The Great Gujarati Illusion: A Manufactured Myth Built on Growth Without Justice

 

 

It promised speed, strength, efficiency and prosperity. It was sold not as governance but as a brand. And like every successful brand, it relied less on substance and more on storytelling.

At the centre of this narrative stood Narendra Modi, projected not merely as a political leader but as a corporate style reformer who had supposedly transformed Gujarat into an economic powerhouse. The messaging was relentless. Gujarat was not just growing, it was leading. Not just developing, but redefining development itself.

But every powerful narrative hides its omissions.

The Gujarat Model, amplified through media campaigns, political speeches and social media ecosystems, was less a complete picture and more a curated projection. It was repeated so often that it became accepted as truth. It travelled faster than facts, and deeper than scrutiny.

Let us begin with a blunt truth. There is no singular Gujarat Model.

What exists instead is a deeply rooted culture of enterprise. Gujarat has historically produced traders, industrialists and risk takers who invest aggressively, diversify quickly and adapt faster than most. This culture predates any one government. It has existed since Independence, shaped by geography, diaspora networks and community driven capital.

Growth in Gujarat did not begin with a slogan. It was already in motion.

To convert this long standing economic character into a political achievement is not just exaggeration. It is appropriation. Governments may have facilitated, but they did not create this instinct.

Yet the narrative claimed ownership.

Yes, Gujarat saw industrial expansion. Yes, it improved infrastructure. Yes, it attracted investment. But these developments were not unique enough to justify the myth that was built around them. Other states recorded comparable, and in some cases higher, growth rates during similar periods. Some states outperformed Gujarat in industrial growth spurts. Others ranked higher in per capita income. Several generated more employment from investment commitments.

But the difference was not performance. It was projection.

The Gujarat Model succeeded where it mattered most in modern politics. It controlled perception.

Economic growth became the headline, but the composition of that growth was rarely examined. A large portion of expansion was driven by corporate investment, incentivised through land access, regulatory flexibility and business friendly policies. This created rapid visible gains, but also concentrated benefits.

And concentration is not development. It is distribution with bias.

The assumption was that growth would trickle down. That prosperity at the top would eventually reach the bottom. But this assumption has historically failed across contexts, and Gujarat was no exception.

Social indicators told a quieter, less flattering story.

Public spending on health and education remained relatively modest compared to better performing states. Government schools struggled with quality and staffing. Healthcare infrastructure showed clear urban concentration, leaving rural areas dependent on inadequate systems or expensive private alternatives. Malnutrition, particularly among women and children, persisted despite economic growth.

These are not peripheral concerns. They are the foundation of any meaningful development.

A state cannot claim success if its children are undernourished, its schools underperforming and its healthcare inaccessible to the vulnerable.

And yet, these realities were overshadowed by a louder narrative.

Inequality widened, though rarely acknowledged. Urban centres like Ahmedabad and Surat became symbols of progress, while tribal regions and rural interiors continued to lag behind. Migration increased, often not as opportunity, but as necessity.

Development was visible. Inclusion was uneven.

Even in terms of governance metrics, the claim of being the best governed state does not withstand close scrutiny. Economic expansion did occur, but the rate of acceleration compared to earlier periods was not as dramatic as projected. Gains existed, but they were incremental rather than transformational. Meanwhile, in areas like human development, poverty reduction and social welfare outcomes, Gujarat did not consistently lead.

This is not failure. But it is certainly not exceptionalism.

The concept of Economic Freedom was frequently used to legitimise this model. But stripped of ideological packaging, it essentially measures how little the state interferes in markets. It rewards environments where capital operates with minimal restriction. While this may encourage investment, it does not automatically ensure justice, equity or welfare.

A government is not judged merely by how freely businesses operate. It is judged by how fairly citizens live.

Reducing governance to market friendliness is like judging a school by its building, not its students.

And this is where the Gujarat Model reveals its philosophical limitation. It prioritised ease of doing business over ease of living for all.

