Punjab's Long War: Terrorism, National Security and the Triumph of the Republic

 

The recent controversy surrounding the film ‘Sutlej’ has revived public debate over one of the darkest chapters in independent India's history, the Punjab insurgency. Surfacing in the 1980s, it remains one of the most consequential internal security challenges in the history of independent India. Between the late 1970s and the mid-1990s, the state witnessed political instability, religious radicalization, targeted killings, terrorism, and sustained cross-border support for militant organizations. Thousands of civilians, police personnel, members of the armed forces, public officials, journalists, and militants lost their lives.

Although the Punjab insurgency has largely been brought under control within India, traces of its separatist ideology remain visible beyond the country’s borders, particularly in Canada and the United States. Within India, especially in Punjab, the threat presently appears to be contained. Nevertheless, certain external forces continue to sustain the separatist cause by providing it with ideological, financial, and organisational support. India must, therefore, remain vigilant.

It is in this contemporary context that a serious discussion of the grave national security crisis that emerged in Punjab during the 1970s and 1980s becomes both necessary and relevant. Revisiting that turbulent period is not merely an exercise in recalling the past; it is essential for understanding how political miscalculations, religious extremism and foreign interference can combine to threaten the unity, sovereignty and territorial integrity of a nation.

Punjab after Independence

The Partition of India in 1947 profoundly shaped Punjab's political and social landscape. The province suffered one of the largest and most violent population transfers in modern history. Millions who crossed the newly drawn borders were compelled to live in misery. Despite these traumatic beginnings, Indian Punjab emerged as one of the country's most dynamic states. Refugees rebuilt businesses, agriculture expanded rapidly, and educational institutions flourished. Sikhs played a distinguished role in the armed forces, agriculture, industry, public administration, and national politics. Punjab became an important symbol of India's resilience after Partition.

During the late 1960s and 1970s, Punjab became the centre of India's Green Revolution. High-yielding varieties of wheat and rice, irrigation expansion, improved agricultural practices and institutional support dramatically increased food production. Punjab became the nation's food bowl and contributed significantly to India's food security.

However, the linguistic reorganization of states also transformed Punjab. After prolonged political movements, the state was reorganized in 1966, resulting in the creation of the present-day Punjab, Haryana, and the transfer of certain hill areas to Himachal Pradesh. While the reorganization addressed some demands, issues relating to Chandigarh, river-water sharing and Centre-State relations remained contentious for decades.

The Anandpur Sahib Resolution

One of the most debated documents in modern Punjab politics is the Anandpur Sahib Resolution, adopted by the Shiromani Akali Dal in 1973. The Resolution combined religious, economic and political demands. It sought greater federal autonomy for states within India's constitutional framework, advocated protection of Sikh religious institutions, raised issues relating to Chandigarh and river waters, and emphasized the rights of Punjab.

Interpretations of the Resolution have varied considerably. Akali leaders maintained that it was fundamentally a federalist document seeking decentralization rather than secession. Some political commentators, however, viewed parts of its language with suspicion during a period of increasing political polarization. Whatever the interpretation, the Resolution became an important reference point in subsequent political mobilization.

Political Competition and the Rise of Religious Mobilization

The political rivalry between the Indian National Congress and the Shiromani Akali Dal intensified during the late 1970s. Punjab witnessed coalition politics, shifting alliances and frequent contests over the representation of Sikh political aspirations.

In an effort to weaken the growing political influence of the Akali Dal, sections of the Congress leadership began promoting more fanatic Sikh religious figures. The political calculation behind such an act was that this could divide the Akali support base and reduce the party’s political strength. The Akali Dal, in turn, responded by adopting an increasingly religious and confrontational posture. Thus, competing political forces, driven by short-term electoral interests, contributed to the intensification of religious radicalism in Punjab.

The Emergence of Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale

Against this backdrop emerged Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale, head of the Damdami Taksal, an influential Sikh religious institution. Initially known as a preacher advocating a return to orthodox Sikh practices, Bhindranwale attracted considerable attention among sections of rural Sikh youth through his forceful oratory and emphasis on religious discipline. His appeal grew during a period of political uncertainty and increasing confrontation between competing political actors.

The turning point came after a series of violent incidents, including the clash between members of the Sant Nirankari Mission and orthodox Sikhs in Amritsar in 1978. These events intensified religious polarization and elevated Bhindranwale's public profile.

As violence increased in the early 1980s, Bhindranwale became associated with a militant movement that increasingly rejected constitutional politics. His supporters portrayed him as a defender of Sikh interests. But in reality, he was encouraging armed extremism and legitimizing violence among Sikh youth. His rhetoric and growing influence became central to the radicalization in Punjab.

From Political Agitation to Armed Insurgency

By the early 1980s, Punjab had entered a dangerous phase. Political negotiations repeatedly stalled, public trust declined, and targeted killings increased. Journalists, police officers, public officials and civilians became victims of violence. Fear spread across towns and villages. Moderate voices found themselves squeezed between militant intimidation and political confrontation. As institutions weakened, extremist organizations gained greater operational space.

The deterioration of law and order also attracted the attention of hostile external actors. Pakistan, still nursing the wounds of its 1971 war defeat, increasingly viewed instability in Punjab as an opportunity to weaken India through indirect means. Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) started providing training, funding, weapons, and sanctuary to several Khalistani militant organizations. This development became a serious challenge to India's internal security.

Punjab's Long War: Operation Blue Star, 1984 and the Internationalisation of the Insurgency

By 1983, Punjab had entered one of the gravest internal security crises in independent India's history. Targeted assassinations, extortion, intimidation of public officials and attacks on civilians had become increasingly frequent. Police stations, government offices and political workers were under sustained threat. Moderate Sikh leaders who rejected violence found themselves caught between militant coercion and an increasingly strained political environment.

During this period, Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale and several armed associates established themselves within the Golden Temple complex at Amritsar, particularly in and around the Akal Takht. Alongside Bhindranwale were former Major General Shabeg Singh and Amrik Singh, who significantly contributed to the fortification of the Golden Temple. Weapons, ammunition, fortified positions and communication systems, smuggled from Pakistan, had been assembled inside the complex. This presented an unprecedented challenge for the Indian state.

For the Government of India, the dilemma was profound. The Golden Temple is among Sikhism's holiest shrines, revered by millions across the world. Any security operation inside the complex risked causing deep religious hurt. At the same time, allowing armed militants to continue operating from within a sacred place undermined the authority of the state and complicated policing. Months of negotiations failed to produce a settlement. Against this backdrop, the Government led by Prime Minister Indira Gandhi ordered Operation Blue Star, which commenced in early June 1984.

The operation involved units of the Indian Army supported by other security agencies. After intense fighting, the security forces regained control of the complex. Bhindranwale, Shabeg Singh, and several leading militants were killed. The operation also resulted in the deaths of soldiers, pilgrims, and civilians. In this operation, significant damage was caused to the Akal Takht.

