Two Sides of the Same Coin: Why I Don’t Trust the RSS, the Communists, or Any Ideology

 

Ideologies are seductive. They offer certainty in a complex world, identity in an age of confusion, and meaning where there is doubt. But look closely, and you’ll often find hypocrisy wrapped in righteousness. That’s exactly why I have no patience for either the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) or the Indian Communist movement. Both claim to serve the people. Both behave like monopolists of truth. And both, ironically, have become mirror images of each other in their hypocrisy and authoritarian reflexes.

Let’s begin with the Sangh.

The RSS projects itself as a cultural force committed to "Bharatiyata" — Indian-ness. But scratch the surface and you’ll find a homogenising impulse: one language, one religion, one narrative. It has a visceral discomfort with diversity, especially if that diversity doesn't conform to its curated vision of Hindu civilisation. What it calls culture is often dogma. What it calls tradition is usually selective memory.

It screams nationalism from rooftops, but behaves like an elite capitalist cartel. Its political progeny, the BJP, has overseen some of the most aggressive privatisation campaigns in post-liberalisation India. Public sector units — once seen as symbols of national pride — have been sold off to private conglomerates. Labour laws have been diluted, environmental safeguards weakened, and farmer protests dismissed with disdain. All this while chanting “Vande Mataram” and invoking Lord Ram. Is this nationalism or neoliberal corporatism with a saffron filter?

The Sangh’s idea of nationalism isn’t about public welfare or constitutional values — it’s about controlling the narrative. Journalists who question the regime are branded anti-national. Students who protest are charged with sedition. Even Supreme Court judges aren’t spared trolling if they show signs of independence. The message is simple: toe the line, or prepare for war — digitally, legally, and socially.

On the other side, we have the Indian Communists — draped in  Marxist jargon, forever nostalgic for a revolution that never happened.

They claim to speak for the proletariat, the worker, the marginalised. But many of them haven’t seen the inside of a factory since their student days at JNU or Presidency College. Their revolution is largely rhetorical, performed in conferences, campus debates, and op-eds. In practice, they are often just another elitist clique — patronising the poor while living comfortably off state subsidies, academic tenures, or NGO consultancies.

Much like the RSS, the Left hates being questioned. Dissent within is treated as betrayal. Remember what happened in Bengal? The CPI(M) was in power for 34 years, and by the end of it, they had turned into a bureaucratic dinosaur — indifferent, arrogant, and increasingly violent. Land acquisition in Singur and Nandigram exposed their double standards. The same party that once cried hoarse about farmers’ rights ended up suppressing them in the name of "development."

Both the Sangh and the Communists use history as a political tool. The RSS rewrites it to glorify a mythical Hindu past and vilify Muslims. The Communists whitewash it to erase uncomfortable truths — their silence on the Soviet gulags, on Chinese authoritarianism, or even on India's own missteps under Communist rule.

Here’s the bitter truth: both are deeply hypocritical.

In the name of nationalism, the RSS behaves like a capitalist syndicate — selling assets, courting billionaires, and muzzling voices. In the name of society, the Communists often practice a soft version of capitalism themselves — hoarding power, monopolising institutions, and living lives entirely disconnected from the people they claim to represent.

Their hypocrisies don’t stop at economics. The RSS claims to protect Indian culture but is often silent or complicit when Dalits are lynched, when Muslims are demonised, when women are harassed. The Communists talk of equality but are notoriously male-dominated and caste-blind. How many Dalit or Adivasi voices do we see leading the charge in elite left spaces? Very few.

Even structurally, both formations are disturbingly similar. The RSS runs through a hierarchy — shakhas, pracharaks, and sarsanghchalaks. The Communists have their politburos, central committees, and cadres. Both distrust mass participation that isn’t tightly controlled. Both fetishize discipline. Both despise messiness — the very essence of democracy.

