Renowned lyricist and screenwriter Javed Akhtar’s words often carry weight. But sometimes, the selective direction of his outrage raises uncomfortable questions. His recent post on X, expressing “shame” over India hosting the Taliban’s acting foreign minister Amir Khan Muttaqi, is one such instance. “I hang my head in shame when I see the kind of respect and reception that has been given to the representative of the world’s worst terrorist group Taliban, by those who beat the pulpit against all kinds of terrorists,” Akhtar wrote. He went further, attacking the Darul Uloom Deoband for welcoming the visitor, calling it disgraceful that an institution revered by Indian Muslims would honour a man from a regime that has “completely banned girls’ education.” At face value, Akhtar’s anger seems justified. The Taliban’s record on women’s rights, education, and religious freedom is appalling. Muttaqi, after all, represents a regime that has reduced half its population to invisibility. But what undermines Akhtar’s righteous indignation is not what he said — it’s what he didn’t. The same voice that thunders against the Indian establishment is eerily silent when equally barbaric acts occur across the border. Where was this moral outrage when terrorists, aided and abetted by Pakistan’s deep state, executed 26 Hindus in cold blood at Pahalgam? Where was his poetic sorrow when one of the gunmen mocked a victim’s wife, telling her to “go and tell Modi”? Silence, in such moments, speaks louder than words. Those who wear the badge of liberalism should hold all sides accountable, not just governments they dislike. When Pakistan’s Sunni extremists persecute Shias in Gilgit-Baltistan or massacre Baloch minorities in “occupied” Balochistan, where are the anguished tweets? When Ahmadiyyas are declared non-Muslim by law in Pakistan, or Hazara women are bombed on their way to school, where is the moral disgust?
Selective outrage diminishes credibility. It also exposes the hypocrisy of India’s so-called “liberatti,” who wield moral indignation not as a tool of justice but as a weapon of politics. To be clear, India’s engagement with the Taliban is not an endorsement. Diplomacy is often an unpleasant necessity. New Delhi cannot ignore a regime that controls Afghanistan’s geography, especially when Indian investments, security interests, and humanitarian concerns are at stake. Global powers — from the US to China, from Russia to Qatar — have already engaged with Taliban officials. India’s outreach, therefore, is pragmatic, not ideological. The controversy over the exclusion of women journalists from a Delhi media interaction with Muttaqi was indeed unfortunate. But the Ministry of External Affairs rightly clarified that it had no role in organizing that press event. The Taliban’s misogyny is well-documented; India’s role was merely that of a host engaging a regional actor, not a participant in its regressive ideology. India’s new foreign policy is driven by realism — guided by national interest, not moral posturing. It engages every power centre that affects regional stability, even when uncomfortable. Instead of recognizing this maturity, Akhtar chose to trivialize it, blurring the line between diplomacy and endorsement. His misplaced outrage, therefore, does not seem spontaneous; it seems suspiciously motivated. It is telling that when India speaks to adversaries for strategic reasons, the loudest criticism often comes not from the international community but from within — from the same circles that mistake diplomacy for moral compromise. Javed Akhtar’s moral compass seems calibrated less by principle and more by politics. When he condemns one form of extremism while ignoring another, he becomes a participant in the very hypocrisy he claims to despise. His words might still rhyme — but they no longer resonate. If shame must be felt, it should be universal — not selective. Otherwise, it becomes performance, not conscience.