From a purely military standpoint, Operation Blue Star succeeded in removing armed militants from the Golden Temple complex. Politically and psychologically, however, its consequences were far-reaching. For many Sikhs, military action within such a sacred religious site caused profound anguish, regardless of their views on militancy. This emotional impact resonated not only within Punjab but also among Sikh communities abroad.

The situation deteriorated further on 31 October 1984, when Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated by two of her Sikh bodyguards, Beant Singh and Satwant Singh. It was followed by the horrific anti-Sikh riots in Delhi and several other cities. Thousands of innocent Sikhs were killed, homes and businesses were destroyed, and countless families were displaced. The failure of the administration to prevent the violence and the slow pace of accountability became one of the darkest episodes in the history of independent India. The riots represented a grave failure of the constitutional duty of the state to protect its citizens and left enduring scars on India's social fabric.

The insurgency that followed cannot be understood without recognising the impact of these events. Militant organisations exploited the trauma and anger generated by both Operation Blue Star and the anti-Sikh riots to recruit supporters and strengthen extremist narratives. Yet it is equally important to recognise that the overwhelming majority of Sikhs neither joined militant organisations nor supported secession. Sikh officers continued to serve with distinction in the Army, police, civil services and intelligence agencies, while countless Sikh citizens rejected violence despite immense social and political pressures.

As Punjab struggled with internal instability, Pakistan increasingly sought to exploit the situation. Following its defeat in the 1971 war and the emergence of Bangladesh, Pakistan's military establishment adopted a greater emphasis on indirect or proxy strategies against India. Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence played key role in supporting Khalistani militant organisations through training, funding, arms supply, forged documents, communications equipment and safe havens across the international border.

Militant organisations such as the Babbar Khalsa International, Khalistan Commando Force, Khalistan Liberation Force and others were among those that received varying forms of cross-border support during different phases of the insurgency. Arms trafficking networks expanded, infiltration routes became more sophisticated, and propaganda efforts increasingly reached out to sections of the Sikh diaspora.

Some retired Indian military and intelligence officials have referred to an alleged Pakistani strategic concept popularly described as "Operation Topac." According to these accounts, the strategy envisaged encouraging insurgencies in regions such as Punjab and Jammu & Kashmir in order to weaken India through prolonged proxy conflict. Pakistan's security establishment provided substantial support to militant groups seeking to destabilise Punjab.

By the mid-1980s, Punjab had effectively become the site of a complex internal security conflict shaped by both domestic and external factors. Political grievances, extremist mobilisation, traumatic communal violence and sustained foreign assistance combined to prolong the insurgency. Ordinary citizens bore the greatest burden. Farmers feared travelling after dark. Shopkeepers faced extortion. Teachers, journalists, judges, civil servants and police officers were routinely threatened. Democratic institutions struggled to function under conditions of fear.

The experience underscored a broader lesson in national security: when violent extremism acquires external support, the challenge extends beyond ordinary policing. It demands coordinated intelligence, effective law enforcement, political engagement, community cooperation and sustained constitutional governance.

By the late 1980s, the Indian state began adapting its strategy. Intelligence coordination improved, the Punjab Police was reorganised, and a more focused counter-insurgency campaign emerged. It was during this phase that officers such as Julio Ribeiro and later K. P. S. Gill assumed central roles in restoring the authority of the state. Their leadership, together with the courage of thousands of police personnel, soldiers, intelligence officers, and ordinary citizens, would become decisive in reversing the momentum of the insurgency.

Punjab's Long War and Restoring Peace: The Role of Supercop K. P. S. Gill

By the late 1980s, Punjab had reached a critical juncture. Years of assassinations, bombings, extortion, and intimidation had weakened public confidence in the state's ability to maintain law and order. Terrorist groups exercised influence over vast sections of rural Punjab, public officials worked under constant threat, and even moderate religious and political leaders who rejected violence found themselves targeted. The challenge before the Indian state was no longer merely to suppress terrorism but to restore citizens' faith in constitutional governance.

The response that gradually emerged marked a significant shift in India's counter-insurgency strategy. Instead of relying primarily on large-scale military deployments, greater emphasis was placed on intelligence-led policing, close coordination between central and state agencies, dismantling militant networks, protecting witnesses and rebuilding the confidence of ordinary citizens.

A key figure during this phase was Julio Ribeiro. Serving as Director General of Police during one of Punjab's most difficult periods, Ribeiro introduced an aggressive but intelligence-oriented approach to combating militancy. His emphasis on improving morale within the Punjab Police, strengthening intelligence gathering and encouraging officers to reclaim the initiative laid an important institutional foundation for the years that followed.

Building upon these efforts, K. P. S. Gill assumed leadership at a decisive moment in the conflict. Under his command, the Punjab Police intensified its campaign against militant organisations. Working in coordination with central security agencies and intelligence services, the police sought to identify leadership structures, disrupt financial and logistical networks, and reduce the operational capabilities of insurgent groups.

Gill's greatest contribution was restoring confidence within the police force itself. For years, police officers had operated under extraordinary pressure. Militants routinely targeted officers and their families, hoping to break morale and discourage enforcement. Rebuilding institutional confidence was therefore as important as conducting operations against insurgent groups.

One of the defining moments of this period was Operation Black Thunder under the ablest leadership of K.P.S. Gill, conducted in 1988. Unlike Operation Blue Star, which involved the deployment of the Army in a highly sensitive religious complex, Operation Black Thunder relied heavily on careful planning and intelligence coordination. K. P. S. Gill gradually isolated armed militants who had again occupied the Golden Temple complex.

The operation demonstrated important tactical lessons. Security forces surrounded the complex, controlled movement, restricted supplies, and applied sustained pressure rather than launching an immediate large-scale assault. Many militants eventually surrendered, and the operation resulted in comparatively less structural damage to the shrine than had occurred during Operation Blue Star.

Operation Black Thunder was significant not only because of its immediate outcome but because it demonstrated that patient, intelligence-driven operations. It could successfully isolate militant organisations while reducing the wider political and emotional consequences associated with military intervention at religious sites.

The campaign that followed was long, difficult, and costly. Hundreds of police personnel were killed in the line of duty. Many officers lived under assumed identities, changed residences frequently, or sent their families away for safety. Village defence committees, local informants, and ordinary citizens who cooperated with the authorities also faced grave risks. In certain cases Hindus in Punjab were selectively identified and killed mercilessly.

The eventual decline of militancy during the early and mid-1990s resulted from several interacting factors. Sustained police operations disrupted militant leadership. Improved intelligence reduced cross-border infiltration. Sections of the local population increasingly rejected violence as its human and economic costs became unbearable. Political institutions gradually resumed functioning, and normal civic life slowly returned.

