Gen Z: The Generation Betrayed by Education

 

 

India stands at a peculiar crossroads where its youngest citizens are the most connected in history, yet many are the least anchored in thought. Gen Z, often celebrated as digital natives, is growing up in an ecosystem where access to information is mistaken for education, and expression is confused with understanding. What appears as empowerment on the surface often conceals a deeper intellectual fragility.

Education was once imagined as a slow and uncomfortable process. It demanded patience, discipline, and above all, the courage to question. It was not designed to comfort beliefs but to challenge them. Today, that essence is quietly eroding. The classroom is no longer the sole site of learning. In fact, for many, it has become secondary to a far more influential and unregulated space, the digital sphere.

Platforms like WhatsApp, short video applications, and algorithm driven feeds have assumed the role of informal educators. They deliver content at a pace that leaves no room for reflection. Complex realities are reduced to catchy slogans, historical narratives are repackaged into convenient distortions, and ideological positions are presented as unquestionable truths. In such a landscape, the ability to pause, verify, and think critically becomes almost an act of resistance.

For a vast section of Indian youth, this is not merely a shift in medium but a replacement of substance. Many are first generation learners or come from economically strained backgrounds where quality education remains elusive. Schools often lack resources, teachers are overburdened, and the curriculum is detached from lived realities. In such circumstances, digital content becomes the primary source of knowledge, not because it is reliable, but because it is available.

This creates a dangerous asymmetry. On one hand, there is a generation exposed to an overwhelming volume of information. On the other, there is a glaring absence of the tools required to interpret that information. The result is not enlightenment but confusion. Narratives that are emotionally charged and politically convenient find easy acceptance, while nuanced and evidence based discussions struggle to survive.

It is in this vacuum that blame is carefully manufactured and distributed. Instead of encouraging young minds to interrogate systems of inequality, economic concentration, and governance failures, attention is diverted towards simplistic explanations. A struggling household is told that its condition is the result of a particular community rather than structural neglect. Anger is cultivated, but it is directed away from those who wield real power. This is not accidental. It is a design that thrives on distraction.

At the same time, there exists another India within the same generation. Urban, educated, and globally connected, this segment appears to have access to better institutions and opportunities. Yet here too, the crisis is only subtler. Education is increasingly reduced to a transaction. Degrees are pursued as tickets to employment, not as instruments of understanding. The question is no longer what one learns, but what one earns.

This utilitarian approach strips education of its moral and intellectual depth. Students become skilled, but not necessarily thoughtful. They are trained to perform tasks, but not to question assumptions. Success is measured in placements and packages, while curiosity and critical engagement are treated as luxuries. In chasing efficiency, the system quietly abandons wisdom.

The consequences of this dual failure are profound. One part of the generation is deprived of meaningful education altogether, while another is processed through a system that values output over insight. Both are left vulnerable in different ways. One is easily manipulated, the other easily disengaged.

What binds them, however, is a shared distance from the true purpose of learning. Education, at its core, is meant to liberate. It enables individuals to see beyond immediate realities, to connect personal experiences with larger structures, and to resist narratives that seek to confine thought. When education fails, it does not merely produce ignorance. It produces compliance.

The signs of this compliance are visible everywhere. Debates are replaced by shouting matches. Loyalty is valued more than reasoning. Doubt is treated as disloyalty. The space for disagreement shrinks, and with it, the possibility of growth. A generation that should have been the most questioning risks becoming the most conditioned.

Yet, this is not an irreversible condition. The potential of Gen Z remains immense. What is required is a reimagining of education itself. Schools and universities must move beyond rote learning and standardized testing. They must create spaces where questioning is encouraged, where multiple perspectives are explored, and where students are taught to engage with complexity rather than avoid it.

Equally important is the cultivation of media literacy. Young people must be equipped to navigate the digital world with discernment. They must learn to identify misinformation, to verify sources, and to understand the motivations behind the content they consume. Without this, the digital space will continue to function as a powerful tool of manipulation.

