Beneath India’s Communal Clashes Lies a Class War

 India’s story is often told as a saga of religious and caste conflicts: Hindu versus Muslim, upper caste versus lower caste. These divisions dominate political debates, ignite riots, and shape national identity. Yet, peel back the layers, and a different picture emerges. At their core, these communal tensions are class struggles—pitting landless workers against wealthy landowners. From the Faraizi Movement in the 19th century to the Kashmiri Muslim unrest in recent decades, modern Indian history reveals that what we call identity conflicts are often battles over economic power, masked by the rhetoric of faith or tradition.

Land: The Root of Power and Conflict

In India, land has always been the ultimate currency. Under British colonialism, the zamindari system entrenched a small elite—often upper-caste Hindus or privileged Muslims—as landlords, while millions of peasants, regardless of religion or caste, were reduced to tenants or laborers. Independence in 1947 promised change, but land reforms faltered, leaving the divide intact. Today, a tiny fraction of the population—frequently from dominant castes or communities—controls most arable land, while the landless, often Dalits, OBCs, or marginalized Muslims, scrape by as wage workers. This economic chasm fuels communal friction, with religion and caste serving as convenient scapegoats.

The Faraizi Movement: Peasants vs. Landlords

Consider the Faraizi Movement in 19th-century Bengal (now Bangladesh and parts of West Bengal). Led by Haji Shariatullah and later his son Dudu Miyan, this Muslim reformist movement is often framed as a religious uprising against Hindu landlords and British rule. But its roots were economic. The Faraizis mobilized landless Muslim peasants and small farmers against oppressive zamindars—many of whom were Hindu but some Muslim—whose exorbitant rents and taxes left tenants destitute. The movement’s call for social equality and refusal to pay illegal levies wasn’t just about faith; it was a revolt against a landowning class exploiting the rural poor. Communal tensions flared, but the real divide was between the haves and have-nots.

Kerala’s Namboodiri Brahmins: Caste as Class

Fast forward to 20th-century Kerala, where the Namboodiri Brahmins offer another lens. As the state’s traditional upper caste, Namboodiris monopolized land ownership, controlling vast estates worked by lower-caste tenants like the Ezhavas and Pulayas. Their caste privilege—tied to rituals and social exclusion—was inseparable from their economic dominance. By the 1920s and ’30s, lower-caste reform movements, often led by figures like Sree Narayana Guru, challenged this hierarchy. These struggles were framed as caste conflicts, but they were equally about land and labor. The landless demanded rights to property and fair wages, clashing with Namboodiri landlords who clung to both caste status and economic power. Kerala’s eventual land reforms in the 1950s and ’60s—redistributing land to tenants—weakened this nexus, proving that resolving class disparities could ease communal divides.

Kashmiri Muslims: Land and Rebellion

In Kashmir, the Hindu-Muslim divide is a global headline, but class underpins the story. Under the Dogra monarchy (1846–1947), Hindu Rajputs ruled as a landowning elite, while the majority Muslim population—mostly peasants—worked their fields under crushing taxes and forced labor (begar). The 1931 uprising, often cited as a communal clash sparked by a desecrated mosque, was as much a peasant revolt against feudal landlords. Post-independence, Sheikh Abdullah’s land reforms in the 1950s abolished large estates without compensation, transferring land to Muslim tillers—a move hailed by the poor but resented by the old elite, some of whom framed it as a Muslim power grab. Even today, unrest in Kashmir reflects economic grievances: landless youth, unemployed or underpaid, fuel militancy, while wealthier classes—across religions—benefit from stability. The communal lens obscures this class fault line.

The Mandal Moment: Caste Meets Class

The 1990s Mandal Commission protests—pitting upper castes against OBCs over job and education quotas—seem like a caste war. But look closer. Upper castes, historically landowning and educated, feared losing their economic edge to OBCs, many of whom were landless or small farmers seeking upward mobility. In states like Bihar, where upper-caste landlords long dominated rural power, OBC assertions (backed by leaders like Lalu Prasad Yadav) threatened not just social prestige but control over resources. Riots and rallies erupted, but the subtext was clear: the landless were challenging the landed, and caste was the battleground.

