From Ramayan to Political Brand: Who Owns “Jai Shri Ram” Today?

 

There was a time when the phrase “Jai Shri Ram” carried an entirely different emotional atmosphere in India. It evoked reverence, simplicity and a shared cultural memory rooted in the Ramayan. For millions of Indians during the nineteen eighties, Lord Ram entered their homes not through political campaigns or ideological conflicts, but through the iconic television adaptation of the Ramayan that aired on national television during the Congress era.

Every Sunday morning, streets would become deserted. Families gathered around television sets with devotion and excitement. People folded their hands before the screen as the story unfolded. The serial was not merely entertainment. It became a cultural experience that united people across regions, languages and social backgrounds. For many Indians, especially an entire generation that grew up during that period, the first visual imagination of Lord Ram came through that televised epic.

The Ramayan of the eighties was associated with morality, sacrifice, compassion, dignity and dharma. It created emotional attachment through storytelling and spiritual imagination rather than political mobilisation. The chant “Jai Shri Ram” in those years felt devotional, intimate and civilisational. It belonged to homes, temples and cultural memory.

The impact of that serial cannot be understood merely through the language of television ratings or entertainment history. It was one of the rare moments in independent India when a cultural text emotionally united millions beyond class, caste, language and region. Urban middle class families, villagers, children, elderly people and even those with limited literacy sat together to watch the same story unfold. The Ramayan entered the collective emotional bloodstream of India.

Interestingly, the atmosphere around the serial was not one of political hostility or aggressive identity assertion. The Ramayan was viewed as civilisational inheritance rather than partisan property. Lord Ram was not presented as a political mascot but as an ethical and spiritual figure whose life represented restraint, sacrifice, truthfulness and moral responsibility.

Yet history took an unexpected turn.

Several actors associated with that deeply spiritual television phenomenon later entered active politics and eventually became linked with saffron political movements and parties. Their transition from mythological representation to political symbolism itself reflects how religion, celebrity culture and electoral politics gradually merged in modern India. The cultural imagery created during the eighties slowly became absorbed into ideological narratives during the decades that followed.

This transformation deserves careful reflection.

Today, however, India stands in a very different atmosphere.

Over the last few decades, the phrase “Jai Shri Ram” has increasingly acquired political meaning in public consciousness. For many people now, hearing “Jai Shri Ram” immediately evokes election rallies, ideological campaigns, television debates, aggressive street politics or partisan mobilisation before it evokes the Ramayan itself.

But would this association exist in the same way outside India?

If one travels to countries like Indonesia, Nepal or Thailand, where the Ramayan continues to influence culture, theatre, art and spirituality, the immediate association with Lord Ram is still civilisational rather than electoral. In Bali, Ramayan performances remain part of cultural life. In Thailand, the Ramakien tradition continues as part of national cultural identity. In Nepal, Janakpur and the memory of Sita remain spiritually alive in collective consciousness.

There, Ram is still primarily encountered through culture, devotion and heritage.

In India increasingly, Ram is also encountered through political identity.

That contrast itself should make Indians pause and reflect.

The slogan that once emotionally connected grandparents and children through shared storytelling now often appears in political speeches, social media conflicts, protest marches and electoral campaigns. In many contexts, the phrase no longer sounds purely devotional. It sounds politically charged.

This is not necessarily because Lord Ram changed.

It is because public perception changed.

This transformation raises important questions that go beyond ordinary political debate. The issue here is not whether one supports or opposes the Bharatiya Janata Party. Political parties are temporary institutions. They rise, evolve, fragment and eventually decline. That is the nature of democratic politics. No political organisation is permanent.

But Hindu civilisation is not temporary.

Sanatana Dharma existed long before modern political parties and will continue long after present political formations disappear. That is why the gradual merging of religious symbolism with partisan identity raises an important civilisational concern.

When a sacred chant begins becoming psychologically inseparable from a political identity, something deeper changes within society.

In communication studies and branding psychology, there is a concept often described as brand synonymity. Through repeated association, one symbol becomes mentally tied to another identity so strongly that separating them becomes difficult in public perception.

India appears to be witnessing this phenomenon with several Hindu symbols and expressions.