Families and communities too have a role to play. Conversations at home must go beyond survival and success to include ideas, values, and critical discussions. Curiosity must be nurtured, not dismissed. The habit of asking why must be protected, even when it is inconvenient.

Ultimately, the question is not whether Gen Z is capable of thinking deeply. It undoubtedly is. The real question is whether the systems surrounding it are willing to allow that depth to emerge. A generation cannot be blamed for the conditions it inherits, but it will be judged by how it responds to them.

If education continues to be hollowed out, the cost will not be borne by Gen Z alone. It will shape the trajectory of the nation. A society that discourages thought cannot sustain democracy, nor can it achieve genuine progress. The crisis of education, therefore, is not a sectoral issue. It is a civilizational one.

The choice before us is stark. We can continue to produce individuals who are informed but not insightful, connected but not conscious, expressive but not enlightened. Or we can reclaim education as a transformative force that empowers individuals to think, question, and act with awareness.

The ongoing NEET crisis is perhaps the clearest reflection of what Gen Z is confronting today. For millions of young Indians, education is no longer merely about learning. It has become a battle for survival. Repeated controversies surrounding examination integrity, demands for transparency, protests by students, and growing public distrust have shaken the confidence of an entire generation. What should have been a gateway to opportunity has instead become a source of anxiety, uncertainty, and anger. The controversy has triggered protests that have expanded beyond medical aspirants to include wider concerns about examination systems, recruitment, and accountability.

The demonstrations at Jantar Mantar are not simply about one examination. They represent a generation questioning whether merit alone is enough in a system they perceive as increasingly opaque. Students who spent years preparing have watched their futures become entangled in allegations of irregularities, administrative failures, and political arguments. The emotional toll is enormous because every examination represents years of sacrifice made not only by students but by entire families. Recent protests have drawn thousands of young people demanding reforms and greater accountability.

This is where the story of Gen Z changes. For years they were dismissed as a generation addicted to screens and distracted by social media. Yet the NEET movement has revealed another face of India's youth. When they believe institutions have failed them, they are willing to organise, protest, and demand accountability. Whether one agrees with every slogan or not, their mobilisation reflects a deeper concern about fairness, trust, and the future of education.

If India's education system cannot guarantee transparency, credibility, and equal opportunity, it risks producing not merely disappointed graduates but a generation that loses faith in public institutions themselves. That may be the greatest educational crisis of all.

The future of Gen Z, and indeed of India, depends on which path we choose.

 

Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an advocate at the Supreme Court of India.

 

If Sanatan is Eternal, Why Did It Change? The Forgotten Mahabharata Challenge

 

One of the most powerful claims made in contemporary religious and political discourse is that "Sanatan Dharma" is eternal, unchanging, and timeless. The very word Sanatan means eternal. It evokes an image of an ancient truth that has remained constant across millennia, untouched by human intervention. But what happens when one turns to the scriptures themselves? Surprisingly, the Mahabharata offers a story that raises uncomfortable questions about this claim.

In the Adi Parva of the Mahabharata, we encounter the sage Uddalaka and his son Shvetaketu. The episode begins with a shocking incident. A Brahmin approaches and takes Shvetaketu's mother away by the hand in full view of her husband and son. The young Shvetaketu is enraged. To him, this is an intolerable violation of family and marital norms.

Yet his father Uddalaka responds calmly. He tells his son not to be angry because this practice is "Dharma Sanatana" or "Sanatan Dharma." He explains that in ancient times women were free and unrestricted, and such social arrangements were accepted. In other words, what Uddalaka called Sanatan Dharma was not a sacred scripture, a temple ritual, or a theological doctrine. It was a social custom that existed in a particular historical context.

The story becomes even more significant because Shvetaketu refuses to accept his father's explanation. He rejects the custom and establishes a new social code governing relations between men and women. The Mahabharata explicitly states that he created a new maryada, a new social boundary and norm.

This raises an obvious question. If the practice described by Uddalaka was truly Sanatan, how could it be abolished by the next generation? If it was eternal, how could it cease to exist?

