Constituent Assembly, New Delhi
21 August 1947, 3:47 PM
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The chamber had not yet recovered from the morning's intellectual assault when Saraswati Devi rose again, this time holding a different section of her comprehensive proposal. The afternoon heat pressed against the colonial windows, but inside the hall, the temperature had already been raised by something far more combustible than weather: the question of religious institutions operating as schools.
The morning session had established the framework—a unified national curriculum, standardized textbooks, secular scientific education. But the practical implementation remained unaddressed, and it was here that the most sensitive fault lines of the new nation converged. Religious education was not merely a matter of pedagogy; it was intertwined with identity, with communal politics, with the very definition of what kind of nation India would become.
Anirban Sen watched from his seat as she prepared to detonate the second explosive charge of the day. He had reviewed this section of her proposal late into the previous night, and he knew what was coming. So did Patel, who sat with his characteristic stone-faced composure, giving nothing away but missing nothing. Several members had already begun whispering among themselves, sensing that another confrontation was imminent.
"Mr. Speaker," Saraswati began, her voice carrying that peculiar clarity that came from absolute conviction married to intellectual rigor, "I wish to address the question that has been deliberately avoided thus far: the status of madrasas and missionary schools operating as educational institutions under state recognition."
The chamber's collective intake of breath was audible. This was the third rail of Indian politics—the intersection of religion, education, and state power that everyone understood was critical but that most preferred to navigate through euphemism and compromise rather than direct confrontation.
A Muslim League member who had not yet departed for Pakistan was the first to his feet. "Mr. Speaker, this is an outrageous intrusion into religious freedom! Madrasas have existed for centuries—"
"As have gurukuls and pathshalas," Saraswati interrupted smoothly, "and you will note that I am equally opposed to state recognition of Hindu religious institutions as educational establishments. This is not about Islam specifically. This is about the fundamental nature of what constitutes education in a secular republic."
But the dam had broken. Voices rose from multiple sections of the chamber simultaneously, creating a cacophony of protest that the Speaker struggled to contain. Conservative Muslim members denounced it as cultural imperialism. Christian members from Kerala and Goa expressed alarm about the fate of missionary schools that had provided quality education for generations. Even some Hindu members, sensing political advantage or genuinely concerned about the precedent, joined the chorus of opposition.
"That's oppression!" shouted a representative from Hyderabad, his face flushed with indignation.
"This goes against freedom of religion!" added another from Bengal, where madrasas were deeply woven into the educational fabric.
"You cannot simply erase minority institutions!" came a third voice, this one from a Christian member representing constituencies in the South where missionary schools were often the only educational option for miles.
The hall filled with a rising tide of protests, each voice competing with the others, each argument layered over the previous one until the chamber resembled nothing so much as a marketplace where everyone was selling but no one was buying.
Through it all, Saraswati did not flinch. She stood at the podium with the patience of someone who had anticipated exactly this response and had prepared accordingly. She simply waited, her hands resting lightly on her papers, her expression one of clinical interest rather than concern. It was the posture of a scientist observing a predictable chemical reaction—noteworthy perhaps, but hardly surprising.
When the initial wave of outrage began to exhaust itself, she spoke again, and her voice cut through the remaining noise with surgical precision.
---
## The Definition of Secularism
"I think," she said, her tone suggesting that she was about to clarify something that should have been obvious to educated adults but apparently required explicit statement, "I have to help you remember what India is."
The phrasing was deliberate, almost pedagogical, and it had the effect of momentarily silencing the chamber through sheer audacity. She was speaking to them as a teacher addresses students who have forgotten a fundamental lesson.
"India is a country that you gentlemen—" she paused, letting her gaze sweep across the predominantly male assembly "—want to be a secular country. Unlike Pakistan, which has explicitly defined itself as an Islamic state where religious identity determines citizenship rights and legal frameworks."
She let that distinction hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
"If someone here does not want everyone to be treated equally under the same laws, if someone believes that religious identity should determine educational standards or legal protections or civic rights, then I must inform them that they have a very simple option available: they may relocate to Pakistan, which was created precisely to accommodate such beliefs."
