Issue of the Week: Human Rights, Economic Opportunity, Population, Hunger, Disease, Environment.
The largest democracy in the world, soon to be the largest nation in the world in population, is India.
A lengthy voting process is underway as this is written, for the Parliament, and for Prime Minister of India. The New York Times Magazine posted an engaging article of the utmost importance today about this election, the history of and challenges to democracy in India, the rise of Hindu nationalism and oppression of Muslims–and the campaign of Rahul Gandhi, of the storied family involved in the independence movement that produced three prime ministers (two assassinated) and one most recently with the power behind the Prime Minister–in an effort to fight inequality, poverty, human rights abuses, anti-democratic actions of the current government and to restore the flagging fortunes of the Congress Party, which led the fight for independence and dominated Indian politics for decades.
The odds for success in this venture seem slim. But what may or may not come from seeds sown now could be critical for the survival of real democracy in India. And the article is a fascinating journey through the history of India from Independence to today.
What an irony that this was posted on the day that the most important and powerful democracy in the world, the United States, passed in the House of Representatives a series of absolutely critical foreign aid bills for Ukraine, Israel, humanitarian aid for Gaza and for Taiwan. It should be passed by the Senate and signed by the President in days.
We’ve written extensively about these subjects before and will again, but the most salient points at the moment are that the lion’s share of aid was for Ukraine in its fight for democracy against Russian agression and autocracy, and the political impact on the attack on numerous fronts on democracy in the US. An improbable turnaround at the last minute gave democracy a desperately needed transfusion, in the US, Ukraine, and directly and indirectly, worldwide.
India has been increasingly anti-democratic, autocratic, mired in inequality and anti-human rights on various levels for some time. It’s had many problems from the start, but could be counted on, in the main, as a staunch follower of secular democracy. In that sense it was a model and hope for democracy in the world, and had a framework within which issues such as hunger and poverty and the related religious intolerance and hatred could have abated. The writer here has been in India extensively in past years and while heartbroken by the suffering witnessed, was deeply impressed by the people and the possibilities for the future.
The challenges to democracy and equality in India today are greater than ever in many ways. And it bears remembering, in keeping with our recent focus on the threat of regional and global nuclear war, that India is nuclear armed, as is its long-time terribly impoverished and unstable enemy Pakistan (they have fought wars and semi-wars for years) bordering on the north, which was part of India until partition, with India being mainly Hindu and Pakistan being mainly Muslim.
Then just to scramble your brain a bit more, there’s China, more nuclear armed by the minute, which has also had short wars with India. China of course is the most powerful practitioner of dictatorship versus democracy on the planet.
But India will soon surpass China in population. And if a nation has the biggest population on earth and nukes in the holster and you’re not paying attention, then you have a serious level of kiss-your-ass-goodbye disorder. If so, start your treatment for recovery by reading this article. And for the things you don’t know or understand, use it as a lauching pad to learn more:
“Time Is Running Out for Rahul Gandhi’s Vision for India”
By Samanth Subramanian, Published April 20, 2024. Samanth Subramanian is a writer and journalist based in London. He has covered Indian politics, culture and the rise of Hindu nationalism for The New Yorker, The Guardian and The New York Times.
But in this year’s elections, the scion of India’s most storied political family is still trying to unseat Modi — and change the nation’s course.
Rahul Gandhi stood in a red Jeep, amid a churning crowd in Varanasi, trying to unseat the Indian government with a microphone in his hand. “The mic isn’t good,” he said. “Please quiet down and listen.” It was the morning of Feb. 17 — Day 35 of a journey that began in the hills of Manipur, in India’s northeast, and would end by the ocean in Mumbai, in mid-March. In total, Gandhi would cover 15 states and 4,100 miles, traveling across a country that once voted for his party, the Indian National Congress, almost by reflex. No longer, though. For a decade, the Congress Party has been so deep in the political wilderness, occupying fewer than a tenth of the seats in Parliament, that even its well-wishers wonder if Gandhi is merely the custodian of its end.