When Narendra Modi moved to the national stage, this narrative expanded. The model was presented as a blueprint for India. But along with it came a noticeable pattern. Large scale projects, investments and symbolic initiatives appeared disproportionately concentrated in Gujarat.

The home state became a preferred destination for ambition.

This raises an uncomfortable question. In a federal structure, can development afford regional preference? When central power begins to favour familiarity, balance begins to suffer. States that require support risk being sidelined, while politically aligned regions accelerate.

Development then becomes uneven by design.

And then comes the question of governance style.

The Gujarat Model is often associated with decisiveness. But decisiveness, when unchecked, can drift into centralisation. Decision making becomes concentrated. Institutions appear less independent. Public debate narrows. Dissent becomes inconvenient rather than valuable.

Democracy does not collapse overnight. It erodes gradually.

A system may retain its structure while losing its spirit.

Satire becomes inevitable in such a scenario. A model that celebrates freedom becomes uncomfortable with disagreement. A model that promises empowerment centralises authority. A model that speaks of development reduces conversation to applause.

It is governance as spectacle.

To be clear, Gujarat has not performed poorly. It has achieved growth, built infrastructure and maintained economic momentum. But to elevate it as the definitive model of governance is to stretch reality beyond recognition.

It is not a miracle. It is not a template. It is a case study with strengths and significant limitations.

The myth lies not in what Gujarat did, but in what was claimed about it.

The Gujarat Model, as marketed across India, was a narrative crafted with precision. It simplified complexity, amplified success and muted contradiction. It converted a state’s economic character into a leader’s political achievement. It replaced nuance with certainty.

And certainty is seductive.

But governance cannot be built on seduction. It must be built on substance.

India does not need a model that performs for headlines. It needs a model that performs for people. A model that balances growth with equity, efficiency with accountability, ambition with inclusion.

Because development is not what is announced from podiums.

It is what is experienced in homes, schools, hospitals and workplaces.

And no narrative, however powerful, can permanently substitute lived reality.

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Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an advocate at the Supreme Court of India and a commentator on law, politics and society. His writings blend legal insight with social critique and aim to provoke reflection on power, justice and public conscience.

 

The Dark Age of Public Discourse: India’s Political Climate Since 2014

 

In every democracy there are moments when political disagreement sharpens into hostility. Yet there are also periods when the very tone of public life begins to change. India, a nation that once prided itself on plural debate and moral restraint in politics, appears to be passing through such a moment. Over the past decade, particularly since 2014, the language of politics has hardened, public discourse has grown increasingly hostile, and the institutions meant to safeguard democratic balance have come under visible strain. Many observers describe this moment not merely as political transition but as a troubling descent into a darker age of democratic culture.

The year 2014 marked a major turning point in Indian politics. The electoral victory of Narendra Modi and the rise of the Bharatiya Janata Party with an absolute parliamentary majority ended decades of coalition politics. For many citizens this moment symbolized hope for decisive governance, economic reform and administrative efficiency. The promise of development, strong leadership and national pride resonated deeply with a large section of the electorate.

However, the political transformation that followed did not remain confined to governance alone. It gradually reshaped the tone of political conversation in the country. Public discourse began to revolve increasingly around identity, loyalty and ideological conformity. Political debate moved away from policy and toward narratives of cultural and national belonging. The result was a climate where disagreement was often interpreted as hostility toward the nation itself.

One of the most visible symptoms of this shift has been the deterioration of parliamentary decorum. Parliament, historically regarded as the highest forum of democratic debate, has increasingly witnessed angry exchanges, personal attacks and abusive rhetoric. Members of Parliament who are expected to represent the dignity of democratic institutions sometimes resort to language that would once have been considered unacceptable within legislative halls. When lawmakers themselves normalize hostility, the message inevitably travels beyond Parliament into society.

The decline in parliamentary civility reflects a deeper transformation in political culture. Political parties across the spectrum have always engaged in sharp criticism, but the present era has witnessed a more aggressive form of discourse amplified by digital media. Social media platforms have become arenas of ideological warfare where abuse, misinformation and character assassination circulate freely. Organized online campaigns often target journalists, activists and political opponents with coordinated hostility.

