Dr Rahul Sonpimple

In Inglorious Empire: What the British Did to India, Shashi Tharoor takes a firm stand against the justification of British colonial rule in India. He refutes common arguments, such as the claim that the British Empire gifted India the idea of a nation, modern railways, and governance structures. Tharoor posits that, had the British not completed the job, an Indian ruler—emulating his predecessors—would have achieved similar material and intellectual progress. This assertion offers an interesting insight into how “local wisdom” often operates in defense of nationalist or post-colonial rhetoric.

Tharoor’s invocation of shared post-colonial agonies among various nationalities fits into what could be termed as politically correct emotionalism. Yet, it fails to address fundamental historical questions: Did India, prior to British colonization, possess the material and intellectual conditions necessary to shape the modern socio-political framework that the British ostensibly left behind? Tharoor’s revisionist approach to Indian history overlooks the broader intellectual trajectory of societal transformation that took place in the West. Western civilization’s journey from its earliest mechanical stages to its modern organic structure is marked by the evolution of thought—an evolution rooted in philosophical progress. The transformation of Western society mirrors the transformation of knowledge itself. From Plato’s Republic, which laid the groundwork for political thought in classical Greece, to Augustine’s City of God, which became a cornerstone in medieval theology, Western philosophy continued to evolve through the Renaissance and Enlightenment, shaping the political and social institutions that define the modern West.

In contrast, the critical question remains: Has Indian society undergone similar stages of intellectual evolution? The history of Indian philosophical thought, unlike the West, is not marked by a continuous progression. Instead, it is characterized by a constant tension between Vedic and non-Vedic traditions. While Indian philosophy can be categorized chronologically—ranging from Vedic-Hindu philosophy, Buddhist thought, Cārvāka, Jainism, to Nyaya and Samkhya schools—the Vedic philosophy did not extend to or inform the later non-Vedic philosophies. The non-Vedic schools instead emerged as direct rejections of Brahmanical orthodoxy. Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, in Riddles in Hinduism, emphasizes that despite the reverence Hindu society grants the Vedas, there is a profound lack of understanding about their origins. Ambedkar pointed out that even a learned Vedic Brahmin would likely assert that the Vedas are “Sanatan” (eternal), offering no concrete explanation about their historical inception.

Tharoor, presenting himself as a liberal Hindu, albeit more moderate than right-wing Hindu nationalists, suggests that Indian rulers could have independently achieved the material and intellectual feats that the British imposed. He downplays the argument made by right-wing proponents, who stretch this local wisdom to absurd extremes, even claiming that aircraft technology existed during the Vedic period. Such claims, while often celebrated by local wisdom enthusiasts, ignore the critical question of what material and social conditions existed for genuine intellectual and technological advancements to emerge.

Historically, wisdom has been associated with the pronouncements of so-called “wise men.” Tharoor and other proponents of Vedic knowledge sometimes resemble these sagacious preachers. However, wisdom in the Western tradition, particularly in philosophical discourse, has evolved in more complex ways. Socrates, often regarded as the epitome of wisdom, did not consider himself wise. His pupil Plato, too, was deeply invested in the inquiry into knowledge and wisdom, yet, for Plato, wisdom transcended the mere possession of knowledge. Aristotle further developed this idea, suggesting that practical wisdom (phronesis) could not be acquired in the same way as moral virtues. Aristotle held that while one could be brave but imprudent, it was impossible to be practically wise without a full understanding of human good. True practical wisdom, according to Aristotle, requires a comprehensive understanding of what is universally good for human beings across the different phases of life.

In modern philosophy, the relationship between rationality and morality became intertwined. Kant’s moral theory centers on the idea that moral actions are inextricably linked with rationality. As rational agents, human beings are obligated to follow the moral law dictated by practical reason. To act against this law is to act irrationally. Kant’s emphasis on duty, rooted in rationality, aligns in many ways with Ambedkar’s conception of sheel (virtue), which he derived from Buddhist ethics. Ambedkar’s ideals of equality, justice, and fraternity, though he attributed them to Buddha, resonate with the values of the Western Enlightenment. Moreover, Ambedkar was fiercely critical of local wisdom—especially the kind associated with village life, which Gandhi idealized.

