Indian National Congress: The Grand Old Ship That Lost Its rudder

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There are political parties that lose elections.

There are political parties that lose governments.

And then there are political parties that lose their sense of direction.

The Indian National Congress appears to have graduated into the third category.

Once upon a time, the Congress was not merely a political party. It was a political ecosystem. It had workers, volunteers, ideological training, student organisations, youth organisations, social workers, trade unions, local committees and, most importantly, people who actually knew the name of the man living three lanes away from the polling booth.

Today, one sometimes gets the impression that the Congress knows the location of its headquarters better than it knows the location of its grassroots.

The Grand Old Party is still grand.

It is still old.

The question is whether it is still a party in the organisational sense.

The Congress's problem is not simply that it has lost elections. Political parties recover from electoral defeats all the time.

Its deeper problem is that it appears to have lost the machinery that makes electoral recovery possible.

Consider the Congress Seva Dal.

It was created in 1924 as the Hindustani Seva Mandal, with Jawaharlal Nehru as its first president. It was designed as a disciplined volunteer organisation, training people for national service, physical fitness and peaceful mobilisation. It became the Congress Seva Dal in 1931 and played an important organisational role during the freedom struggle.

Imagine that.

A political party once thought it necessary to train its workers.

Not merely to shout slogans.

Not merely to appear behind the leader in a photograph.

Not merely to hold a placard upside down during a television debate. Train them. Discipline them. Give them responsibilities. Send them into society.

The Congress actually believed that a political organisation required an organisation. What a revolutionary idea.

Then came Independence. The British disappeared. And, apparently, some of the reasons for having a cadre disappeared with them.

As politics became increasingly electoral and personality-driven, the Seva Dal gradually lost much of its earlier organisational importance. By the late twentieth century it had increasingly become associated with ceremonial functions and manpower for party events. Even its attempt at revival in 2019 was accompanied by the rather extraordinary fact that its national Maha Adhiveshan was being held after a gap of about thirty years. 

Thirty years. One could renovate a railway station in that time. One could raise an entire generation. One could create a technology industry. The Congress apparently needed three decades to remember that it had a volunteer organisation.

And then there was the Indian Youth Congress. Once upon a time, it was one of the great political nurseries of the republic. During the Indira Gandhi and Sanjay Gandhi years, it became a formidable vehicle for youth mobilisation. Later, under Rajiv Gandhi, it continued to serve as a pipeline for younger politicians. Some of the leaders who emerged through that ecosystem eventually occupied important positions in national politics.

The Congress therefore once possessed something every ageing political organisation desperately needs: A mechanism for replacing itself. Today, that mechanism looks distinctly rusty.

The irony is almost poetic.

The Indian Youth Congress officially describes itself as a mass youth organisation with approximately 50 million members and says its reforms under Rahul Gandhi in 2007–08 dramatically expanded membership and introduced internal elections.

Fifty million!

At that number, the Congress should theoretically have enough young people to run several republics simultaneously. Yet walk into the political reality outside the membership spreadsheet and the contrast can be rather amusing.

Where are they? Where is the army of young Congress politicians? Where are the district-level organisers who can mobilise thousands without waiting for Delhi to send instructions? Where are the young leaders who can walk into a village, college campus, industrial town or mohalla and command attention without first checking whether the national leadership has tweeted about the issue?

The Congress has numbers on paper. It needs political muscle in the field. And paper, unfortunately, does not shout slogans, knock on doors or persuade voters.

Then came the latest little reminder from Delhi University.

The 2026 DUSU elections were hardly a national election. They should not be treated as a referendum on the entire country. But they are still an interesting window into student politics.

ABVP won three of the four central-panel positions.

The fourth went to Deepanshu Shokeen, an independent candidate who had previously been associated with NSUI.

NSUI, the Congress's student organisation, won none of the four central posts.

That is not the end of the Congress. But it is certainly not the sound of a youth organisation discovering its mojo.  And here lies the great Congress paradox.

The party talks constantly about India's youth. But its organisational culture often seems to speak in the language of yesterday. The Congress wants to become young without becoming genuinely new. It wants rejuvenation without allowing too much disruption. It wants new faces, provided the old ecosystem approves of them. It wants internal democracy, provided internal democracy does not become inconvenient. It wants a second line of leadership. But the second line has somehow spent years standing behind the first line, waiting for permission to become the second line.

And above everything floats the Gandhi family.

The Congress has spent years telling India that the party needs decentralisation. Meanwhile, everybody waits to discover what the Gandhis think. 

It wants stronger state leaders. But Delhi keeps looking over their shoulders.

It wants young leaders. But the most important political surname remains remarkably unchanged.

It wants merit. But personal loyalty continues to be a highly valuable qualification.

It wants institutional strength. But personality remains the institution. 