The rise of political trolling networks has played a significant role in this transformation. Digital platforms that could have strengthened democratic dialogue have instead been weaponized to silence dissent and amplify propaganda. Critics of government policies frequently face online harassment, while complex political questions are reduced to simplistic slogans. The speed and reach of digital media have made it easier for emotional narratives to overshadow reasoned discussion.

Another dimension of this political climate is the increasing polarization of society along religious and cultural lines. Debates about nationalism and identity have intensified, often creating suspicion between communities. Instead of reinforcing the constitutional principle of equal citizenship, political rhetoric sometimes emphasizes cultural majoritarianism. Such narratives deepen divisions and weaken the inclusive foundations upon which the Indian republic was built.

The ideological influence of organizations such as the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh has also become more visible in the national conversation. Supporters view this as a long overdue cultural correction that reasserts civilizational identity. Others see it as an attempt to redefine the secular character of the Indian state. Regardless of perspective, the ideological debate has become sharper and more emotionally charged.

The impact of this environment is not limited to politics alone. It shapes the functioning of institutions as well. Independent institutions such as investigative agencies, universities and even sections of the media often find themselves drawn into ideological conflicts. When institutions appear to align with political narratives, public trust begins to erode. Democracy ultimately depends not only on elections but also on the credibility of institutions that operate beyond electoral politics.

The media landscape too has undergone a dramatic transformation. Sections of television media increasingly prioritize sensationalism over substance. Prime time debates frequently resemble shouting contests rather than thoughtful analysis. Anchors sometimes act less like moderators and more like participants in ideological battles. This environment reinforces polarization instead of fostering understanding.

Yet it would be simplistic to attribute the entire transformation solely to one political party or government. The deeper issue lies in the erosion of democratic ethics across the political spectrum. Opposition parties, while criticizing the ruling establishment, have often struggled to articulate a coherent alternative vision. Political opportunism and rhetorical excess are not confined to any single ideological camp.

Moreover, the electorate itself has become more emotionally invested in political identity. Political loyalty increasingly resembles cultural affiliation. Supporters defend leaders with fervor, while opponents respond with equal intensity. In such an atmosphere nuance becomes rare. Complex policy questions are overshadowed by ideological narratives.

However, describing the present moment as a “dark age” should not imply that democracy has collapsed. India continues to hold competitive elections, courts continue to function, and citizens continue to express dissent in multiple ways. Civil society organizations, independent journalists and concerned citizens still raise questions about governance and accountability. The resilience of Indian democracy lies precisely in this persistent ability to debate and correct itself.

History shows that democracies often experience phases of heightened polarization before rediscovering equilibrium. The essential question is whether political leadership and citizens alike are willing to restore civility and constitutional values to the center of public life. Democracy is sustained not only by laws and institutions but also by the ethical conduct of those who participate in it.

For Parliament in particular, the challenge is urgent. Legislative debate must once again become a forum of reason rather than spectacle. Political leaders must recognize that abusive rhetoric may produce short term applause but ultimately weakens the dignity of democratic institutions. Public representatives carry the responsibility of setting standards for national conversation.

The decade since 2014 has undeniably reshaped India’s political landscape. It has produced strong leadership, intense ideological debate and unprecedented digital mobilization. Yet it has also revealed the fragility of democratic culture when civility and restraint disappear from public life.

Whether this period will ultimately be remembered as a dark age or as a difficult phase of democratic evolution depends on the choices made today. Democracies do not decline overnight. They decline gradually when language becomes toxic, institutions become partisan and citizens begin to see each other as enemies rather than fellow participants in a shared republic.

The path forward lies not in silencing political differences but in restoring the ethics of democratic disagreement. India’s constitutional vision was never about uniformity of thought. It was about coexistence within diversity. The future of the republic will depend on whether that principle is defended with the same passion with which political battles are fought today.

 

Author: Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an advocate at the Supreme Court of India and a commentator on law, politics and society.

