The historical journey of ‘Vande Mataram’, from a stirring cry for freedom to a point of modern contention, reflects the broader complexities of our Indian identity. Bankim Chandra Chatterjee’s famous hymn to the motherland served as the primary emotional fuel for the early nationalist movement. It was the song that emboldened Satyagrahis to face lathis and the chant that echoed in the hearts of revolutionaries approaching the gallows. Yet, as we navigate the mandates of a contemporary secular republic, the resurgence of controversy requires us to examine anew the delicate balance between state symbols and individual conscience.
To understand the current friction, one must recall its origins. During the struggle for Independence, the Indian National Congress sang ‘Vande Mataram’ as a quintessential expression of patriotism. However, as Independence approached, the leadership was acutely aware of the need for a national anthem that could unite a religiously diverse population. While ‘Jana Gana Mana’ was ultimately chosen for its inclusive and rhythmic appeal, the Constituent Assembly accorded ‘Vande Mataram’ an “equal status” as the national song, recognising its indispensable role in the freedom struggle.
This was a deliberate compromise intended to honour nationalist history, without alienating those for whom the song’s later imagery posed a theological dilemma. The genius behind it was Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore. Despite being the first to set the poem to music and perform it at the 1896 Congress session, in 1937, Tagore recommended that only the first two verses be sung in public settings. His reasoning was both aesthetic and empathetic. The first two stanzas are a lyrical salutation to a personified, bounteous motherland: The “Mother” the song hails is the soil, the water, and the fruit-bearing trees of India, beautiful and eternal — imagery both universal and metaphorical. However, the subsequent verses explicitly identify the motherland with Hindu iconography, specifically invoking the goddesses Durga and Lakshmi. Tagore, a man of profound spiritual and pluralistic vision, understood that while these verses were beautiful as literature, they could not be expected to be recited by those whose faiths forbade the deification of anything other than the Creator.
This remains the crux of the objection voiced by many Indian Muslims. The core tenet of Islamic faith is Tawhid, the absolute oneness of God, which precludes bowing before or worshipping any entity, even one’s own nation, in a manner that mimics religious devotion. For many, the first two verses are acceptable as a secular tribute to the land. But the later verses, which have now been officially mandated by government order, shift the tone from a patriotic greeting to a religious invocation. To force some citizens to recite verses that conflict with their fundamental religious tenets creates a choice between faith and state — a dilemma that a secular democracy, by definition, should seek to avoid, rather than impose.
The argument used by proponents of mandating the full song is that it is a symbol of national unity and that refusal to sing it is a sign of diminished patriotism. However, this perspective overlooks the fact that in a free society, the strength of a national symbol lies in the voluntary reverence it inspires, not the compliance it coerces. Patriotism is a sentiment of the heart; it cannot be legislated onto the tongue. When the state uses its power to demand a specific verbal performance of loyalty, it risks hollowing out the very sentiment it seeks to promote.
At the root of the problem lies the hoary question of what Tagore called “the idea of India”. Is India an ancient palimpsest on which people of varying faiths and ethnicities have inscribed their contributions, or a glorious Hindu civilisation into which people of other faiths have interposed themselves? Our nationalist leaders chose the former idea, enshrining a civic nationalism in our Constitution that considers all citizens equal. Our present rulers implicitly hew to the latter idea, insisting that minorities have to adjust themselves to the dominant Hindu ethos.
The most elegant and constitutionally sound solution to this impasse lies in our own judicial history, specifically the landmark “Jehovah’s Witness case”. In 1986, three students were expelled from school for refusing to sing the national anthem on the grounds that it conflicted with their religious beliefs. They did not disrupt the proceedings; they stood respectfully while the anthem was played, but remained silent. The Supreme Court reinstated the students, delivering a judgment that remains a beacon of Indian pluralism. Justice Chinnappa Reddy, famously observing that our tradition, philosophy, and Constitution all preach and practice tolerance, ruled that as long as a person stands respectfully while the anthem is played, refusal to sing it does not constitute a violation of the law or a lack of patriotism.
We should apply this model to the current ‘Vande Mataram’ controversy. Those who feel comfortable singing the later verses should be encouraged to do so, celebrating the historical and cultural richness they represent. Simultaneously, the state must explicitly assure those with conscientious or religious objections, whether they are Muslims, Christians, or atheists, that they are excused from singing the verses that trouble them. As long as they stand in silent, dignified respect during the rendition, they should be deemed to have fulfilled their civic duty.
Crucially, this policy must be backed by an assurance that no citizen will face prosecution, institutional punishment, or social ostracisation for exercising this right to silence. By protecting the right not to sing, the state actually strengthens the sanctity of the song. It transforms the act from a mandated drill into a genuine expression of love for the country. In a republic as vast and varied as ours, the melody of unity is not found in a single, forced note, but in the harmonious coexistence of many voices — and sometimes, the respectful silence of a few. Our nationalism must be large-hearted enough to encompass the believer, the dissenter, and the quiet observer alike, ensuring that the motherland remains a home for all her children.
The author is the fourth-term Member of Parliament (INC), Lok Sabha, for Thiruvananthapuram, and the author of 28 books, including The Battle of Belonging: on Nationalism, Patriotism and What it Means to be Indian
In a free society, the strength of a national symbol lies in the voluntary reverence it inspires, not the compliance it coerces. Patriotism is a sentiment of the heart; it cannot be legislated on to the tongue. (Illustration: C R Sasikumar) 
Share