This did not happen suddenly. It emerged slowly through decades of imagery, political campaigns, speeches, processions, television narratives, visual symbolism and emotional repetition. Repeated exposure gradually conditioned public consciousness. The result is that a deeply spiritual expression increasingly carries political meaning whether one intends it or not.

The consequence is subtle yet profound.

A slogan once rooted primarily in devotion increasingly becomes interpreted as political signalling. In many situations today, a person saying “Jai Shri Ram” may immediately be assumed to belong to a specific ideological or political camp irrespective of personal belief or intention.

This should concern anyone who values the spiritual breadth of Hindu civilisation.

Lord Ram does not belong to any political party. Ram belongs to literature, ethics, philosophy, art, poetry and civilisational consciousness. Ram belongs equally to the devotee praying quietly in a village temple, the scholar studying Valmiki, the grandmother narrating stories to children and the ordinary Hindu seeking moral inspiration from the Ramayan.

Ram also belongs to different interpretations.

Some worship Ram as God.

Some see Ram as an ethical ideal.

Some view the Ramayan philosophically.

Some appreciate it culturally.

Some encounter Ram through bhakti traditions while others encounter him through literature and theatre.

This diversity is precisely what made Hindu civilisation resilient for thousands of years.

Historically, Hindu civilisation survived not because of rigid uniformity but because of diversity and plurality. Hindu traditions allowed multiple interpretations, philosophical disagreements and varied paths toward spiritual understanding. That openness became one of its greatest strengths.

Within Hindu thought itself, there are Advaitins, Dvaitins, Shaivas, Vaishnavas, Shaktas, Smarthas and many other traditions. Hindu civilisation historically absorbed contradictions instead of collapsing because of them. Debate was not viewed as betrayal. Difference was not automatically treated as hostility.

Modern politics, however, often thrives on polarisation and binary loyalties.

Politics demands camps.

It creates supporters and opponents.

It simplifies complexity into slogans.

It rewards emotional mobilisation more than philosophical nuance.

Increasingly, social discourse creates an atmosphere where religious identity appears expected to align automatically with political allegiance. This indirectly pressures individuals to demonstrate political loyalty through religious symbolism or religious commitment through partisan affiliation.

That is where the real danger begins.

Because once religion becomes tightly linked with party identity, criticism of politics starts appearing like criticism of faith itself. Political accountability becomes emotionally difficult. Rational debate weakens because emotional devotion enters electoral discourse.

The consequences for democracy are serious.

But the consequences for religion may be even deeper.

Can someone deeply love Ram while disagreeing with BJP policies?

Certainly.

Can a Hindu revere the Ramayan while remaining politically independent?

Absolutely.

Can devotion exist separately from electoral preference?

It must.

A civilisation as ancient as Hinduism cannot survive if spirituality becomes dependent on partisan loyalty. Faith must remain larger than political identity.

Otherwise, religion risks shrinking into ideological branding.

This ultimately harms both religion and democracy.

Politics naturally contains competition, propaganda, aggression and electoral calculation. Religion, at its best, attempts to elevate moral consciousness beyond temporary conflicts. When faith becomes deeply fused with party politics, criticism of political actions can begin appearing as criticism of religion itself. Rational democratic debate weakens because emotional devotion enters partisan space.

The long term consequences may be serious.

Future generations may encounter Lord Ram first through political slogans, social media confrontations and election narratives rather than through the ethical universe of the Ramayan. Their understanding of Ram may emerge more from partisan discourse than from spiritual or cultural learning.

That would represent a profound civilisational loss.

The Ramayan survived across centuries not because it was politically useful but because it carried ethical and emotional depth. Lord Ram symbolised restraint, sacrifice, responsibility, dignity and moral struggle. These values transcended kingdoms, rulers and political systems.

Ram was admired not because he won elections but because he represented ethical discipline under difficult circumstances.

The greatness of the Ramayan lies in its moral complexity. Ram faces exile, separation, responsibility, grief, kingship and ethical dilemmas. The text survives because people across centuries saw human struggle and moral aspiration within it.

Reducing Ram into an electoral symbol risks diminishing that universality.

This does not mean religion should disappear from public life. Hindu civilisation has always shaped festivals, social ethics, literature and collective culture. Spiritual traditions naturally influence society and even politics. But influence is different from ownership.

