ramakrishna Mission Archives. (2014, June). Statement on Narendra Modi’s alleged stay at Belur Math. Reported in The Telegraph and Outlook India.

State Archives of Gujarat. (1974–1975). Records of the Gujarat Navnirman Movement and ABVP participation. Government of Gujarat.

One Hundred Years of Silence: The RSS and India’s Freedom Struggle

 

When a century-old institution celebrates its birth anniversary, one usually expects a garland of glorious history: battles fought, sacrifices made, prisons endured, martyrs remembered. But when it comes to the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), born in 1925 and now entering its hundredth year, the historical record looks more like a century of silence punctuated by drill whistles than a saga of sacrifice.

The RSS’s founding father, Keshav Baliram Hedgewar, had indeed dabbled in Congress-led protests during the Non-Cooperation Movement of 1921. But by 1925, he had retired from politics to start a new venture: not a political revolution but a daily drill club, better known as the shakha. Hedgewar’s mission was not to overthrow the British Raj, but to straighten Hindu backs with lathis and marching songs. The Raj, ever vigilant against sedition, looked upon the RSS with indulgent eyes—it was hard to arrest a group of young men twirling sticks in the park while the rest of the country was busy defying colonial law.

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The Civil Disobedience Movement (1930s): Silence of the Swayamsevaks

As Gandhi and Nehru led salt marches and filled jails, the RSS stayed safely in the background, reciting patriotic verses in well-ironed khaki shorts. The organization did not call upon its volunteers to join the protests. In fact, Hedgewar’s occasional participation was framed as his “personal capacity,” not an RSS mission. It was as if the Sangh’s philosophy was: Let others break laws and go to prison; we shall break sweat in the playground.

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Quit India, Quiet RSS (1942): A Case Study in Neutrality

The year 1942 saw India’s greatest mass uprising against the British—the Quit India Movement. Entire villages rose in rebellion, British jails overflowed, and leaders from Gandhi to Aruna Asaf Ali faced imprisonment. And the RSS? It chose the noblest of all political positions: neutrality.

M.S. Golwalkar, who had by then taken over as the head, made it clear that the RSS would not participate. British intelligence reports confirm that the organization avoided political entanglements and even reassured colonial officials that its cadre would not cause trouble. While Congressmen were hunted, flogged, and jailed, swayamsevaks continued their shakhas undisturbed.

One might say that while the nation shouted “Do or Die,” the RSS preferred “Drill and March.”

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Subhas Bose and the INA: Absent Friends

When Subhas Chandra Bose raised the Indian National Army and sought help from Germany and Japan, young Indians left everything to join the dream of an armed liberation. The RSS, however, did not send contingents, funds, or even a symbolic salute. For an organization that boasts of martial spirit, its absence from the INA saga is perhaps the loudest silence in military history.

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Communal Shield, Not Freedom Sword

To its credit, the RSS did perform social service—particularly in protecting Hindus during communal riots. But this was never directed against the British Empire; it was always a project of internal consolidation. The British, experts in the art of divide and rule, could hardly have asked for a more cooperative arrangement. While Nehru languished in jail, the Raj found in the RSS an organization that was politically quietist and socially useful.

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The Martyrdom Question

Every great nationalist organization boasts of martyrs:

• Congress has Bhagat Singh, Rajguru, Sukhdev, and a long list of jailbirds and exiles.
• The INA has soldiers who fell in battle, chanting “Jai Hind.”
• The communists, despite ideological disputes, bled in labour strikes and peasant revolts.

And the RSS? It has martyrs of discipline—those who never missed a pratah shakha. The organization cannot point to a single leader executed by the British, a single mass trial it suffered, or a single gallows it climbed. Its roll of honour is distinguished by absence.

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After Independence: The Great Rebranding

When freedom finally came in 1947, the RSS quickly tried to drape itself in nationalist colours. Its cadres were visible during Partition riots, often in the role of “community defenders”—though critics allege that “defence” often slid into aggression. The assassination of Mahatma Gandhi in 1948 by Nathuram Godse, a man who had once been an RSS worker, led to the banning of the organization for the first time. Sardar Patel himself wrote scathing letters accusing the RSS of creating an atmosphere of hate.

Thus, the RSS’s first real encounter with the independent Indian state was not as a freedom fighter but as a suspect in Gandhi’s murder.

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The Historical Irony

The irony of the RSS’s centenary celebrations lies in its attempt to rewrite its own past. Its leaders now claim that swayamsevaks “indirectly” contributed by building Hindu character, as if character-building itself toppled the British Empire. Others argue that individual members joined the struggle in their personal capacity. By that logic, one could also say that the Indian freedom struggle was aided by the British railway system, because it transported Congress volunteers to protest sites.

History, however, demands specifics: dates, events, martyrs, sacrifices. And on these metrics, the RSS record book remains largely blank between 1925 and 1947.

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The Centenary Satire

As the RSS celebrates one hundred years in 2025, one can imagine the commemorative plaque:

“Here stood an organization that did not oppose the British, did not join Quit India, did not fight with the INA, and did not fill British jails. But it drilled diligently, marched faithfully, and perfected the art of silence during revolution. Long live the shakha!”

It is the only organization that can boast of reaching its centenary without having once been beaten by a British policeman’s lathi.

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Conclusion: A Legacy of Non-Participation

The RSS today is a political powerhouse through its offspring, the Bharatiya Janata Party. It claims the mantle of nationalism, patriotism, and cultural pride. Yet, the historical record of its first 22 years (1925–1947) reveals a striking truth: the RSS played no direct role in India’s freedom struggle. Its centenary therefore raises a satirical question: Can an organization that stood by during the fight for freedom now claim to be the custodian of nationalism?

The answer lies not in slogans but in archives. And the archives whisper, with dry irony: “When India fought, the RSS watched.”

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 Author’s Introduction:
Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India and a political commentator. He writes with a satirical edge on law, history, and contemporary politics, exposing hypocrisies with a lawyer’s precision and a critic’s pen. He can be reached at ssmishra33@gmail.com.