 

 

Shakti with Conditions Apply

 

A woman draped in saffron, spine straight, gaze steady, trident in hand. Behind her, a towering silhouette of divinity. Around her, chants of culture, pride, resurgence. Above her, a word glows in gold: Empowerment.

And then, in smaller print, the clause that changes everything.

This is the paradox of managed emancipation. Women are elevated symbolically, sanctified in rhetoric, invoked as embodiments of strength and civilizational glory. Yet the structure within which they are allowed to exercise that strength is carefully drafted. The pedestal is high, but it is fenced.

The architecture behind this fencing is not accidental. It is sustained by an ecosystem. The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh does not function merely as a cultural association. It operates as a layered network of influence, extending into politics through the Bharatiya Janata Party, into gender mobilisation through the Rashtr Sevika Samiti, and into education, tribal outreach, labour, and intellectual platforms through a disciplined web of affiliates.

Each unit appears autonomous. Each carries its own vocabulary. Yet the ideological grammar is consistent. Culture first. Continuity first. Nation as sacred inheritance.

In contemporary cultural politics, the language of Shakti has become a powerful instrument within this framework. It offers affirmation. It invokes heritage. It appeals to memory. It tells women they are not merely equal, they are divine. At first glance, this appears radical. What could be more empowering than deification?

But deification can be a sophisticated form of containment.

When a woman is framed as goddess, she is distanced from ordinary agency. Goddesses are revered, not heard. Worshipped, not negotiated with. Placed above society, yet kept away from the messy business of restructuring it. The symbolism soars. The structural reality remains intact.

The modern discourse of rights emerged from confrontation. It demanded equality before law. It challenged property regimes, workplace hierarchies, marital subordination, and inherited patriarchy. It insisted that autonomy is not a cultural concession but a constitutional guarantee. It was disruptive by design.

The model of Shakti, as advanced within ecosystem aligned platforms, is different. It does not confront the structure. It seeks to harmonize within it. It celebrates leadership, but within civilizational grammar. It encourages participation, but discourages rupture. It affirms strength, but disciplines dissent.

This is empowerment with perimeter.

The brilliance of the model lies in its aesthetic power. Who can object to strength? Who can oppose reverence? Who can critique pride in tradition without being painted as alienated from roots? The vocabulary is emotionally intelligent. It disarms resistance before resistance can articulate itself.

Yet the fine print remains.

The empowered woman is expected to embody sacrifice, restraint, and duty. She may rise, but not destabilize. She may speak, but not interrogate the foundational myths of the framework that uplifts her. She may lead, but her leadership must reinforce cultural continuity, not question it.

The distinction between reverence and rights is subtle but profound. Reverence depends on approval. Rights do not. Reverence can be withdrawn if conduct deviates from expectation. Rights cannot be revoked for ideological nonconformity. When empowerment is framed as cultural privilege rather than constitutional entitlement, it becomes conditional.

This conditionality thrives in regions where the ecosystem’s social penetration is dense. In Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, and across the broader Hindi heartland, decades of grassroots consolidation have normalized this narrative architecture. Shakhas cultivate discipline. Educational institutions shape historical memory. Cultural conventions reinforce a singular understanding of identity. Tribal outreach programs reframe local identities within a larger nationalist script.

The process is incremental. The effect is cumulative.

This is how normalization works. It does not coerce. It familiarizes. It saturates public life until one narrative feels instinctive and alternatives feel disruptive. Political ideology is translated into cultural inevitability. Once internalized, dissent appears less like disagreement and more like deviation.

And reassurance is politically potent.

The ecosystem rarely relies on overt authoritarianism. It relies on familiarity. On repetition. On disciplined unanimity. Internal fractures remain private. Public messaging remains coherent. Over time, coherence becomes credibility. Credibility becomes moral authority.

But reassurance can also be anesthetic. It dulls the urgency of structural reform. If women are already goddesses, what remains to be changed? If strength is inherent, why interrogate systemic inequality? If tradition is inherently protective, why examine its exclusions?

