The uses of centrist liberalism in India’s ideas-starved politics

 INDIA’S POLITICAL IMAGINATION has long been shaped by grand ideological currents—“cultural nationalism”, socialism, religious revivalism, even communism (if only in a couple of states like Kerala and West Bengal). But liberal­ism, despite its deep roots and periodic resurgences, remains curiously marginalised. Amid the heated rhetoric that consumes most of the space for ideas in our acrimonious and electoral politics, there seems little space for engaging in a more serious discussion about values. Is liberalism even worth discussing, then, in today’s India?

Just over three decades ago, after the elections of 1991, India embarked on a tryst with “liberalisation”, at a time when liberalism was being regarded by many as the apex of ‘mankind’s ideological evolution’ and ‘the final form of govern­ment’ (to quote Francis Fukuyama’s now-notorious 1989 essay ‘The End of History’). In the years since, though liberalisa­tion has continued (although moderated by the dawn of a populist welfarism that spans political divides and is widely criticised as “freebie culture”), liberalism itself has fallen from grace, facing trenchant criticism from both the left and the right, both in India and across the world. The appeal of the core liberal idea that liberal democracy, planted in the fertile soil of a free land and watered by capitalistic economic affluence and rule of law, would flourish around the globe, is waning. The alarming rise of populist and authoritarian strongmen across the globe has reflected a discernible retreat of liberal democracy from its post-Cold-War heyday. And in global affairs, the eclipse of the “liberal international order” is evident, with its obituaries being written daily on outlets like Truth Social and propagated in the words and actions of those who used to be its erstwhile proponents—the occupants of the White House.

In India, liberalism is facing a crisis of legitimacy, with attacks from both the left and the right. For those on the left, liberalism (and neoliberalism in particular) represents a dangerous elitist doctrine, prioritising the interests of a handful of privileged individuals over the needs of the collective, and promoting an individualism that has resulted in the ever-widening gap between the haves and the have-nots, the primacy of corporate interests, “crony capitalism”, and the further marginalisation of the disadvantaged. The left sees an untenable contradiction between a commitment to egalitarian democracy on the one hand and individualistic market capitalism on the other.

The Indian right sees different dangers in liberalism, particularly its emphasis on individual freedom and its perceived association with Western ways of thinking. The ascendant Hindutva right garbs itself in the social values that emphasise the ideals of community, identity and tradition as paramount, deriding the cosmopolitanism and secularism asso­ciated with liberalism. Its votaries dismiss liberalism in India as a Western colonial import that has no connection with our traditional values and way of living.

Misunderstood as Western, elitist, or synonymous with leftist activism, liberalism in India has struggled to assert itself as a coherent and indigenous tradition. Yet, its prin­ciples—individual freedom, pluralism, constitutionalism, and moral reasoning—are not foreign imports. They are embedded in India’s ancient intellectual soil, refracted through colonial encounters, and periodically revived in modern political experiments. To reclaim liberalism is not to mimic the West, but to rediscover a native grammar of freedom.

Indian liberalism begins not in Locke or Mill, but in the Upanishads and the Bud­dhist sanghas or councils, in the dialogues of the Mahabharata and the disputations of Nalanda. The tradition of samvad—reasoned debate—was central to Indian philo­sophical life. Thinkers across schools of thought, from Mimamsa to Charvaka, engaged in rigorous argumentation, often across metaphysical and ethical divides. The idea that truth emerges from dialogue, not dogma, is foundational to liberal thought. Ashoka’s edicts, which call for respect across sects and the cultivation of moral virtue, reflect a proto-liberal ethos of tolerance and ethical pluralism.

This intellectual openness was not merely academic—it shaped governance. The Arthashastra, while pragmatic and realist, also emphasised rule of law and the accountability of kings. The concept of dharma was not a rigid code but a contextual ethic, adaptable to circumstance and reason. In short, ancient Indian thought offered a rich soil for liberal values: debate, diversity, and moral autonomy.

Far from being a Western import, as thinkers like Amartya Sen have pointed out, the key values of modern liberalism—an em­phasis on individual liberty, freedom, social justice and societal harmony—have therefore been deeply ingrained in Indian society since ancient times. Liberal values can be found in our civilisational traditions and cultural beliefs, representative ruling institutions of the past and in the articulations produced by an array of makers of modern India, with giants like Raja Ram Mohan Roy, Dadabhai Naoroji, Swami Vivekananda, MG Ranade, Gopal Krishna Gokhale, and Gurudev Tagore situating their critique of colonial rule within an essentially liberal framework.