The answer may be that the concept of dharma in ancient India was never as rigid as modern interpretations often suggest. Dharma was not merely a fixed set of commandments. It was a living principle that adapted to circumstances, communities, and changing social realities. Different texts present different duties for different ages. What was considered appropriate in one era could be modified or discarded in another.

The history of the Indian subcontinent itself demonstrates this constant evolution. Vedic sacrifices gave way to philosophical inquiry in the Upanishads. The rise of Buddhism and Jainism challenged existing religious assumptions. Bhakti movements questioned ritual hierarchies and opened spiritual paths to ordinary people. Reformers from Basava to Kabir, from Nanak to Ambedkar, challenged inherited traditions and demanded change.

Even practices once defended in the name of religion have disappeared or been transformed. Child marriage, untouchability, restrictions on widow remarriage, and numerous caste based customs have all faced criticism and reform. Society changed because human beings changed. Moral understanding evolved. Laws evolved. Institutions evolved.

The story of Uddalaka and Shvetaketu therefore reveals something profound. The real history of Indian civilization is not the history of an unchanging order. It is the history of debate, dissent, adaptation, and reinvention. Every generation has interpreted inherited traditions in the light of its own values and circumstances.

This does not necessarily diminish the significance of Sanatan Dharma. Instead, it suggests that its endurance may lie not in rigidity but in its capacity to evolve. The Mahabharata itself records a moment when a son challenged a tradition that his father called eternal and successfully replaced it with a new norm.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of the episode is that no social arrangement becomes sacred merely by being old. Traditions survive not because they are ancient, but because each generation finds meaning in them. What is called Sanatan may therefore be less about permanence and more about continuity through change.

The Mahabharata's forgotten story leaves us with a provocative conclusion: what remains eternal is not any single social custom, but the human capacity to question, reform, and redefine the meaning of dharma itself.

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.

 

WhatsApp University And The Manufacture Of The Indian Mind: From Forwarded Myths To Political Power

 

In the last decade, India has witnessed the rise of a parallel education system that has no classrooms, no teachers, no textbooks and no accountability. It thrives on half knowledge, distorted facts, emotional manipulation and the speed of virality. This ecosystem is what we now call “WhatsApp University” the vast factory of forwarded messages that shapes the political mindscape of millions, including people who otherwise appear educated or intellectually trained. It is not an accident. It is a product of deliberate political engineering, emotional anxieties, and a deep cultural vulnerability to simplified narratives.

The origins of WhatsApp University lie in the early 2010s when cheap smartphones and affordable data merged with growing political polarisation. The platform was perfect for ideological mobilisation because it offered privacy, speed and amplification without scrutiny. Unlike Facebook or Twitter which were public and therefore contestable, WhatsApp’s closed groups allowed selective feeding of information. This meant lies could be circulated without challenge, prejudice could be reinforced without debate, and hate could be legitimised without consequence.

Its true expansion began around the 2014 general elections. Political groups especially the BJP IT Cell realised the enormous potential of micro targeting. Thousands of volunteers were trained to craft messages that blended religion, nationalism, half history and conspiracy theories. These were not mere forwards. They were psychological tools designed to bypass reasoning and activate emotion. A rumour about cows, a fake quote attributed to Nehru, a photoshopped image of a Muslim mob, or a fabricated piece of colonial history all travelled through WhatsApp with the same authority as verified news. Over time, the forward became more powerful than the fact.

The success of WhatsApp University rests on four pillars. The first is fear. Fear of the other, fear of losing identity, fear of imagined threats. Communal rumours, especially against minorities, spread like wildfire because fear makes people less rational and more reactive. The second is nostalgia. Messages claim India was once a land of perfect harmony, scientific glory and divine wisdom until modern politics ruined it. This sentimental mythmaking blinds people to evidence. The third is resentment. Many forwards stir anger against liberals, intellectuals, journalists and opposition leaders by portraying them as corrupt enemies who betrayed the nation. The fourth is simplification. Complex issues like economy, unemployment, inflation, constitutional rights or federalism are reduced to slogans that require no thinking.