The restoration of peace in Punjab also represented a setback to Pakistan that had hoped to sustain a prolonged proxy conflict. Numerous investigations and security assessments have documented attempts by Pakistan-based networks to continue supporting militant organisations through training, funding and propaganda. Nevertheless, as militant structures weakened within Punjab itself, the capacity of external actors to influence events diminished significantly.

The Punjab experience offers several enduring lessons for democratic states confronting violent extremism. The first lesson is that political competition must never legitimise or encourage extremist forces for short-term electoral advantage. Democratic rivalries are inevitable, but history demonstrates that movements built upon violence rarely remain under political control.

The second lesson concerns the relationship between national security and constitutional governance. A democratic state has an obligation to protect the lives and liberties of its citizens. Effective policing, intelligence coordination and counter-terrorism are therefore not contrary to democracy. Instead, they are among the conditions that enable democratic institutions to function.

The third lesson is the importance of community participation. Punjab did not recover solely because of government action. It recovered because ordinary Punjabis increasingly refused to allow terrorism to define their future. Farmers, teachers, traders, religious leaders, journalists, civil servants and countless unnamed citizens chose to cooperate with constitutional institutions rather than submit to intimidation.

Equally significant is the reminder that terrorism should never be conflated with an entire religious or social community. During the insurgency, Sikhs served with distinction throughout the Indian Army, the Punjab Police, the intelligence services and the civil administration. Thousands risked, and many lost, their lives defending fellow citizens irrespective of religion. The struggle against Khalistani militancy was therefore not a conflict between the Indian state and Sikhism. It was a struggle between constitutional democracy and those who sought to achieve political objectives through violence.

Today, Punjab stands transformed from the dark years of widespread terrorism. Its universities educate new generations, its farmers continue to contribute to national food security, its industries and entrepreneurs drive economic activity, and its youth participate in every sphere of Indian public life. However, as noted in the introductory part, the memory of violence has not disappeared, but neither has the resilience that enabled the state to recover.

The debates generated by films, books and public commentary on this period therefore carry an important responsibility. Historical memory should not romanticise terrorism. It should recognise the sacrifices of police personnel, soldiers, intelligence officers, public servants, and ordinary citizens. Demonizing the contributions of heroes like K. P. S. Gill is absolutely uncalled for.

Beyond Genetics: The Civilizational Meaning of Indonesian President Prabowo Subianto's Indian DNA Remarks

 

Indonesian President Prabowo Subianto, during Prime Minister Narendra Modi's state visit to Jakarta from July 6 to July 8, 2026, remarked that his genome sequencing test had revealed traces of Indian ancestry. At first glance, it appeared to be a light-hearted personal observation. Yet the significance of his statement lay far beyond genetics. It symbolized something far deeper: the enduring civilizational relationship between India and Indonesia. This relationship has survived despite political transformations, religious change, and the passage of centuries.

President Prabowo's remarks came naturally rather than as a carefully crafted diplomatic statement. Speaking before members of the Indian diaspora, he humorously observed that whenever he hears Indian music, his body instinctively begins to move. He jokingly suggested that perhaps many of his ministers also possess Indian DNA because they, too, love Indian songs and dances. More significantly, he openly acknowledged that he had closely followed Prime Minister Narendra Modi's developmental journey and had adopted several of India's successful governance initiatives for Indonesia. Such candid admiration from the leader of the world's largest Muslim-majority nation deserves careful reflection.

The President's statement reminds us of an important historical reality. Civilizations often leave legacies far more enduring than empires. Political boundaries change. Kingdoms disappear. Religions spread across continents. Yet civilizational memories continue to shape societies for centuries. Few examples illustrate this better than the historical relationship between India and Southeast Asia.

Long before European colonial powers entered Asia, Indian merchants, monks, scholars, and seafarers had established vibrant cultural networks across the Indian Ocean. Unlike European colonialism, these exchanges were not built upon conquest or political domination. They were founded upon commerce, pilgrimage, scholarship, and cultural interaction. Sanskrit became the language of administration and learning across much of Southeast Asia. Hindu and Buddhist philosophies influenced political institutions, legal traditions, literature, architecture, and art from present-day Myanmar to Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam, and Indonesia.

Indonesia perhaps represents the finest example of this civilizational continuity. It is home to nearly 240 million Muslims and is recognised as the world's largest Muslim-majority nation. However, it has never attempted to erase the memory of its pre-Islamic past. Instead, it has consciously preserved and celebrated that inheritance as an integral part of Indonesian national identity.

The magnificent Prambanan Temple, dedicated to Lord Shiva, remains one of the greatest Hindu temple complexes in the world. The equally spectacular Borobudur Buddhist temple reflects the same Indic civilizational influence. Every year, thousands of Indonesians and international visitors witness the famous Ramayana Ballet performed against the backdrop of Prambanan. The ancient epics of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata continue to live through the traditional Wayang Kulit shadow theatre. Sanskrit words remain deeply embedded in Bahasa Indonesia. Indonesia's national emblem is Garuda, the divine vehicle of Lord Vishnu. Its national motto, Bhinneka Tunggal Ika, "Unity in Diversity", originates from a fourteenth-century Javanese poem written during the Majapahit Empire. It is deeply influenced by Hindu-Buddhist philosophy.

Indonesia has even honoured Lord Ganesha, the deity associated with wisdom and learning, on its Rp20, 000 banknote issued in the late 1990s. Outside the Indonesian Embassy in Washington, D.C., stands a majestic statue of Goddess Sarasvati, symbolising knowledge, learning and culture. None of these symbols are viewed as contradictory to Indonesia's present religious demography. Instead, they are embraced as expressions of the nation's historical and civilizational identity.

This distinction between religion and civilization deserves serious attention in India. A change in religious belief does not necessarily require a rejection of one's civilizational inheritance. Indonesia demonstrates that Islam and historical memory can coexist without contradiction. The country accepted Islam over several centuries through trade, Sufi traditions, and social interaction. However, it did not feel compelled to abandon the cultural legacy of its ancestors. Indonesian people recognise that their history did not begin with religious conversion; it stretches much further back.

This raises an important question for India. Can a society change its faith while continuing to acknowledge the civilization from which it emerged? Or does religious conversion necessarily demand the rejection of ancestral identity? These questions are neither theological nor communal. They are questions of history, national identity, and civilizational continuity.

For India, where civilization stretches uninterrupted across millennia, these questions assume even greater significance. Our Constitution guarantees every citizen complete freedom to profess, practise and propagate religion. That constitutional guarantee is beyond dispute. However, constitutional freedom of religion does not automatically require civilizational amnesia. Religious identity and civilizational belonging need not be mutually exclusive. Indonesia's experience suggests precisely that.