Why Communalism Persists

If class is the root, why does communalism dominate? The answer lies in manipulation. Elites—colonial rulers, post-independence politicians, even local landlords—have long weaponized identity to divide the poor. A landless Hindu laborer and a landless Muslim tenant share the same struggles—low wages, debt, hunger—but a rumor about a temple or cow can turn them into enemies. The 2002 Gujarat riots, branded as Hindu-Muslim violence, saw poor Muslims and Hindus die in droves, while property-owning elites largely escaped unscathed. Division protects the powerful; solidarity threatens them.

A Way Forward

To break this cycle, India must confront its class divide. Land reform—modeled on Kerala’s success—could redistribute wealth and weaken the landlord grip. Education, jobs, and credit for the landless would erode economic dependence, reducing the fuel for communal fires. But policy needs a new narrative: one that unites workers across caste and creed against entrenched privilege. Recent farmers’ protests, bridging Sikh, Hindu, and Muslim growers against corporate overreach, hint at this potential.

The Real Fight

India’s communal clashes—Hindu-Muslim, upper caste-lower caste—are visceral and complex. But they’re symptoms of a deeper war: the landless versus the landowners, the powerless versus the privileged. From the Faraizi peasants to Kashmiri rebels, from Namboodiri estates to Mandal streets, history shows the pattern. Reframing these conflicts as class struggles won’t erase their pain, but it might point to a solution—one where justice, not division, defines the future.

Inside the Minds of Hindu Nationalist Trolls: What Drives Their Online Fury?

 Subtitle: A Psychological Peek into Why They Troll, What They Feed On, and How They Got Here

If you’ve ever scrolled through X and stumbled into a storm of saffron-tinged outrage—think ALL CAPS rants about “love jihad” or memes mocking “secularists”—you’ve met the Hindu nationalist troll. They’re loud, relentless, and oddly ubiquitous in India’s digital landscape. But what’s going on inside their heads? Why do they spend hours hurling insults or defending cow protection like it’s a personal crusade? Let’s unpack their mindset through the lens of psychology—including a dash of Sigmund Freud—and figure out what makes them tick.

The Thrill of the Troll: Why They Do It

Picture this: a guy in a small town, hunched over his phone, typing a venomous reply to a tweet about Muslim rights. Why? Psychology suggests it’s not just ideology—it’s personal. Research points to the 'Dark Tetrad' traits—narcissism, psychopathy, Machiavellianism, and sadism. These trolls might actually enjoy the chaos they sow, getting a kick out of watching their targets squirm. Online anonymity turns off the brakes, letting these darker impulses run wild.

But it’s more than just being mean. Freud might say they’re projecting—taking insecurities or frustrations and flinging them at scapegoats like minorities or liberals. Maybe it’s a shaky job market or a sense of losing cultural ground in a globalized world. Instead of wrestling with that, they lash out, defending “Hindu pride” as a shield for their ego. And there’s a thrill in it too—the id, Freud’s pleasure-seeking beast, loves the instant rush of a viral jab or a pile-on from their crew.

What They Feed On: The Echo Chamber Diet

These trolls don’t stumble into their views—they’re fed them. Think WhatsApp forwards about “Hindu victimhood,” X threads from firebrand accounts, or articles from outlets like OpIndia painting Muslims as threats. It’s a steady drip of confirmation bias, where every story reinforces their narrative: Hindus are under siege, and they’re the warriors holding the line. Symbols matter too—cows, Ram Mandir, “Bharat Mata”—stirring deep emotional chords, just as Freud saw symbols tapping into the unconscious.

This isn’t random scrolling; it’s a curated echo chamber. They’re not debating on X—they’re preaching to the choir, amplifying each other’s outrage. Misinformation, like fake stats on Muslim population growth, adds fuel, turning fear into a weapon. It’s less about facts and more about feeling righteous.

How They Grew Up: Roots of the Rage

Who are these trolls offline? We can’t know each one, but patterns emerge. Many likely grew up in conservative homes where Hinduism wasn’t just faith—it was identity, superiority even. Stories of Mughal invasions or colonial shame might’ve been bedtime tales, planting seeds of grievance. Freud’s Oedipus complex could fit here—maybe they’re rebelling against “authority” (think secular elites) while clinging to a parental ideal of Hindu purity.

Some might hail from rural or lower-middle-class backgrounds, feeling sidelined by India’s urban boom. The internet becomes their turf, a place to belong when the real world feels stacked against them. Freud would nod at this group vibe—his Group Psychology says people ditch personal doubts for a collective cause. Here, it’s Hindutva, with leaders like Modi as the ego ideal they rally around.

