It has been a tradition in India that one does not speak ill of the dead. That is why, even after the death of Atal Bihari Vajpayee, who first called himself a Swayamsevak – member of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) – and popularised anti-Muslim politics in India, he was praised by politicians of all stripes.
Lal Krishna Advani is physically alive but politically dead. There are people among us who seek virtues in the person who played the most notorious role in making anti-Muslim politics a part of ‘Hinduism’ in India and who led the Babri Masjid demolition campaign. While thousands of Muslims were killed as a result of his campaign, we are asked to remember him as a leader who was fond of cinema and loved good food.
We all remember the tributes paid to Sushma Swaraj from all political circles upon her death. Her threat of shaving her head and sleeping on the bare floor at the possibility of Sonia Gandhi becoming Prime Minister was forgotten at the time of her death. She had declared that if Sonia Gandhi became Prime Minister, she would forever live the life of a Hindu widow. Somehow, we consider those whose politics is based on hatred towards ‘foreigners’ to be praiseworthy.
Is this tolerance towards hatred our national character?
This reflection is prompted by the public reaction to the death of Bibek Debroy, chairman of the Economic Advisory Council to the Narendra Modi government. While it was natural for Prime Minister Modi to pay tribute to his government’s chief economic advisor, Congress Party leader Jairam Ramesh remembered him for his versatility and sense of humour.
Ramesh praised Debroy’s ability to explain complex economic issues lucidly, noting his prowess as a writer. Pratap Bhanu Mehta recalled the spiritual side of his personality, highlighting his translations of the Mahabharata and the Puranas, his Sanskrit scholarship, and his commentary on the Gita. Mehta wrote that while Debroy’s political affiliations were enigmatic, he had the art of keeping himself above the fray.
Yogendra Yadav, after reading these tributes, wrote, “I criticized Bibek Debroy publicly and very harshly once. But human beings are more than one statement or decision. Reading his last column and today’s obituary filled me with respect and regret – I wish I had known him.” He praised Jairam’s “model tribute to an opponent,” noting the grace in remembering someone who had crossed the political divide.
But can aligning with majoritarian, Islamophobic politics be dismissed as merely a political difference? A legitimate political choice? What does it mean to keep oneself above the fray? How can one remain untouched by the communalism of the government they serve as a policymaker? Through silence? Can this be called intellectual restraint?
Debroy became chairman of the Economic Advisory Council in 2017, though he had served the government in various capacities before that. As the architect of government economic policies, how did he justify demonetisation, GST, and other measures that devastated ordinary Indians? Should the Chief Economic Advisor not be held accountable for these policies? Or did his counsel not matter, even as he retained his position?
For someone who studied the Mahabharata and Puranas – texts that grapple with questions of dharma and adharma – how did he reconcile his role in a government promoting division and hatred? What kind of soul remains above the struggle between right and wrong?
What is the greatest moral challenge in India today? Is it so difficult to identify, even after deep engagement with the Mahabharata?
While Debroy shouldn’t be condemned simply for government service, his role as a policymaker and public intellectual demands different standards of judgment. His death represents the loss of considerable intellectual capacity, but what defines an intellectual’s true worth? Did he fulfill the fundamental duty of speaking truth to power?
An intellectual must identify and address the crucial questions of their time. In today’s India, these questions center on the systematic oppression of minorities, economic exploitation of the masses, and erosion of civil rights.
Did he use his position to save it or not? Or did he not deem it fit to do anything to save that small institution because CPR’s death had become necessary for a government which was engaged in the noble task of establishing a Hindu nation? CPR could be sacrificed for that great cause! At least we do not have any evidence of his intervention in this regard.
Debroy’s final act was resigning as Chancellor of Gokhale Institute of Politics and Economics after the Bombay High Court stayed his dismissal of Vice Chancellor Ajit Ranade. His parting shot –recommending the institute lose its deemed university status – was seen by many as vindictive rather than principled.
While death often silences critics and inspires generous remembrance, the response of society’s most marginalised reveals the true measure of a public figure’s legacy. In today’s India, will Muslims – the most oppressed segment – mourn Debroy’s passing? How will they remember someone who remained absorbed in spiritual questions while serving a government that promoted their persecution? and would non Muslims ask Muslims not be so petty as not to see his brighter side?
It requires an extraordinary moral blindness to pursue scholarly interests undisturbed while fellow citizens face systematic violence and discrimination, especially when one serves the very government promoting such policies. Intellectual achievements, however impressive, cannot compensate for moral abdication in times of crisis.