Perhaps the greatest lesson emerging from President Prabowo Subianto's seemingly casual remark is not about genetics at all. Rather, it is about the confidence of a nation that can embrace a new religious identity without feeling compelled to deny the civilization that shaped its historical personality. That confidence offers India an important opportunity for reflection.

Shared Ancestry, Civilizational Identity and Dr. Ambedkar's Warning

Indonesia's example naturally invites India to reflect upon a deeper question: What constitutes nationhood? Is a nation merely a political arrangement of citizens living within defined territorial boundaries, or is it also a shared civilizational consciousness that binds generations across time?

For thousands of years, the Indian subcontinent has been one of the world's great civilizational spaces. From the Himalayas to Kanyakumari, and from Dwarka to Kamakhya, diverse communities evolved different languages, customs and regional identities. Despite that, they remained connected through common cultural symbols, sacred geography, pilgrimage traditions, epics, philosophies, and systems of knowledge. India's unity has never rested upon uniformity; rather, it has emerged from an extraordinary capacity to integrate diversity within a broad civilizational framework.

Modern advances in population genetics broadly reinforce this historical understanding. Numerous scientific studies suggest that the overwhelming majority of Indians, irrespective of their present religious affiliation, share deep ancestral roots that have evolved over thousands of years on the Indian subcontinent. While faith may change over generations, ancestry does not. Religious conversion can alter one's spiritual beliefs, but it cannot erase one's historical origins.

This distinction between faith and ancestry is fundamental. Religious identity belongs to the domain of individual conscience. Civilizational identity belongs to the collective historical memory of a people. One concerns personal belief; the other concerns historical belonging. The two need not be in conflict.

Indonesia demonstrates precisely this possibility. Although Islam became the dominant religion, Indonesian Muslims have generally continued to acknowledge the civilizational heritage of Majapahit, Srivijaya, Prambanan, Ramayana and Garuda as part of their national identity. Their religious faith did not compel them to reject their historical inheritance.

India's experience has been considerably more complex. The arrival of Islam introduced not merely a new religion but, over time, new political ideas, legal traditions and transnational religious solidarities. These developments profoundly influenced the politics of late colonial India. It is within this historical context that Dr. B.R. Ambedkar's classic work ‘Pakistan or the Partition of India’ deserves careful attention.

Ambedkar approached this issue as a constitutional thinker and political realist. His central concern was the practical challenge of nation-building in a deeply divided society. He examined the emergence of the Muslim League, the growth of pan-Islamic political consciousness, separate electorates, constitutional negotiations, and competing ideas of nationhood. His analysis was rooted not in emotion but in political sociology and constitutional realism.

One of Ambedkar's important observations was that where religious identity begins to supersede territorial nationalism, serious political tensions may emerge. He argued that a stable nation-state requires citizens whose primary political loyalty is directed towards the nation itself. If competing political allegiances transcend national boundaries, the process of nation-building becomes considerably more difficult.

Therefore there is a need to understand Dr. Ambedkar’s observations in their historical setting. The elections of 1945–46 marked a decisive turning point. The Muslim League secured overwhelming success in Muslim-reserved constituencies under the limited colonial franchise. It used these results to strengthen its claim that it alone represented Muslim political aspirations. This electoral outcome considerably strengthened Muhammad Ali Jinnah's demand for Pakistan.

India became partitioned and left behind difficult questions that continue to shape India's strategic thinking. India’s partition led to traumatic violence of 1947, repeated conflicts with Pakistan, cross-border terrorism, and continuing radicalization of certain sections of Muslims. These developments suggest that national security remains inseparable from questions of national cohesion.

It is in this context that contemporary strategic discourse refers to India's requirement for preparedness against "two-and-a-half fronts." China on one front, Pakistan on another, and the possibility of internal security challenges arising from radicalisation or terrorism. This formulation reflects assessments made by several Indian defence and security experts regarding the complexity of India's security environment.

The lesson here is not that religious diversity weakens a nation. India itself disproves such an argument every day. Rather, the lesson is that national unity ultimately depends upon a shared commitment to the sovereignty, constitutional order and civilizational continuity of the Republic.

The Indian Constitution wisely guarantees complete freedom of religion under Articles 25 to 28. That freedom is non-negotiable. However, constitutional secularism does not require civilizational neutrality. Citizens may freely practise different religions while simultaneously taking pride in the civilization that gave birth to the Indian nation.

That is precisely where Indonesia offers an instructive comparison. Indonesian Muslims do not appear uncomfortable acknowledging Ramayana, Garuda, or Saraswati as part of their national heritage. Their acceptance of Islam did not require civilizational amnesia.

The question before India, therefore, is neither theological nor constitutional. It is civilizational. Can every Indian, irrespective of religious belief, acknowledge that this ancient civilization belongs equally to all who have inherited it? If the answer is yes, then India's unity becomes stronger. If the answer is no, then divisions inherited from history risk continuing into the future.

Perhaps the true significance of President Prabowo Subianto's statement lies not in the science of DNA but in the philosophy of identity. His remarks remind us that ancestry is a bridge, not a barrier. It is a source of shared belonging rather than division. Civilizations endure because they are remembered, cherished, and carried forward, not because they remain frozen in time.

Civilizational Nationalism, the Nation-State and India's Strategic Future

President Prabowo Subianto's remarks acquire even greater significance when viewed through the lens of contemporary international politics. While his observation about possessing "Indian DNA" may have appeared personal, the larger message concerns the relationship between civilization and nationhood. In the twenty-first century, when geopolitics is increasingly influenced by identity, history and culture, nations that possess a confident understanding of their civilizational foundations often display greater strategic coherence.

The twentieth century witnessed repeated predictions that globalization would gradually weaken the importance of nation-states. International organizations, multinational corporations, transnational advocacy networks, and global markets were expected to redefine political authority. Some scholars even argued that national borders would eventually lose much of their significance.

Reality has unfolded quite differently. The COVID-19 pandemic reminded humanity that when crisis strikes, citizens ultimately turn not to international organizations but to their own governments. During wars, pandemics, natural disasters or economic crises, it is the nation-state that protects borders, mobilizes resources, ensures public order and safeguards the lives of its citizens. International institutions certainly perform valuable functions, but none possesses the sovereign authority or democratic legitimacy to replace the state.

Classical Realist scholars such as Hans Morgenthau argued that the international system is fundamentally shaped by the pursuit of national interest. Kenneth Waltz, through Structural Realism, similarly emphasized that the absence of a central global authority compels states to rely primarily upon their own capabilities for survival. Nearly two millennia earlier, Kautilya's Arthashastra had articulated a comparable insight through the Mandala Theory. He emphasized that states exist in a competitive strategic environment where prudence, preparedness and national cohesion remain indispensable.