Gasps echoed through the chamber. Even Jawaharlal Nehru, seated in his designated position as Deputy Prime Minister and Foreign Minister, looked distinctly uneasy. This was not the language of diplomatic consensus-building or the careful navigation of communal sensitivities that he preferred. This was confrontation, direct and unvarnished.
Several members began shouting simultaneously, but Saraswati raised her voice just enough to override them without actually shouting—a technique that somehow made her words more commanding rather than less.
"Neither majority nor minority," she declared, "will live under different laws in this Republic. That is the definition of secularism, not some aspirational ideal or theoretical construct, but the operational definition that must govern how we build institutions. To do otherwise—to create separate legal frameworks, separate educational standards, separate civic expectations based on religious identity—is to plant the seeds of another Partition."
The word "Partition" landed like a physical blow. The wounds were too fresh, the memory of trainloads of corpses too recent, the ongoing refugee crisis too immediate. She had invoked the one thing that everyone in that chamber feared more than any ideological disagreement: the possibility that their failure to build a unified nation would lead to further fragmentation, further violence, further tragedy.
"And if you keep crying that equality is somehow oppression," she continued, her tone hardening, "then you expose a fundamental hypocrisy that we must address before it metastasizes into something worse."
She turned to face a section of the chamber where several Muslim members sat.
"Sikhs, Jains, Buddhists, Parsis, Jews—all genuine minorities in this land, some with populations far smaller than yours—have never demanded special treatment or separate institutional frameworks. The Parsis, despite being perhaps the smallest recognized community, have built some of the finest educational institutions in Bombay without demanding state recognition for religious instruction. The Jains have contributed enormously to education and social welfare without insisting that their religious texts be taught as science. The Sikhs fought and died for independence without demanding separate laws."
She paused, her next words carefully measured.
"Only those communities that once held political power—whether under the Mughals or under British patronage—now call equality 'oppression.' Only those who are accustomed to special status find equal treatment threatening. This is not persecution. This is simply the end of privilege masquerading as protection."
A profound silence settled over the room. Some members looked angry, others uncomfortable, a few thoughtful. But no one seemed to have an immediate rebuttal that didn't prove her point.
Then, as murmurs started to ripple through the chamber again, she added with calculated sharpness:
"If you truly wish for separate laws, separate institutions, separate standards based on religious identity, you have two entirely legal choices available to you. Either relocate to Pakistan, which was created explicitly for Muslims who believed they could not live as equal citizens in a Hindu-majority nation. Or, given that we are technically still British subjects until we formally become a Republic and sever all constitutional ties to the Crown, you may return to Britain, where the established church does indeed receive certain privileges and where religious schools operate under different frameworks than secular ones."
Her expression was perfectly neutral, but her eyes held a challenge.
"No one is stopping you from making either choice. But if you remain in India and participate in building this Republic, you accept that it will be built on secular principles where religion is a private matter of conscience, not a determinant of legal status or institutional framework."
---
At this point, Jawaharlal Nehru rose from his seat. He moved with the careful dignity that characterized his public persona, adjusting his Gandhi cap slightly before speaking. His intervention was anticipated—he was known for his commitment to secularism, but also for his belief in accommodation and gradual reform rather than confrontational transformation.
"Saraswati Ji," he began, his tone measured and diplomatic, carrying the weight of someone accustomed to being heard with respect, "I appreciate your passion and your commitment to secular principles. But secularism, as I understand it and as Gandhiji taught us, means that everyone is free to practice their religion without interference from the state. It means we respect all faiths equally—"
She cut him off, not with rudeness but with the precise timing of someone who recognized a false equivalency being constructed and refused to let it stand unchallenged.
"No, Foreign Minister Nehru," she said, and the use of his official title rather than a more familiar form of address was clearly deliberate, establishing that this was a matter of policy debate rather than personal disagreement. "With respect, you are confusing two entirely different concepts, and this confusion—if allowed to persist—will undermine the very foundations of the Republic we are attempting to build."