The colonial encounter introduced new vocabularies of liberalism—individual rights, representative government, and economic freedom. Reformers like Roy, Naoroji and Gokhale absorbed Western liberal thought but rooted it in Indian realities. Roy’s advocacy of education, press freedom and religious reform, Naoroji’s critique of economic drain, and Gokhale’s emphasis on constitutional gradualism, were all expressions of a liberal nationalism. Rabindranath Tagore’s was an authentically Indian liberal voice of freedom, insisting that every individual be free to pursue his destiny: “Into that heaven of freedom,” he prayed in Gitanjali, “let my country awake”.

And yet it is true that the history of political liberalism in India is not encouraging. The Liberal Party, formed in the early 20th century, sought to institutionalise liberal ideals during the colonial era. It championed civil liberties, minority rights, and constitutional reform. Yet, its influence was marginal, and rapidly waned amid the rise of the nationalist mass movements and revolu­tionary fervour that characterised the freedom struggle. Gandhiji’s moral politics, Nehru’s socialist vision, and the Congress’ populist mobilisation left little room for the procedural and pluralist liberalism the party espoused.

Post-Independence, liberalism was eclipsed by two dominant forces. First, Nehruvian socialism, inspired by Fabian ideals, entrenched a statist model of development. Planning, regulation, and state ownership became synony­mous with progress. While the grand avatar of state-led plan­ning, PC Mahalanobis, ruled the roost, liberal thinkers like AD Shroff or the economist BR Shenoy were marginalised, and individual enterprise was viewed with suspicion.

The Swatantra Party, founded in 1959 by C Rajagopalachari, Minoo Masani and others, was a bold attempt to challenge this new orthodoxy, and to revive liberalism in Indian politics. It opposed the licence-permit raj, championed free enterprise, and defended civil liberties. It attracted intellectuals, industrialists, and disillusioned Congressmen. For a brief period after the 1967 elections, when it won an impressive 44 seats in Lok Sabha, it was the principal op­position party in Parliament. Yet, Swatantra’s appeal was limited. It lacked a mass base, relied perhaps excessively on the support of the erstwhile royals and feudal allegiances, was caricatured as elitist, and struggled to counter the emotional pull of socialism and nationalism. By 1973, it had faded, merging into Charan Singh’s Bharatiya Kranti Dal to form the Bharatiya Lok Dal, leaving behind a legacy of principled dissent but no institutional continuity.

If the Swatantra Party was derided as “rightwing” in those con­sensually socialist days, when ‘rightwing’ was a term of abuse, the rightist label has since been captured by the second dominant force, the rise of cultural nationalism—initially peripheral, later ascendant—which also challenged liberal values of cosmopoli­tanism and secularism. The idea of India as a pluralist republic gave way to visions of religious homogeneity and majoritarian as­sertion in the name of culturally rooted authenticity. Liberalism, with its emphasis on individual rights and minority protections, was increasingly portrayed as anti-national or decadent.

Whereas Tagore’s liberalism was hailed a century ago—“Give me the strength never to… bend my knees before insolent might,” he prayed in Gitanjali—in today’s India, “insolent might” commands the stage, across parties. What is worse, it seemingly also rides high in public opinion: a Pew survey last year found 85 per cent of respondents in India indicating a preference for authoritarianism or military rule, alongside a decline in those who believed that representative democracy was a good way of governance. Similar trends are apparent even in the West, where (as the phenomenon of “democratic deconsolidation” attains an unprecedented pace), public satisfaction with liberal democracy and liberal values has been plummeting, enabling Vladimir Putin to triumphantly de­clare “Liberalism is dead”. Many in New Delhi would agree with him. To both right and left, liberalism today is synonymous with elitism, privilege, and an outdated Westernised worldview.

In today’s dominant political discourse, liberalism is often conflated with leftism—especially in the pejorative label “left-liberal”. This conflation obscures key distinctions. Liberalism is not synonymous with socialism; it values markets, individual autonomy, and limited government, one that has no place in the citizen’s bedroom or kitchen. Nor is it reducible to cultural relativ­ism; it affirms universal rights and constitutional norms. The attack on ‘left-liberals’ is often a proxy for attacking pluralism, secularism, heterodoxy, and dissent. In this climate, liberalism must be reclaimed—not as a defensive posture, but as a robust al­ternative to both authoritarian populism and statist paternalism.