Gandhi called his expedition the Bharat Jodo Nyay Yatra — roughly, the Unite India March for Justice. He never said it in so many words, but the yatra was an appeal to voters to deny Prime Minister Narendra Modi and his Bharatiya Janata Party a third straight term in parliamentary elections starting on April 19. Congress, the only other party with a national presence, is the fulcrum of an anti-B.J.P. coalition. Indian pundits and journalists bicker about many things, but on this point they’re unanimous: Only a miracle will halt the B.J.P. Still, it falls to Gandhi, steward of his enfeebled party, to try.
The speech lasted barely 15 minutes. Gandhi is a fidgety orator, unable to shrug off the routine disturbances of a rally. He kept calling for silence, and scolding overzealous policemen regulating the mob. He didn’t ramble, exactly, but eddied around the point he wanted to make. “This is a country of love, not of hate,” he said. He talked of two Indias, populated respectively by the millionaires and the impoverished. He laid into TV news channels, many of which have been captured by oligarchs prospering under the B.J.P.: “They won’t show the farmers, or the workers or the poor,” he said. “But they will show Narendra Modi 24 hours a day.” Then he helped onto his Jeep a member of the audience, a young man who complained that, despite spending hundreds of thousands of rupees on his education, he still had no job. His is a common story in Modi’s India. Two out of every five recent college graduates are out of work, and young people make up 83 percent of the unemployed. To his crowd, Gandhi called out: “These are the two issues facing India: unemployment and — ?” He received only a tepid response of “poverty.” When he finished, there was no applause.
The crush of people at the rally was suffocating, although in India a crowd is no index of popularity. People may gawk and then go vote for the other guy — and Gandhi is, after all, one of the country’s most recognizable men. Officially, he is no longer his party’s president, but he is undoubtedly its face. At 53, with a well-salted beard and serious eyes, he’s too old to be called Congress’s “scion,” but he still wears the sheen of dynasty. His great-grandfather, the unflinchingly secular Jawaharlal Nehru, was India’s first prime minister. His grandmother, Indira, and his father, Rajiv, both became prime ministers; both were assassinated. His mother, Sonia, steered Congress into government in 2004 and 2009, but declined the top post. Then, on the heels of several corruption scandals, the mighty party — 140 years old next year — came unstuck. Out of 543 seats in the lower house of Parliament, Congress holds just 46, compared to the B.J.P.’s 288. Gandhi embodies all this history: the triumphs as well as the failures. For the crowds, that is the fascination he exerts.
One of Modi’s successes has been not just to trounce the Congress Party but also to persuade people that the party has weakened India and emasculated its Hindus. Through his cult of personality, Modi is fulfilling a century-old project, recasting India as a Hindu nation, in which minorities, particularly Muslims, live at the sufferance of the majority. Emblematic of this is a new law offering fast-tracked citizenship to people fleeing Pakistan, Bangladesh or Afghanistan — as long as they aren’t Muslim. It is the B.J.P.’s totemic achievement: the use of religion to decide who can be called “Indian.” Opposing this law or indeed resisting the B.J.P. in any way has proved difficult. Investigating agencies mount flimsy cases against critics of the government, as Amnesty International has frequently noted. (Amnesty itself halted its work in India in 2020, in the midst of what it later called an “incessant witch hunt” by the government.) Activists are regularly imprisoned, sometimes on the basis of planted evidence; journalists are sent to jail or otherwise bullied so frequently that India has slipped to 161st out of 180 countries in the World Press Freedom Index, just three spots above Russia. Pliant courts often endorse it all. Such is the mood in India that one of the plainest sentences in Congress’s election manifesto is also one of its most resonant: “We promise you freedom from fear.”
As the election neared, the quelling of dissent grew more visible still. This year, in an unprecedented move, Modi’s administration arrested two chief ministers of states run by small opposition parties. (One stepped down hours before his arrest.) In both instances, the government claimed corruption, but many critics noted that the arrests were uncannily timed to pull two popular politicians out of campaign season in states where the B.J.P. has struggled. Income-tax authorities froze Congress’s bank accounts, supposedly over a late filing. “It has been orchestrated to cripple us in the elections,” Gandhi told reporters. If so, it feels like overkill, because it is common wisdom that Congress can’t win. Those who want nothing to do with the B.J.P. watch Gandhi with conflicted anguish. He is, by all accounts, sincere, empathetic and committed to a pluralistic India. This is a man who forgave his father’s killers, and who said on the sidelines of a private New York event last year, according to one of those present: “I don’t hate Modi. The day I hate, I will leave politics.” But he’s also the latest in a lineage under whom Congress grew undemocratic and sometimes wildly corrupt. The great liberal hope is that Gandhi can achieve contradictory things: use his dynastic privilege to resuscitate his party, and dissolve the dynasty at the same time.