And here’s the danger: they are both fundamentally authoritarian in temperament. They may differ in aesthetics — one wears khaki, the other prefers Lenin caps — but they operate with the same mindset: conformity is loyalty; questioning is rebellion.

I have no quarrel with individuals who believe in change. Many idealists on both sides truly care about the country. But when noble intent calcifies into ideological dogma, it ceases to liberate and begins to imprison. That’s what these ideological camps have become — intellectual prisons.

I write this not as a fence-sitter or a centrist trying to please everyone. I write this as someone who believes politics should be rooted in principle, not posture. I believe in the Constitution, not Nagpur’s civilisational sermon or Karl Marx’s Manifesto. I believe in the right to dissent — whether it’s a student shouting slogans or a judge writing a dissenting opinion. And I believe in truth — not the kind curated by propaganda cells, IT wings, or ideological commissars.

India doesn’t need more ideologues. It needs more citizens. Citizens who can think critically, vote wisely, question loudly, and dream boldly. Not men marching in lines with flags and slogans, but men and women walking independently — with their eyes open and minds free.

So no, I don’t like the RSS.

I don’t like the Communists.

And I don’t like any ideology that pretends to free you while tightening the leash around your neck.

Let’s stop choosing between two extremes of the same disease. India deserves better than dogma wrapped in a flag — saffron or red.

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Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India. He writes on law, politics, and society with a focus on democratic accountability, civil liberties, and ideological critique. He can be reached at ssmishra33@gmail.com.

 

From Street Protests to Power Luncheons: The Many Avatars of Pujari

 

Back in the politically charged 1980s, a young, firebrand student leader roared through the dusty lanes of Sambalpur. His name? Suresh Pujari. His enemy? The Marwari businessman, symbolic of a so-called capitalist stranglehold on the local economy. His weapon? The loud, defiant slogan—“Marwari hatao, Odisha bachao!”

It was the age of campus revolutions, the era when ideology was worn like a badge of honour and not merely as a selfie filter. Pujari, then a spirited voice of the youth, rallied against what he called the monopolisation of trade, power, and influence by a select few merchant families. The speeches were fiery, the marches intense, and the slogans dramatic enough to make Che Guevara smirk from his grave.

But that was yesterday.

Fast forward to today, and behold the same Suresh Pujari, now swearing in as Odisha’s Revenue Minister under the saffron flag of political pragmatism. And guess who’s applauding from the front rows? The very same Marwari businessmen, now partners in progress, co-hosts in investor summits, and co-drafters of "Vision Odisha 2030". Oh, how the slogans have aged — from revolution to resolution, from boycott to bhai-saheb, and from resistance to ribbon-cutting.

One might call this political maturity. After all, governance demands diplomacy, economic pragmatism, and yes — friendly ties with the business community. But when a man makes a U-turn so spectacular that it leaves his own ideology behind like a torn protest banner, the public deserves more than silence. They deserve a footnote, if not a full confession.

Suresh Pujari’s transformation is not just personal — it is emblematic of a wider phenomenon where rebellion is not crushed, but cleverly accommodated. Once a voice for the marginalised, he is now a polished spokesperson for “ease of doing business.” The rebel has become the receptionist. The crusader now manages the accounts.

To be fair, Pujari is not alone. Indian politics is a museum of ideological conversions. From firebrand leftists who now host Ambani’s sons at weddings to Dalit leaders who quote Adam Smith in Parliament, transformation is no longer news—it is the very nature of the beast. But what makes Pujari’s case uniquely ironic is the unapologetic manner in which he has embraced the same ecosystem he once vilified.

In the corridors of Bhubaneswar’s Secretariat, murmurs are rife. “He’s only doing what’s needed for Odisha’s development,” some say. Others shrug and add, “Who else will bring in the money if not the Marwaris?” True. But that begs the question—was it development he was protesting against in the first place? Or was it exclusion? Monopoly? Exploitation?