These observations remain remarkably relevant in India's contemporary strategic environment. India today confronts one of the most complex geopolitical landscapes in its modern history. While the country's global stature has risen considerably, it simultaneously faces an increasingly assertive China. Beijing has repeatedly opposed India's aspiration for permanent membership of the United Nations Security Council despite widespread international support. It delayed the listing of Pakistan-based terrorists at the United Nations Sanctions Committee for years before eventually relenting under sustained diplomatic pressure. It continues to oppose India's membership of the Nuclear Suppliers Group, even while supporting countries that do not meet equivalent non-proliferation standards.

China's strategic behaviour extends beyond diplomatic forums. Through the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) and the expanding network often described as the "String of Pearls," Beijing has steadily enhanced its maritime presence across the Indian Ocean Region. Ports at Gwadar in Pakistan, Hambantota in Sri Lanka, Kyaukpyu in Myanmar and expanding engagements elsewhere have generated understandable strategic concerns in New Delhi. Simultaneously, the unresolved boundary dispute, periodic military stand-offs along the Line of Actual Control, and China's close strategic partnership with Pakistan continue to shape India's national security calculations.

These realities underscore a fundamental principle of International Relations: external security is inseparable from internal cohesion. No country can aspire to become a major power if its society remains internally fragmented or uncertain about its own civilizational foundations. Military strength, economic growth and technological advancement are undoubtedly essential. Yet history repeatedly demonstrates that enduring national power ultimately rests upon a deeper foundation, a shared sense of belonging among citizens.

It is here that Indonesia offers an instructive lesson. Despite being home to the world's largest Muslim population, Indonesia has consciously integrated its Hindu-Buddhist civilizational inheritance into its national identity. The country's Islamic faith has not diminished its pride in Ramayana, Garuda, Sanskrit, Prambanan or Saraswati. Instead, these symbols have become cultural resources that strengthen Indonesian nationalism rather than weaken it.

India's civilizational experience has historically been even more inclusive. The Indian civilization has absorbed and accommodated diverse philosophical traditions, religious communities and cultural influences over millennia. Hinduism itself evolved not as a rigid doctrinal system but as an expansive civilizational framework capable of accommodating plurality. It is precisely this openness that enabled India to remain a continuous civilization despite repeated political upheavals.

Yet civilizational confidence requires continuity of historical memory. A nation cannot remain intellectually confident if successive generations become disconnected from the cultural traditions, philosophical ideas and historical experiences that shaped its identity. Such continuity does not imply religious uniformity, nor does it diminish constitutional secularism. Rather, it acknowledges that citizens belonging to different faiths can still inherit, respect and celebrate a common civilizational legacy.

This distinction becomes particularly important when viewed alongside India's Act East Policy. Contemporary India's engagement with Southeast Asia is often presented in strategic or economic terms, trade, connectivity, maritime security and Indo-Pacific cooperation. While these dimensions are undoubtedly important, India's greatest strength in Southeast Asia has always been civilizational diplomacy. Long before modern diplomacy existed, Indian ideas travelled across the seas through merchants, monks, scholars, artisans and pilgrims. Temples, inscriptions, languages, literature and performing arts continue to testify to these centuries-old connections.

President Prabowo's remarks therefore possess significance far beyond diplomacy. They remind Indians that civilizational influence cannot be measured merely by territorial expansion or military conquest. The most enduring civilizations shape minds rather than merely extending political frontiers.

India's relationship with Indonesia illustrates precisely this phenomenon. There was no Indian empire governing Java or Bali. Yet Indian civilization profoundly influenced the region through knowledge, philosophy, trade, literature and culture. This represents one of the earliest and finest examples of what contemporary scholars describe as soft power.

Ultimately, the debate initiated by President Prabowo's statement is not about genetics. DNA sequencing cannot define civilization. Civilizations are sustained through memory, institutions, values, and shared historical consciousness. His observation serves as a metaphor for a much deeper truth that people may adopt different religious beliefs while remaining connected to the civilizational heritage from which they emerged.

For India, this lesson is especially relevant. The Republic is strongest when every citizen, irrespective of religion, language, caste or region, feels an equal sense of ownership over India's civilizational inheritance. Such ownership neither diminishes religious freedom nor challenges constitutional equality. Instead, it strengthens national integration by reminding citizens that their shared history is older than their differences.

Dr. B.R. Ambedkar understood that the durability of a nation ultimately depends not merely upon constitutional arrangements but upon the willingness of its citizens to place the nation above competing political loyalties. President Prabowo's remarks similarly remind us that civilizational memory can become a powerful force for national cohesion rather than division. Perhaps, therefore, the most important lesson from Indonesia is neither political nor religious. It is civilizational. A nation confident in its roots needs never fear its future.

As India advances towards the vision of Viksit Bharat 2047, economic growth, military preparedness and technological innovation will remain indispensable. Equally indispensable, however, will be the cultivation of a shared civilizational consciousness that binds 1.4 billion Indians into a confident national community. Faith may guide the soul, but civilization shapes the nation's collective memory. Preserving that memory while embracing modernity may well become India's greatest strategic advantage in the twenty-first century.

How Do We Become What We Become?

 

How do we become what we become? Is it solely the result of our own efforts, or does chance quietly shape the course of our lives? Is destiny merely a poetic expression for events we fail to understand, or is there indeed an unseen force guiding our journey? Questions such as these have followed me, like everyone else, throughout my life. They have never ceased to intrigue me. The older I grow, the more I realize that certainty is perhaps the greatest illusion of human existence.

Do I believe in destiny? Not entirely. Do I rely on astrology? No. Have I gone from temple to temple praying that God should grant me success, position, or prosperity? The answer is also no.

Yet, it would be equally untrue to say that spirituality means nothing to me. On the contrary, spirituality has always attracted me. This is not as ritual, not as superstition, but as a way of understanding one's place in this vast universe. If there is one teaching that has consistently guided me, it is Bhagwan Shri Krishna's immortal message in the Bhagavad Gita:

कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन।

मा कर्मफलहेतुर्भूर्मा ते सङ्गोऽस्त्वकर्मणि॥

You only have the right to perform actions (karma). You do not have the right to the fruits of your karma. Do not become a person who constantly meditates upon (gets attached to) the results of one’s karma. Do not get attached to inactivity (no karma).

I have never interpreted this verse as an invitation to indifference. Rather, I see it as a call to work without becoming imprisoned by the anxiety of outcomes. Results are never entirely ours to command. Effort, however, always is.

Perhaps that is why I have always remained more interested in stretching my wings than in counting my victories. I wish to continue learning, exploring, writing, speaking, and engaging with new ideas. Yet, beyond all personal ambitions lies a question that refuses to leave me in peace.

Of what consequence am I to the people around me? This question troubles me more than any examination, interview, or professional challenge ever has. What purpose do my achievements serve if they remain confined to my résumé? What meaning do academic publications, television appearances, newspaper articles, blogs, lectures, or social media posts carry if they fail to make even a modest difference in the lives of those from whom I come?