The problem is not culture. Culture evolves. It contains multiplicities. The problem arises when culture is presented as singular and beyond critique. When a specific interpretation of heritage becomes the authoritative lens through which empowerment must pass, plurality narrows.

One sees this most sharply in discussions around patriarchy embedded within tradition itself. Managed empowerment rarely foregrounds the dismantling of deeply entrenched hierarchies in religious or social institutions. Reform is reframed as moral refinement rather than structural redistribution of power. The emphasis shifts from equality to harmony.

Harmony is a beautiful word. It implies balance, cohesion, peace. But harmony can also silence discord that needs articulation. When the pursuit of unity overrides the pursuit of justice, imbalance persists under a veneer of calm.

There is a deeper philosophical divide at play. Is freedom the capacity to act within inherited frameworks, or the authority to redefine those frameworks? Is empowerment about occupying space granted, or claiming space denied? The Shakti narrative, as operationalized within this ecosystem, leans toward the former.

It offers elevation without emancipation.

Supporters argue that civilizational continuity must be preserved. That rapid rupture destabilizes society. That identity rooted strength is more sustainable than abstract rights discourse. These arguments resonate widely. They appeal to order in a time of flux.

Yet continuity without critique can calcify into conformity. A democracy thrives on friction. It depends on the freedom to challenge not only the state but also the cultural frameworks that shape the state. When empowerment is filtered through ideological alignment, dissenting women risk being labeled deviant rather than simply different.

The irony is striking. A nation that reveres feminine divinity in mythology struggles to guarantee unqualified autonomy in reality. The goddess is invincible. The citizen is conditional.

“Shakti with Conditions Apply” is not a rejection of heritage. It is a warning against confusing symbolism with substance. Empowerment cannot be selective. It cannot celebrate strength while policing its direction. It cannot elevate women rhetorically while supervising their autonomy structurally.

True emancipation is messy. It unsettles comfort. It questions inherited certainties. It demands redistribution of power, not merely redistribution of praise. It insists that reverence without rights is ornamental equality.

The challenge before India is not whether women are strong. They are. The question is whether that strength will be allowed to define itself outside curated narratives. Whether leadership can exist without ideological sponsorship. Whether autonomy can flourish without moral gatekeeping.

A pedestal is not a platform. One elevates to immobilize. The other elevates to enable movement.

If empowerment is real, it will survive scrutiny. It will welcome interrogation. It will not fear women who question the very structures that claim to honor them.

Until then, the fine print remains.

And the trident, however sharp, will always be held within approved limits.

 

Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an advocate at the Supreme Court of India and a commentator on law, politics and society. His writings blend legal insight with social critique and aim to provoke reflection on power, justice and public conscience.

 

Icons and Ironies in the Politics of Faith

 

History has a mischievous sense of humour. It delights in placing unlikely ingredients into the same political kitchen and watching later generations argue about the recipe. Few comparisons reveal this better than the public images and private ironies surrounding Savarkar, Gandhi, and Jinnah. Each became a towering symbol. Each is now packaged as a simplified mascot. And each, if resurrected, might politely decline the brochure written in his name.

Vinayak Damodar Savarkar presents the first paradox. A Chitpavan Brahmin who did not treat diet as destiny, he openly consumed meat and spoke in rational and utilitarian terms about cow protection and cow slaughter. His writings show that he approached the cow less as a divine mother and more as an economic animal. This alone is enough to make many of his present day admirers reach for selective quotation and spiritual white correction fluid. Savarkar’s personal habits were strikingly modern for his time. Anecdotes describe him as someone who enjoyed meat and fine drink, sometimes jokingly said to be paired with Zetsun whiskey, whether literally or in spirit. The larger point stands. His cultural politics was orthodox in identity but flexible in lifestyle. He separated personal conduct from political mobilisation with impressive convenience.