No political organisation should become the exclusive interpreter or gatekeeper of Hindu identity.

Sanatana Dharma is too vast, ancient and layered to be contained within electoral frameworks. It belongs to millions of Hindus with different political beliefs, philosophical understandings and social experiences.

The irony is striking.

The same India that once watched the Ramayan together in collective cultural reverence now often experiences Ram through political conflict and ideological division. What was once a source of spiritual unity sometimes becomes a source of social polarisation.

This shift must be examined honestly.

Not emotionally.

Not defensively.

But thoughtfully.

The memory of the Ramayan serial from the eighties reminds India of a time when Lord Ram united people culturally without forcing political conformity. That memory itself raises an important question for contemporary India.

Are we preserving Ram as a timeless spiritual and civilisational presence?

Or are we gradually turning him into a permanent political brand?

And if future generations begin recognising Lord Ram first through party politics rather than through the Ramayan itself, will that strengthen Hindu civilisation or weaken its spiritual depth?

These are uncomfortable questions.

But civilisations survive not by avoiding uncomfortable questions but by confronting them honestly.

The real issue is not whether religion and politics can ever intersect. Throughout history, they always have. The real issue is whether politics eventually begins consuming religion itself.

When a political identity becomes dominant enough to monopolise religious symbolism, dissenting believers begin feeling alienated within their own faith tradition. A Hindu who disagrees politically should not feel socially pressured to prove devotion. Spiritual belonging should not depend upon ideological conformity.

Ram must remain larger than political competition.

Because once a civilisation reduces its spiritual inheritance into partisan property, it begins weakening the very universality that allowed it to survive for centuries.

The Ramayan of the eighties offered India devotion without hostility, spirituality without aggression and cultural unity without political coercion. That memory remains important because it reminds the country that Ram can unite people beyond party structures.

Perhaps that is the Ram India must protect.

Not merely the slogan.

But the civilisational soul behind it.

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.

Sabitri Puja in Odisha: Between Devotion, Patriarchy, Divorce and the Changing Idea of Womanhood

 

Every year in Odisha, the festival of Sabitri Puja arrives wrapped in fasting, rituals, red sarees, bangles, sindoor and prayers for the long life of husbands. The image is emotionally powerful: married women, from villages to cities, observing a day-long fast in memory of the mythological Savitri who brought her husband Satyavan back from death through determination and devotion. For many Odia families, the festival is not merely religious. It is emotional inheritance, domestic tradition and cultural identity.

Yet in modern India, Sabitri Puja also stands at the centre of uncomfortable questions. In an age of rising divorce rates, growing feminist discourse, women’s education, constitutional rights and changing family structures, what does this ritual really signify? Is it an expression of love and commitment? Or does it silently preserve unequal expectations from women? Can culture survive without patriarchy? And can a civilisation evolve without abandoning its roots?

The debate is no longer avoidable.

At one level, Sabitri Puja reflects the emotional architecture of traditional Indian society. Marriage in Indian civilisation was never viewed merely as a contract between two individuals. It was regarded as a sacred union tied to family continuity, duty and social order. The fasting wife became a symbol of sacrifice, endurance and spiritual strength. Savitri herself was portrayed not as weak, but as intellectually sharp and morally courageous. She confronted Yama, the god of death, through wisdom and persistence. In that sense, the original legend contained agency and resilience.

However, over centuries, the social interpretation of the ritual changed. The focus gradually shifted from Savitri’s courage to the idea of the “ideal wife” whose life revolves around preserving her husband’s existence. Society celebrated female sacrifice but rarely demanded equal emotional or moral sacrifice from men. The husband became central; the wife became devotional.

This is where feminist criticism emerges.

Modern feminism does not merely attack rituals. It questions unequal power structures hidden beneath cultural practices. Feminist scholars argue that festivals like Sabitri Puja reinforce a social expectation that women alone must carry the burden of preserving marriage. Why must only wives fast for husbands? Why are husbands not socially expected to undertake similar rituals for wives? Why is female virtue constantly measured through sacrifice, patience and endurance?