That’s a steep demand, but Gandhi’s priorities are altogether more Himalayan. “He doesn’t say it,” Sitaram Yechury, the general secretary of the Communist Party of India (Marxist) who knows Gandhi well, told me, “but he’s modeling himself after Mahatma Gandhi. He doesn’t want to take any position of power.” In January, Gandhi told his colleagues that he has “one foot in and one foot out of the party,” and that he plans to be “a bridge to activists outside.” As he explained it then, the B.J.P., with its undiluted majoritarianism, “is a political-ideological machine. It can’t be defeated by a political machine alone.” His role, as he sees it, is to be the counter ideology — to go out into the country, rouse Indians to the dangers of the B.J.P. and offer them his dream of a fairer, more tolerant India instead.
The yatra is a well-worn exercise in Indian politics. Its most famous practitioner, Mahatma Gandhi, returned from South Africa in 1915 hungering to know more about his country. Go travel the land, one of his mentors told him, “with eyes and ears open, but mouth shut.” After using the yatra to gain an education, he employed it for political purpose. In 1930, he walked 240 miles to the Arabian Sea to protest the British monopoly on salt; hundreds of people joined him, and he spoke to thousands en route. On reaching the beach, he scooped out a fist of salty sand and announced he had broken the monopoly, setting off a wave of civil disobedience. There have been plenty of other yatras since. In 1983, Smita Gupta, a retired journalist who was then a cub reporter, walked part of a 2,650-mile yatra by a politician named Chandra Shekhar, as he tried to enlist support against Indira Gandhi. As Gupta recalled, for people who live far from the centers of power, “when a politician descends from the skies and comes to your home, it’s a big deal — I was swept away.”
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Rahul Gandhi conceived of his yatra much as Chandra Shekhar did: as a way to counter the ideology of a seemingly immovable leader. There’s no place more vital for this project than Uttar Pradesh, the state through which I trailed him in February. With its 80 parliamentary seats and 240 million people, many living on incomes lower than the sub-Saharan average of $1,700 a year, Uttar Pradesh is electorally pivotal. Excelling here isn’t a guarantee of securing power in Delhi, but it’s as close to ironclad as it gets. It’s also the state that produced the Gandhis. When Nehru, born in Uttar Pradesh, ran for Parliament from a constituency near his hometown, Congress shared one advantage with other parties in post-colonial countries: the glory of having led the freedom struggle. That kept for surprisingly long without spoiling. Nehru’s heirs — Indira, then her son Rajiv, then his wife, Sonia — all won election after election from their constituencies in Uttar Pradesh. Rahul Gandhi once called Uttar Pradesh his karmabhoomi, a Sanskrit word for the land of one’s momentous actions.
But Uttar Pradesh also became the land where Congress was fated to fail. Today it’s the roiling heart of the B.J.P.’s Hindu nationalism. Varanasi, Hinduism’s most sacred city, lies near the state’s eastern border, and Modi chose to represent it in Parliament — a crafty choice for a man wishing to be hailed as a defender of his faith. Around 40 million Muslims live in the state, and under its B.J.P. chief minister, they’re increasingly being erased from public life. One law jeopardizes their right to marry whom they wish. Other regulations have constricted the meat trade, in which many Muslims work. Islamic schools are in danger of being banned outright. By painting Muslims as trespassers, the B.J.P. licenses violence against them, sometimes even explicitly. (In 2015, a man was beaten to death by his Hindu neighbors in his village in western Uttar Pradesh, on the rumor that he had slaughtered a cow. The men accused of his murder have since been freed on bail and the case is still unresolved.) More than any other part of India, Uttar Pradesh shows what the B.J.P. has wrought and how successful it has been. In 2019, during the last national election, the B.J.P. swept 62 of the state’s 80 seats. Congress won just one.