This is not simply a Rahul Gandhi problem. It is a Congress problem. Rahul Gandhi has undoubtedly become the most visible face of the party's opposition to the Modi government and is now the Leader of the Opposition in the Lok Sabha. The Congress has also been attempting organisational reforms and restructuring in 2026. Recent reports describe efforts to strengthen the middle layer of the organisation and create mechanisms for greater accountability. 

But therein lies another Congress contradiction.

The party keeps announcing that it is rebuilding the organisation. Then it keeps reorganising the organisation. Then it creates another committee to examine the organisation. Then another reshuffle is announced. Then another reshuffle is discussed.

Soon the Congress may become the first political party in history to achieve full organisational activity without the inconvenience of actually having an organisation.

The real question is not whether the Congress has talented people. It does. The real question is whether its system knows how to discover, nurture, trust and promote them. That is where the problem becomes serious.

A national party cannot permanently function like a family-owned heritage property undergoing renovation.

A political party needs institutional memory. It needs ideological clarity. It needs internal competition. It needs local leadership. It needs people who can lose an election and still remain in the constituency. It needs workers who do not disappear when the television cameras leave. And it needs leaders who can disagree with the high command without immediately becoming candidates for political exile.

The Congress once had this enormous advantage. It had people everywhere. It had workers who believed that the organisation mattered. It had a political culture in which service, sacrifice and mobilisation were not merely words for Independence Day speeches.

The Seva Dal embodied one version of that culture. The Youth Congress represented another. Both have survived. Neither, however, has returned to the organisational importance they once possessed.

And that tells us something profound.

Political organisations rarely die in one dramatic moment. They become hollow first. The buildings remain. The flags remain. The offices remain. The letterheads remain. The social-media handles remain. The press releases remain. Only the political bloodstream gradually disappears.

Then comes the ritual.

A leader arrives. Cameras flash. Workers shout. A resolution is passed. A committee is appointed. A slogan is launched. A new campaign is announced.

And everybody goes home.

This is what makes the Congress's predicament particularly tragic. It is not an insignificant party. It is not a political startup. It is one of the central institutions of modern Indian political history. It helped lead the freedom movement. It governed India for decades. It produced prime ministers, chief ministers, governors, ministers and generations of political workers.

And yet today it sometimes resembles a gigantic ancestral mansion in which the electricity works only in selected rooms.

There is still furniture. There are still portraits on the walls. There are still servants. There is even an occasional family gathering.

But the question is: Who has the keys? And where is the fuse box?

The Congress does not necessarily need another slogan. It needs a functioning political machine. It does not necessarily need another spectacular yatra. It needs thousands of ordinary workers who remain politically relevant after the cameras have gone. It does not merely need Rahul Gandhi to become a more effective national politician. It needs a Congress that can function even when Rahul Gandhi is not in the room.

That is the real test.

Because a political party that depends excessively on one family has a peculiar problem. When the family is strong, the organisation becomes dependent. When the family is weak, the organisation becomes paralysed. And when the family tries to reform the organisation, everybody spends their time guessing what the family really wants.

That is not decentralisation. That is organisational yoga. Everybody bends. Nobody moves. So where does the Congress go from here?

Perhaps the answer lies in an uncomfortable historical lesson.

The Congress of the freedom struggle did not become powerful because somebody invented a clever communication strategy. It became powerful because ordinary Indians were organised. The Congress of the great post-Independence decades did not survive merely because of famous surnames. It survived because it possessed enormous political networks.

The Congress of the future, if it is to remain a serious national force, will therefore have to rediscover the most unfashionable word in modern politics: Organisation. Not optics. Not nostalgia. Not dynastic inheritance. Not perpetual internal reshuffling. Organisation.

The Grand Old Party may still have a future. But history is notoriously unsentimental. It does not preserve political parties merely because they once mattered.

The British Empire once ruled India.

The Soviet Union once frightened the world.

The Liberal Party once dominated British politics.

Political organisations can become historical monuments surprisingly quickly. And that may be the ultimate warning for the Congress.

The party that once taught millions of Indians how to march may now need to learn how to walk again. The party that once had cadres everywhere may need to discover where its cadres went. The party that once produced generations of leaders may need to ask why its leadership pipeline has narrowed so dramatically. And the party that once called itself the natural party of government may have to confront the most uncomfortable question of all: What happens to the Congress when the Congress is no longer the centre of Indian politics?

That question cannot be answered by another committee. It cannot be answered by another family photograph. And it certainly cannot be answered by another press conference.

At some point, somebody will have to take the wheel. Because the ship is enormous. The history is magnificent. The passengers are still arguing. The crew is looking for instructions. The captain's cabin is occupied. And somewhere on the bridge, one lonely sailor is staring at the compass and asking: “Excuse me… does anybody actually know where we are going?”