I often think about the people of my village, my relatives, my old classmates, the children growing up in circumstances similar to those in which I was raised, and countless ordinary people whose lives remain untouched by the recognition that I occasionally receive.

Initially, people may genuinely celebrate one's achievements. They may feel proud that someone who emerged from the lowest layers of social and economic reality has reached places that once seemed unimaginable. They may appreciate the journey. But admiration has a short life.

If that admiration never translates into hope, opportunity, inspiration, or meaningful change, it slowly gives way to indifference. People eventually stop caring about your personal branding, your awards, and your photographs with distinguished personalities, your speeches, or your carefully curated social media presence.

And honestly, why shouldn't they? The wisdom of Sant Kabir captures this truth with remarkable simplicity:

"बड़ा हुआ तो क्या हुआ जैसे पेड़ खजूर,

पंथी को छाया नहीं, फल लागे अति दूर।"

What is the use of becoming tall like a date palm if it offers neither shade to the weary traveller nor fruit within easy reach?

This couplet often unsettles me. There are moments when I hesitate before sharing another achievement online. Every new publication, every television discussion, every lecture, every article prompts an uncomfortable conversation within myself. Have I truly been of any use to anyone? Have I changed even one life for the better? Have I lightened someone's burden? Have I created opportunities for those who had none? The answer is often painfully inadequate. That realization humbles me. It reminds me that success without service is ultimately an incomplete achievement.

Perhaps this is also why I find it difficult to understand those who spend their entire lives chasing power, wealth, status, and property without allowing moral considerations to shape their conduct. Every society has such individuals. They measure life through accumulation alone, as though possessions could outlive mortality. I often wonder whether they genuinely believe they will remain on this earth forever.

History offers no such assurances. Every empire has disappeared. Every throne has eventually fallen vacant. Every wealthy man has left his treasures behind. Power, position, and property are temporary companions. Character alone survives in memory.

This does not mean that wealth or authority are inherently undesirable. Our own civilizational wisdom recognises the four Purusharthas: Dharma, Artha, Kama, and Moksha. Material prosperity has never been condemned within the Indian philosophical tradition. Rather, it has always been expected to remain rooted in Dharma. Wealth without ethics becomes exploitation. Power without restraint becomes tyranny. Desire without responsibility becomes destruction. Dharma is not merely one among the four aims of life. It is the moral foundation that gives meaning to the other three.

Unfortunately, spirituality is often reduced to ritual. Many imagine that visiting temples, observing fasts, or performing elaborate ceremonies automatically makes one spiritual. I cannot persuade myself to accept that understanding. True spirituality is born from within. It is reflected in how we treat those who possess nothing to offer us in return. It is revealed in whether we choose honesty over convenience, compassion over indifference, and service over selfishness. Spirituality is neither a withdrawal from worldly life. It is a meaningful engagement with it. To me, the truly spiritual individual does not escape society, but becomes an instrument of doing well to it.

Am I spiritually awakened? Certainly not. Far from it. Do I aspire to become so? Yes. Not because I seek personal salvation, but because I wish to become a person of consequence.

Money has never exercised a powerful attraction over me. Perhaps this is because I grew up possessing so little. I learnt early in life how little one actually needs to remain content. This is not to romanticise poverty. Poverty is harsh, humiliating, and deeply limiting. No one should be compelled to glorify it. Yet poverty also taught me certain lessons that abundance sometimes conceals.

I have indeed encountered opportunities to earn far more than I eventually chose to pursue. I consciously declined some of those paths, not because I lacked ambition, but because I feared losing something far more precious than money: the freedom to remain true to myself.

Do I desire influence? Yes. Do I seek positions of responsibility? Certainly. But only if they enable me to make a meaningful difference before my time on earth comes to an end. I do not pray for a long life. I pray for a life of consequence.

When I ask myself how I became what I am today, I realise that no single answer exists. The answer begins in a small village hidden within the forests of Gadchiroli, where even today modern amenities remain scarce. It continues through public-funded hostels, government schools, government colleges, and ultimately the classrooms of Jawaharlal Nehru University. Every institution that shaped me belonged not to privilege but to the Republic of India. Whatever I have become is, in many ways, a product of public education and the opportunities that independent India made possible for children like me.

The answer also lies with my father. He had studied only up to the seventh standard, yet he possessed a wisdom that no university could confer. His integrity, discipline, and quiet resilience became lessons more enduring than any textbook I have ever read.

Then there were those extraordinary individuals whom I can only describe as God's own angels. Teachers, mentors, friends, and well-wishers appeared at different stages of my life. They encouraged me when I doubted myself, trusted me when I had little reason to trust myself, and opened doors that I could never have opened alone. Their kindness transformed the course of my life.

Without them, a boy born into one of the poorest families in one of the remotest corners of Maharashtra would never have imagined becoming a professor at the University of Delhi. He would never have spoken on national television. He would never have written articles, addressed audiences across the country, or expressed himself confidently in Marathi, Hindi, and English.

But my education did not come only from noble souls. Life also introduced me to individuals whose selfishness, dishonesty, arrogance, and complete disregard for moral values left a deep impression upon me. They taught me lessons of a different kind. Watching how they treated others strengthened my own resolve never to become like them. Strangely, they too shaped my character. Sometimes we become who we are not merely because of those we admire, but because of those we consciously refuse to imitate.

Looking back, I realise that my life has been an extraordinary gift. I have received far more than I could ever have expected. Every opportunity entrusted to me has carried with it a corresponding responsibility. If my education, profession, and public life remain only personal accomplishments, they will ultimately mean very little.

But if they can inspire a child from a forgotten village to dream a little bigger, encourage a young student to persevere a little longer, or enable even one person to discover hope where none seemed possible, then perhaps my journey will have acquired meaning. I believe I have received much from life. Now, it is my turn to give back, in whatever ways I can. For, in the end, I do not wish merely to have lived. I wish to have mattered.

Knowledge Without Power, Power Without Knowledge

 

There is a question that has troubled me for a long time. It returns to my mind every time I witness someone with extraordinary scholarship remaining confined to the world of ideas, while another person with comparatively little intellectual depth occupies positions of influence and shapes the lives of thousands. It is a question that is both personal and societal.

Why do many intellectuals remain intellectuals, contributing immensely to books, journals, classrooms, and conferences, yet often leaving only a limited imprint on the everyday struggles of ordinary people? Conversely, why do many individuals who possess little regard for scholarship or intellectual inquiry frequently rise through the corridors of power, building networks, acquiring influence, and ultimately becoming capable of changing lives, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse? This dilemma deserves careful reflection because it concerns not merely individual careers but the very kind of society we aspire to build.