She picked up a copy of the draft Constitution that lay on the podium.
"Secularism means that everyone, regardless of religious belief or lack thereof, is equal under the same laws, possesses the same rights, and shoulders the same civic duties. It means the state does not favor any religion, does not discriminate based on religious identity, and does not allow religious doctrine to supersede civil law or constitutional principles."
She set the document down again.
"What you are describing—freedom to practice one's religion—is religious liberty, which is indeed a fundamental right that will be protected under Articles 25 through 28 of our Constitution. No one is proposing to interfere with personal religious practice, with the construction of temples or mosques or churches, with the celebration of religious festivals, or with the teaching of religious texts within families or religious communities."
Her voice sharpened slightly.
"But religious liberty does not extend to demanding that the state recognize religious instruction as equivalent to education, or that religious institutions operating schools be exempt from the same standards that apply to all educational establishments. The moment you allow that, you have abandoned secularism for something else—a form of soft theocracy where different communities operate under different rules, where civic equality is subordinated to religious identity."
Nehru opened his mouth to respond, but she raised a hand—not rudely, but with the authority of someone who had not finished making her argument.
"Let me make this absolutely concrete, because I suspect there is confusion about what my educational model actually proposes."
She picked up the thick document that had been distributed earlier and held it up so everyone in the chamber could see it.
"You say this model suppresses minorities or violates religious freedom. I ask you to show me where. Point to a specific provision."
She waited, but no one immediately responded.
"This curriculum includes comprehensive teaching about all major religions practiced in India—Hinduism, Islam, Christianity, Sikhism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Zoroastrianism. Every child, regardless of their family's faith, will learn about the historical development, core beliefs, major practices, and cultural contributions of each tradition."
She turned to a specific page.
"In Class 6, students will study the life of Prophet Muhammad, the compilation of the Quran, and the spread of Islam. They will also study the life of Guru Nanak, the development of the Sikh faith, and the establishment of the Khalsa. They will learn about Jesus Christ, about the Buddha, about Mahavira, about Zarathustra. They will learn about these figures as historical persons who founded religions that shaped civilizations, and they will learn this material presented objectively, neither as devotional literature nor as hostile criticism."
She looked directly at the Muslim members who had protested most vociferously.
"Tell me how this constitutes suppression. Your children will learn about Islam in schools. All children will. The difference is that they will learn about it as part of human history and cultural development, presented alongside other faiths, taught in a framework of historical and comparative analysis rather than devotional instruction."
A member from Kerala—a Christian representative—spoke up. "But Dr. Sinha, many of our missionary schools teach excellent science and mathematics alongside religious instruction. Are you saying these institutions must close?"
"Not at all," Saraswati responded immediately. "I am saying they must choose what kind of institution they wish to be. If a missionary school wants to operate as a school recognized by the state, eligible for government funding, authorized to issue certificates that have value for university admission and government employment, then it must teach the standard national curriculum and meet the same quality standards as every other school."
She paused.
"If, however, a religious institution wishes to provide supplementary religious instruction—Bible study, Quranic instruction, Gita classes, whatever form it takes—they are absolutely free to do so. They can operate as religious institutions that provide religious education. Parents can send their children to these institutions after school hours or on weekends if they wish. But certificates from such institutions will not be recognized as equivalent to actual education for the purposes of further study or employment."
The distinction was clear, and several members were nodding slowly, seeing the logic even if they disliked the implications.
"The state," Saraswati continued, "should not be in the business of determining which religious interpretations are correct or which theological frameworks are valid. That is precisely why the state cannot recognize religious instruction as education. The moment you do, you must adjudicate religious disputes—which version of Islamic law should madrasas teach? Which interpretation of Christian theology should missionary schools follow? Which branch of Hinduism should gurukuls represent?"
She spread her hands.
"These are questions the state has no competence to answer and no business addressing. Religious communities must resolve their own internal debates. But when it comes to education—to teaching mathematics and physics and chemistry, to preparing young people to participate in a modern economy and a democratic society—there must be a single standard that applies equally to everyone."