The Freudian Twist: Mother India and Inner Conflict

Freud’s lens gets wilder. Hindu nationalists often frame India as “Mother India,” a sacred feminine to protect. Trolls might see themselves as her sons, displacing personal struggles—say, repressed anger or economic woes—into a noble fight. Their aggression could be redirected libido, Freud’s life force, morphing into control rather than creation. And that “majority with a minority complex” idea? It’s insecurity dressed as bravado, rationalizing hate as duty.

Here’s a curveball: not all are sociopaths. Studies hint trolling can be situational—normal folks jumping in when the mood’s right, like during a heated election or a temple verdict. India’s polarized climate might just tip them over the edge.

So, What’s the Deal?

Hindu nationalist trolls aren’t just random keyboard warriors—they’re a psychological cocktail. Mix some narcissism and sadism with a hefty dose of ideology, stir in a media diet of fear and pride, and root it in an upbringing of tradition-meets-discontent. Freud would see projection and groupthink at play, their online fury a vent for deeper tensions. They’re not just defending Hinduism—they’re defending themselves, or at least the version they’ve built in their heads.

Next time you spot one in the wild, don’t just mute them. Wonder: what’s behind that tweet? It’s not always about you—it’s about them, their world, and a psyche shaped by more than just a smartphone.

Does India’s Police Show Bias in Policing Social Media Religious Insults?

 A Look at FIRs for Insulting Hinduism vs. Islam—and What It Says About Enforcement

In a country where 80% of the population is Hindu and 15% Muslim, you’d expect social media to reflect that split. More Hindus, more posts, and—logically—more chances for someone to criticize Islam, right? If that’s true, police actions against those insulting Islam should outnumber cases against those targeting Hinduism. But in India, where religion and politics intertwine like monsoon vines, the reality might not match this simple math. So, let’s dig into the data—or at least what we can find of it—and see if the police are playing favorites when it comes to social media crackdowns.

The Legal Landscape

First, the basics. In India, posting something online that insults a religion can land you in hot water under laws like Section 153A (promoting enmity) or Section 295A (outraging religious feelings) of the Indian Penal Code. These aren’t new rules—they’ve been around since colonial times—but social media has turned them into a lightning rod. The National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) tracks hate speech cases, reporting 1,444 under Section 153A in 2022 alone, a 45% jump from the year before. But here’s the catch: the NCRB doesn’t break it down by religion targeted or whether it’s a tweet or a street rant. That leaves us piecing together the puzzle with news reports, court filings, and X posts.

Cases in the Spotlight

Let’s start with Hinduism. High-profile cases suggest police are quick to act when Hindu sentiments are on the line. Take Ratan Lal, a Delhi University professor, who in 2022 faced an FIR for a tweet about the Shivling in the Gyanvapi Mosque dispute. Or Rana Ayyub, a journalist ordered by a Delhi court in January 2025 to face an FIR for allegedly insulting Hindu deities online. X users have flagged other examples too—like a cartoonist booked for mocking Maa Durga or someone holding a “F**k Hindutva” placard. These cases often spark outrage from Hindu groups, and the police seem to follow through.

Now, flip the coin to Islam. There’s Tarak Biswas, a West Bengal blogger arrested in 2016 for criticizing Islam online, charged under multiple IPC sections. Or Aneesh, an ex-Muslim from Tamil Nadu, nabbed in 2022 for remarks about Prophet Muhammad (he got bail later). There’s also the “Mangalore Muslim” Facebook page, hit with an FIR in 2022 for derogatory content. These cases exist, but they feel less frequent—or at least less spotlighted—than those involving Hinduism.

The Numbers Game

Here’s where it gets tricky. Without NCRB data splitting FIRs by religion, we’re stuck with anecdotes and trends. The India Hate Lab reported 1,165 hate speech events in 2024, with 98.5% targeting Muslims, but that’s events—not FIRs—and includes offline incidents. Hate speech against Muslims is rampant, yet police action against those posting it doesn’t seem to match the volume. Compare that to the swift FIRs for Hinduism-related posts, and a pattern emerges: enforcement might lean toward protecting the majority’s feelings.