Savarkar was a master of ideological engineering. He understood that identity, when sharpened, becomes a political weapon more efficient than any sword. His project of Hindutva was not merely religious but civilisational and territorial. It was designed as a binding glue as well as a boundary wall. He wrote with clarity and force. He argued with discipline. He provoked with purpose. But there was also a theatrical quality to the construction. The champion of cultural purity was personally unburdened by ritual purity. The architect of Hindu consolidation was socially radical in some reforms yet rigid in civilisational definition. It is as if the chef refused to eat from the menu he so passionately marketed.

Then comes Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, who appears at first glance as Savarkar’s mirror opposite. A devout Hindu and a lifelong vegetarian, Gandhi turned personal discipline into public method. His politics wore a moral costume and often insisted that everyone else try it on. Yet Gandhi’s great disruption was not dietary but democratic. He invited disagreement. He tolerated critics. He argued in public and corrected himself in public. He spiritualised politics but also pluralised it. His Hinduism was deeply felt but rarely framed as a citizenship test.

Gandhi’s irony lies elsewhere. The most religious of the three often behaved in the most politically inclusive way. He could be stubborn, moralising, and occasionally impractical, but he did not build his politics on permanent enemies. He built it on conversion of hearts, including the hearts of his opponents. Empires prefer rebels with bombs. They find rebels with conscience extremely inconvenient. Gandhi’s method was slow, exasperating, and annoyingly humane. In a century addicted to strong medicine, he prescribed moral physiotherapy.

Muhammad Ali Jinnah completes the trio with perhaps the sharpest twist. Urbane, impeccably dressed, trained in law, and culturally Westernised, Jinnah was not known for religious orthodoxy in personal life. He enjoyed wine. Many accounts suggest he was indifferent to ritual observance. Some controversial claims even suggest dietary choices forbidden in Islam. Yet history crowned him as the great spokesman of Muslim political destiny. Nothing proves that politics is a costume party better than this transformation.

Jinnah was not a cleric. He was a constitutionalist who lost faith in constitutional guarantees. His demand for Pakistan grew not from seminary theology but from political distrust and strategic calculation. He mobilised religious identity with a lawyer’s precision rather than a preacher’s passion. The result was a religious nation argued into existence by a secular mind. It is one of history’s grand ironies that personal liberalism can sometimes produce public separation.

Here is where the satire matures. Savarkar and Jinnah, despite standing under different flags, used strikingly similar political techniques. Both converted community identity into political currency. Both warned their followers of cultural danger. Both argued that coexistence without dominance was a risky bargain. Their languages differed. Their symbols differed. Their emotional audiences differed. Their strategic grammar often did not. Each ran a campaign of civilisational anxiety with impressive intellectual packaging.

Gandhi alone refused to fully enter this marketplace of fear. He spoke of civilisation too, but as an ethical experiment rather than a guarded fortress. While the other two drafted blueprints for political separation of identities, Gandhi drafted invitations for moral coexistence. He was frequently ignored, sometimes opposed, and eventually canonised in ways that also simplify him unfairly. Saints are often edited more aggressively than sinners.

The lesson is not that one man was pure and the others were villains. The lesson is that political memory is a talented fiction writer. It removes inconvenient habits, upgrades symbolic value, and airbrushes contradictions. The meat eating nationalist becomes a mascot of ritual culture. The secular barrister becomes an icon of religious destiny. The spiritual democrat becomes a harmless statue on currency notes.

If there is humour in this, it is dry and durable. History does not just repeat itself. It also rebrands itself. And the loudest brand ambassadors are often those who have not read the full manual.

Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an advocate at the Supreme Court of India and a commentator on law, politics and society. His writings blend legal insight with social critique and aim to provoke reflection on power, justice and public conscience.

 

Disclaimer : - The views expressed here are interpretive and satirical in nature, meant for discussion and reflection, not personal or religious offence.

Joining the Dots: When Ideology Pulled the Trigger on Gandhi

 

Joining the Dots: When Ideology Pulled the Trigger on Gandhi

On January 30, 1948, Mahatma Gandhi was shot dead at Birla House. The assassin was Nathuram Godse. But assassinations are never solitary acts. They are the final outcome of a long process — of ideological grooming, public incitement, moral sanction, and social rehearsal. Bullets may end a life, but ideas prepare the ground.