---
## The Challenge to Orthodoxy
A representative from Uttar Pradesh, a conservative Hindu member known for his advocacy of traditional gurukul education, rose to his feet. He was elderly, his white beard and traditional dress lending him an air of grandfatherly authority.
"Dr. Sinha," he said, his Hindi carrying the accent of rural Uttar Pradesh, "you speak of equal treatment, but your proposal specifically targets madrasas and missionary schools while saying nothing about traditional Hindu educational institutions. Is this not bias?"
Saraswati turned to face him directly, and when she responded, she switched to Hindi herself—fluent, precise Hindi without the affected elegance that marked Delhi's elite but also without the excessive colloquialism that might seem condescending.
"Pitaji," she said, using a respectful form of address that acknowledged his age and position, "if you have read the complete proposal, you will see that Section VII addresses this directly. Traditional gurukuls that wish to operate as recognized educational institutions must meet the same standards as everyone else. They must teach the national curriculum in addition to whatever traditional knowledge they wish to impart."
She picked up her copy of the proposal and turned to the relevant section.
"A gurukul may teach Sanskrit, may teach Vedic mathematics, may teach traditional astronomy or Ayurvedic principles—but it must also teach modern mathematics that includes calculus and statistics, modern astronomy based on observational evidence and physical laws, modern medicine based on germ theory and pharmaceutical science. A student emerging from a gurukul must be able to pass the same examinations as a student from any other institution."
The elderly member looked somewhat mollified but pressed further. "But what about spiritual education? What about teaching children dharma, teaching them to be good human beings, not just skilled workers?"
"An excellent question," Saraswati responded, and her tone suggested genuine respect for the concern underlying it. "The national curriculum includes a robust civics education that teaches ethics, civic responsibility, the rights and duties of citizenship, the principles of justice and fairness. These are values that transcend any particular religious tradition, values that are necessary for a democracy to function."
She softened her voice slightly.
"But Pitaji, I must be honest with you. The state cannot and should not attempt to teach spiritual enlightenment or religious devotion. That is the role of families, of religious communities, of spiritual teachers chosen freely by individuals seeking guidance. If we ask the state to teach dharma, we must then decide whose interpretation of dharma—and we both know that question has no answer that will satisfy everyone."
The elderly member sat down, not entirely satisfied but apparently unable to formulate a response that didn't prove her point.
But another voice rose immediately—a firebrand from Bengal, younger and more aggressive.
"This is cultural imperialism!" he shouted. "You are imposing a Western model of education, the same secular humanism that destroyed Europe's faith, and calling it progress!"
Saraswati's expression hardened.
"I am imposing nothing. I am proposing that Parliament—the democratically elected representatives of the Indian people—establish educational standards for a modern Republic. If you believe that proposal is wrong, vote against it. That is your right and your duty as a member of this Assembly."
She leaned forward slightly.
"But do not dress up your objection in rhetoric about cultural imperialism when what you actually oppose is equality. There is nothing Western about teaching that the Earth orbits the Sun, that disease is caused by microorganisms rather than angry spirits, that mathematics follows logical principles regardless of the mathematician's religion. These are not cultural impositions. They are facts about physical reality."
Her voice rose slightly.
"And if you claim that teaching facts constitutes imperialism, then I must ask what exactly you are defending. Because it sounds to me like you are defending ignorance as a cultural right—and that I will not accept. Not for Hindu children, not for Muslim children, not for Christian children. Every child in India deserves to be taught the truth about how the world works, and religious belief does not trump physical reality."
The Bengal member was sputtering now, trying to formulate a response, but Saraswati had already moved on.
"Let me make one thing absolutely clear, because I suspect some of you still do not understand the stakes of this debate."
She walked to the front of the podium, abandoning her papers, speaking now from pure conviction.
"If we allow religious institutions to operate as schools without meeting the same standards as everyone else, if we create separate educational frameworks for different communities, if we treat religious doctrine as equivalent to evidence-based knowledge, we are not protecting minority rights. We are creating the conditions for permanent inequality."
