It is troubling that a centuries-old tomb has once again become a flashpoint for religious conflict in India. The recent clashes in Nagpur, sparked by demands from Hindu nationalist groups to demolish Mughal emperor Aurangzeb’s tomb, show just how fragile peace can be in a nation increasingly consumed by divisive rhetoric. Even more absurd is the fact that a Bollywood film, “Chhaava,” has reignited historical grievances and provoked violence in the streets.
At what point does India stop letting its past dictate its present?
It is a pattern we have seen before—Hindu nationalist groups, fueled by a mix of mythology, half-truths, and populist politics, mobilize in outrage over something trivial. This time, it is a film. Next time, it could be a book, a social media post, or even a misplaced historical plaque. Their insecurity is on full display, as they seem unable to tolerate any reminder of India’s Mughal history without resorting to destruction.
“Chhaava” is just the latest excuse. The film, depicting Sambhaji, the Maratha warrior who fought against Aurangzeb, has been framed as a nationalist call to arms. It has provided a convenient rallying cry for those seeking to manufacture communal discord. But let’s be honest: if it were not this movie, these groups would have found another pretext for violence.
Aurangzeb has been dead for more than 300 years, yet Hindu nationalists talk about him as if he were still ruling India. Their obsession with demonizing him is a sign of deep political and ideological insecurity.
Yes, Aurangzeb was an absolutist ruler. Yes, he waged wars and imposed taxes on non-Muslims. But so did countless other kings in India’s history, many of whom were Hindu. Selectively fixating on Aurangzeb while ignoring oppressive Hindu rulers is not about history—it is about political propaganda.
It is also historically dishonest. While Aurangzeb is painted as a merciless tyrant, the reality is far more complex. He employed Hindu generals, donated to Hindu temples, and ruled an empire where people of different faiths coexisted. But Hindu nationalists do not care about nuance—they prefer simple villains and convenient enemies.
India is in the midst of an election season, and the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) has long used religious tensions to consolidate its voter base. It is no coincidence that these clashes erupted now. Every few years, a new target emerges—a mosque, a monument, a book—to keep the fires of communal division burning.
Prime Minister Narendra Modi has rarely condemned such violence outright. His silence emboldens these groups, giving them the confidence to turn minor historical grievances into full-blown riots. The same playbook was used in Ayodhya, where the destruction of a mosque paved the way for Modi’s grand temple inauguration. Now, the same forces are eyeing Aurangzeb’s tomb, hoping to erase yet another piece of India’s pluralistic history.
The real danger here is not a long-dead emperor but the willingness of Hindu nationalists to resort to violence over trivial provocations. A film should not lead to curfews. A tomb should not become a battleground. A democracy should not be held hostage by groups that see history as a weapon rather than a lesson.
If India is to move forward, it must rise above sectarian provocations. The people of India—Hindus, Muslims, and others—must refuse to be manipulated by those who thrive on division. The alternative is a nation trapped in an endless cycle of hate, always looking backward instead of moving forward.