Over the past week or so, I’ve noticed some of my well-placed friends, many of whom I deeply respect and who stood by me in trying times — squirming over my columns. They find my editorials “too harsh,” my views “too direct,” and my refusal to conform “too dangerous.” I’m not here to fault them. Gratitude does not demand silence. And friendship should never demand complicity.
Yes, some of these very friends once gave me opportunities, pulled me out of difficult corners. But I will not muzzle my truth for sentiment’s sake. As a journalist, my loyalty lies not with individuals but with principles. I write without fear or favour. Always have. Always will.
One senior and my former benefactor recently reminded me — quite condescendingly — that India is a “secular” country, and that speaking of a Hindu Rashtra is outrageous. Another, a man I treat like an elder brother, a truly professional one, seemed discomfited by what he called the “tone” of my recent pieces. My words suggest a tilt toward the BJP. Let me be blunt: That’s not true. But I understand the discomfort — truth has a habit of making the privileged squirm.
Let me clarify one thing, again: in over four decades of journalism, I have never lobbied for a government post, nor traded integrity for invitations or influence. I don’t advertise my virtue like some of my peers who sing hymns of professional ethics but bend their spines for favours. Unlike them, I never hawked my pen. And unlike them, I’m not pretending.
Now, to the bigger issue — the one that rattles people.
Like many Indians, I grew up learning a version of history that was, at best, selective, and at worst, a betrayal. Our textbooks glorified the Mughals, tiptoed around their atrocities, and erased the valour of those who resisted them: Shivaji, Rana Pratap, Rani Lakshmi Bai. Even true independence heroes — like Subhas Chandra Bose or the Sikh martyrs, the Sukhdev brothers — were reduced to footnotes. Their defiance was buried, while invaders were painted as benevolent administrators and enlightened reformers. Who’s to blame for this? The Congress, of course — the party of dynasts who wore “Hindu” masks while hollowing out the very soul of Sanatana Dharma.
Six decades of uninterrupted Congress rule ensured that our national narrative favoured guilt over pride. Their chosen architects of “secularism” — from Maulana Azad onward — crafted a syllabus of suppression, where the identity of the majority had to be diluted to protect the fragile egos of a few. And those “few” were not just Muslims who stayed back after Partition, but elites who saw India as a perpetual project of appeasement.
Gandhi, who fancied himself a saint and was canonized as “Mahatma” by the very colonialists he supposedly fought, allowed this farce. He chose Nehru over Patel despite the latter securing the support of the majority of provinces. Why? Gratitude? Bias? Or sheer political calculation? We’ve paid the price ever since. Generations of Indians are still bleeding from that blunder.
Pakistan rightly declared itself an Islamic Republic — it knew what it wanted. But India? Gandhi-Nehru couldn’t even insist that Muslims who chose to stay must integrate fully with the new nation-state. Instead, they handed out constitutional comforts and cultural impunity while refusing to acknowledge the fundamental civilizational ethos of the land. And don’t even get me started on Article 370 and 35A — personal gifts Nehru inserted into the Constitution to appease his cousin Sheikh Abdullah, using a separate drafting panel that sidelined Ambedkar. How is this democratic? How is this just?
Let’s not forget — Ambedkar was loathed by Nehru. Repeatedly humiliated. Denied a seat in the Lok Sabha. And yet, it is Ambedkar’s name we invoke while Nehru’s legacy continues to be wrapped in gauze and garlands.
Had Patel not intervened decisively, Hyderabad too might have remained a festering, semi-autonomous sore in the Indian Republic, with its constitution and flag like Kashmir. Still, I’m called “biased” for saying these truths. By whom? By so-called journalists who parrot state propaganda for awards and retirement sinecures? By bureaucrats who climbed the greasy pole while licking the boots of fake Gandhis and their Marxist courtiers?
Let me state it clearly: I do not seek nor have I ever accepted any position from any government. I’ve never chased awards. Unlike some of my colleagues who quietly traded ideology for influence, I never sold out. And I never will.
I used to believe education broadens the mind — that the literate would be more discerning. I was wrong. Today, even well-read Hindus, marinated in colonial guilt, cannot see through this fog of historical deception. Worse, many Muslims — whose population has grown from under 3% at the time of Partition to nearly 18% today—believe they are victims. Why? Because the Congress, in its perverse game of vote-bank arithmetic, chose to sacrifice Hindu rights at the altar of minority appeasement.
And what of the dynasty itself? Indira Gandhi — born to a man with Islamic roots, married a Parsi-Muslim, and still carried a ‘Gandhi’ name not by lineage but by strategic wedlock. Sonia Gandhi — Italian, Catholic, cloaked in Indian symbolism to retain power. Even her grandson now benefits from this absurd charade. And we, the people, are the fools?
I may be in my late sixties, but my resolve is sharper than ever. I owe no one an apology. I write not to please, but to provoke. I ask questions others are too timid to raise. If that unsettles some of my friends—even those in high office—so be it. My pen was never meant for comfort.
I will not soften my voice. I will not dilute my stance. And I will not stop.
