I lost Caesar Bose, a very close friend of mine, to cancer in the year 2017. He was three years my senior and one of the ace scholars I have had the privilege of knowing. We had started a project in 2009, wherein we sought to make a judiciously curated list of the toughest, most intellectually demanding, dense, or conceptually challenging books ever written — across philosophy, literature, science, mathematics, theology, psychoanalysis, linguistics, and critical theory. In this list would be books known for difficulty of language, abstraction, structure, or depth. We grouped them by category so the list was useful and not random. These books find a place in my ‘Toughest Read Shelf’. It is my obeisance to Caesar.
Khilnani’s tome is one of those rare ones, that looks modest on the shelf but behaves like a philosophical time bomb once opened. It does not announce itself as a “difficult” text. There is no syntactic aggression, no deliberate opacity, no conceptual machismo.
And yet, the difficulty it poses is subtler, more insidious, and—arguably—more lasting than many heavyweight theoretical tomes. This is not the difficulty of understanding words; it is the difficulty of sustaining a thought without falling back on myth, sentiment, or ideological convenience.
Unlike civilizational epics or nationalist polemics, Khilnani’s book is not interested in India as essence. It is interested in India as ‘‘choice’’. And that alone makes the book quietly radical.
At its heart, ‘The Idea of India’ advances a simple but destabilizing proposition: India is not an ancient inevitability that naturally matured into a modern nation-state; it is a ‘‘deliberately imagined political project’’, forged in the furnace of colonial rupture and mass democracy. The “idea” in the title is not metaphorical. It is literal. India had to be thought into being.
This immediately places Khilnani in conversation with a long tradition of political philosophy—from Rousseau’s social contract to Anderson’s imagined communities—but with a critical difference. India’s imagining was not conducted by a homogeneous elite or within manageable scale.
It was imagined amid staggering diversity, poverty, illiteracy, trauma, and the violent birth pangs of Partition. The audacity of this project, Khilnani insists, lies not in its civilizational depth but in its ‘‘modernity’’.
Here, the book subtly overturns the familiar narrative that Indian democracy is successful because it draws strength from ancient traditions. Khilnani does not deny cultural depth, but he refuses to let tradition do the explanatory heavy lifting.
Democracy in India survives not because it is old, but because it was ‘‘chosen early, chosen fully, and chosen against the odds’’.
If Shakespeare reminds us that ‘“the fault… is not in our stars, but in ourselves,”‘ Khilnani might add that India’s fate was not written in its past, but risked in its present.
One of the book’s most significant interventions lies in its re-reading of Indian nationalism. Nationalism, in Khilnani’s telling, was never a singular emotion or unified doctrine. It was an arena of argument. Gandhi, Nehru, Ambedkar, Tagore—these figures did not agree on what India was or should be. What united them was not consensus, but a shared commitment to ‘‘institutionalizing disagreement’’.
This is where ‘The Idea of India’ begins to resemble a constitutional philosophy rather than a historical narrative. India’s unity was not cultural sameness but political accommodation. Its coherence came not from shared belief but from shared rules. Khilnani’s India is a republic held together by procedures, not passions.
Milton’s warning in ‘Paradise Lost’ feels eerily apt here: ‘“Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.”‘ India’s path to democratic self-rule was neither smooth nor sanctified. It was procedural, slow, and profoundly unglamorous. And yet, it worked—often clumsily, often imperfectly, but persistently.
Khilnani’s prose reflects this temperament. He writes with restraint, resisting rhetorical excess. There are no purple passages mourning lost glory or celebrating civilizational destiny. Instead, there is careful calibration. His sentences move like constitutional clauses—measured, conditional, aware of unintended consequences. This stylistic moderation is itself ideological. It enacts the argument it makes.
Comparatively, if Bourdieu dissects the hidden grammar of social practice, Khilnani traces the fragile grammar of political imagination. If Bourdieu shows how power embeds itself in habitus, Khilnani shows how power restrains itself through institutions. One exposes domination; the other examines restraint. Together, they reveal two faces of modernity.
The book’s treatment of secularism is particularly incisive. Khilnani does not present Indian secularism as the absence of religion but as a ‘‘political technology’’ designed to manage deep plurality. It is not metaphysical neutrality but administrative pragmatism. This model does not seek to erase difference; it seeks to prevent difference from becoming destiny.
In Sanskritic terms, this echoes the ancient idea of ‘dharma’ not as belief, but as sustaining order—’dhāraṇāt dharmaḥ’. What holds, not what asserts. Khilnani’s secularism is less about conviction and more about coexistence.