Pujari, had he retained a sliver of that student fire, could have carved a new path — one that engaged with capital but without losing sight of justice and equity. But alas, the man who once marched barefoot in student rallies now walks carefully-polished corridors, escorted by industrialists offering CSR brochures and MoU drafts.

This isn't just about hypocrisy; it's about the erosion of memory. Political history, especially in Odisha, has rarely been kind to those who stood on principles. But to see those principles traded at the altar of convenience is to witness not evolution, but erosion.

Kuldip Nayar would have likely asked: “Where is the line between change and compromise?” Khushwant Singh would have chuckled and remarked, “The only ideology that survives in politics is the ideology of power.” Between the two lies the tragicomedy of Indian democracy — and the curious case of Suresh Pujari.

One can still picture the younger Pujari — sleeves rolled up, eyes burning with ambition, chanting slogans against capitalist encroachment in front of Marwari-owned shops. Today, the same hands are busy signing land lease documents and chairing business conclaves, where the keynote address begins with, “We welcome our Marwari brothers who have contributed immensely to Odisha’s economy.”

Of course, people change. Contexts change. The economy, too, demands new frameworks. But what doesn’t change — or at least shouldn’t — is the soul of public service. When revolts become resumé points, and slogans become stepping stones, we are no longer building a democracy. We are curating a theatre.

The story of Suresh Pujari should be taught in political science classes — not as a lesson in betrayal, but as a cautionary tale in ideological drift. It shows how political careers are often less about transformation and more about transaction. Where once there was a barricade, now there’s a banquet.

And while the Minister might sleep soundly on starched bedsheets in his Lutyens-style Bhubaneswar bungalow, one wonders if the ghost of that old Sambalpur student ever knocks at night, asking:

"Did the revolution lose its way… or did you change the map?"

The question lingers — unanswered, perhaps deliberately — in the corridors of power.

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[Author’s Note]
Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India and writes on law, politics, and society. He can be reached at ssmishra33@gmail.com.

 

The Scientist, the Spy, and the Sangh: Unmasking the DRDO Espionage Scandal

On May 3, 2023, the serene corridors of India’s prestigious Defence Research and Development Organisation (DRDO) were rocked by a stunning revelation: a senior scientist—entrusted with the nation’s most guarded military secrets—had been arrested for espionage. The man at the heart of the scandal was Dr. Pradeep Kurulkar, a veteran engineer, a former director at DRDO Pune, and, as he openly claimed, a fourth-generation member of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS).

What unfolded was a tangled tale of honey traps, high-tech espionage, and ideological irony—raising difficult questions not just about personal vulnerability, but about institutional safeguards and the politicization of patriotism.

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A National Security Nightmare

Kurulkar wasn’t just any scientist. He was the director of R&D (Engineering) at DRDO’s Research and Development Establishment (Engineers) in Pune, a key division involved in developing sophisticated infrastructure for India’s armed forces. His work encompassed missile launcher systems, drone technology, unmanned combat aerial vehicles (UCAVs), military bridging systems, and next-generation robotics.

According to the Maharashtra Anti-Terrorism Squad (ATS), Kurulkar was lured into an online relationship by a Pakistani intelligence operative posing as a UK-based software engineer named "Zara Dasgupta." Through flirtatious conversations, WhatsApp messages, and late-night video calls, she managed to entice him into sharing classified information critical to India’s national security.

The alleged communications occurred between June 2022 and February 2023. During this period, Kurulkar is believed to have leaked details on the BrahMos missile system, Agni-6 launcher configurations, Rustom UAVs, UCAVs, and other classified DRDO projects. He reportedly had a 186-page initial design report of BrahMos stored on his personal electronic devices and expressed willingness to reveal more sensitive content in a face-to-face meeting with the operative.

The ATS investigation uncovered an enormous volume of evidence: over 1,800 pages of chat logs, emails, deleted documents, photos, and explicit exchanges. These were recovered from multiple devices, including phones, laptops, and USB drives. Kurulkar allegedly attempted to submit a decoy laptop for forensic analysis, but forensic teams successfully recovered data from his original devices.