A few years ago, Gandhi decided that his party needed a way to mobilize people against the B.J.P., settling on a yatra as a means to that end. He embarked on his first, walking up the spine of India, in late 2022. Even the plainness of his attire — sneakers, loosefitting trousers, white polo shirt — was a rebuke to the Olympian vanity of Modi, who once had his own name stitched, in tiny letters, to form the pinstripes of a suit. The yatras felt like campaigns, yet Gandhi’s team insists that they were not about projecting him as prime minister but rather a form of ideological resistance, almost above politics. (His staff politely refused my repeated requests for an interview.)
The Congress Party found itself divided over Gandhi’s approach. Salman Khurshid, a Congress veteran, worried that the party has strayed from bread-and-butter political strategy. We were in his office in Delhi, and he kept looking dolorously at his phone, which never stopped ringing. It was the feverish middle of the election season, and Congress was picking its candidates and negotiating alliances with other parties. Gandhi had to weigh in, Khurshid said: “We’d like him to be within shouting distance. He’s a thousand kilometers away.” Khurshid wished for a more customary system, the sort that promised, say, a 20-minute appointment at 10 a.m. to talk about three things. “That’s how ordinary political parties work,” he said. “He wants an extraordinary political party.”
Sometimes, Gandhi’s team told Khurshid and others to come on the yatra and talk to Gandhi on the bus. But it wasn’t sufficient, Khurshid told me. “There’s never enough time.” The yatra involved a lot of stopping and starting and stopping again, as I discovered. Two or three times a day, Gandhi’s Jeep — and its caravan of police cars, S.U.V.s and a vehicle bearing a device labeled “Jammer” — inched through a town, halting at a crossroads for a speech. Then the convoy would hasten to its next engagement, trying to cover vast Uttar Pradesh distances through dense Uttar Pradesh traffic, and always behind schedule. The day ended in a cordoned-off campsite, where everyone slept in shipping containers fitted with bunks. Here, in his own enclosure, Gandhi hobnobbed with local Congress functionaries or practiced jiu-jitsu with his instructor.
In Prayagraj, where we headed after Varanasi, it’s possible to traverse the distance between the party’s zenith and its rock bottom in a single evening. First, Gandhi made a speech outside Anand Bhavan, an ancestral family home, an eggshell-white mansion on an emerald lawn. Anand Bhavan is now a museum, but its chief relic is intangible: the promise of Nehruvian secularism, circa 1947. Then, while leaving Prayagraj, we passed the high court that invalidated Indira Gandhi’s election in 1975 on the grounds of electoral malpractice. The verdict provoked her to impose a state of emergency — a suspension of civic rights — for nearly two years, tarnishing Congress and strengthening its competitors. By this time too, the party had wrapped itself feudally around the dynasty. Any emergent leaders with their own base were subdued or cast off because they threatened the Gandhis. By the late 1980s, other politicians had clawed voters away from Congress by courting specific groups — members of a caste, say, or as with the B.J.P. and Hindus, of a religion.
As Congress faltered, its workers joined rival parties, including the B.J.P. In India, party workers don’t just canvass voters — they step in for an insufficient state. If a farmer needing a loan is turned away by the bank manager, or if a woman can’t pay the cost of treatment for her sick daughter, party workers use their contacts to help. These services are performed in the hope that the favors will be returned every five years, come the election. “The average party worker needs, say, 10,000 rupees a month to run his home,” an old Congress hand in Varanasi, who asked not to be named for fear of professional reprisal, told me. “If their party can’t get to power, how will they get paid? They’ll go work for whoever is most likely to win.”
Gilles Verniers, a political scientist, recounted taking his Ashoka University class on a trip to Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh’s capital, on the day votes were counted in a state election in 2017. He distributed his pupils among the headquarters of various parties, but by midmorning, the students at the Congress office called him. “They said: ‘Can we go elsewhere?’” Verniers told me. “ ‘There’s no one here, everybody left.’ The party knew they were getting spanked, but at least you could stick around, thanking workers, encouraging them. There was no one to even make tea.” Today, the Varanasi representative told me, “we just hope to God we win even one seat in Uttar Pradesh.”