She let that sink in before continuing.
"Children educated in substandard madrasas or missionary schools or gurukuls that prioritize religious instruction over actual education will be unable to compete for university admission, unable to qualify for professional employment, unable to participate fully in the modern economy. They will become a permanent underclass, economically marginalized not by discrimination but by inadequate preparation."
Her expression was fierce now.
"And then, a generation from now, those children—grown into adults who cannot find decent work, who see opportunities going to others with better education, who feel that the system has failed them—will become receptive to demagogues who tell them that their poverty is not the result of inadequate education but of religious persecution. They will become the foot soldiers of communal violence, the voters who support authoritarian leaders promising to protect their community, the citizens who view democracy itself as a betrayal."
She paused, her voice dropping but losing none of its intensity.
"That is the trajectory we are on if we do not establish equal educational standards now. Not because I am prophetic, but because this pattern has played out in every society that allowed religious identity to determine educational opportunity. It happened in Europe during the Reformation. It is happening right now in the Middle East. And it will happen here if we lack the courage to insist on equality even when equality is uncomfortable."
The chamber had gone absolutely silent. Even her most vocal opponents seemed momentarily unable to respond, confronted with a vision of the future that was both plausible and horrifying.
The Speaker, sensing that the moment had come, called for a vote on the first major provision: the establishment of a unified national curriculum applicable to all institutions claiming to be schools, regardless of their religious affiliation or private funding.
The vote was called by voice first, and the chamber erupted in a chorus of "Ayes" that significantly outweighed the "Noes." Several members who had been vocally opposed during the debate voted in favor, unwilling to be seen publicly rejecting the principle of equal education.
When the Speaker called for a division and members filed through the lobbies to record their votes formally, the final tally showed overwhelming support: 198 in favor, 73 opposed, with 14 abstentions.
The Common Curriculum Act had passed its first major hurdle.
Anirban, watching from his seat, felt something uncurl in his chest—not quite relief, because the battle was far from over, but a sense that perhaps, just perhaps, the accumulated weight of colonial legacy and communal politics might not be entirely insurmountable. Patel caught his eye and offered the slightest nod of approval.
But even as members were still returning to their seats, Saraswati was already preparing for the next offensive. She turned to a different section of her proposal, and her expression suggested that what came next would be even more contentious than what had preceded it.
"Now," Saraswati said, her voice cutting through the residual conversations, "we shall vote on the provision that will determine whether this curriculum remains a theoretical framework or becomes a living reality that transforms the nation."
She held up a specific page of her proposal.
"I move that this Assembly adopt the Right to Education as a fundamental right guaranteed under the Constitution, applicable to every child in India from age five to age eleven—covering what will be designated as Classes KG-1 through Class 5."
The language was deliberately broad, and several members immediately recognized the implications. This was not merely a policy recommendation. This was a constitutional guarantee that would obligate the state to provide education, that would make denial of schooling a violation of fundamental rights.
A hand shot up immediately. "Mr. Speaker, what exactly does this entail? Are we saying that education must be free? Compulsory? Both?"
"Both," Saraswati responded without hesitation. "Free, meaning no tuition charges or fees that would prevent a child from attending. Compulsory, meaning parents or guardians who deny their children education will face legal consequences for violating the highest degree of rights enshrined in the Constitution."
The chamber erupted again, but this time the objections came not primarily from communal lines but from practical concerns that cut across all political divisions.
"We don't have enough money!" shouted a member from Madras, his voice carrying genuine concern rather than ideological opposition.
"The treasury is empty!" added another from Bihar, where the challenges of post-independence administration were particularly acute.
"How can we possibly fund universal education when we cannot even adequately pay our civil servants?" asked a third from the Finance Committee, and his question carried the weight of someone who had actually examined the budget numbers.
Even supportive members looked troubled. Universal free education was an admirable goal, the kind of aspiration that belonged in a constitution. But the gap between aspiration and implementation seemed impossibly wide given the economic devastation of partition, the massive refugee crisis, the need to build military capacity to defend newly independent borders.