The criticism becomes sharper when one observes social realities. Indian society has historically tolerated male irresponsibility more easily than female independence. A divorced woman is often judged more harshly than a divorced man. Widows have long faced social stigma. Married women are culturally pressured to “save” marriages even in situations involving emotional neglect, domestic violence or humiliation. Within this framework, Sabitri Puja sometimes appears less like spiritual devotion and more like symbolic conditioning.

At the same time, dismissing the festival entirely as “sexist” may also oversimplify the matter.

Many women themselves defend the ritual passionately. For them, Sabitri Puja is not coercion but emotional choice. It represents affection, companionship, continuity and faith. Many educated, financially independent women continue to observe the fast voluntarily. They see it as an intimate cultural practice rather than patriarchal oppression. In Odisha especially, the festival is tied deeply to memory: mothers teaching daughters rituals, families gathering together, markets glowing with festive energy and a shared sense of Odia identity.

Culture is rarely black and white.

The real tension lies in whether tradition allows freedom. A ritual becomes oppressive not merely because it exists, but because society punishes those who reject it. If a woman freely observes Sabitri Puja, it is cultural participation. If she is emotionally blackmailed, morally judged or socially isolated for not observing it, then the ritual becomes a tool of patriarchal control.

Law enters precisely at this point.

The Indian Constitution guarantees equality, dignity, privacy and freedom of conscience. Marriage under modern law is no longer indissoluble destiny. Divorce is legally recognised because the law accepts that not all marriages are healthy or sustainable. Feminist legal reforms have expanded women’s rights regarding maintenance, domestic violence, inheritance and marital autonomy. The law increasingly views women not merely as wives but as independent constitutional citizens.

This constitutional modernity often clashes with traditional morality.

In many conservative settings, divorced women continue to face subtle exclusion from rituals associated with married status. Festivals like Sabitri Puja become reminders of how Indian society still glorifies marital permanence even when relationships are emotionally broken. The “successful woman” is often unconsciously defined as one who preserves marriage at any cost.

But civilisation evolves through questioning.

No culture remains alive by freezing itself in time. Indian civilisation itself has constantly transformed through debate, reform and reinterpretation. Practices once defended as sacred, including child marriage or denial of widow remarriage, were challenged and changed. Reformers from Raja Ram Mohan Roy to Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar questioned oppressive customs while remaining rooted in Indian civilisation.

The same challenge exists today.

The future of Sabitri Puja may depend not on abandoning it, but on redefining it. Instead of glorifying female suffering, the ritual could evolve into a celebration of mutual care and equal partnership. Marriage cannot survive in modern society through fear, dependency or gender hierarchy. It survives through respect, consent and emotional reciprocity.

A husband praying for his wife’s wellbeing should appear as natural as a wife praying for her husband. Shared rituals reflect shared humanity.

The larger social anxiety around feminism also needs honest examination. In many Indian discussions, feminism is wrongly portrayed as anti-family or anti-culture. In reality, feminism at its core seeks dignity, equality and freedom of choice. It does not prevent a woman from observing Sabitri Puja. It merely insists that she must have the freedom not to observe it without social condemnation.

That distinction is crucial.

Similarly, rising divorce rates should not automatically be viewed as civilisational collapse. Sometimes divorces increase because women are no longer trapped economically or socially in abusive relationships. The ability to leave a harmful marriage can also indicate expanding personal freedom. A society obsessed only with preserving marriages, regardless of suffering, mistakes endurance for virtue.

Yet modern individualism also carries risks. Hyper consumerism, emotional detachment and weakening social bonds can create loneliness and instability. Therefore, blindly rejecting all traditions may produce its own emptiness. Human beings still seek belonging, continuity and symbolic meaning. Rituals provide emotional structure to collective life.

The challenge before Indian society is therefore not choosing between tradition and modernity, but humanising both.

Sabitri Puja today stands as a mirror reflecting India’s transition. It reveals the tension between devotion and autonomy, culture and equality, memory and reform. The answer does not lie in mocking traditions nor in blindly worshipping them. It lies in asking whether a practice enhances human dignity or restricts it.

A civilisation matures not when it silences questions, but when it develops the courage to confront them.

Savitri’s true strength perhaps was never blind obedience. It was courage, intellect, resilience and determination in the face of death itself. If modern society remembers only her sacrifice and forgets her strength, then it misunderstands the very legend it celebrates.