Gandhi entered politics with several lifetimes’ worth of trauma packed into his 33 years. When he was 14, two of his grandmother’s bodyguards shot her dead — revenge for an assault she ordered upon a Sikh temple to root out separatist militants sheltering within. The bodyguards had taught a young Rahul how to play badminton. Seven years later, while he was a student at Harvard, his father, Rajiv, was killed by a suicide bomber — revenge again, this time by a separatist group in Sri Lanka, where he had sent Indian troops to aid the government. It became difficult for Rahul Gandhi to be Rahul Gandhi: to trust people or go anywhere ungirded by security. For a while it didn’t seem inevitable that he would choose politics. Later he would say that he made the decision on a train just as it entered Prayagraj, when he was taking his father’s cremated remains to pour into the Ganges River.
Smita Gupta, the former journalist, attended one of Gandhi’s earliest rallies, in an Uttar Pradesh town called Farrukhabad, in 2004. The road was so crowded that a 15-minute drive took three hours. Gandhi arrived in a Jeep, smiling and dimpling and waving. As he walked to the dais, the barricades broke from the masses of excited people pushing against them. “He was swept away, sailing with the crowd,” Gupta said. Soon after Congress won that election, Gandhi took charge of the party’s junior wing. The transition to the dynasty’s next generation seemed underway, and he exhibited the air of someone who knew he was the man for the job.
At the time, Gandhi often showed little patience with the orthodox figures of politics. Pratap Bhanu Mehta, a political scientist at Princeton, who met Gandhi back then, recalled that he made minimal eye contact and seemed distracted — unable even to feign interest as politicians usually do so well. A journalist who met Gandhi privately told me that he was, as the saying goes, eager to tell you what you thought: “It was: ‘You don’t know how the Congress works. Let me tell you.’ Or, ‘I’ll tell you about India and Pakistan.’” In his memoir “A Promised Land,” Barack Obama compared Gandhi, whom he met in 2010, to “a student who’d done the coursework and was eager to impress the teacher but deep down lacked either the aptitude or the passion to master the subject.” One of Gandhi’s colleagues admits he used to be “very anxious and pushy” back in the day. “He has calmed down over a period of time.”
He had to. Congress isn’t a party you can change in a hurry. Its ways are too ossified, and it is honeycombed with fiefs. When Gandhi wanted Congress to field new faces in elections, he pushed for candidates to be selected through an internal voting system, rather like a primary. According to one former party consultant, senior politicians, worried about losing their tickets, complained to his mother, Sonia, the Congress president. Khurshid, one of the old guard, told me: “Everything that destroys democracy got in there — money, muscle, power.” It resulted in “the dedicated warriors of the Congress at the youth level” being sidelined. The primaries never took off. In 2018, Gandhi wanted young chief ministers in three states where Congress had won state elections. He didn’t get his way. But at least Gandhi tried something, a consultant to Congress told me. “If you leave it to these other guys,” he said, “they will not even change the curtains in the party office.”
These exasperations may have amplified a hesitancy about power and responsibility that Gandhi seemed always to harbor. In 2009, he declined the offer to be a cabinet minister. Perhaps even then he saw his role as that of a moral authority outside the government, Yechury said. On becoming the party’s vice president, Gandhi gave not a stirring speech but a somber one, recalling the assassinations in his family and counseling his party that “power is poison.” In 2017, he became the party’s president, but after Congress lost the 2019 election, he quit the post. According to two Congress sources, he expected other top party leaders to feel accountable and step down as well. No one did.
In a party often pilloried for being dynastic, Gandhi has been unable to stamp his will on Congress. One friend of the family described Gandhi as “timid.” When his 2022 yatra went through the state of Kerala, Yechury, the Communist leader, considered walking with him, but members of Congress’s Kerala unit protested: The Communists were their chief rivals in the state, and this show of solidarity — even against the B.J.P., a common antagonist — wouldn’t do at all. Yechury couldn’t understand it. Gandhi might not be the party’s president, but there’s no doubt he is its presiding force, Yechury said. Why didn’t he just hold fast?