IF THERE WAS EVER a time for us to articulate a reformed and expanded idea of Indian liberalism, it is now. The current legitimisation of illiberal alternatives and the erosion of trust in egalitarian democracy, the surrender of individual liberties to the hands of a ruling dispensation that has often exceeded its constitutional powers, the rampant undermining of institutions that were meant to check executive overreach, and the main­streaming of bigoted and chauvinistic narratives that seek to ‘oth­erise’ entire communities, all point to an urgent need to offer a reimagined idea of liberalism to counter the systemic distortions that plague our democratic system. Ambedkar’s constitutional­ism, after all, was a classic liberal project, even if his own political ideology went well beyond the liberal framework.

It is imperative to respond constructively to the charges of elitism and misguided thinking that are levelled at liberalism in India. What is needed is a more syncretic and democratised idea of liberalism, one that is able to remain inclusive and absorptive of ideas from either end, without betraying the core ideals of freedom, dignity and representation that have under­pinned it since its conception. To revive liberalism in India is not to mimic the West, but to rediscover a language of freedom that is both principled and emotionally resonant.

What would an authentic Indian liberalism look like? It would draw from samvad, not sermon; from Adi Shankara, not just Aristotle; from Vivekananda rather than Victorian­ism. It would affirm dharma as moral responsibility, not religious orthodoxy. It would defend the Constitution as a living document of pluralist values and human freedoms. It would champion economic freedom alongside social justice, individu­al rights alongside community dignity.

For too long, Indian liberals have ceded the terrain of tradition and identity to their critics. In their eagerness to defend univer­sal rights, they have sometimes neglected the emotional and cultural anchors that give communities meaning. This has allowed rightwing populists to exploit feel­ings of marginalisation, to offer ‘belonging’ in place of justice, to attack ‘appeasement’ rather than inequality, to promote comfort in majoritarian identity over advocacy of sectional interests, and to privilege grievances about historical wrongs rather than promote aspirations for dignity and social justice.

This is why a renewed Indian liberalism must be centrist. It must engage with tradition and history—not as nostalgia, but as moral resource. It must speak to the lived experiences of religion, caste, language and region without succumbing to essentialism. It must affirm that one can be deeply rooted and yet radically inclusive, that identity need not be a fortress—it can be a bridge. This means listening more, theorising less. It means recognising that individuals are not abstractions—they are sons, daughters, believers, workers, neighbours. Liberalism must learn to speak in registers that resonate emotionally, not just intellectually. It must offer not only rights, but recognition. It must be able to win votes, not just intellectual adherents.

Indian liberalism must also evolve its economic thinking. The older model of economic liberalism—focused narrowly on deregulation, privatisation, and growth—has lost its moral centre. It has failed to address systemic inequality, ecological collapse, and the erosion of public trust. A reformed Indian liberalism must embrace a more inclusive and compassionate framework. It must defend markets, yes—but also insist on fairness, sustainability, and opportunity. It must champion entrepreneurship while demanding accountability. It must see economic freedom not as an end in itself but as a means to hu­man flourishing. This is not a retreat from liberal economics—it is its renewal. It is the recognition that liberty without equity is hollow, and that growth without dignity is unstable.

Centrist Indian liberalism must rise above the binaries that dominate our politics—left vs right, secular vs religious, urban vs rural. It must offer a third space: principled, inclusive, and forward-looking. In doing so, Indian liberalism must become a radical movement—not just an idea. It must build institutions, cultivate leadership, and engage the public square. It must speak to the youth, the entrepreneur, the dissenter, and the believer. It must defend the right to disagree, the duty to reason, and the promise of equality.

This means crafting a centrist liberal­ism that is emotionally resonant and politically viable. One that affirms samvad as a democratic ethic, dharma as moral responsibility, and the Constitution as a living document of pluralist values. One that sees the individual not as an atom, but as a moral agent embedded in a real community. Such liberalism would draw from Ashoka as much as Ambedkar, from Rajaji as much as Ram Mohan Roy, from Tagore as much as Tilak. It would honour the Swatantra Party’s principled dissent, the Liberal Party’s constitutionalism, and the ancient Indian tradition of reasoned debate. It would offer not just critique, but construction.

This is not a utopian wishlist. It is the set of convictions I have held since I came into politics, that I have articulated in po­litical forums, declaimed from public platforms and advocated in my writings. I have won four elections without deviating in any way from these core beliefs and their expression. I believe my vision of centrist liberalism constitutes a pragmatic road­map for a politics that is principled, inclusive, and future-ready.

In India’s idea-starved politics, centrist liberalism, couched in a grammar of hope, can offer not just critique but construc­tion. It is time to revive it—not as nostalgia, but as necessity. The challenging question is whether anyone in our political establishment is ready.

(Shashi Tharoor wishes to acknowledge the contributions of his former colleague John Koshy to his earlier reflections on the subject of this essay)