My initial hunch was that with 80% Hindus, posts bashing Islam would dominate, and police would crack down harder there. But the evidence suggests the opposite. Actions against Hinduism insults—especially by minorities or government critics—seem to get more attention. Take Mohammed Zubair, arrested for a satirical tweet seen as anti-Hindu, versus Nupur Sharma, booked but not arrested for remarks about Islam. The difference in treatment raises eyebrows.

Is There Bias?

Reports back this up. Human Rights Watch has flagged “systematic discrimination” against minorities, noting police often punish Muslim protesters while letting Hindu mobs off the hook. The Status of Policing in India Report 2025 found religious bias among officers, influenced by caste and politics too. In a country where the ruling BJP pushes a Hindu nationalist agenda, it’s not a stretch to see why police might prioritize Hindu sentiments. Delhi Police, for instance, have been called out for delaying action against Hindu leaders like Suresh Chavhanke, while jumping on cases like Zubair’s.

This doesn’t mean no one’s punished for insulting Islam—just that the scale and urgency seem uneven. It’s less about raw numbers (which we can’t fully pin down) and more about who’s targeted and how fast. Minorities criticizing Hinduism often face the brunt, while majority voices get more leeway.

What Does It Mean?

If police are tougher on posts insulting Hinduism despite the population suggesting otherwise, it flips my logic on its head. It’s not just about who’s posting more—it’s about who’s watching and who’s complaining. Hindu nationalist groups have muscle, and the state often aligns with them. That’s not a conspiracy; it’s politics meeting policing. The result? A system that might not reflect India’s diversity so much as its power dynamics.

This isn’t airtight—better data could shift the picture. But based on what’s out there, the police don’t seem neutral. They’re not just reacting to posts; they’re reflecting a broader bias. Next time you scroll X and see a religious spat, ask yourself: who’s more likely to face the cops? The answer might say more about India than the post itself.

India’s Open Defecation Free Claim: A Triumph on Paper, a Mess on the Tracks

 On October 2, 2019, Prime Minister Narendra Modi stood before a crowd in Ahmedabad and declared India "open defecation free" (ODF). It was a bold statement, timed to honor Mahatma Gandhi’s 150th birth anniversary and mark the culmination of the ambitious Swachh Bharat Mission (SBM), launched in 2014. The mission promised a cleaner India by building over 110 million toilets and shifting behaviors entrenched for generations. Fast forward to today, April 2025, and India has moved beyond ODF to "ODF Plus," a phase focused on sustaining toilet use and managing waste. On paper, it’s a global success story—hundreds of millions lifted from the indignity of open defecation, a feat celebrated with awards and international applause.

But here’s the thing: if you take an early morning stroll near a railway track in almost any Indian city—say, Mumbai, Delhi, or even smaller towns—you’ll see something that doesn’t quite match the headlines. People squatting along the tracks, relieving themselves in plain sight. It’s not a rare sight; it’s routine. So how does this square with India’s ODF and ODF Plus status? Something doesn’t add up. Let’s unpack this contradiction and ask: Is India really as clean as it claims, or are we papering over a messier reality?

The ODF Triumph: Numbers That Impress

First, credit where it’s due. The Swachh Bharat Mission was a colossal effort. The government says it built over 100 million household toilets in rural areas alone, slashing open defecation rates from around 40% in 2015 to near-zero by 2019, at least according to official data. Villages self-declared themselves ODF, districts followed, and by 2019, the entire country joined the club. The ODF Plus phase, launched soon after, aimed to keep the momentum going—ensuring toilets were used, maintained, and paired with waste management systems. By 2025, over 360,000 of India’s 600,000 villages are reportedly ODF Plus.

Globally, this looks like a win. The World Bank and UNICEF have praised India for driving down open defecation numbers faster than almost anywhere else. From 600 million people defecating in the open in 2014 to an estimated 150–160 million by 2022, the progress is undeniable. It’s a massive dent in a problem that once made India the world’s open defecation capital, accounting for over half the global total. Behavior change campaigns, financial incentives, and political will—spearheaded by Modi himself—powered this shift. So why, then, are railway tracks still lined with human waste every morning?