For example, one of the text exchanges recovered read:

Kurulkar: "Plan today: 1 camera trap peripheries, 2 thermal drone scanning in the evening..."

Zara: "This is plan for today and tomorrow? It seems hectic."

These kinds of messages showed not only a shocking disregard for operational secrecy but also a personal eagerness to impress his virtual companion.

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A Family Steeped in Sangh

The espionage case quickly turned into a political firestorm when Kurulkar’s ideological affiliations were made public. In a pre-arrest interview that later went viral, Kurulkar stated:

"This is our fourth generation in RSS. My grandfather was a swayamsevak. My father was a branch treasurer. I started attending shakhas at the age of five. My son also participates regularly."

For many, this confession came as a jarring contradiction. The RSS, often seen by its supporters as the fountainhead of patriotism, discipline, and cultural nationalism, was now being linked—through one of its loyalists—to an act of betrayal at the highest level.

Congress spokesperson Pawan Khera did not mince words. He described Kurulkar as a “saxophone-playing Sanghi,” referring to his musical contributions at RSS events, and alleged that he had been Sangathan Mantri of Sanskar Bharati, the cultural wing of the Sangh Parivar.

Images soon surfaced showing Kurulkar at RSS book launches, addressing shakhas, and offering prayers at a statue of Vinayak Damodar Savarkar. Whether symbolic or coincidental, these associations provided enough political fodder for the opposition to question the government's over-reliance on ideological filters in appointments and clearances.

Kurulkar’s case exposed an uncomfortable truth: that proximity to nationalist organizations is often treated as a proxy for loyalty, even in strategic sectors like defense and intelligence.

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The Legal Quagmire

On June 30, 2023, the Maharashtra ATS filed a detailed 1,837-page chargesheet against Kurulkar under the Official Secrets Act. His bail plea was denied by a Pune sessions court in December 2023. The court noted the severity of the charges and the national security implications as grounds for continued custody.

The ATS has since sought permission for conducting a polygraph test and psychoanalysis to evaluate Kurulkar’s mental state and motivations. According to sources, the scientist continued his interactions even after being made aware—directly or indirectly—that he was in contact with a foreign agent. The implication is damning: this wasn’t a lapse; it was a pattern of willful negligence.

The DRDO, in the meantime, has initiated an internal review of protocols concerning access to sensitive data, digital security practices, and background checks for employees in classified departments. Yet, many insiders acknowledge that much of the damage has already been done.

The larger concern now is geopolitical. With India in the midst of critical arms development partnerships—including joint ventures with Russia, Israel, and the United States—such breaches risk undermining international trust and cooperation.

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The Politics of Patriotism

What makes the Kurulkar case especially incendiary is the symbolic inversion it represents. In a political ecosystem where dissent is frequently labeled as “anti-national,” the spectacle of an RSS-linked scientist accused of spying for Pakistan has prompted a broader reckoning.

The opposition has raised pointed questions: If ideological proximity is no guarantee of integrity, should it continue to be used as a metric for loyalty? Are appointments in sensitive national institutions being influenced by political bias rather than professional merit? And most crucially, how did someone with such intimate ties to the Sangh escape adequate security scrutiny?

Kurulkar’s defense argues that he was emotionally manipulated, that the so-called "Zara Dasgupta" ensnared him in a web of romantic delusion. But intelligence officials point out that even if such manipulation occurred, it speaks to a dangerous lack of psychological vetting within DRDO's ranks.

This is not the first time a honey trap has been used to compromise Indian officials, but it may be the most damaging in recent memory, given the strategic nature of the information allegedly leaked.

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Lessons in National Security

The Kurulkar episode underscores a broader, more sobering truth: that espionage is ideology-agnostic. It does not distinguish between left and right, nationalist or internationalist. It exploits the human condition: loneliness, vanity, ambition, and emotional vulnerability.