And perhaps that is the real conversation Odisha and India must now have.

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.

Nature Did Not Draft the Alibi

 

 

“Men are polygamous by nature” is not a scientific conclusion. It is a courtroom defence crafted without evidence, repeated often enough to sound like truth. In the theatre of human relationships, biology is frequently summoned as a convenient witness, one that cannot be cross examined.

As a lawyer, one learns early that the most dangerous arguments are those that feel instinctively correct but collapse under scrutiny. This is one of them.

Human beings are not governed by instinct alone. If they were, there would be no contracts, no marriages, no promises, no law. Civilization itself is a rebellion against raw impulse. The very existence of commitment proves that restraint is as natural as desire.

The claim of inherent male polygamy is less about nature and more about narrative. It converts choice into inevitability and responsibility into accident. It quietly absolves the individual by shifting blame to biology. But law does not recognise such poetry. Nor does ethics.

Indian constitutional jurisprudence, especially in recent years, has moved in the opposite direction. It has consistently expanded the idea of autonomy, dignity, and choice in matters of intimacy.

The landmark judgment in Navtej Singh Johar v. Union of India marked a decisive shift. The Supreme Court did not merely decriminalise homosexuality. It affirmed that sexual orientation is an intrinsic part of identity, not a moral failing. The court spoke in the language of dignity, not biology. It recognised that human relationships cannot be reduced to rigid categories imposed by society.

Similarly, in Joseph Shine v. Union of India, the court struck down the colonial offence of adultery. It did not endorse infidelity. Instead, it refused to criminalise it. The judgment made a subtle but crucial distinction. The state cannot police morality, but individuals remain accountable within the realm of relationships. Adultery moved from crime to consequence.

Live in relationships, once whispered about, now stand acknowledged within legal frameworks. Courts have repeatedly held that consenting adults have the right to cohabit without marriage. High Courts across India have extended protection to such couples, recognising that the right to life under Article 21 includes the right to choose one’s partner and the manner of living.

Even more telling is the judiciary’s evolving engagement with LGBTQ relationships. While the Supreme Court in Supriyo v. Union of India stopped short of recognising same sex marriage, it emphatically upheld the dignity and rights of queer individuals. It directed the state to ensure that such relationships are not discriminated against in access to services and benefits.

High Courts have gone further in certain contexts. They have granted protection to same sex couples facing familial threats. They have acknowledged that love, regardless of gender, falls within the protective ambit of constitutional liberty.

Taken together, these developments reveal a consistent judicial philosophy. The law is not interested in who desires whom. It is concerned with whether that desire respects consent, dignity, and autonomy.

Against this backdrop, the claim of “natural polygamy” appears almost juvenile. The law does not prohibit desire. It regulates conduct. It expects individuals to honour commitments they voluntarily enter into. If one chooses monogamy, then fidelity is not a biological burden but a moral obligation.

Philosophically, the argument collapses even further. To say that something is natural is not to say it is justified. Anger is natural. So is greed. So is violence. Civilization exists precisely to discipline these impulses, not to glorify them.

The more honest statement would be this: human beings are capable of multiple desires, but also capable of restraint. The tension between the two is what defines moral agency.

There is also a subtle arrogance in attributing polygamy exclusively to men. It assumes that women are passive participants in the architecture of desire. Modern reality has long dismantled this illusion. Desire is not gendered. Responsibility is not optional.

The humour lies in the defence itself. A man caught in infidelity suddenly becomes an evolutionary biologist. He discovers “nature” only after being discovered. Before that, he is remarkably committed to secrecy, which is not a known trait of natural behaviour.

If polygamy were truly inevitable, concealment would be unnecessary. One does not hide what is natural. One hides what one knows to be questionable.

In the end, the law offers no refuge to such arguments. It neither criminalises desire nor excuses deception. It places the burden where it belongs on choice.

Relationships are not governed by what one feels in a fleeting moment, but by what one chooses over time. Fidelity is not the absence of temptation. It is the refusal to convert temptation into action.

Nature did not draft the alibi. Humans did.

And like most poorly drafted arguments, it fails the moment it is tested.