But why do even intellectuals fall for this? Not because they lack education but because they are human. Confirmation bias is universal. People like to believe information that strengthens their existing worldview. WhatsApp University gives instant ideological gratification. It offers ready made arguments that save the effort of reading, analysing or questioning. It also creates a sense of belonging. Being part of a group that constantly forwards patriotic messages or religious warnings gives the illusion of community and purpose. Many professionals doctors, engineers, lawyers, bureaucrats find comfort in these echo chambers where identity is reaffirmed and doubt is unwelcome.

The ecosystem also works because traditional institutions of knowledge have weakened. Schools rarely teach critical thinking. Universities have become battlegrounds of partisan politics. Television debates reward shouting, not scholarship. Print journalism is shrinking. In this vacuum, WhatsApp steps in as the default educator. It replaces textbooks with images, research with rhetoric, and inquiry with emotion. The more people scroll, the less they question.

WhatsApp University is not just a cultural phenomenon. It has become a political weapon. Elections today are shaped as much by WhatsApp groups as by rallies. Before every major poll, there is a surge of targeted misinformation. Fake economic statistics, communal stories, edited videos, invented achievements, and doctored speeches are pumped into millions of groups simultaneously. By the time fact checkers intervene, the psychological impact has already registered.

The 2019 elections demonstrated the height of this strategy. Local WhatsApp groups in villages and cities functioned as command centres of message dissemination. Thousands of customised narratives were produced for different castes, regions and professions. A person in Uttar Pradesh got caste based propaganda, someone in Kerala received religious warnings, someone in Gujarat received economic mythmaking. The same pattern continues today with greater sophistication. Artificial intelligence has now joined the business of misinformation, making deepfakes more convincing and lies more difficult to identify.

But WhatsApp University does more than win elections. It restructures the moral compass of society. It normalises hatred by presenting it as nationalism. It justifies violence by calling it self defence. It erodes faith in institutions by portraying courts, media, NGOs and scholars as enemies of the nation. It weakens democratic debate by turning every disagreement into a battle between patriots and traitors. Most dangerously, it manufactures consent for authoritarian politics. When citizens are conditioned to believe that dissent equals anti national behaviour, they willingly accept repression as discipline.

The impact is visible in everyday life. People forward communal rumours without hesitation but hesitate to question the government. They circulate unverified medical cures but distrust scientific guidelines. They share conspiracy theories about history but ignore archival records. They condemn minorities without knowing their neighbours. WhatsApp University has created a nation that reacts faster than it thinks, judges quicker than it learns, and hates more easily than it understands.

Has this ecosystem peaked? No. It is now institutionally entrenched. Political parties maintain full fledged digital armies. Religious groups use WhatsApp to spread doctrinal messages. Corporate interests use it for marketing disguised as nationalism. Even local disputes are settled through digital intimidation. The line between truth and fiction has blurred so deeply that many people no longer care which is which. What matters is emotional satisfaction, not factual accuracy.

Yet, hope lies in awareness. Increasingly, some citizens are questioning forwards, exiting toxic groups and demanding verification. Fact checking initiatives are becoming stronger. Courts and election bodies are slowly acknowledging the threat. But the real resistance must come from society itself. Each citizen must learn to pause before forwarding, to ask “Is this true”, to value knowledge over sensation, and to accept that patriotism does not require gullibility.

WhatsApp University will collapse the day we choose thinking over forwarding. Until then, democracy will continue to be shaped not by informed debate but by the speed of ignorance.

Author’s 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.

Indianisation or Indoctrination? The Bharatiya Shikshan Mandal and the Great Educational Contradiction

 

Education is never neutral. Every civilisation understands that whoever shapes education ultimately shapes the future. Empires have always rewritten textbooks before they rewrote societies. Political movements have always recognised that if you can influence the classroom, you can influence generations. It is therefore no surprise that education has become one of the most fiercely contested spaces in contemporary India. At the centre of this ideological contest stands the Bharatiya Shikshan Mandal (BSM), an organisation associated with the larger RSS ecosystem that seeks to influence educational thought, curriculum and policy through what it calls the "Indianisation" of education.