In today’s digitized world, intelligence threats no longer require trench coats and encrypted messages. A charming display picture, a few cleverly crafted texts, and a feigned interest in classical music or missile science is often enough to breach the firewalls of national security.

What this case also reveals is the urgent need for institutional insulation from political favoritism. Strategic appointments must be based on competence, psychological resilience, and ethical clarity—not on shakha attendance or sangh parivar legacy.

India’s defense apparatus cannot afford another Kurulkar.

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A Final Reflection

The scandal is far from over. Legal proceedings are ongoing. The government remains tight-lipped. The DRDO has largely gone into damage-control mode. But for many, the deeper damage is to the illusion of infallibility that has often accompanied ideological fervor.

The Kurulkar case, with its dramatic plotlines of seduction, secrecy, and sabotage, could one day be the subject of spy thrillers. But in the here and now, it must serve as a wake-up call for the institutions tasked with guarding the republic.

Let this episode remind us that patriotism isn’t worn on sleeves or declared in slogans. It is practiced in the quiet integrity of doing one's duty—especially when no one is watching.

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About the Author:

Siddhartha Mishra is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India and a columnist who writes on politics, law, and national security. He can be reached at ssmishra33@gmail.com.

 

Ctrl+Alt+Sangh: Rebooting India Through Digital Hate

 

In the age of digital democracy, political power is as much about perception as it is about policy. No party in India has understood—and exploited—this reality better than the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP). At the centre of its electoral juggernaut lies a carefully engineered, tightly coordinated, and ideologically committed force: the BJP/RSS IT Cell.

The hypothesis that dismantling this IT infrastructure could destabilize or even "finish" the BJP is not merely a provocation—it invites a deeper examination of how information ecosystems, online propaganda, and narrative warfare have reshaped Indian politics. To understand the extent of this digital grip, one must dissect the genesis, functioning, and impact of this formidable machinery.

The BJP IT Cell was founded in 2007 by Prodyut Bora. During the campaign for the 2004 Indian general election, the BJP had already promoted the India Shining slogan and used around 5% of its campaign budget on texts and pre-recorded phone calls to reach voters. The BJP orchestrates online campaigns through its social media cell to intimidate perceived government critics. Sadhavi Khosla, https://caravanmagazine.in/vantage/sadhavi-khosla-bjp-social-media-trolls a BJP cyber-volunteer in the BJP IT Cell, said that the organisation disseminated misogyny, Islamophobia and hatred. The network of volunteers of BJP take instructions from the BJP IT Cell and two affiliated organisations to troll users who are critical of the BJP. Journalists and Indian film actors are also among their targets.

Swati Chaturvedi’s explosive book I Am a Troll pulls back the curtain on this digital war room. Drawing on firsthand testimony, it exposes how Hindutva’s digital foot soldiers manufacture consent, silence dissent, and spread venom under the veneer of patriotism. The book offers rare insight into the coordinated machinery behind the façade of spontaneous online support, revealing the orchestrated hypocrisy behind self-proclaimed nationalist trolling.

In November 2015, Aamir Khan, an Indian Muslim actor, expressed concern about rising intolerance in India in response to political events that included violent attacks against Muslims and intellectuals, and the absence of swift or strong condemnation from the country's ruling BJP government. Khosla said that BJP responded with an online campaign through its social media cell to intimidate Khan. Modi supporters bombarded the company where Khan was spokesperson with orders and later cancelled them, resulting in the company distancing itself from Khan, though a planned boycott of his film Dangal by BJP supporters proved unsuccessful. Derek O'Brien, a member of Parliament, raised the topic of online hate in the Rajya Sabha. He questioned why Narendra Modi followed cyber-bullies on social media and said, "We are mainstreaming hate". He also asked if the Modi administration would issue an advisory asking government officials to stop following Twitter users that regularly send abusive messages and obscenities. The government did not respond to this request.

