Nagpur, a city in Maharashtra that by and large kept itself aloof from sectarian violence, has now faltered in the abyss of communalism. Hatred, it is rightly said, is contagious in nature; but so is love. People of Nagpur, as also of other parts of the nation, must decide sensibly what course they should take—one where mutual love takes all on the path of prosperity, or the other where hatred engulfs whatever comes its way. There is hardly any alternative left, than for the citizens to discard the agenda of divisive forces that have manufactured a trend of hate and communalism—so atypical of vibrant and tolerant India.
The violence in Nagpur began with right-wing groups demanding the removal of Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb’s tomb in Maharashtra. As protests escalated, rumours of a sacred text’s desecration triggered arson and rioting. The police acted swiftly but failed to stop the destruction before it spread. More than 50 people have been detained, but the damage is already done—both to property and social harmony. It is hard to digest that such a despicable playbook of violence is still floated in Indian cities, and tougher is the fact that people are buying it in the post-independent era. There is a need for objective assessment of the potential gains and damages such communalism will bring to different stakeholders of society and polity. The answer, if one gets it right, will be an eye-opener. It makes very little sense why a 17th-century ruler’s legacy—good, bad or mixed—is being used to provoke riots in 2025. Indians are smart enough to subjectively judge the contributions of the country’s history makers, and give them appropriate importance. History, good or bad, is history. It should not be turned into a story based on the fantasies of a selected few.
Chief Minister Devendra Fadnavis, who also holds the Home portfolio, has been accused of fuelling historical grievances for political gains. His support for the idea of removing Aurangzeb’s tomb, while simultaneously calling for peace, exposes a dangerous strategy—playing both sides to consolidate support while denying responsibility. This isn’t an isolated incident but part of a larger pattern where historical figures are used to inflame modern-day divisions. The demand to remove Aurangzeb’s tomb isn’t new; it resurfaces time and again around elections or political uncertainty. Furthermore, the involvement of certain radical groups suggests the protests were not spontaneous. From the burning of Aurangzeb’s effigy to rumours of desecration, the sequence of events points to an orchestrated attempt to polarise voters.
The opposition has rightly questioned the state’s handling of the crisis. If intelligence reports had warned of rising tensions, why wasn’t preventive action taken? How did a protest of 200 people spiral into full-fledged communal clashes? The failure of law enforcement raises concerns about administrative negligence—or worse, complicity. This manufactured crisis serves multiple political interests. It shifts focus from economic struggles, unemployment, and governance issues. It strengthens majoritarian support by reviving historical animosities. Most dangerously, it normalises communal violence as a political tool. Curfews and arrests might restore order for now, but the real question remains—why are religious divisions being exploited at all? If Maharashtra’s leaders are serious about communal harmony, they must reject inflammatory rhetoric and take action against those who incite violence. Strong legal measures should target not just rioters but also those who fan the flames. Maharashtra, and India, cannot afford to let communal politics dictate its future. The government must act—not just speak—in defence of peace.