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

 

Sacred Order, Secular Law: India’s Shared Legacy

 

In the loud and restless arena of modern public discourse, one frequently encounters a peculiar claim: that India’s legal system is incomplete without direct submission to the Vedas, Upanishads, or other religious scriptures. On the opposite side stand those who insist that secular constitutionalism must reject every trace of civilizational inheritance. Both positions are deeply flawed because they fail to understand the Indian experience itself. India has never grown through absolute rejection. It has evolved through continuity, reinterpretation, and dialogue between tradition and modernity.

The Indian Constitution is not a foreign body imposed upon an unwilling civilization. Nor is it a mere copy of Western liberalism detached from Indian soil. It is a modern democratic framework infused with values that have echoed through Indian thought for centuries. The language may be constitutional and secular, but the moral imagination behind it is profoundly connected to India’s civilizational understanding of justice, order, duty, and collective welfare.

To understand this continuity, one must first understand the ancient Indian idea of ṛta. The Rigveda spoke of ṛta as the cosmic order that governed the universe itself. It was not merely a religious concept but a principle of truth, balance, and justice. Even the gods were subject to ṛta. No king, priest, or warrior could stand above it. This idea represents one of humanity’s earliest articulations of the rule of law. In modern India, the Constitution occupies a similar place. It stands above governments, political parties, and institutions. It binds power to principle.

The irony of contemporary political rhetoric is that many who loudly invoke “dharma” often undermine the very spirit of ṛta. They speak of cultural pride while simultaneously attacking constitutional institutions whenever judgments or laws do not suit ideological preferences. The Vedic vision did not glorify unchecked power. It restrained power through moral order. That is precisely what constitutionalism seeks to achieve today.

The Upanishads deepened this ethical understanding. The injunction “सत्यं वद, धर्मं चर” meaning “speak the truth, walk in dharma” was not merely spiritual advice but a philosophy of ethical living. Dharma, in its classical sense, was never confined to ritual identity or sectarian assertion. It referred to conduct rooted in truth, justice, fairness, and responsibility.

Modern constitutional morality reflects this very principle. Equality before law, freedom of speech, dignity of the individual, and protection of liberty are contemporary legal expressions of an ancient ethical vision. Articles 14, 19, and 21 of the Constitution are not alien abstractions disconnected from Indian civilization. They embody values deeply compatible with the moral philosophy that evolved across centuries in India.

Yet the tragedy of modern politics lies in the reduction of dharma into performance. Dharma today is often marketed through slogans, hashtags, television debates, and performative outrage. Instead of being understood as justice or ethical responsibility, it is converted into a weapon of identity politics. One hears grand declarations that “true law” must come from scripture, while actual issues of justice remain neglected. Courts struggle with delays. Ordinary citizens struggle for basic rights. Institutions face pressure. But social media warriors remain busy deciding who is sufficiently “cultural.”

This is not reverence for tradition. It is the caricature of tradition.

If one genuinely studies Indian philosophical traditions, one discovers that they constantly encouraged introspection, debate, and reinterpretation. The Upanishads themselves are structured around questioning. Buddhist traditions challenged ritual orthodoxy. Jain philosophy emphasized non violence and ethical restraint. The Bhakti movement questioned rigid hierarchies. Sikh teachings emphasized equality and justice. India’s civilizational strength lay not in uniformity but in intellectual plurality.

The Constitution carries forward this spirit of plurality. It does not belong to one religion, caste, or ideology. It belongs equally to every citizen. That universality is precisely what makes it deeply Indian.

The Yajurveda offers a powerful articulation of collective welfare:

“सर्वे भवन्तु सुखिनः, सर्वे सन्तु निरामयाः।
सर्वे भद्राणि पश्यन्तु, मा कश्चिद् दुःखभाग्भवेत्॥”

May all be happy. May all be free from suffering. May all experience well being. May none suffer.

This prayer is not sectarian. It does not ask for prosperity for one group alone. It envisions universal welfare. The Directive Principles of State Policy echo the same spirit through commitments to public health, social justice, education, and welfare. The constitutional promise of justice is therefore not separate from India’s moral traditions. It is their democratic evolution.

The Arthashastra of Kautilya provides another fascinating bridge between ancient and modern governance. Though often portrayed merely as a text of political realism, it repeatedly emphasizes that the ruler’s duty is to protect the vulnerable and maintain social order. The legitimacy of governance depended upon public welfare. In many ways, modern welfare legislation and constitutional obligations continue this concern for collective stability and justice.

