Dr Sandhyaa Bombay
For decades after Independence, India’s political class wrapped itself in the language of “secularism” while quietly deciding what parts of the country’s civilisational heritage were fit to be taught, practised, or even spoken about in public institutions. The result has been a curious paradox: a nation that celebrates its ancient roots in rhetoric, yet often hesitates to acknowledge those same roots in classrooms, policy, and public life.
Successive governments—national and regional—have treated Hindu philosophical traditions with a mix of discomfort and suspicion, as though any reference to them in education automatically amounted to “religious propagation.” This approach, critics argue, has created a one-sided narrative in school curricula and public discourse, where India’s pre-colonial and indigenous knowledge systems are either marginalised or framed through a narrow lens. At the same time, colonial and medieval political histories dominate the story of the nation.
It is in this context that the Madras High Court’s recent ruling in favour of the Dayananda Saraswati Ashram at Anaikatti, near Coimbatore, carries significance far beyond the technicalities of the Foreign Contribution Regulation Act (FCRA). The Court was asked a simple but profound question: does teaching the Bhagavad Gita, Vedanta, and Yoga constitute “religious activity” that would disqualify an संस्था from receiving foreign funding under the law?
The Court’s answer was unambiguous—and civilisational in its implications.
First, it drew a clear distinction between faith-based religious propagation and the transmission of philosophical and ethical knowledge. The Bhagavad Gita, the judges held, is primarily a text of moral philosophy. Its central concerns—dharma, ethical action, self-discipline, and self-realisation—place it in the realm of moral science rather than sectarian preaching. To teach the Gita, the Court observed, is to engage students in questions of duty and conscience, not to induct them into ritual or worship.
Second, Vedanta was classified as a philosophical system concerned with consciousness, reality, and self-knowledge—questions that have occupied thinkers from Plato to Kant. It is, in this view, comparable to Western philosophy taught in universities worldwide, and no more “religious” than a course on metaphysics or ethics.
Third, Yoga was recognised as a civilisational and scientific discipline, rooted in physical health, mental discipline, and psychological well-being. In an age where yoga is practised from New York to Tokyo, the Court’s position underscored its universal, non-sectarian character.
Why does this matter? Because under the FCRA, foreign funds cannot be used for religious propagation, but are permitted for education, research, culture, and social development. By ruling that Gita, Vedanta, and Yoga fall squarely within the latter categories, the Court reaffirmed a crucial constitutional principle: India’s philosophical traditions are part of its national culture, not the exclusive property of any one religious identity.
For many educators and scholars, including me, this judgment feels like a corrective to a long-standing imbalance. Since Independence, generations of students have grown up on textbooks that lavish detail on colonial administrators and imperial dynasties, while often glossing over the intellectual, scientific, and philosophical achievements of India’s ancient past. This is not about erasing history or diminishing any community’s contribution; it is about broadening the narrative to reflect the full spectrum of India’s civilisational journey.
The political debate around “appeasement” versus “majoritarianism” has too often reduced complex questions of culture and education into binary slogans. Yet the real issue is more nuanced. A genuinely plural society does not protect diversity by suppressing the majority’s cultural expressions; it protects it by ensuring that no tradition—majority or minority—is excluded from the public square on ideological grounds.
The Madras High Court’s ruling implicitly challenges the idea that indigenous knowledge systems must be confined to the private sphere to preserve secularism. Instead, it offers a more confident, mature understanding of the Constitution—one that recognises India as a civilisation-state whose philosophical heritage predates modern categories of religion.
There is, of course, a danger at the other extreme: that cultural revival becomes a political weapon rather than an educational project. The task before policymakers, educators, and civil society is to ensure that the teaching of the Gita, Vedanta, or Yoga remains what the Court described it to be—an exploration of ethics, consciousness, and well-being, open to all, and imposed on none.
For those who believe that India’s ancient traditions are inherently inclusive rather than divisive, this judgment is a moment of validation. It suggests that reclaiming civilisational knowledge does not require abandoning constitutional values. On the contrary, it may be one of the ways to fulfil them.
If secularism is to mean equal respect for all traditions, then it must also mean the confidence to acknowledge the philosophical foundations of the civilisation on which the Republic stands. The Madras High Court has, in effect, reminded the nation that teaching its own heritage is not an act of faith—it is an act of education.