In December 2020, Twitter took restrictive action against Amit Malviya, IT Cell in charge, and tagged his posts as 'manipulated media'. This was the first time Twitter took restrictive action against an Indian political personality. Malviya had posted an edited video of an incident from the 2020–2021 Indian farmers' protest that violated Twitter policy towards fighting the spread of doctored media.

An investigation by the Indian media watchdog Newslaundry revealed the organisational structure of the IT Cell: The state IT cell has 25 members in the core team with Rai as its head. Each regional centre had 20 members and a team of 15 handled IT at each of the 92 districts. Seven-member teams worked at the block levels. At the regional, district and Assembly level, BJP had approximately 5,000 workers. A separate team of 20 professionals – including technicians, designers, and cartoonists – created the desired content for the party.

JPS Rathore, a member of the UP-BJP's IT Cell described the motives of the organisation as follows:

"Our aim was to capture the mind of the voter. To message them night and day. Whenever they look, they should see us, hear our message. (Humari rajniti thi ki chunav ke pehle voter ke dimag ko capture kar lo. Subeh–shaam message bhejo. Jab dekhe, humara chehra dekhe, humari baat sune)."

The BJP’s IT Cell is not a conventional public relations team. It is a hybrid of a media company, a political war room, a troll factory, and a propaganda engine. Staffed by full-time professionals and supported by an army of volunteers and sympathizers, the IT Cell is organized in a hierarchical fashion—much like a paramilitary force. Every message, meme, and talking point is part of a broader narrative strategy.

From the national headquarters in Delhi to WhatsApp groups at the booth level, the digital operations of the BJP are both top-down and hyper-local. They deploy micro-targeting techniques using voter data, behavioral analytics, and caste/religious demographics to tailor their content to specific audiences. This is not just communication—this is psychological warfare.

Speed is everything in digital politics. The IT Cell specializes in flooding platforms with content the moment a controversy breaks. While the opposition drafts a press release, the BJP's ecosystem already has a dozen memes, hashtags, and viral videos in circulation. These are amplified by influencers, fake accounts, bots, and media channels aligned with the ruling ideology.

The emphasis is not on truth but on traction. A lie that trends becomes a truth in perception. By the time it is fact-checked, it has already served its purpose.

The BJP’s digital strategy transcends mere storytelling. It is about defining what counts as reality. Whether it's rewriting historical narratives, distorting opposition statements, or creating fear about minorities, the IT Cell manufactures consent and outrage with industrial efficiency. WhatsApp forwards that mix half-truths with communal innuendo have become a key mode of voter persuasion in rural India.

The cumulative effect is toxic: polarization, disinformation, and an erosion of trust in journalism, institutions, and even science. Critics are routinely targeted through doxxing, trolling, or worse—often backed by semi-official dog whistles.

No political figure has benefited more from digital myth-making than Narendra Modi. The IT Cell has elevated him from a regional leader to a cult-like global statesman. His image—carefully curated, selectively photographed, and algorithmically promoted—is the crown jewel of the BJP’s digital empire.

Criticism of Modi is not treated as political disagreement but as heresy. This deification, enabled by relentless digital campaigning, has created a leader beyond reproach—a dangerous condition in any democracy.

Elections in India today are as much about mobilizing narratives as mobilizing voters. The BJP’s IT Cell has played a crucial role in shaping the outcome of almost every major election in the last decade—from Uttar Pradesh and Bihar to Assam and Karnataka.

The key lies in narrative control. Whether it's invoking nationalism after Balakot, spinning economic data post-demonetization, or justifying lockdown chaos during COVID-19, the IT Cell has turned crisis into opportunity through rapid reframing.

Would the BJP collapse if its IT Cell were dismantled? Not instantly. The party has deep-rooted ideological bases, a strong organizational network (the RSS), and powerful funders. But it would lose its greatest strategic advantage: the ability to control perception in real time.