The slogan sounds attractive. Who would oppose an education system rooted in India's own civilisation? Who would object to teaching students about Aryabhata, Sushruta, Panini, Chanakya, Kalidasa, the Upanishads, Buddhist philosophy or India's remarkable contributions to mathematics, astronomy, medicine and linguistics? Every nation has the right, and indeed the responsibility, to introduce its children to its own intellectual heritage. For decades, many scholars have argued that colonial education disproportionately celebrated European achievements while neglecting India's own traditions. Correcting that imbalance is not merely acceptable, it is necessary.

Yet, as someone who has observed the evolution of this movement over the years, I have come to believe that the debate is no longer about restoring balance. It is about controlling the narrative. The project of Indianisation, at least as articulated by many within the BSM ecosystem, increasingly appears less like an academic exercise and more like an ideological one. The concern is not that Indian civilisation is being taught. The concern is whether education is being transformed into a vehicle for a single political and cultural worldview.

The Bharatiya Shikshan Mandal presents itself as an organisation committed to educational reform. It advocates integrating Indian knowledge systems into mainstream education, promoting Sanskrit, revisiting historical narratives, encouraging research into traditional sciences and creating a curriculum that reflects India's civilisational ethos. On paper, these objectives sound constructive. However, every educational reform must be judged not by its slogans but by its consequences. The question is not whether Indian knowledge deserves respect. It undoubtedly does. The question is whether respect for Indian knowledge requires suspicion towards every other tradition of learning.

Civilisations do not become great by isolating themselves. They become great by absorbing ideas from everywhere and improving upon them. Nalanda was not celebrated because it shut its doors to foreign scholars. It became one of the world's greatest universities precisely because scholars from China, Korea, Tibet, Persia and Southeast Asia travelled thousands of kilometres to study there. Ancient India was intellectually confident because it welcomed debate. Philosophical schools challenged one another relentlessly. Buddhists debated Hindus. Mimamsakas challenged Vedantins. Materialists questioned spiritualists. Knowledge flourished because disagreement was encouraged rather than feared.

That spirit of fearless inquiry is the true legacy of Indian civilisation. Unfortunately, modern educational nationalism sometimes mistakes conformity for confidence.

One contradiction has particularly troubled me, and I write this not from newspaper reports or political propaganda but from my own experience. Over the years I have interacted with several individuals associated with the Bharatiya Shikshan Mandal and the broader ideological ecosystem that passionately advocates Indianisation. Many of them are my friends.

In those discussions, they speak passionately about freeing India from its colonial mindset. They argue that Indian education has been mentally enslaved by Western intellectual traditions. They insist that our universities must reject imported frameworks and instead build an education system rooted entirely in Indian civilisation. Listening to them, one would believe that the future of higher education lies almost exclusively within the boundaries of our own cultural tradition.

Yet my own experience has often revealed a striking contradiction.

I have personally seen some of these very friends proudly celebrate when their children secure admission to universities in the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia and other Western countries. They discuss international rankings, research opportunities, academic freedom, laboratories, innovation and global exposure with understandable pride. There is nothing wrong with that. Every parent naturally wants the very best opportunities for their children. If I had the means, I too would want my child to study wherever excellence exists.

My question is different.

If Indianisation is genuinely creating an educational system superior to the global institutions they frequently criticise, why does confidence in that system disappear when personal choices are made? Why is Indianisation preached for society while international education remains the aspiration for one's own family?

To me, this is not merely a contradiction. It is a profound commentary on the difference between ideology and conviction. Ideology is what we ask others to believe. Conviction is what we practise ourselves. An educational philosophy earns credibility when those who advocate it trust it with the future of their own children. When public speeches glorify self reliance but private aspirations continue to seek global universities, ordinary citizens are entitled to ask whether Indianisation is genuinely about educational excellence or whether it has become an instrument of political symbolism.