At the same time, Kautilya would probably have viewed much of contemporary political hypocrisy with sharp amusement. Today, leaders invoke morality during elections while overlooking inequality, corruption, and institutional decay. Dharma becomes a slogan during campaigns and disappears during governance. If ancient thinkers returned today, they might be astonished not by India’s secular Constitution but by the casual misuse of sacred vocabulary for short term political gain.

Buddhist traditions further transformed Indian political ethics through the idea of compassion as governance. Emperor Ashoka’s edicts are among the earliest examples of moral statecraft. They emphasized tolerance, humane treatment, welfare measures, and environmental concern. His dhamma was not about religious domination. It was about ethical governance.

Modern constitutional jurisprudence reflects similar concerns. Environmental protections, the right to life, welfare rights, and protections for marginalized communities are all expressions of a legal philosophy that recognizes human dignity as central to governance.

This continuity between ancient ethics and modern constitutionalism becomes even clearer when one examines the Preamble of the Constitution. Justice, liberty, equality, and fraternity are not merely political slogans borrowed from elsewhere. They resonate deeply with Indian philosophical traditions.

Justice reflects the Vedic concern for order.
Liberty reflects the Upanishadic search for truth and self realization.
Equality reflects centuries of resistance against hierarchy and oppression.
Fraternity reflects the civilizational idea that society survives through mutual respect and shared humanity.

The Constitution did not emerge in opposition to Indian civilization. It emerged from within India’s historical struggle to refine and democratize its moral ideals.

Dr. B.R. Ambedkar understood this deeply. While he sharply criticized oppressive social practices justified through selective readings of scripture, he also recognized the ethical importance of dhamma. For Ambedkar, democracy was not merely institutional machinery. It was a moral order rooted in liberty, equality, and fraternity. In many ways, Ambedkar transformed ancient ethical aspirations into constitutional guarantees.

This is why attempts to portray the Constitution as “anti Indian” are intellectually dishonest. Such claims ignore both history and philosophy. The Constitution is perhaps the most Indian document ever created precisely because it synthesizes diverse traditions into a framework of modern justice. It draws from global constitutional ideas while remaining rooted in Indian realities and ethical imagination.

Equally flawed are those who dismiss every reference to dharma or civilizational ethics as inherently regressive. Secularism in India was never meant to mean hostility toward tradition. It meant equal respect, neutrality of the state, and protection of diversity. The Constitution does not erase cultural memory. It prevents cultural domination.

India’s genius has always been its ability to absorb, reinterpret, and transform. Ancient wisdom and modern law are not enemies. They are connected chapters of the same civilizational story.

The real conflict today is not between dharma and the Constitution. The real conflict is between justice and propaganda, between ethical governance and performative politics, between constitutional morality and ideological theatre.

When dharma is reduced to shouting matches on television, it loses its depth. When constitutionalism becomes mere legal technicality without moral purpose, it loses its soul. India needs neither blind traditionalism nor rootless modernity. It needs an honest understanding that sacred order and secular law can coexist through the common pursuit of justice.

To uphold the Constitution is not to reject India’s civilizational heritage. It is to carry forward its finest ethical aspirations in a democratic form. The Constitution gives legal structure to ancient ideals of truth, fairness, welfare, and dignity.

The next time someone declares that the Constitution must submit to scripture, the answer is simple: the deepest values of Indian civilization already live within the Constitution. They survive not through slogans, but through justice.

Sacred order and secular law are not opposing worlds. They are India’s shared legacy.

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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.

Email: ssmishra33@gmail.com

 

Ram and Hindutva Politics

 

The story of Rama is one of exile, restraint, duty and moral conflict. It is a story that has travelled through centuries, languages and imaginations, most memorably through the Ramayana. Yet, what we witness today is not merely devotion to Rama but the political reconstruction of his image into a tool of mobilisation. The transformation is neither accidental nor organic. It is deliberate, strategic and deeply consequential.