In a post-IT Cell landscape, the BJP would have to confront unfiltered public opinion, media scrutiny, and grassroots backlash without the shield of curated narratives. Opposition voices would regain space. Independent journalism could flourish. Civil society would breathe freer.

In short, the party would have to do politics the old-fashioned way: with accountability.

The conversation is not merely about one party. The BJP's IT Cell is the model now being emulated by regional parties, corporate lobbies, and even foreign actors. It represents the broader crisis of digital democracy: where the speed of lies outpaces the slowness of truth.

To destroy the BJP’s IT Cell is not to silence a party, but to dismantle a machine that has subverted democratic deliberation. It is to restore balance to a public sphere overwhelmed by hate, hyperbole, and half-truths.

Every empire has its Achilles' heel. For the BJP, it is its digital invincibility. Strip away the algorithms, expose the misinformation, and the party is forced to stand on the merit of its policies and the integrity of its governance.

This is not a call for censorship but for civic resistance—a pushback against a weaponized narrative industry. Until then, the BJP's IT Cell remains its greatest asset—and Indian democracy's most urgent challenge.

In the digital age, the BJP’s IT Cell operates as the nerve centre of its political power—crafting narratives, spreading disinformation, and weaponizing social media to manufacture consent and crush dissent. From micro-targeted propaganda to coordinated trolling armies, this machinery distorts reality, fuels polarization, and elevates a cult-like mythology around Narendra Modi. While deeply rooted in organizational strength, the BJP’s strategic dominance hinges on controlling perception online. Exposing and dismantling this network is essential not just to challenge one party, but to reclaim the integrity of Indian democracy itself.

The BJP’s digital war room is more than just a campaign tool—it’s the algorithmic fortress that shields a fragile political empire built on curated myths and manufactured outrage. To unplug this machine is not to silence a voice but to revive a democratic discourse smothered under waves of digital deceit. Until then, the IT Cell remains the Sangh’s most lethal weapon, rewriting India’s narrative with a click and a troll. It’s time for citizens, journalists, and institutions to reboot their resistance—not with censorship, but with relentless fact, fearless accountability, and unyielding truth. Because in the kingdom of digital hate, only an awakened electorate can break the code.

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About the Author

Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India. He writes on law, politics, and society with a voice that blends satire and truth.

The Patriot Who Knelt: Savarkar’s Journey from Revolutionary Icon to Ideological Revisionist

 

Once a firebrand who preached revolution, Savarkar’s real legacy may lie not in resistance—but in revision, retreat, and a loyalty for hire.

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I. Prologue in Chains: The Revolutionary at the Gallows’ Edge

In the early 20th century, the name Vinayak Damodar Savarkar stirred both admiration and apprehension among the colonial authorities. A young barrister with a razor-sharp intellect and incendiary prose, Savarkar authored The First War of Indian Independence, 1857, a bold reinterpretation of the Sepoy Mutiny that recast the uprising as a pan-Indian revolution—a joint resistance by Hindus and Muslims against British rule. It was a vision of unity born out of shared suffering, a plea to forge nationalism from common trauma.

This book, banned even before it reached Indian shores, catapulted Savarkar to a cult status among militant nationalists. In London, he founded the Free India Society. In Bombay, he inspired secret societies of armed youth. When he was arrested for his involvement in revolutionary activities and transported to the Andaman Cellular Jail in 1911, it was not as a mere dissident—it was as a symbol of uncompromising resistance.

But symbols crack under pressure. And for Savarkar, the prison cell proved not just a crucible of punishment but one of profound transformation—and calculated recalibration.

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II. Petitions from the Pit: The Price of Survival

In June 1911, scarcely a month after his arrival in Cellular Jail, Savarkar submitted his first mercy petition to the British government. The revolutionary who had once urged Indians to “burn down British flags” now pleaded for leniency. That appeal, ignored, would soon be followed by others. In 1913, his second mercy petition shed all ideological defiance, replacing it with grievances about prison classifications, comparisons with fellow convicts, and, crucially, declarations of political rebirth:

“[I]f the government in their manifold beneficence and mercy release me, I for one cannot but be the staunchest advocate of… loyalty to the English government.”