The Railway Reality: A Stinking Counterpoint

Walk along the tracks in Mumbai’s sprawling suburbs or Delhi’s outer fringes at dawn, and you’ll see it: men, women, sometimes even kids, squatting unapologetically. It’s not just a rural issue either—urban slums near railway lines are hotspots. In Mumbai, declared ODF in 2017, the sight is so common that locals barely blink. Slum dwellers near the tracks often lack access to functional toilets, and even when they exist, long queues, poor maintenance, or nighttime closures push people outdoors. The railways, which aren’t under municipal control, become a convenient fallback.

This isn’t an isolated anecdote. Posts on X frequently mock India’s sanitation claims, pointing to railway tracks as evidence that ODF is more slogan than reality. And it’s not just optics—open defecation near tracks poses health risks, pollutes water sources, and undermines the hygiene narrative India wants to project. If the country is ODF and moving toward ODF Plus, how is this still happening on such a visible scale?

Questioning the Data: What’s the Catch?

The disconnect starts with how ODF is defined and measured. Officially, a village or city is ODF if "at any point of the day, not a single person is found defecating in the open." Sounds straightforward, but the process relies heavily on self-reporting. Villages declare themselves ODF, often under pressure from local officials eager to meet targets. Verification happens, sure—over 90% of declared ODF villages were checked by 2019—but it’s not foolproof. Surveys are snapshots, not 24/7 audits, and they don’t always catch early morning trackside habits.

Then there’s the gap between access and use. Building toilets doesn’t guarantee people use them. In rural areas, some prefer open spaces due to habit, water scarcity, or shoddily built latrines that clog or stink. In urban slums, community toilets might exist but be too few, too dirty, or too far. A 2019 National Statistical Office survey found that even after the ODF declaration, nearly 30% of rural households lacked toilet access, and some with toilets didn’t use them. The WHO-UNICEF Joint Monitoring Programme in 2022 estimated that 17% of rural Indians—about 150 million people—still defecate outdoors. That’s a far cry from zero.

So, the data looks rosy because it counts toilets built, not toilets used—or tracks shat upon. Behavioral change, the linchpin of ODF sustainability, is harder to quantify and slower to take root. And railway zones? They often fall into a jurisdictional gray area, ignored by municipal ODF metrics and left to fester.

Global Perception: Still the "Unhygienic" Poster Child?

India’s sanitation woes have long shaped its global image. For decades, it was the go-to example of open defecation—fields, streets, and yes, railway tracks painted as emblematic of a "dirty" nation. Swachh Bharat aimed to flip that script, and to some extent, it has. The drop from 600 million to 150 million is real progress, and urban centers are cleaner than they were a decade ago. Yet the railway track scenes keep the old stereotype alive. Internationally, India’s hygiene reputation remains a mixed bag—praised for effort, but still tagged as unhygienic in popular discourse, from X memes to travel blogs.

Is that fair? Partly. Open defecation is down, but 150 million people is still a lot—more than Nigeria, Ethiopia, and Pakistan combined, the next worst offenders. The railway track problem amplifies this because it’s so public, so undeniable. It’s not just a hygiene issue; it’s a dignity and health crisis, linked to child mortality and waterborne diseases. Until those tracks are clear, the "unhygienic India" label won’t fully fade.

What’s Really Going On?

So, how do we reconcile ODF claims with squatting silhouettes at sunrise? It’s not that India’s lying outright—it’s that the story’s incomplete. The SBM achieved scale, but not depth. Toilets were built, but systems to sustain them—water supply, maintenance, waste disposal—lagged. Urban slums and railway-adjacent communities got short shrift, caught in a tug-of-war between civic bodies and railway authorities. And the human factor—culture, poverty, apathy—can’t be engineered away overnight.

India’s not unique here. Big sanitation drives elsewhere, like in sub-Saharan Africa, also hit snags between infrastructure and behavior. But India’s scale and visibility make the gaps glaring. Declaring ODF was a milestone, not a finish line, and ODF Plus is a step toward addressing that. Yet without tackling the railway track reality—more toilets, better upkeep, stricter enforcement—the victory feels hollow.

The Bottom Line

India’s ODF and ODF Plus labels are a testament to ambition and effort, but they don’t tell the whole story. Next time you hear the country’s clean, take a dawn walk by the tracks. The truth’s there, squatting in plain sight. Something doesn’t make sense because the data’s too tidy, the reality too messy. Progress? Absolutely. Perfection? Not even close. Until those tracks are as clean as the spreadsheets, India’s hygiene revolution remains a work in progress.