Nothing could have been less fair to Azad's ecumenical spirit: this was a man who fought hard in the Constituent Assembly to end separate electorates for Muslims, and who devoted his life to the protection of religious freedom and the equal treatment of all Indians irrespective of faith. As education minister he began the process of tackling the gigantic challenges of educating a populace which, at the time of independence, was only 18 percent literate. As a deeply religious man himself, Azad saw the use of religion in political life as sheer manipulative opportunism: the real problems of all Indians, in his view, were economic, not religious. It little mattered what God you prayed to, or how, if you did not have enough to eat or a school to send your child to. So he was a man of religion and, counterintuitively, a strong supporter of Nehruvian socialism. For Azad, Nehru's economic and industrial policies would bring to his people the justice on earth that, in spiritual terms, only Allah could dispense in heaven. Nehru, never a great fan of religious thinking, hailed Azad's “razor-sharp mind” that cut through the fog of theological disputes: he wrote of how much he had learned from his conversations with Azad when they were both imprisoned by the British.
But it is above all as a visionary of the place of Muslims in India's civilizational history — and therefore in its present and its future — that Azad must be remembered. When he became president of the Indian National Congress at Ramgarh in 1940, Azad delivered perhaps the greatest testament of the faith of a religious Muslim in a united India. He declared that “every fiber of my being revolted” against the thought of dividing India on communal lines. “I could not conceive it possible for a Mussulman to tolerate this,” he declared, “unless he has rooted out the spirit of Islam from every corner of his being.” It galled him that the secularized Jinnah claimed to speak for India's Muslims and to assert their claims to being a separate nation, while Maulana was both a deeply committed Muslim and a passionate Indian. “I am a Mussulman and proud of the fact,” he said to his majority non-Muslim Congress audience. “Islam's splendid traditions of thirteen hundred years are my inheritance. I am unwilling to lose even the smallest part of this inheritance. In addition, I am proud of being an Indian. I am part of that indivisible unity that is Indian nationality.” And then he added — this is the key part—“I am indispensable to this noble edifice. Without me this splendid structure of India is incomplete. I am an essential element which has gone to build India. I can never surrender this claim. It was India's historic destiny that many human races and cultures and religions should flow to her, and that many a caravan should rest here…. One of the last of these caravans was that of the followers of Islam. They came here and settled for good. We brought our treasures with us, and India too was full of the riches of her own precious heritage. We gave her what she needed most, the most precious of gifts from Islam's treasury, the message of human equality. Full eleven centuries have passed by since then. Islam has now as great a claim on the soil of India as Hinduism.”
It took courage to say this. The Maulana was not immersing his Islam in any soft and fuzzy notion of Indian secularism, still less was he uncritically swallowing Hindu professions of tolerance and inclusiveness. He was instead asserting his pride in his religious identity, in the majesty and richness of Islam, while laying claim to India for India's Muslims. He dismissed talk of Partition by arguing that he was entitled — just as any Hindu was — to a stake in all of India, from Kashmir to Kanyakumari, from the Khyber Pass to Khulna; why should he accept the Pakistani idea of a narrower notion of Muslim nationhood that confined Indian Muslims to a truncated share of the heritage of their entire land? He was a far more authentic representative of Indian Islam than Jinnah, and it is part of the great tragedy of 1947 that it was Jinnah who triumphed and not Azad.
Partition was, of course, less a triumph for Indian Muslims than an abdication. Azad realized this, and among those Muslims who opposed Partition, he represented a key bridge between secularists like Rafi Ahmed Kidwai and Saifuddin Kichlew, on the one hand, and Deobandi Muslim fundamentalists like Maulana Maudoodi (who felt that Islam should prevail over the world at large and certainly over India as a whole, and believed it to be treasonous — both to India and to Islam itself — to advocate that the religion be territorially circumscribed as Jinnah and the Muslim Leaguers did). Critics like Keonraad Elst have associated Azad with the latter view, seeing him as a surrogate fifth columnist for an eventual Islamicization of the whole of India. Though there is no denying that in some of his appeals to Muslim supporters Azad may have given grounds for such beliefs, Elst and others overlook the profundity of Azad's lifelong engagement with the multireligious civilizational heritage of his home-land. “Islam,” Azad averred, “has now as great a claim on the soil of India as Hinduism. If Hinduism has been the religion of the people here for several thousands of years, Islam also has been their religion for a thousand years. Just as a Hindu can say with pride that he is an Indian and follows Hinduism, so also we can say with equal pride that we are Indians and follow Islam. I shall enlarge this orbit still further. The Indian Christian is equally entitled to say with pride that he is an Indian and is following a religion of India, namely Christianity.” What became the great cliché of “unity in diversity” emerged from Azad as an affirmation of the equality of the rights of all of India's communities to be themselves.
Today, Maulana Azad is largely forgotten. To Pakistanis, he was a pathetic figure on the wrong side of history; to Indian Muslims, a symbol still, but little more; to other Indians, a name associated with medical colleges and other institutions rather than the progenitor of a legacy either to cherish or contest. His tomb lies largely neglected in Delhi. In the history of nations, the great rewards go to the winners, and Azad, by his own lights, failed in the most important cause of his life. But in the history of the ideas that make up the intellectual underpinnings of any country, there must be an honored place for those who, whether they won or lost, had the great merit of being right. Maulana Azad was right. That is his legacy — and ours.
27. The Man Who Wanted More
IT IS DIFFICULT TODAY TO IMAGINE THE SCALE of what Babasaheb Bhimji Rao Ambedkar accomplished. To be born into an “untouchable” family in 1891, and as the fourteenth and last child of a poor Mahar subedar, or corporal, in an army cantonment, would normally have guaranteed a life of neglect, poverty, and discrimination. Not only did Ambedkar rise above the circumstances of his birth, but he achieved a level of success that would have been spectacular for a child of privilege. One of the first untouchables ever to enter an Indian college, he became a professor (at the prestigious Sydenham College) and a principal (of no less an institution than Bombay's government law college). One of the earliest Indian students in the United States (on a merit scholarship paid for by the Gaekwar of Baroda), he earned multiple doctorates from Columbia University and the University of London, in economics, politics, and law. An heir to millennia of discrimination, he was admitted to the bar in London and became India's James Madison as the Chair of the Constitution Drafting Committee. The son of illiterates, he wrote a remarkable number of books, whose content and range testify to an eclectic mind and a sharp, if provocative, intellect. An insignificant infant scrabbling in the dust of Mhow in 1891 became the first law minister of a free India, in the most impressive cabinet ever assembled in New Delhi. When he died, aged only sixty-five, he had accumulated a set of distinctions few have matched; only one remained. In belated recognition of that omission, he was conferred posthumously in 1990 the highest award his country has to offer — the Bharat Ratna.