A popular saying often heard in public life goes something like this: "A performing corrupt person is better than an inactive honest person." The statement is uncomfortable because it contains a disturbing element of truth. People suffering from bureaucratic delays, poverty, injustice, or administrative neglect often care less about the moral purity of a person than about whether their problems are actually solved. An efficient but morally compromised official may deliver roads, hospitals, electricity, or justice more effectively than someone who is personally honest but paralysed by indecision or excessive idealism. But should this become our standard for evaluating public life?

I do not think so. The real issue is not that scholars and intellectuals are inactive by nature. That would be both unfair and historically inaccurate. Throughout history, scholars have transformed civilizations. Philosophers have shaped political systems. Scientists have revolutionized technology. Economists have redesigned public policy. Social thinkers have challenged oppression and inspired reform. The world that we inhabit today is itself the product of centuries of accumulated scholarship.

The contribution of intellectuals lies primarily in expanding humanity's collective understanding. They question accepted wisdom, generate new ideas, preserve cultural memory, and provide the moral and intellectual foundations upon which societies eventually evolve. Their influence is often slow, indirect, and invisible, but it is nevertheless profound. Yet another reality cannot be ignored.

Many scholars hesitate to enter spaces where influence is actually exercised. Some avoid politics. Others distance themselves from bureaucracy, administration, social organizations, or public engagement. They often prefer the comfort of academic independence over the uncertainty of public action. Many find lobbying distasteful. They are reluctant to cultivate influential networks. They hesitate to seek favours or build relationships with those whose values they do not fully respect. This reluctance frequently arises from integrity rather than arrogance.

For many intellectuals, principles are not ornaments to be displayed in speeches; they are the guiding force of life itself. There are certain lines they simply refuse to cross. They cannot flatter people merely to secure influence. They cannot compromise intellectual honesty for personal advancement. They cannot conveniently alter their convictions to suit changing political winds. Their self-respect prevents them from becoming instruments of power. Such commitment deserves admiration. Yet an unintended consequence sometimes emerges.

Their ideas remain confined to classrooms while society continues to be governed by those who possess greater political skill than intellectual depth. Their moral clarity becomes isolated from practical decision-making. Ordinary people facing urgent problems often discover that the scholar they admire cannot actually help them navigate institutions, secure justice, or resolve administrative difficulties. An uncomfortable form of intellectual inertia begins to appear. It is not intellectual incapacity. It is not a moral weakness. Rather, it is an inability, or sometimes an unwillingness, to convert knowledge into effective public action.

On the other hand, there exists another category of individuals. They may not possess remarkable scholarship. They may never write influential books or contribute significantly to academic knowledge. Yet they possess qualities that intellectuals often neglect. They build relationships. They understand institutions. They know whom to approach, how to negotiate, when to compromise, and how to persuade. They move comfortably through the corridors of power. They cultivate networks with remarkable patience and consistency. As a result, they often become effective problem-solvers. People approach them because they can get things done.

Unfortunately, these same strengths can easily become instruments of corruption. Networking becomes lobbying. Influence becomes patronage. Flexibility becomes opportunism. Pragmatism becomes moral compromise. Efficiency becomes a vehicle for personal gain rather than public service. When detached from ethical restraint, practical effectiveness can become deeply destructive.

History offers countless examples of highly competent individuals who used their organisational abilities to strengthen authoritarianism, institutionalise corruption, or suppress human freedom. Competence without conscience is not a virtue; it is a danger. Equally, integrity without effectiveness leaves society underserved. This, perhaps, is the central paradox. Neither scholarship without action nor action without scholarship is sufficient.

Human societies flourish when wisdom and effectiveness reinforce one another. The scholar must learn that knowledge carries responsibility beyond publication. Ideas acquire their fullest meaning only when they illuminate public life, influence institutions, and improve the conditions of ordinary people. Scholarship cannot become an escape from society's struggles. Intellectual excellence should inspire public engagement rather than intellectual isolation.

At the same time, practitioners, administrators, politicians, and activists must recognise that immediate success cannot become the sole measure of achievement. Without intellectual foundations, practical action gradually loses direction. Societies driven only by efficiency eventually sacrifice justice. Nations guided only by power eventually weaken their own moral legitimacy.

The ideal public servant, teacher, political leader, or social reformer is therefore neither a detached intellectual nor a ruthless operator. The ideal is a synthesis. A person deeply rooted in knowledge yet capable of decisive action. A person who understands principles yet also understands institutions. Someone who can navigate systems without becoming captive to them. Someone who can build relationships without sacrificing self-respect. Someone who can enter the corridors of power without leaving conscience at the door.

Perhaps this has always been the ideal of leadership envisioned in many civilizations: the philosopher who does not merely contemplate justice but also strives to establish it; the teacher who does not merely explain society but seeks to improve it; the administrator who combines competence with compassion; and the scholar whose books are matched by service to the people. Such individuals are undoubtedly rare. But it is precisely because they are rare that societies must consciously nurture them.

Our educational institutions should not produce scholars who remain imprisoned within the ivory tower, nor should they celebrate only those who accumulate influence without intellectual or moral grounding. We must cultivate citizens capable of both reflection and action, both thought and execution, both integrity and effectiveness. Scholarship for the sake of scholarship has limited social value. Action without ethical and intellectual foundations can become dangerous.

The future belongs neither to the isolated academic nor to the ruthless operator. It belongs to those who possess the courage to think deeply, the humility to engage with society, and the integrity to act without surrendering their principles.

Perhaps that is the leadership our times need most, not merely intellectuals, not merely performers. But thoughtful performers whose scholarship serves humanity and whose actions remain anchored in conscience.

From Bhognadih to Dandakaranya: The Continuing Relevance of Hul Diwas

 

Hul Diwas is observed every year on 30 June to commemorate one of the most significant, yet often underappreciated, anti-colonial uprisings in Indian history, the Santhal Hul (Santhal Rebellion) of 1855. Led by the Murmu brothers, Sidhu, Kanhu, Chand, and Bhairav, along with their courageous sisters, Phulo and Jhano, the uprising was a powerful assertion of dignity, justice, and self-rule by India's tribal communities against colonial oppression. More than a commemoration of a historic rebellion, Hul Diwas invites us to reflect on the enduring questions of tribal identity, development, and justice in contemporary India.

The Santhal Rebellion did not arise overnight. It was the consequence of systematic economic and cultural exploitation of tribal communities under British colonial rule. The Santhals, who had traditionally lived in close harmony with forests and the land, found themselves dispossessed by an exploitative colonial land revenue system. Christian missionaries, along with British-backed zamindars, moneylenders, and traders, subjected them to cultural erasure, usurious debt, illegal land alienation, and forced labour. Their traditional social, cultural, and economic order was dismantled in favour of a colonial system and Christian evangelism. The British colonisers viewed tribal forests and land merely as sources of revenue, while the missionaries sought to convert the tribal communities to Christianity.

