In the Name of the Republic

A FASCINATING ASPECT of post-election national politics in India is the pronounced return of Constitution-centric optics and sonics. Played out on no less a stage than the very Parliament of India. Before taking oath as the head of government for the third time, Narendra Modi himself bowed low before the Book, which is the foundational text of our Republic.

But the Opposition, even if thus anticipated, would not be upstaged or appeased. They waved copies of the little red book—no, not Chairman Mao’s infamous Red Book as some treasury trolls and media cell operatives alleged—but our very own secular ‘holy book’ of state. Many raised ‘Jai Samvidhan / Hail Constitution’ slogans, one even earning the reprimand of the speaker of the House.

So much Constitution-genuflecting, Constitution-waving, Constitution-mongering, Constitution-pandering, and cross-Constitutionalism? What do we make of it?

First of all, the 2024 electoral contest and its outcomes, more than previous General Elections, foregrounded the fundamental principles and values at stake in India’s self-apprehension and conduct as a nation. This election was epochal not just because it curtailed the advance of the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) or brought back the Opposition into the reckoning. But also because it served as an arena in which differing and competing visions of India’s constitutional ethos and democratic ideals were contested.

In the polarised political climate, competing narratives about nationalism, secularism, federalism, and democracy came to the fore. Even more significantly, both sides reverted to the Constitution as the ultimate arbiter not only of national identity but also of political legitimation. Both sides, no wonder, claimed to be its true guardians and custodians.

Secondly, the increased constitutional engagement came from the growing public awareness and concern over issues of governance, accountability, and the protection of fundamental rights. The election’s aftermath likely reflects a continuation of this trend, where citizens increasingly resort to constitutional language and ideals to articulate their aspirations and dissent—including themes such as freedom of speech, right to privacy, and social justice.

Thirdly, the role of the judiciary is evident in landmark judgments relating to the Constitution. These interventions have sometimes acted as catalysts, prompting both political leaders and citizens to engage more deeply with it. Of these, the Ramjanmabhoomi verdict, the Citizenship (Amendment) Act (2019), the abrogation of Article 370, and the debate on the proposed Uniform Civil Code (UCC), may be mentioned as examples.

But the two most important constitutional issues that entered both the aspirational rhetoric of the ruling party and the fearmongering of the Opposition were religion and caste. Especially when it came to the two fundamental faultlines of the nation. BJP’s Hindu majoritarianism foregrounded the former, the Opposition’s panic-pandering on quotas the latter.

No wonder, one of the less discussed consequences of the 2024 General Election is the quiet shelving of all talk of the Second Republic. The latter, conceivably, was the project not only of ‘Moditva’, but also of the hyper-Hindus who wanted an irrevocable break with our so-called ‘secular republic’. The former, one might argue, wanted to create a brave new India, a global superpower even, in overtly Hindu colours. The latter, I would venture, wanted nothing less than an openly proclaimed Hindu Rashtra.

That, too, by riding piggyback on the ‘super majority’ of charsau paar or 400-plus that Brand Modi had projected, if not promised. Had that unlikely objective actually fructified, it would have been, if not quite a coup d’état, then nothing short of a palace coup.

The probable idea was that if Modi would bring in the super majority, then the hyper-Hindus would force his hand to amend the Constitution. The Second Republic would thus automatically blossom into a Hindu Rashtra as an act of manifest destiny. This was quite different from the traditional Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) position of Bharat already being a Hindu Rashtra de facto. With every Indian, regardless of their religion, already a Hindu. Therefore, no need to push for the Hindu Rashtra de jure. Only for every Indian to acknowledge their ‘Hinduness’ by accepting their roots in the age-old cultural-civilisational matrix of the land.

Such an obeisance to geo-piety would, unfortunately, not appease the hyper-Hindus. For them, the Hindus were not just second or third-class, but as one put it, “eighth-class” citizens. Nothing short of a total remaking of the nation would be sufficient. And for this, nothing short of a new Constitution would suffice. The drumming up of disrespect, bordering on derision, for the present admittedly flawed document of state, was a longstanding strategy of this group.