Gandhi was not merely murdered. He was systematically silenced.

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Savarkar: The Blessing Before the Bullets

Any serious examination of Gandhi’s assassination collapses if Vinayak Damodar Savarkar is airbrushed out. The most incriminating evidence pointing to Savarkar’s role came not from conjecture, but from sworn testimony during the trial.

Digambar Badge, an arms dealer and close associate of Nathuram Godse and Narayan Apte, turned approver in the case. His statement is part of the court record and is reproduced in detail in Tushar Gandhi’s Let’s Kill Gandhi: A Chronicle of His Last Days, the Conspiracy, Murder, Investigation and Trial.

Badge testified that on January 17, 1948, barely thirteen days before the assassination, Godse suggested that the conspirators take a final darshan of “Tatyarao” Savarkar. They went to Savarkar Sadan in Bombay. Godse and Apte went upstairs, returned after five to ten minutes, and were followed by Savarkar himself, who blessed them with the words:

“Yashasvi houn ya” — Be successful and return.

In Maharashtrian cultural context, such words are not casual pleasantries. They are uttered before acts of consequence — journeys, battles, or decisive missions. Badge stated that he regarded Savarkar as a devta until the end of his life. That reverence makes his testimony harder, not easier, to dismiss.

Savarkar was acquitted due to lack of corroborative evidence. But acquittal is not moral exoneration. Criminal law demands proof beyond reasonable doubt. History asks a different question: why would assassins seek Savarkar’s blessing on the eve of murder, and why would he give it?

Savarkar did not need to issue instructions. His blessing functioned as moral sanction. It told the assassins that what they were about to do was not a crime, but a duty.

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An Ideology That Could Not Tolerate Gandhi

Savarkar’s Hindutva was fundamentally incompatible with Gandhi’s India. Gandhi believed the nation belonged equally to all its people. Savarkar believed it belonged primarily to those who fit a cultural and civilisational definition of Hindu identity. Gandhi saw non violence as moral strength. Savarkar dismissed it as weakness.

To extremist nationalists, Gandhi’s insistence on Hindu Muslim unity, his fasts to stop communal violence, and his demand that India honour its financial commitment to Pakistan were unforgivable. Gandhi was no longer a leader to be debated. He was an obstacle to be removed.

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Public Incitement: When Killing Became a Slogan

By January 1948, hostility towards Gandhi had spilled openly onto the streets of Delhi. Contemporary accounts record slogans such as “Gandhi ko marne do, humko ghar do” being shouted publicly. Gandhi’s fast further enraged extremist groups who saw his moral authority as a direct threat.

On January 20, 1948, Madanlal Pahwa attempted to assassinate Gandhi with a bomb. He failed. Ten days later, Nathuram Godse succeeded.

Even before the murder, Gandhi’s death was being publicly rehearsed.

At Connaught Circus, about four kilometres from Birla House, a group of RSS men in khaki shorts, white shirts, and black caps were seen exercising vigorously and shouting slogans at the top of their voices:

“Buddhe ko marne do” — let the old man die.

The idea of Gandhi’s death had already been normalised.

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RSS and the Sewak Reports: Preparing the Ground

The Sewak Reports — declassified intelligence files submitted to the court — contain transcripts of speeches made by MS Golwalkar, then Sarsanghchalak of the RSS. In early December 1947, Golwalkar addressed over 2,500 RSS volunteers in Delhi.

According to the report, Golwalkar said:

“The law cannot meet force. We should be prepared for guerrilla warfare on the lines of the tactics of Shivaji. The Sangh will not rest content until it has finished Pakistan. If anyone stands in our way, we will have to finish him too, whether it is the Nehru Government or any other government.”

And more directly:

“No power on earth can keep Muslims in Hindustan. Gandhi wants to keep them for Congress votes. But by the time elections come, not a single Muslim will be left here.”