On 30 June 1855, more than 10,000 Santhals assembled at Bhognadih, in present-day Jharkhand, where they declared themselves free from British authority and pledged to fight against oppression. Armed largely with bows, arrows, axes, and other traditional weapons, they challenged one of the world's most powerful colonial empires. Although the rebellion was brutally crushed by 1856 through overwhelming military force, it shook the foundations of British administration in eastern India.

The rebellion left a lasting legacy. It forced the colonial administration to acknowledge the distinct nature of tribal land rights. Eventually, it further led to legal protections such as the Santhal Parganas Tenancy Act, 1876. Hul Diwas therefore commemorates not merely an uprising but the assertion that tribal communities possess inherent rights over their land, forests, culture, and way of life.

Unfortunately, political independence in 1947 did not automatically translate into justice for India's tribal communities. Despite constitutional safeguards and affirmative policies, many tribal regions continued to experience neglect arising from inadequate infrastructure, poor governance, limited educational opportunities, and weak healthcare systems. Large sections of tribal India remained geographically isolated and economically marginalized.

This vacuum was exploited by multiple forces pursuing different ideological objectives. Christian missionary organisations expanded their activities in several tribal regions, particularly in the North-East and later across eastern and central India. In the name of providing education and healthcare, evangelical groups of various denominations have engaged in religious conversions through inducements and the exploitation of poverty. This has led to significant changes in traditional tribal faith systems and cultural practices. As these concerns have grown, many tribal communities have come together through organisations such as ‘Janjati Suraksha Manch’ to raise their voices in defence of their identity, culture, and existence.

An even more serious challenge emerged from the spread of Left Wing Extremism. Following severe state crackdowns in West Bengal and Andhra Pradesh during the 1970s, Naxalite strategists searched for a secure "rear area" from which they could rebuild their movement. The dense forests of Dandakaranya, including Bastar, Dantewada, Narayanpur, Gadchiroli, and adjoining regions, appeared ideally suited for this purpose. The merger of the People's War Group and the Maoist Communist Centre in 2004 led to the formation of the Communist Party of India (Maoist), thereby significantly strengthening the insurgency.

For decades, Maoists claimed to represent tribal interests. In reality, tribal communities frequently became victims of prolonged violence. Schools, roads, communication infrastructure, health centres, and development projects were often targeted because they strengthened the state's presence. Tribal youth were recruited into armed cadres, while ordinary villagers remained trapped between insurgent violence and state counter-insurgency operations. Instead of enabling development, the conflict condemned many tribal regions to prolonged isolation, poverty, and insecurity. Tribal lands and people became instruments in an ideological struggle that was not necessarily their own.

Recent security operations have substantially weakened Maoist capabilities across several affected regions. As the security situation improves, these areas are increasingly attracting investment due to their immense reserves of iron ore, bauxite, coal, manganese, and other strategic minerals essential for India's economic growth and manufacturing ambitions. This changing landscape presents India with both an opportunity and a warning.

India undoubtedly requires mineral resources to become a developed nation and a leading global power. Infrastructure, renewable energy, defence manufacturing, and industrial expansion all depend upon secure access to critical minerals. Yet the pursuit of economic growth cannot repeat the mistakes that triggered the Santhal Hul over 170 years ago.

Across several states, mining projects, industrial corridors, and large infrastructure initiatives have generated conflicts over land acquisition, forest clearance, displacement, and rehabilitation. Although governments have introduced legal safeguards, implementation has often remained inconsistent. Corporate influence, administrative pressures to expedite clearances, weak consultation processes, and inadequate rehabilitation have frequently undermined the spirit of laws intended to protect tribal communities. Numerous expert committees, judicial observations, and reports by constitutional bodies have repeatedly highlighted shortcomings in obtaining genuine consent from Gram Sabhas, recognising community forest rights, and ensuring fair compensation before projects commence.

This is precisely why the Panchayats (Extension to Scheduled Areas) Act, 1996 (PESA) and the Scheduled Tribes and Other Traditional Forest Dwellers (Recognition of Forest Rights) Act, 2006 assume immense contemporary relevance. PESA recognises the authority of Gram Sabhas in Scheduled Areas over community resources, local governance, and decisions concerning land acquisition and development. Similarly, the Forest Rights Act acknowledges both individual and community rights over forest land and resources while requiring that forest-dependent communities be meaningfully involved in decisions affecting their livelihoods.

Yet these landmark legislations have too often remained stronger on paper than in practice. Several states delayed framing PESA rules for years after the Act's passage. In many instances, Gram Sabha consultations have been reduced to procedural formalities rather than meaningful democratic participation. Community forest rights under the Forest Rights Act have progressed unevenly across states, and implementation has frequently lagged behind legislative intent. The consequence is growing distrust among tribal communities whenever large development projects are announced.

If India genuinely seeks inclusive development, these laws must be implemented not selectively but in both letter and spirit. Development cannot become synonymous with displacement, dispossession, or cultural erasure. Tribal communities should not be forced to choose between preserving their identity and participating in modern economic progress.

The central lesson of Hul Diwas is therefore not opposition to development; rather, it is opposition to exploitative development. Tribal communities aspire for quality education, modern healthcare, employment opportunities, digital connectivity, entrepreneurship, and political representation like every other section of Indian society. They want their children to become doctors, engineers, civil servants, scientists, entrepreneurs, and policymakers. At the same time, they wish to preserve their languages, customs, sacred groves, festivals, and traditional ecological knowledge.

India's development model must accommodate both aspirations simultaneously. The tribal citizen must not remain merely a beneficiary of welfare schemes but an equal stakeholder in national development. Consent must replace coercion. Partnership must replace paternalism. Participation must replace tokenism. Most importantly, dignity must become the foundation of governance.

Hul Diwas reminds us that the Santhal rebellion was not simply about resisting colonial authority. It was fundamentally a struggle for justice, dignity, and the right of communities to shape their own future. Those aspirations remain relevant even today.

If governments, corporations, and policymakers are committed to upholding constitutional safeguards, they must faithfully implement the provisions of the PESA and the Forest Rights Act. Ensuring transparent rehabilitation and making tribal communities equal partners in the process of economic transformation are essential. Only then can India achieve rapid development alongside social harmony, making development truly sustainable. However, if land, forests, and mineral resources are pursued without respecting tribal rights and sentiments, history cautions us that resentment and unrest will inevitably follow.

The true tribute to the heroes of the Santhal Hul is therefore not confined to annual commemorations or ceremonial speeches. It lies in building an India where tribal identity is protected, tribal rights are respected, tribal culture is celebrated, and tribal citizens stand as equal partners in the nation's ongoing journey towards prosperity and civilizational renewal.