The increased constitutional engagement came from the growing public awareness and concern over issues of governance, accountability, and the protection of fundamental rights

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But the fondly-hoped-for ‘revolution’ of the hyper-Hindus had one fatal flaw. Its ferocity was mostly verbal and virtual. It neither had the firepower nor the bench strength, let alone the actual armies or mobs, to seize power. Hannah Arendt, speaking of real violence and real revolutions, famously outlined the limits of both: “But violence is no more adequate to describe the phenomenon of revolution than change; only where change occurs in the sense of a new beginning, where violence is used to constitute an altogether different form of government, to bring about the formation of a new body politic, where the liberation from oppression aims at least at the constitution of freedom can we speak of revolution” (On Revolution, 1963).

In that sense, the attempted coup of this faction was neither revolutionary nor, in any real sense, radical. The Second Republic was to be brought about neither through revolution nor consensus, but mostly bullying and brinkmanship. It was social media bluster and intellectual intimidation on an unprecedented scale. Accompanied by polemical recklessness and spiteful attacks not only on opponents but on fellow travellers alike. Classical in the manner in which it mimed its worst adversaries, the Marxists.

This is where the fundamental contradiction, even incommensurability, between the revolutionary and constitutionalist factions, once again, surfaces. Throughout the chequered and heroic history of the Indian freedom movement, these two distinct constituents of the anti-colonial struggle were continuously at loggerheads. Both played their fateful parts right till the very eve of freedom. They would never be completely reconciled.

What, then, is the way out, the way forward? The answer is Swaraj.

The revolutionary and the constitutionalist often intertwined in unexpected ways in India’s unique contribution to global political thought. Its distinguishing feature was not aazadi, but swaraj. Is that the reason that Aazadi ka Amritmahotsav is now a bit of a damp squib?

Vinayak Damodar Savarkar’s The Indian War of Independence 1857 begins with ‘Swadharma and Swaraj’, the very terms and ideas that dominate Mahatma Gandhi’s Hind Swaraj. That both books, with their totally differing approaches, were published in the same year, 1909, is not an accident of history.

In the aftermath of the 2024 General Election, we see, once again, their unresolved tensions playing out. Not only in Constitution-waving but also in each side claiming to be the true, even sole, champion of authentic Indian nationalism. But both are legitimate. And none can be wiped out.

The sooner the sparring—or should we say warring—parties understand this, the better it will be for the future of the Republic. We can then resume the project of nation-building, as elected representative government and responsible Opposition, with neither trying totally to delegitimate the other.

Sanatana Dharma is broad and capacious enough not only to allow both the Mahatma and his murderer into its fold but also to permit both of them to swear by the same scripture, the Bhagavad Gita. Swaraj, too, embraces not only Savarkar and Gandhi, but also Dadabhai Naoroji, Sri Aurobindo, Maulana Azad, Sarojini Naidu, Jawaharlal Nehru, Keshav Baliram Hedgewar, Subhas Chandra Bose, and Bhagat Singh among others.

If so, why shouldn’t Hindu majoritarianism admit Muslims and other minorities as equal citizens under the same Constitution? And the Opposition refrain from reverting to minority appeasement and identity politics in its attempt to reclaim lost ground?

The clinching argument would be that the Constitution itself did not come into being by a seizure of power following the forcible overthrow of the colonial state, but by a transfer of power, albeit blood-ridden. Pretending otherwise would be as delusional as it is romantic.

The recentring of the Constitution in public discourse is thus a mixed blessing. On one hand, it continues to serve as a common reference point, a source of national identity, and a benchmark for evaluating governance and justice in the country. This collective gravitation towards constitutional values can strengthen democratic norms, foster a culture of accountability, and serve as a bulwark against authoritarian tendencies.

On the other hand, the performative display of loyalty, devoid of substantive abidance by constitutional morality smacks of cynicism and opportunism. If political figures bow before it and parties wave it about without a real commitment to its principles, the Constitution is reduced to a mere symbol or shibboleth. A prop in a political theatre, its deep, transformative potential overshadowed by superficial gestures, and faith of the electorate in its sanctity eroded.

About The Author

Makarand R Paranjape

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