Two years ago, during a protest in Delhi, Gandhi and dozens of his Congress colleagues were detained by the police. One of those present, who asked not to be named because he was not authorized to speak publicly, told me that several senior leaders were held together, and Gandhi had “really frank and open conversations” with them. A couple of these leaders “got aggressive, saying, ‘You have to take charge,’ persuading him to take back the party presidency, accusing him of running away from responsibility.” It was high-octane drama: “What do you do when you’re detained, man? We were there for six hours. He couldn’t go anywhere.” The Congress worker remembers Gandhi saying then: “I know what I have to do. My job is to do mass outreach. You guys handle the party.”
Gandhi’s two yatras have unfolded in the shadow of another, some 30 years ago — one that ultimately helped bring Modi to power. Riding in a Toyota decked out as a chariot, a B.J.P. leader named Lal Krishna Advani rode through northern and central India, advertising one of his party’s priorities: the claim that, 450 years earlier in the town Ayodhya, a Mughal ruler had knocked down a temple to build a mosque. Advani promised his audiences that the B.J.P. would restore the temple to that very spot. Two years later, the foot soldiers of the B.J.P. and other right-wing groups razed the mosque, triggering not just riots that killed 2,000 people but also a deep fracture in Indian society. After that, the B.J.P. regularly listed the construction of a temple in its election manifestos, harvesting votes out of the religious polarization around the issue. In 2019, mere months after Modi won his second term, the Supreme Court ruled that the mosque’s demolition was illegal, and that there was no evidence it had been built by knocking down a Hindu shrine. Yet the judges allowed a new temple to be erected on the site, legitimizing the majority’s abuse of disputed medieval history to its own retributive ends. In January, that temple was consecrated. Modi presided over the rites, as if he were head priest rather than prime minister.
Congress didn’t send any representatives to the temple’s inauguration, and I had expected Gandhi to speak about Ayodhya, which lies, after all, in Uttar Pradesh. But he barely mentioned it, even in Varanasi, a city facing a potential reprise of Ayodhya. The morning after his speech there, I visited a quarter called Pilikothi, following a sequence of lanes, each framed by so many tall tenements that there was something canyonlike about them. It was a Sunday, but Pilikothi echoed with the tack-tack of sari looms. The sound drifted into the basement in which Abdul Batin Nomani, the mufti of Varanasi, sat at a low desk. Behind him were shelves of theological volumes. When he pulled a book out to illustrate a point, his hand didn’t hesitate for a second.
The title of mufti, or jurist, has been in Nomani’s family since 1927, and he has filled the role for more than two decades. In that time, he said, the B.J.P. has spread so much hate that it has corroded even the possibility of amicable relations between Hindus and Muslims. You can be arrested for offering the namaz in public, or for being a Muslim man marrying a Hindu woman, or for running your butcher shop during Hindu festivals. You could be lynched on a whisper that you’re carrying beef, or have your house bulldozed on suspicion of being a rioter, or be hunted by mobs goaded by B.J.P. politicians calling for murder. Nomani told me about the head of a Hindu monastery nearby, and how they would invite one another to their religious functions. “Then, slowly, his mind turned,” Nomani said. “He must have been convinced that to talk to people like me is wrong.”
Nomani heads the committee of the Gyanvapi Mosque, another centuries-old structure that the Hindu right aims to replace with a temple. Weeks before I met Nomani, a court allowed Hindus to worship in the mosque’s basement, similar to what happened in Ayodhya in 1986. Varanasi’s Muslims are fearful, Nomani said. Wouldn’t the same cascade of consequences ensue? Wouldn’t other mosques surely follow? When the yatra swung by, Nomani told a local Congress representative he would welcome a meeting with Gandhi. It never transpired. Nomani wondered why Gandhi didn’t even speak about the issue and directly confront the B.J.P.’s divisive politics. “Someone could have called and reassured us: ‘Don’t worry, we’re with you,’” Nomani said. He regards Gandhi with sympathy. “I believe he wants to do the right thing, and that he is against this culture of hate,” he said. “But he’s weak. His party is weak. He can’t do anything.”