The motion was called to a vote, and this time the result was devastating: 83 in favor, 189 opposed, with 13 abstentions.
The Right to Education had failed.
Anirban watched Saraswati's face as the numbers were announced, and he saw something flicker across her features—not surprise, because she had certainly anticipated this possibility, but a kind of weary disappointment that suggested she had hoped the Assembly might exceed her expectations.
She stood in silence for a moment, her head bowed slightly, and the chamber fell quiet as well. Some members looked almost apologetic, as if they had failed a test they hadn't realized they were taking. Others looked relieved that practical considerations had prevailed over idealistic overreach.
Then Saraswati sighed—a quiet, tired sigh that somehow carried across the chamber more effectively than any shout—and turned to page 31 of her proposal.
"I suppose," she said, looking around the chamber with an expression that might have been disappointment or might have been grim satisfaction at having her low expectations confirmed, "most of you haven't actually read the document you're debating. Because if you had, you would have found Section VIII, which addresses precisely the financial feasibility questions you just raised."
She adjusted her glasses—a small, deliberate gesture that somehow commanded attention.
"Here, I have already demonstrated not merely theoretical feasibility but practical implementation strategies based on actual institutional experience."
She began to read, her tone shifting from confrontational to pedagogical, from challenging to instructive. This was Saraswati in her element—not just arguing a position but teaching, building understanding systematically from foundation to conclusion.
"First, I propose that the national budget allocate a minimum of eight percent to education for the first ten years following implementation of this Act. Not as a suggestion, not as an aspiration, but as a constitutional requirement that cannot be reduced regardless of temporary fiscal pressures."
She looked up from her papers.
"I anticipate the objection: eight percent is too much when we have defense needs, infrastructure requirements, agricultural development, industrial capacity to build. Let me address that directly."
She turned to face the Finance Minister, who had been taking notes furiously throughout the debate.
"Finance Minister, what is our current allocation to education?"
The Finance Minister, somewhat startled to be addressed directly, consulted his papers. "Approximately three percent of the Union Budget, Dr. Sinha."
"And what was the British allocation during the final years of colonial rule?"
"Approximately two percent."
"So we have improved from two to three percent," Saraswati said, her tone making it clear what she thought of this improvement. "Meanwhile, the Soviet Union allocates twelve percent to education. The United States allocates seven percent. Even China, despite being devastated by war, is planning to allocate ten percent."
She let those numbers settle before continuing.
"The reason is simple: education is not an expense. It is an investment that pays compound returns over generations. An illiterate population requires constant oversight, produces low-value goods, cannot innovate, cannot adapt to changing economic conditions. A literate, educated population generates its own economic growth, requires less direct management, can absorb new technologies, can contribute to scientific and industrial advancement."
She walked slowly along the front of the chamber, her voice taking on the rhythmic quality of someone building a mathematical proof.
"Consider: an illiterate farmer using traditional methods produces, let us say, one hundred units of crop value per year. An educated farmer who can read agricultural bulletins, who understands basic chemistry and biology, who can calculate optimal planting times and fertilizer ratios, produces perhaps one hundred fifty units. The return on investing in that farmer's education is fifty percent annually, compounding over the thirty or forty years of his working life."
She turned back to face the assembly.
"Multiply that across millions of farmers, across industrial workers who can read safety instructions and equipment manuals, across citizens who can understand their legal rights and civic responsibilities. The economic return on education spending is not speculative. It is the most robust finding in developmental economics."
The Finance Minister was nodding slowly, clearly running his own calculations.
"But even accepting that principle," another member interjected, "eight percent still represents a massive increase in spending. Where exactly does that money come from?"
"I'm glad you asked," Saraswati responded, and there was something almost predatory in her smile. "Because the second component of my proposal addresses exactly that question through structural reform of how we compensate government employees—a reform that will not only free up funds for education but will also create the first sustainable pension system in Indian history."