When we speak of Indian unity, we often drift into the comfortable realm of mythology rather than historical fact. The Mauryan Empire, at its zenith under Ashoka, stretched across much of northern India, yet failed to penetrate deep into the Tamil kingdoms of the south. The mighty Guptas barely extended their direct control beyond the Vindhyas, while the Deccan remained under independent rulers. The Cholas dominated the seas and expanded into Southeast Asia, but their control rarely extended beyond the Vindhyas, except for Bengal and Odisha. The Pandyas remained confined to the southern tip of the peninsula. Even the Vijayanagara Empire never ventured successfully beyond the Deccan plateau. The Mughals, often cited as unifiers, reached their greatest extent under Aurangzeb. Yet, the Ahoms of Assam remained independent, and the Travancore kingdom maintained its sovereignty. The Marathas exercised more of a tribute-collecting authority rather than direct administrative control over much of their claimed territory and many parts of India remained outside their influence.
This is a crucial reminder that India’s current political unity is unprecedented. When we chest-thump about “5,000 years of Indian civilisation,” we conveniently forget that this civilisation flourished precisely because of its diversity, not despite it. Our modern nation-state is a British construct, and many parts of India are together only because of the historical accident of British rule.
The myth of cultural unity in India is perhaps our most cherished fiction. We speak of “Indian culture” as though it’s a monolithic entity, when in reality, what exists is a patchwork quilt of regional identities stitched together by colonial borders.
Consider the stark contrasts: A Malayali from Kerala shares almost nothing culturally with a Punjabi. Their cuisines are fundamentally different—coconut-based curries versus wheat-heavy dishes. Their traditional attire bears no resemblance—mundu versus salwar kameez. Their art forms emerged from entirely different historical and geographical contexts. Even their marriage customs, religious practices, and social structures follow divergent paths.
Geography shapes culture far more powerfully than arbitrary national boundaries. Bengal’s cultural affinity with Bangladesh transcends the border that divides them. Their shared language, literature, music, and even culinary traditions bind them more closely than Bengal’s connection to Gujarat or Rajasthan. Similarly, Kerala’s historical maritime connections created cultural exchanges with Sri Lanka that far predate the concept of “Indian identity.”
Religion fails as a unifying factor. Nepal remained the world’s only Hindu kingdom while existing outside India’s borders. Meanwhile, India encompasses Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Sikhs, Buddhists, Jains, and numerous tribal faiths. The lived Hinduism of Tamil Nadu bears little resemblance to that practised in Himachal Pradesh. Language offers no salvation either. The Punjabi language connects communities across the India-Pakistan border, while Bengali unites West Bengal with Bangladesh. Within India, we speak 22 officially recognised languages and hundreds of dialects.
What then holds India together? Primarily, administrative structures that were inherited from colonial rule and reinforced by post-independence governance. Our founding fathers understood something we seem to be forgetting: India’s strength lies in celebrating its differences. India is like a magnificent tapestry—pull too hard at any single thread, and you risk unravelling the entire fabric. Our unity isn’t cultural, religious, historical or linguistic, but political—a shared constitution, legal system, and democratic framework.
The recent incidents underscore how fragile our national cohesion truly is. When the Delhi Police officially referred to Bengali as a “Bangladeshi language,” they didn’t merely commit a bureaucratic error—they inadvertently exposed the shallow understanding of India’s linguistic diversity. This wasn’t just offensive to West Bengal and Tripura; it revealed how easily we can alienate entire populations through linguistic carelessness.
Similarly, the controversy surrounding The Kerala Story winning the National film award demonstrates how regional identities can be weaponised in cultural narratives. When a jury member publicly objected to honouring what he termed propaganda that defames Kerala, only to be overruled, it sent a clear message about whose stories matter in the national discourse. The film’s contentious portrayal of Kerala became a flashpoint precisely because it touched on the raw nerve of regional identity.
Perhaps most concerning is the ongoing “language war”. The central government’s practice of giving Hindi names to new laws like the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita forces non-Hindi speakers to adopt terminology alien to their linguistic heritage. The Three-Language Formula has become a vehicle for making Hindi mandatory. These are not trivial grievances but existential concerns for communities whose cultural survival is intertwined with their mother tongues.
We must recognise these tensions as warning signs. When states feel their languages, cultures, and narratives are being marginalised or misrepresented, they don’t simply accept this subordination; they push back. The India we know today isn’t guaranteed tomorrow. Our federal structure depends on mutual respect and accommodation. When we dismiss regional concerns as parochial or secondary to a manufactured national identity, we chip away at the foundation of our republic. The cracks are showing in linguistic disputes, cultural controversies, and regional resentments. One shouldn’t forget that the Indian national identity is only a few decades old. The linguistic, cultural, religious or caste identities are many thousands of years old and have withstood the test of time better. Unless we recommit to the pluralistic vision that made our unlikely union possible, we risk watching our hard-won unity dissolve before our eyes.