These were not abstract speeches. They articulated the ideological logic of silencing Gandhi.

Days later, Gandhi was silenced.

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The Weapon and the Act

On the evening of January 30, 1948, Nathuram Godse fired three bullets from a Beretta Model 1934 semi automatic pistol, an Italian made handgun, at point blank range. Gandhi collapsed.

Godse did not flee. He did not deny. He believed he had performed a necessary deed.

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Celebration After the Murder

India mourned. But not everyone.

Investigative records and witness testimonies reveal that sweets were distributed in certain Hindu Mahasabha circles after news of Gandhi’s assassination spread. In Gwalior, a Hindu Mahasabha leader distributed sweets to party members and asked them to tune in to the radio that evening. After Gandhi was shot, sweets were again purchased and distributed among friends and family.

One individual described the killing as “a good deed,” stating that an opponent of Hindu religion had been eliminated and Hinduism would now be safe. Gandhi was referred to as an “avatar of Aurangzeb.”

Another witness recalled hearing it said openly:

“Gandhiji ko marne wala apna aadmi tha.”
The man who killed Gandhi was one of ours.

This was not madness. It was ideological approval.

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Godse Was Not a Loner

Godse was not an outsider. He had been associated with the RSS, worked with the Hindu Mahasabha, and revered Savarkar as his guru. His newspaper Agrani reflected deep resentment against Gandhi and Muslims.

The claim that Godse had left the RSS before the assassination collapses under scrutiny.

On November 15, 1949, as he walked to the gallows, Godse recited the RSS prayer “Namaste Sada Vatsale Matrubhoome.” Even in death, he reaffirmed ideological belonging.

Years later, his brother Gopal Godse stated in an interview that they had never truly left the RSS and that it was like a family to them.

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Golwalkar After the Assassination

Within twenty four hours of the murder, public opinion swung sharply against extremist groups. The Hindu Rashtra project collapsed overnight. Golwalkar rushed to salvage the organisation.

On February 1, 1948, he issued a statement invoking love and service, directing swayamsevaks to maintain harmony. This language stood in stark contrast to the venom directed at Gandhi weeks earlier, when he had been described as disloyal to Hindus and even threatened with being “silenced.”

The shift was tactical, not ideological.

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Conclusion: An Unfinished Reckoning

Savarkar supplied the justification.
Golwalkar supplied mobilisation.
The RSS shakha supplied discipline and fraternity.
The Hindu Mahasabha supplied political direction.
Godse supplied the bullets.

The bullet was Godse’s.
The blueprint was older.

Courts deal in proof. History deals in patterns. And the pattern behind Gandhi’s murder is unmistakable.

If Gandhi’s death is to mean anything, it must compel us to confront uncomfortable truths — not with garlands or slogans, but with honesty.

Because bullets may kill a man once. Ideologies that justify them can kill a nation repeatedly.

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About the Author

Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an advocate at the Supreme Court of India and a commentator on law, politics and society. His writings blend legal insight with social critique and aim to provoke reflection on power, justice and public conscience.

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References

1.    Appu Esthose Suresh & Priyanka Kotamraju, The Murderer, the Monarch and the Fakir, Juggernaut

2.    Tushar Gandhi, Let’s Kill Gandhi, Rupa

3.    Dhirendra K. Jha, Gandhi’s Assassin: The Making of Nathuram Godse, Penguin

4.    Justice J.L. Kapur Commission Report

5.    Sewak Reports, Intelligence Bureau Records

6.    A.G. Noorani, Savarkar and Hindutva, LeftWord

7.    Christophe Jaffrelot, The Hindu Nationalist Movement and Indian Politics, Penguin

8.    Ramachandra Guha, India After Gandhi, HarperCollins

9.    Frontline magazine, interview with Gopal Godse

10. Gandhi Murder Trial records identifying the weapon as a Beretta Model 1934 pistol

Disclaimer: This piece is a historical analysis based on court records, commission reports, and established scholarship. Views expressed are the author’s interpretation of documented events and are intended solely for public understanding.