Hindu civilisation has never been singular in its expression. It has thrived on plurality, contradiction and localised traditions. Shiva, Krishna, Durga, Kali and countless folk deities coexist without a rigid hierarchy. The divine in Hindu thought is expansive, often resisting neat categorisation. Against this background, the elevation of Rama as the singular emblem of Hindu identity marks a shift from spiritual diversity to political uniformity.

The appeal of Rama for political appropriation lies in his narrative clarity. Unlike Shiva, who embodies paradox, or Krishna, who revels in ambiguity, Rama is often presented as Maryada Purushottam, the ideal man who adheres to duty above all else. This image lends itself easily to the construction of a disciplined, orderly society. The idea of Ram Rajya becomes not just a philosophical aspiration but a political slogan. It is simple, emotionally resonant and capable of mass reproduction.

The turning point in this transformation can be traced to the Ram Janmabhoomi movement. What began as a religious claim over a contested site gradually evolved into a nationwide political campaign. The movement did not merely seek the construction of a temple. It sought the consolidation of identity. Rama was no longer just a deity of devotion but a banner under which political allegiance could be organised. The chant “Jai Shri Ram,” once an expression of faith, acquired a sharper, more assertive edge, often functioning as a marker of belonging or exclusion.

At the heart of this shift lies Hindutva, a modern ideological project that seeks to define Indian identity in primarily cultural and religious terms. Hindutva does not engage with the theological richness of Hinduism. Instead, it simplifies, selects and standardises. In doing so, it chooses symbols that can be easily communicated, replicated and politicised. Rama fits this requirement perfectly. His story is linear, his virtues are easily codified, and his image is widely recognisable.

This process, however, comes at a cost. The reduction of a complex civilisation into a singular narrative inevitably erases diversity. Regional traditions, alternative interpretations and dissenting voices are pushed to the margins. The rich philosophical debates that characterise Hindu thought are replaced by uniform slogans. Faith becomes performance, and devotion becomes spectacle.

There is also an inherent contradiction in the political use of Rama. The Rama of the Ramayana is not a figure of aggression. He is a king who questions himself, who suffers the consequences of his decisions and who embodies restraint. His story is as much about doubt as it is about duty. The political projection of Rama, on the other hand, often emphasises strength without introspection, authority without ambiguity. It is a selective reading that prioritises utility over integrity.

Moreover, the use of religious symbols in politics alters the nature of both. Politics becomes infused with moral absolutism, leaving little room for disagreement. Religion, in turn, becomes instrumental, valued for its ability to mobilise rather than its capacity to inspire reflection. The line between faith and power begins to blur, and in that blur, both are diminished.

It is important to recognise that the prominence of Rama in contemporary discourse does not necessarily reflect the lived reality of Hindu practice across India. In many regions, Shiva remains the central figure of devotion. In others, Krishna’s playful divinity dominates. Goddess traditions continue to hold immense significance. The attempt to project a singular, uniform identity overlooks this diversity and imposes a narrative that is more political than spiritual.

The question, therefore, is not about Rama himself but about what is being done in his name. When a deity becomes a political instrument, the focus shifts from values to visibility. The loudness of the chant begins to matter more than the depth of belief. In such a scenario, the risk is not just the distortion of religion but the erosion of democratic space. Symbols that unify can also divide when they are used to draw boundaries.

India’s strength has always lain in its ability to accommodate multiplicity. Its traditions have survived precisely because they have resisted homogenisation. The attempt to centralise Rama as the definitive symbol of identity runs counter to this ethos. It narrows the vastness of Hindu thought into a single frame, convenient for politics but inadequate for a civilisation.

To engage critically with this phenomenon is not to question faith but to defend its integrity. Rama does not need political endorsement to remain relevant. His story has endured for centuries because it speaks to human dilemmas, not because it serves political agendas. To reduce him to a slogan is to diminish that legacy.

In the end, the issue is not whether Rama should be revered. He already is, in countless ways across the country. The issue is whether reverence should be orchestrated, amplified and directed for political gain. When faith becomes a tool, it ceases to be free. And when it ceases to be free, it loses the very essence that made it powerful.

The challenge before India is not to choose between gods but to preserve the freedom to choose them. That freedom is the foundation of both its spirituality and its democracy. Any attempt to control, standardise or politicise it must be examined with care and resisted with clarity.

 

Author Introduction
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.