The irony is impossible to ignore. The very institutions often criticised as products of Western civilisation remain the benchmark against which success is privately measured. Harvard, Oxford, Cambridge, MIT, Stanford and countless other universities continue to attract ambitious Indian students from every political persuasion. This is not because Indians lack patriotism. It is because these institutions have earned reputations through research, academic freedom and intellectual excellence. Respect cannot be manufactured through slogans. It must be earned through scholarship.

Unfortunately, much of the present debate confuses cultural pride with intellectual superiority. Pride is important. Every civilisation should celebrate its achievements. But pride without evidence quickly becomes propaganda. A nation does not become intellectually stronger simply by declaring itself superior. It becomes stronger by producing better research, better universities, better scientists, better philosophers, better judges, better doctors and better citizens.

The deeper danger lies elsewhere.

Education slowly ceases to be about questioning and gradually becomes about affirming predetermined truths. History begins to serve politics rather than evidence. Universities begin to reward conformity rather than curiosity. Students become reluctant to question accepted narratives because questioning itself is portrayed as being anti national or anti cultural. Once that happens, education loses its soul.

A classroom should never become a recruiting ground for any ideology, whether left, right, religious or secular. Its purpose is to cultivate independent minds capable of evaluating competing ideas through evidence and reason. The greatest tribute we can pay to India's civilisation is not blind celebration but fearless examination. If ancient Indian achievements are genuinely extraordinary, they will survive the highest standards of academic scrutiny. They do not require political protection.

What India desperately needs today is not Indianisation versus Westernisation. That is a false choice. We need international excellence rooted in Indian confidence. We need students who can read the Upanishads and understand quantum mechanics, appreciate Kalidasa and Shakespeare, study Aryabhata and Einstein, admire Chanakya while critically engaging with Adam Smith, Ambedkar, Gandhi and modern constitutional thought. Knowledge has never recognised national borders. Only politics does.

The real crisis in Indian education is not that students read too much about Europe. The crisis is that millions of children still study without libraries, laboratories, trained teachers or meaningful opportunities for critical thinking. Universities struggle with inadequate funding, declining research output and bureaucratic interference. Teachers spend more time navigating administration than mentoring students. These are the problems that deserve national attention.

Changing textbook language without transforming educational quality is like repainting a crumbling building. It creates the illusion of reform while leaving the foundations untouched.

India has always been strongest when it remained intellectually open. The civilisation that gave the world the Upanishads also welcomed Buddhism, Jainism, Persian influences, Islamic scholarship, European science and modern constitutional democracy. Our civilisation survived because it absorbed, adapted and evolved. It never feared knowledge from elsewhere.

Perhaps that is the greatest lesson of Indian civilisation itself. Confidence does not require isolation. Strength does not require censorship. Patriotism does not require intellectual uniformity.

The future of Indian education will not be determined by how loudly we proclaim our greatness. It will be determined by whether our universities become places where every idea may be questioned, every claim tested and every student encouraged to think freely. Nations that fear questions eventually stop producing answers.

India deserves an education system that prepares young people not merely to repeat slogans but to compete with the finest minds anywhere in the world. Our civilisation is far too rich to be reduced to ideology and far too confident to fear open inquiry.

Indianisation should mean bringing India's best ideas to the world. It should never mean closing India's windows to the world.

That is the difference between education and indoctrination.

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.

© Siddhartha Shankar Mishra

 

Twelve Years of Publicity, Not Performance

 

When Governance Becomes a Spectacle

For more than a decade, India has been told that it is witnessing an era of “historic transformation.” Every billboard, television screen and social media feed has repeated the same message: a strong leader, a decisive government and a “New India.” Yet behind the slogans, choreographed events and endless self promotion lies a harder question that millions of ordinary citizens quietly ask every day: has governance truly improved, or has politics simply become better packaged?

The greatest achievement of the present political era is not economic reform, institutional strengthening or social harmony. It is the mastery of political branding. India has not merely been governed over the past twelve years. It has been marketed.

The distinction matters.

A government committed to democratic governance strengthens institutions so they can function independently. A government obsessed with image building centralises power around a single personality. Today, almost every welfare scheme, every advertisement and every public event revolves around one face and one narrative. Governance has slowly transformed into a permanent election campaign.