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The Women Who Must Be Freed — And the Women Who Must Disappear

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There are moments when politics, religion and irony come together so perfectly that a satirist is almost tempted to apologise for having nothing left to invent.

Consider the latest BAPS controversy in France.

A magnificent new BAPS temple has opened near Paris. Prime Minister Narendra Modi joined the inauguration virtually and described it as a new milestone in India-France cultural relations. BAPS itself has presented the temple as a symbol of harmony, spirituality and universal brotherhood.

And then came the Eiffel Tower.

A BAPS delegation led by its spiritual leader, Mahant Swami Maharaj, visited the tower.

The monks of the Swaminarayan tradition follow an extremely strict vow of celibacy. BAPS itself explains that this discipline can prohibit a sadhu from talking to, touching or associating with women.

That is their religious discipline. They are entitled to practise it.

But then something rather remarkable happened.

According to reports, female Eiffel Tower employees were asked to move away from their workstations or limit interaction with the visiting delegation. The women were, in effect, asked to become temporarily invisible so that the male holy men could preserve their religious discipline.

The Eiffel Tower employees did not find this spiritually enlightening.

They went on strike.

The tower was temporarily closed.

Paris authorities opened an investigation.

BAPS denied asking for anyone to be denied access and said the visit had been arranged to minimise disruption. It nevertheless apologised for any hurt or inconvenience caused.

And suddenly France discovered a very ancient question: When does someone else's religious freedom become somebody else's workplace discrimination? That is a perfectly legitimate question. But there is another question which is considerably more uncomfortable for India.

Why does the question of women's freedom become so important when the woman is Muslim, but suddenly become a matter of religious sensitivity when the woman is standing in front of a Hindu religious leader?

Because this is where the politics becomes almost comic.

The Modi government has repeatedly presented itself as the liberator of Muslim women.

In 2019, the government enacted the law criminalising instant triple talaq, explicitly presenting it as a measure of gender equality and justice. Prime Minister Modi has repeatedly described Muslim women as beneficiaries of this reform. In 2022, during the Karnataka hijab controversy, he spoke of attempts to obstruct the rights and development of Muslim women. BJP leaders also presented the hijab controversy in the context of women's empowerment.

The political message was unmistakable: Religion cannot be used to deny women their dignity. Excellent. That principle deserves applause. But principles have an annoying habit of demanding consistency.

Because if a woman wearing a hijab is portrayed as needing liberation from a religious or patriarchal structure, what happens when another religious structure says that women must not be encountered by celibate male monks?

Does gender equality come with an asterisk? Perhaps the government has a special dictionary. 'Freedom' means liberating Muslim women from practices regarded as oppressive. 'Tradition' means respecting Hindu practices that impose separation between men and women.

And 'hypocrisy'?

That word, naturally, is available only for the Opposition. The Eiffel Tower episode exposes the problem beautifully. The BAPS doctrine itself is not a secret.

BAPS explains that its sadhus follow eightfold celibacy. Its own literature says that a sadhu should avoid talking to women, touching them, intentionally looking at them or seeking their company. It also explicitly says that men and women sit separately during communal prayers, partly to respect the celibacy vows of the swamis. ([BAPS Swaminarayan Sanstha][3])

There is an important distinction here.

A monk deciding not to speak to women is one thing. A monk asking a woman who is doing her job in a public institution to disappear is another.

The first is religious freedom. The second raises questions about the rights of people who do not belong to that religion.

And that distinction is precisely why France reacted so strongly. The French argument was not that BAPS should stop believing what it believes.

The argument was simpler: Believe whatever you wish. But do not make French women invisible in order to accommodate your beliefs.

That is a perfectly understandable republican position. And it produces a delicious irony.

The same Indian political ecosystem that lectures the Muslim world about women's emancipation now finds itself associated with a religious controversy in which women workers at one of Europe's most famous landmarks were reportedly asked to step aside because certain men could not interact with them.

The irony becomes even more interesting when we look at caste.

BAPS presents itself as a humanitarian and spiritual organisation committed to service. Its temples are magnificent. Its volunteers perform enormous amounts of charitable work. Its global network is impressive.

All of that can be true. But so can something else.

BAPS has faced serious allegations concerning the treatment of Indian workers involved in temple construction in the United States.

In 2021, more than 200 workers were involved in a federal lawsuit concerning the Robbinsville, New Jersey temple. The lawsuit alleged forced labour, extremely long working hours, very low pay, restrictions on movement, passport confiscation and violations of labour and immigration laws. The workers were described as coming largely from marginalised communities, including Dalits. Federal agents also visited the temple site in a court-authorised law-enforcement operation.

The allegations subsequently expanded to BAPS-linked temple sites in several other US states.

The organisation denied wrongdoing and argued that the workers were religious volunteers and that the use of R-1 religious-worker visas for artisans had been authorised and scrutinised by government agencies. Some plaintiffs later withdrew from the case, and the allegations should therefore be described as allegations rather than established facts.