The shift was not merely rhetorical. It was strategic. Savarkar framed himself not only as a reformed man but as a valuable asset—one who could bring wayward revolutionaries back into the constitutional fold. His pitch was clear: Convert me, and I will convert others.

This was not so much a surrender as it was a sale. And his price? Redemption through rehabilitation, in exchange for repudiation of revolt.

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III. From Empire’s Enemy to Nation’s Divider

When Savarkar was finally released in stages—first under surveillance and then gradually integrated back into public life—it was not the same man who had entered the colonial dungeons. The post-prison Savarkar did not return to a struggle against imperialism. Instead, he trained his intellectual arsenal on a new set of internal enemies: Muslims, Gandhians, Congressmen, and anyone who threatened the hegemony of his idea of a Hindu nation.

This ideological evolution culminated in his articulation of Hindutva—a term he deliberately distinguished from mere Hinduism. In his 1923 pamphlet Hindutva: Who is a Hindu?, Savarkar proposed a cultural, ethnic, and territorial identity in which true Indianness was inseparable from being Hindu by race, culture, and land. Muslims and Christians, regardless of how many generations they had lived in India, were foreign unless they acknowledged India as both Pitrubhumi (fatherland) and Punyabhumi (holy land). Thus, belonging became conditional—and nationalism, exclusionary.

Ironically, the man who once championed inter-caste marriages to unify Hindus under one political roof now stood vehemently against inter-religious unions. In his view, such marriages were not bridges but threats—dilutions of cultural purity. Social reform was permissible, even desirable, but only if it reinforced Hindutva’s internal cohesion, not if it fostered pluralism.

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IV. The Darkest Doctrine: Justifying the Unjustifiable

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of Savarkar’s later thought was his moral descent into what can only be called ideological barbarism. In his retellings of historical grievances—particularly regarding Muslim rulers—he moved beyond critique into advocacy of vengeance. At his most extreme, Savarkar justified rape as a tool of political retribution, especially during war or historical redress. For a man who once argued for India's moral elevation above colonial brutality, this was a descent into the abyss.

This rhetorical violence was not just theoretical. In the climate of the 1940s, with partition looming, such ideas fanned the flames of hatred and suspicion. Although Savarkar was acquitted in the Gandhi assassination trial, his ideological fingerprints were unmistakable in the atmosphere of hatred that made Gandhi’s murder thinkable.

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V. Legacy in Dispute: Freedom Fighter or Proto-Fascist?

Savarkar's defenders continue to present him as a misunderstood patriot—one who pragmatically adjusted his strategy to survive and serve. They hail his promotion of scientific temper, abolition of untouchability, and support for women's rights (again, within limits). Yet even these claims must be weighed against the ideological rigidity that underpinned them. His social reforms were never universalist—they were instrumental, designed to fortify a Hindu identity that excluded more than it embraced.

His critics, on the other hand, see in Savarkar a cautionary figure: a revolutionary who, when broken by empire, turned to mimic its tools—division, hierarchy, and state violence—to shape a new dominion of his own.

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VI. Conclusion: The Prison That Never Opened

The irony of Savarkar’s life is that while he was physically released from the Cellular Jail, he remained mentally confined within the walls of vengeance, purity, and exclusion. The real prison was not made of brick or iron—but of an ideology that mistook grievance for vision, and retribution for justice.

From lion to lapdog, from rebel to reactionary—Savarkar’s journey is not just the story of a man, but a mirror held up to the soul of a nation still debating what freedom really means, and for whom.

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About the Author

Siddhartha Mishra is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India. His writing focuses on the intersection of law, history, and political thought. He can be reached at ssmishra33@gmail.com.