The promise of “Achhe Din” carried enormous emotional power in 2014. Millions of Indians were exhausted by corruption scandals, economic uncertainty and political fatigue. The country hoped for cleaner administration, stronger institutions and genuine development. But hope gradually collided with reality.

Unemployment among the youth remains one of the gravest crises facing India today. Educated young people spend years preparing for examinations only to encounter paper leaks, cancelled recruitment processes and shrinking opportunities. Degrees no longer guarantee dignity. Instead of confronting this structural crisis honestly, political discourse is diverted toward emotional and religious polarisation.

Inflation has quietly damaged the middle class and crushed the poor. Rising fuel prices affect everything from transportation to food. Small businesses struggle under economic uncertainty while corporate concentration continues to expand. The language of nationalism is repeatedly invoked, but nationalism without economic justice becomes little more than political theatre.

One of the defining features of the present political climate is the conversion of dissent into suspicion. In a healthy democracy, disagreement strengthens the republic because it keeps power accountable. But increasingly, criticism of the government is portrayed as hostility toward the nation itself. Students, journalists, academics and activists are frequently branded “anti national” merely for questioning authority.

This is a dangerous transformation.

A democracy survives not because everyone agrees with the government, but because citizens retain the freedom to challenge it without fear. Patriotism is not obedience to a ruling party. Patriotism is commitment to constitutional values, justice and democratic accountability.

Another troubling development has been the weakening of institutional independence. Institutions derive legitimacy from neutrality. When investigative agencies, universities, media platforms and public bodies appear politically influenced, public trust erodes. Democracy cannot function solely on electoral victories. It requires strong institutions capable of checking power impartially.

The media too has undergone a dramatic shift. Large sections of television journalism no longer function as independent watchdogs. Instead of asking difficult questions about unemployment, inflation, healthcare or education, much of prime time debate revolves around manufactured outrage and communal anxieties. Complex economic failures are hidden behind emotional spectacles.

The result is a politics of distraction.

Religious symbolism has become central to political communication. Temples, slogans and identity based mobilisation increasingly dominate electoral narratives. Faith is deeply personal and culturally significant in India, but when religion becomes a permanent political instrument, it weakens social harmony. Communities begin viewing one another not as fellow citizens but as political categories.

India’s civilisational strength has always rested on coexistence. The republic envisioned by the Constitution was never meant to privilege one identity over another. It sought unity through diversity, not uniformity through intimidation.

Supporters of the government often argue that India’s international image has improved under the current leadership. Certainly, diplomacy and global visibility matter. But foreign applause cannot substitute domestic well being. A nation’s true strength is measured not by stadium events abroad but by the condition of its citizens at home.

Can ordinary families afford education and healthcare?
Do farmers receive stable incomes?
Are young people finding meaningful employment?
Do citizens feel free to speak without fear?
Are institutions functioning independently?

These are the real measures of governance.

The tragedy of modern Indian politics is that optics increasingly matter more than outcomes. Grand inaugurations are celebrated while public infrastructure often remains incomplete. Massive publicity campaigns create the illusion of transformation even where structural problems persist. Political communication has become so sophisticated that perception frequently overshadows reality.

But democratic memory cannot be permanently controlled through slogans.

Eventually citizens compare promises with lived experience. They compare speeches with household budgets, employment opportunities and social conditions. No publicity machinery can indefinitely silence economic anxiety or social frustration.

India deserves politics that rises above personality worship. The republic cannot depend on a single leader, however popular. Strong nations are built through strong institutions, transparent governance and social trust. Democracies decline when criticism becomes taboo and power becomes concentrated around image rather than accountability.

History teaches a simple lesson: governments that prioritise propaganda over performance eventually weaken the very foundations they claim to protect.

India does not need permanent political spectacle. It needs honest governance, economic fairness, institutional independence and social harmony. The future of the republic depends not on louder slogans, but on deeper democratic commitment.

 

Author’s 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.

 

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.