But the controversy did raise an uncomfortable question: If a religious organisation speaks constantly about seva — selfless service — what happens when people performing that service say they were exploited?

And what happens when many of those people belong to communities that have historically occupied the bottom of India's caste hierarchy?

That question cannot be answered simply by building a larger temple. In fact, the larger the temple becomes, the more important the question becomes. Because marble does not cancel caste. Gold does not cancel exploitation. And an enormous dome does not automatically produce social equality.

This is where the BAPS story becomes particularly interesting in the context of Narendra Modi.

BAPS is not formally part of the RSS or the BJP. That distinction matters. It is an independent religious organisation with its own leadership, institutional structure and enormous global following.

But the personal relationship between Narendra Modi and BAPS has been exceptionally close. Modi has spoken of his relationship with the late Pramukh Swami Maharaj in almost familial terms, describing it as resembling that of a father and son. BAPS itself has referred to Modi as the 'most beloved son' of Pramukh Swami. ([Press Information Bureau][6])

And when the magnificent BAPS Hindu Mandir opened in Abu Dhabi in 2024, Modi did not merely send greetings. He inaugurated it alongside Mahant Swami Maharaj.

The Indian government celebrated it as a symbol of India's spiritual and cultural outreach.

The BAPS organisation itself credited the leadership of Modi and the friendship between India and the UAE with helping make the temple possible. ([BAPS Swaminarayan Sanstha][7])

Again, there is nothing inherently improper about a prime minister supporting a temple abroad.

India has every right to promote its cultural heritage. The diaspora has every right to build places of worship. And a Hindu temple in Abu Dhabi is, in itself, a remarkable development.

But when religious institutions become important instruments of diplomatic and cultural projection, their controversies inevitably acquire a political dimension. If a temple is presented as the face of India's civilisational values abroad, then questions about those values will naturally follow it.

And this brings us back to the great slogan of the modern Indian political establishment:

Nari Shakti. Women's power. Women's dignity. Women's empowerment.

Very good.

But perhaps the slogan needs a small international footnote: 'Women's power — except when a visiting holy man has taken a vow not to see them.'

And perhaps another footnote: 'Gender equality — subject to religious availability.'

And a third: 'Religious freedom — absolutely. Unless it is someone else's religion.'

That would certainly simplify the brochure.

The deeper issue, however, is not BAPS. It is selective universalism. Every society is tempted by it. We condemn discrimination when it is practised by people we dislike. We defend tradition when it is practised by people we admire. We demand modernity from minorities while romanticising conservatism among majorities. We call one woman's covering oppression and another woman's exclusion tradition. We call one community's religious conservatism backwardness and another's ancient wisdom.

And then we wonder why citizens become cynical.

There is a simple principle that could rescue us from all this intellectual gymnastics: The rights of a woman should not depend upon the religion of the man standing in front of her.

If a Muslim husband cannot arbitrarily impose an unjust divorce upon his wife, that is a question of women's rights.

If a Hindu monk does not wish to interact with women, that is his religious freedom.

But if either religious preference requires an unrelated woman doing her job to surrender her workplace, her dignity or her equality, the state has a responsibility to protect her rights.

The same standard should apply everywhere.

To Muslims. To Hindus. To Christians. To Sikhs. To atheists. To everybody.

That is what equality actually means. Not equality for our friends and reform for our opponents. Not secularism when convenient and civilisational exceptionalism when convenient. Not feminism when confronting another community and tradition when confronting our own.

The Eiffel Tower, rather unexpectedly, has given India a rather useful mirror. And mirrors are dangerous things.

They do not care whether the person looking into them is a prime minister, a monk, a politician, a feminist, a religious reformer or a television anchor. They simply show what is there.

And perhaps the most revealing image from Paris is therefore not the magnificent temple. It is not the Eiffel Tower. It is not even the protesting workers.

It is the absurd spectacle of women being asked to disappear so that men could preserve their religious purity.

Because if the liberation of women is genuinely the principle, then it cannot depend upon whose religion is being discussed. Otherwise, women are not being liberated. They are simply being moved around the chessboard of somebody else's ideology.

And that, perhaps, is the oldest trick in the political-religious book.

Tell women that they are being protected. Tell them they are being liberated. Tell them they are being honoured. And then quietly decide where they are allowed to stand. The real test of any civilisation is not how magnificently it builds its temples. It is whether the women who built, staffed, cleaned, served and lived around those temples are allowed to stand in the same public space as men without being told to disappear.

That is a test worth applying consistently. To BAPS. To the BJP. To the government. To every religion. And, inconveniently, to ourselves. Because equality becomes meaningful only when it is applied to people whose beliefs we do not share.

Otherwise it is merely another decorative carving on the temple wall.

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