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When we speak of Akhand Bharat, we speak with the certainty of maps that never existed, histories that were never unified, and identities that were never static. It’s time we step back from slogans and instead ask a serious question: What exactly are we referring to when we say “Hindu” or “Hindu land”?
Let’s take a look at the pre-British Indian subcontinent with sober eyes.
The Hindu heartland, as some now define it, essentially refers to a few dominant power centres from history—primarily Maratha and Rajput confederacies. The Peshwas of Pune, the Bhonsales of Nagpur, the Gaekwads of Baroda, and the Scindias of Gwalior formed the last major Hindu administrative blocks before colonial power took over. Meanwhile, the Rajput dynasties governed key city-states across Rajasthan—Jaipur, Jodhpur, Udaipur, Bikaner, and Jaisalmer.
Beyond that? Much of what is now claimed as “Hindu civilization” was not operating as part of a united Hindu banner. In fact, tribal societies formed dense belts across central India, the northeast, and the western frontier. In the far north, there were culturally and politically distinct zones—Gilgit, Hunza, Ladakh, Kashmir, and Pahari kingdoms—some interacting with the Durranis and Qing Chinese rather than any unified Hindu state.
On the other side were the Muslim nawabdoms: Awadh, Bengal, Hyderabad, and remnants of the Mughal empire. The idea of a singular Hindu-Muslim binary running across a coherent map of India simply doesn’t hold.
So where exactly is Akhand Bharat rooted? Historically, it isn’t.
And here lies the deeper disruption: the very notion of “Hinduism” as a unified, self-identified religious system is a 19th-century product.
Before the British arrived, there were sects, schools, sampradayas, rituals, and caste-based belief systems—but rarely was there a pan-Indian umbrella called “Hinduism.” The British, seeking clarity for census and administrative purposes, lumped together a wide range of Vedic, Puranic, tribal, temple, and regional practices under the term “Hindu.” It was a simplification, a bureaucratic construct, and eventually a political tool.
By the late 1800s, census categories had formalized the term. What had earlier been descriptors of geography (like “Hind” or “Hindustani”) were now hardened into identities: Hindu, Hindi, and Hindustan.
This codification suited colonial control. But it also began to influence the Indian nationalist movement, which sought a common religious and cultural framework for unity. Reformers, revivalists, and political strategists—from Dayananda Saraswati to the early RSS—used this new category to construct a civilizational narrative. The result? A 19th-century administrative label evolved into a 20th-century political project.
Here’s the problem: in embracing this narrative, we often flatten the messy, beautiful diversity of Indian life. The Maratha and Rajput kings did not rule as “Hindus”—they ruled as sovereigns with local identities, ambitions, and traditions. Most tribals and pastoral communities were outside this framework entirely. South Indian kingdoms had their own temple systems, deities, and practices distinct from the north.
Even language was part of this repackaging. “Hindi,” too, was formalized during the same colonial period to serve as a lingua franca—but in doing so, it displaced dozens of other scripts and tongues. Hindi became “national,” even though it was largely regional. And “Hindu” became a religion, even though it was mostly an invention of census and strategy.
This doesn’t mean that Hinduism today is fake. Religious practice, once established, becomes real through belief, repetition, and meaning. But it does mean that the foundations of modern Hindu identity—especially its political deployment—are far younger and far more constructed than we often admit.
When we see aggressive calls for a cultural return to a mythical “Hindu nation,” we must ask: return to what exactly?
To Nagpur and Pune? To Jaipur and Baroda? Or to a British-era census sheet?
The tragedy isn’t that Hinduism evolved. The tragedy is that it’s now being weaponized—used to redraw borders, deny dissent, and flatten a civilization that once celebrated complexity.
Instead of building a future where diversity coexists with dignity, we are being sold a past that never really existed. Akhand Bharat is a dream sold on shaky maps and shaky memory—disconnected from geography, history, or truth.
What we need now is not a cultural assertion rooted in romantic myth. We need political maturity rooted in facts, regional respect, and constitutional strength. And for that, it is essential we accept this: Hinduism as we know it is a 19th-century invention. Its politics are 20th-century. Its maturity—if it wants to survive—must belong to the 21st.
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Author’s Note: The views expressed here are drawn from public domain historical sources, academic debates on colonial census practices, and the lived diversity of India’s political geography. The author is part of Vastuta, an emerging centrist think tank focused on India’s governance and political imagination.
These pieces are being published as they have been received – they have not been edited/fact-checked by ThePrint.