Once and For All: Distortion, Distraction, and the Evasion of India’s Real Crises

Priyanka Gandhi Vadra’s sharp intervention in the Lok Sabha has reopened a debate that India has been forced to revisit far too often: the political utility of distorting history to evade the responsibilities of the present. Her remark — “Once and for all, let’s close it” — was not merely a rebuttal to the Prime Minister’s repeated criticism of Jawaharlal Nehru. It was a pointed reminder that a nation cannot be governed by the ghosts of its past while its economy falters, its youth remain unemployed, and its institutions strain under the weight of policy missteps.

The debate on Vande Mataram, ostensibly convened to commemorate 150 years of the national song, quickly revealed itself as yet another symbolic battleground designed to divert attention from the country’s pressing economic and social challenges. When Priyanka Gandhi noted that Nehru spent nearly nine years in prison — almost as long as the current Prime Minister has spent in office — she was not merely defending her lineage. She was exposing the absurdity of a political culture that invests more energy in vilifying a leader who died six decades ago than in addressing the lived realities of inflation, joblessness, agrarian distress, and a shrinking middle class.

Her challenge to “make a list of insults” and debate them for ten hours if needed was a rhetorical device to highlight the emptiness of such exercises. Parliament, she argued, was not elected to rehearse historical grievances but to confront the crises that define the lives of ordinary Indians.

The repeated invocation of Nehru’s alleged mistakes serves a clear political function: it creates a perpetual adversary, a convenient repository for contemporary failures. This tactic is neither new nor subtle. Kautilya warned rulers in the Arthashastra against the vice of “vyasana” — blaming predecessors to conceal one’s own shortcomings. The Upanishads remind us: “Satyam eva jayate” — truth alone triumphs — not selective memory, not manufactured outrage, not the manipulation of chronology.

Priyanka Gandhi’s insistence on “understanding the chronology” of the Vande Mataram debate was therefore more than a historical clarification. It was a plea for intellectual honesty in a political climate increasingly defined by distortion. Her references to Nehru, Subhas Chandra Bose, and Rabindranath Tagore were not ornamental. They were reminders that the debate over Vande Mataram was once handled with nuance, sensitivity, and a deep understanding of India’s pluralistic fabric.

Tagore himself had written that only the first two stanzas should be sung, as the later portions could be interpreted in ways that were inappropriate for the atmosphere of the time. The Congress Working Committee’s 1937 resolution reflected this balanced approach. Yet today, this nuanced history is flattened into a crude binary: nationalist versus anti-national. Such distortions are not accidental; they are politically expedient.

The deeper question is why such symbolic debates are revived with such urgency. Why must Parliament spend hours debating a song that, as Priyanka Gandhi noted, “is alive in every part of the country”? Why must the nation be dragged repeatedly into cultural flashpoints that were resolved decades ago? The answer lies in the political economy of distraction.

When a government struggles to explain rising prices, declining household savings, stagnant wages, and the widening gap between promise and performance, it often turns to symbolic battles. These battles are emotionally charged, easy to amplify, and capable of polarising public opinion. They shift the national conversation away from uncomfortable questions.

Ancient India understood this tactic well. The Mahabharata warns: “Yatra dharmaḥ, tatra jayaḥ” — where righteousness stands, victory follows. But when rulers abandon dharma — the duty to protect, provide, and govern — they resort to spectacle. The debate on Vande Mataram, held with great fanfare, was one such spectacle. It allowed the government to posture as the custodian of nationalism while evading accountability for economic mismanagement. It allowed the ruling party to frame itself as the defender of cultural pride while unemployment among the youth reached historic highs. It allowed the leadership to invoke Nehru’s alleged mistakes while avoiding discussion on policy failures that belong entirely to the present.

Priyanka Gandhi’s speech pierced this veil. By reminding the House that Nehru went to prison nine times, she contrasted the sacrifices of the freedom struggle with the theatrics of contemporary politics. By urging the Prime Minister to “close the chapter,” she exposed the exhaustion of a narrative that has been stretched far beyond its relevance. By reading Tagore’s letters, she reintroduced nuance into a debate that had been stripped of it. And by insisting that Parliament return to issues like unemployment and price rise, she articulated what millions of Indians feel but rarely hear in the national discourse.

The tragedy is not that history is debated; history must be debated. The tragedy is that history is weaponised to avoid debating the present. The tragedy is that national symbols are invoked not to unite but to distract. The tragedy is that the energy of Parliament is consumed by rehearsing old grievances while the economy demands urgent, imaginative intervention.

India’s civilisational wisdom has always emphasised balance — “Dharmena dhāryate lokah” — the world is sustained by duty. A government’s foremost duty is to address the material conditions of its people. When symbolic politics replaces substantive governance, when the past becomes a refuge from the present, when national pride becomes a substitute for national progress, the country drifts.

Priyanka Gandhi’s intervention, sharp and provocative as it was, served as a reminder that democracy cannot function on distraction. A nation cannot be governed by grievance. And history cannot be rewritten endlessly to compensate for the failures of today. Once and for all, she said, let us close the chapter. The real question is whether the political establishment is willing to open the chapters that matter.