The real brilliance of the book emerges in its handling of scale. India is not just diverse; it is enormous. Governing difference at this magnitude required inventing a politics that could function without intimacy. Democracy here is not an expression of closeness but a substitute for it. Where community fails, institutions must step in.
This is where Khilnani’s argument quietly intersects with postmodern skepticism. There is no grand narrative of unity here, no totalizing identity. India is not a story with a moral arc; it is a ‘‘framework for managing unresolved tensions’’.
The nation survives not because it resolves contradictions, but because it absorbs them.
And yet, Khilnani is no relativist. He does not dissolve politics into endless play. He insists on the moral seriousness of the Indian experiment. Universal adult franchise, adopted at independence, was not symbolic—it was revolutionary.
To trust a largely poor, illiterate population with political sovereignty was a wager without historical precedent.
Shakespeare’s line from ‘Julius Caesar’—’“Men at some time are masters of their fates”‘—resonates here with renewed force. India chose to be democratic before it was prosperous, secular before it was homogeneous, federal before it was integrated. These choices did not flow from tradition; they defied it.
Khilnani’s engagement with Nehru is especially nuanced. Nehru emerges neither as hero nor villain, but as a modernist grappling with impossible scale. His vision of India was statist, rationalist, future-oriented—and deeply anxious about fragmentation.
The institutions he championed were not expressions of cultural authenticity but safeguards against chaos.
Ambedkar, too, occupies a central moral position in the book—not as icon, but as constitutional realist. Ambedkar understood, perhaps more clearly than anyone, that democracy in India would not survive on sentiment. It needed law, enforcement, and the constant discipline of rights. Khilnani implicitly aligns himself with this hard-headed liberalism.
Tagore’s shadow also lingers. His suspicion of nationalism as moral intoxication finds quiet affirmation here. Khilnani’s India is not a civilization marching toward destiny; it is a republic negotiating survival.
This is where the book’s difficulty begins to emerge—not in comprehension, but in ‘‘ethical endurance’’. The reader is asked to give up easy pride. There is no catharsis, no triumphant arc. India’s story here is neither glorious nor tragic—it is contingent.
Postcolonial readers often look for redemptive narratives. Khilnani offers none. He replaces redemption with responsibility.
The book also resists closure. There is no final verdict on whether the Indian idea has succeeded or failed. That judgment is deliberately deferred. The idea of India, Khilnani insists, is not complete. It is perpetually under construction.
This open-endedness is its strength—and its discomfort.
Unlike ideological texts that age into dogma, ‘The Idea of India’ ages into relevance. Each political crisis, each constitutional strain, each eruption of identity politics makes its arguments sharper. The book does not predict events; it explains why such events are structurally possible.
In this sense, it resembles Shakespeare’s histories more than his tragedies. The drama lies not in downfall but in governance. Power here is not seized; it is managed, mismanaged, and renegotiated.
Milton’s line—’“Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war”‘—could serve as the book’s epigraph. India’s greatest achievement, Khilnani suggests, is not survival through force but survival through procedure.
And yet, this achievement is fragile. Institutions require belief to function. Once faith in rules erodes, the idea itself begins to fray. Khilnani does not sermonize this point. He trusts the reader to draw the implication—and that trust is demanding.
This is not a book that flatters. It does not reassure the reader of moral superiority or civilizational grandeur. It asks instead for vigilance, patience, and historical memory.
Now we arrive at the question that must conclude this reading.
‘‘Why is it tough? And even if it is, what makes this text worth reading time and again?’’
It is tough because it denies emotional shortcuts. It refuses nostalgia, myth, and righteous anger as explanatory tools. It demands that the reader think politically rather than culturally, institutionally rather than sentimentally. The difficulty lies in sustaining this discipline—to see India not as identity but as argument, not as inheritance but as responsibility.
Like Shakespeare’s Brutus, the reader must learn to act ‘“not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.”‘ Loving India, here, means subjecting it to critique.
And yet, it is worth returning to again and again because it sharpens moral perception without hardening it. Each rereading reveals new tensions between freedom and order, unity and plurality, faith and law. The book grows with history; it does not fossilize within it.
Like Milton’s epics or the Gita’s insistence on action without illusion, it trains the reader to inhabit complexity without fleeing into certainty.
‘Tough’, yes—but in its toughness lies its quiet generosity. It teaches how to think about a nation without turning it into a god, how to defend democracy without mythologizing it, and how to remain loyal to an idea precisely by refusing to sanctify it.
A modern classic and a must read.