From Prayagraj, the yatra headed to Amethi, a town a couple of hours to the north. I had last visited in 2009, when it was still a stronghold of Congress’s first family, and I remembered the fields of winter mustard, yellow till the horizon, on the town’s outskirts and the wishbone layout of its three main roads. Gandhi won resoundingly that year. But in 2014, when his margin shrank, he must have seen the incoming tide of Hindu nationalism. Sanjay Singh, a local Congress worker, recalled that, on vote-counting day, Gandhi sounded dispirited as the results trickled in, telling his colleagues “the politics of this state is beyond my understanding.” In 2019, the B.J.P. flipped Amethi. If Gandhi hadn’t simultaneously run from another seat, in Kerala, he wouldn’t be in Parliament at all.
The yatra’s schedule included an evening rally, so I spent the afternoon in Singh’s house in a village nearby. A stern-eyed man with a ramrod bearing, he wore a spotless white shirt and trousers, and he had tucked a Congress streamer around his neck like a cravat. He lamented Congress’s loss of Amethi, but he wasn’t surprised. Between 2014 and 2019, Gandhi visited Amethi less and less, dispatching his advisers instead. Still, Singh felt almost guilty that Amethi voted for the B.J.P. Last year he had a chance to meet Gandhi, he said, and asked him to run from Amethi again: “I told him, ‘Whatever mistake we made, we’re ready to rectify.’” A few weeks after I met Singh, though, Gandhi declared that he would stick to his constituency in Kerala.
For the rally, the party had set up rows of chairs in a field, but the audience started dribbling out almost as soon as it began. By the time Gandhi was midway through his speech, only half the chairs were occupied. He talked about China, and riots in faraway Manipur, and the B.J.P.’s cronyism. Standing next to me, a policewoman told a videographer, “He isn’t talking about Amethi at all.” The only cheers came when he raised the plight of India’s poorer castes — the very people who made up most of his audience. As he had done throughout the yatra, he warned them they’d never get very far in the B.J.P.’s India. He may well be right, but I remembered something Mehta told me. Modi’s narrative of a resurgent Hinduism, however hollow, makes people feel good about themselves, Mehta said. “Rahul’s narrative does the opposite.”
The next day, something interrupted the yatra’s staid choreography. We were in Raebareli, the one Uttar Pradesh constituency still with the Congress Party. Halfway through his address, Gandhi invited a young man onto his Jeep to quiz him about his prospects. The man introduced himself as Amit Maurya, but he was barely audible, so Gandhi said, paternally but lightly, “First, learn how to handle a microphone.”
“I’m a little anxious, sir.”
“Don’t worry,” Gandhi replied. “You’re a lion.”
Either it was the pressure of the moment or the unchecking of a dam of frustration, but Maurya burst into tears.
In the week’s most genuine moment, Gandhi seemed nonplused, as if he didn’t know what to do with this political gift. Instinctively, he folded Maurya into an embrace and kept his arm around the sobbing man. Still, he just couldn’t abandon his routine — the statistics he’d memorized, the thesis presentation mode he was in. But even if his speech didn’t change, he sounded more passionate — angry, even — about the inequities he had lined up to narrate to his crowd.
Well after the yatra’s end, when summer hammers down and ballot machines appear in schools and colleges and municipal buildings, Gandhi may at least be able to count on Maurya’s vote. But who knows. Elections are subject to every manner of caprice, and the B.J.P. has shown itself to be peerless at swaying India’s voters. Out of hubris or audacity, Gandhi wants to persuade people to consider lofty things like morality and love, indispensable values that nonetheless make for nebulous campaign platforms. He doesn’t mind if it takes years, and perhaps he doesn’t mind if he loses his party in the process. In that time, though, he risks seeing his idea of India extinguished altogether.
Samanth Subramanian, who has written frequently for the magazine, is the author of several books, including “This Divided Island: Life, Death and the Sri Lankan War” and “A Dominant Character: The Radical Politics and Restless Politics of J.B.S. Haldane,” a New York Times Notable Book of 2020. Chinky Shukla is a documentary photographer based in New Delhi. Her work focuses on cultural assimilation, memory and the environment.
Read by Vikas Adam
Narration produced by Tanya Pérez
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