Ambedkar famously critiqued Gandhi’s notion of the “village republic,” arguing that these village units were the very cause of India’s downfall. He described villages as “sinks of localism, dens of ignorance, narrow-mindedness, and communalism.” He believed that the future of India depended not on local wisdom but on the guidance of an intellectual class that could lead society through reasoned judgment. Ambedkar did not oppose the intellectual class because it had power, but because its moral compass mattered. He insisted that wisdom alone was not enough—the ethical character of intellectual leadership was paramount.

He juxtaposed the Buddhist dhamma against the Brahmanical caste-ridden dharma. Therefore, for him, the battle for justice was not just a battle for material resources but for regaining the lost dignity through Buddhist morals and principles. Ambedkar believed that the new Buddhist identity would enable Dalits to reclaim their universal human rights and give them spiritual freedom to break the mental slavery of caste. In his advice to his followers, Ambedkar proclaimed, “The battle to me is a matter of joy. The battle is in the fullest sense spiritual. There is nothing material or social in it. For ours is a battle not for wealth or for power. It is a battle for freedom. It is a battle for reclamations of the human personality.”

Ambedkar’s position in caste society and his responsibility to the most marginalized shaped his spiritual life differently than other progressive leaders of his time. For instance, through the concept of Seva, rooted in the Hindu spiritual life, Gandhi found a way to serve the oppressed. Ambedkar, however, relied on the Buddhist concepts of Karuna (compassion) and Samata (equality) as moral and spiritual principles for the emancipation of the oppressed. He reintroduced Buddhism on the very soil where it was born and later destroyed by Brahmanical forces.

This divergence in thought shaped how India’s leaders conceptualized governance. Gandhian principles, for instance, influenced the creation of the Mahatma Gandhi Tanta Mukti Gaon Yojana (Dispute-Free Village Scheme), launched in Maharashtra in 2007. The scheme aimed to resolve local disputes, reduce judicial backlog, and encourage self-governance through village committees. However, caste-based discrimination was conspicuously absent from the scheme’s agenda. Dominant caste groups often exploited the initiative to suppress cases filed by marginalized communities, particularly Dalits. Activists and scholars have criticized the scheme for becoming a tool of upper-caste dominance, as village leaders, often from these privileged groups, discouraged the filing of police complaints to maintain control over local resources and power.

Ashok Tagde, an activist from Beed district in Maharashtra, provides an example of this issue, arguing that the scheme has ended up silencing cases of caste-based violence. Similarly, during fieldwork in Nanded, another Dalit leader, Rahul Pradhan, noted that the dominant Maratha caste welcomed the scheme because it freed them from going to court to defend themselves against atrocity cases. Such examples underscore Ambedkar’s fear of entrusting governance to local wisdom, particularly when caste hierarchies are so deeply embedded.

A powerful counterpoint to this scenario comes from the Haitian Revolution of 1804. This revolution remains the only successful slave rebellion in world history, leading to the establishment of one of the world’s first post-colonial nations and the first independent black republic outside Africa. The revolution was fueled not by local wisdom but by the universal principles of liberty, equality, and fraternity—the same ideals that emerged from the Enlightenment and drove the French Revolution. This case highlights the limitations of local wisdom in fostering true revolution and progress.

Finally, invoking local wisdom, as Gandhi did with his swadeshi movement, often promotes local capitalism, leading to the monopoly of traditional upper-caste groups and stifling diversity and modernity. This brand of wisdom, celebrated by many, provides impunity to those in power, leaving little room for intellectual, social, or political innovation.

In conclusion, local wisdom, particularly in the Indian context, must be critically examined. It often serves as a veneer for entrenched social hierarchies, sustaining the status quo rather than promoting genuine intellectual progress. Ambedkar’s vision for India required an intellectual leadership that transcended localism, drawing instead on universal values of justice, morality, and reason. Only by challenging the constraints of local wisdom can India hope to foster an inclusive, modern society.