Deoband’s embrace of the Taliban foreign minister is dangerous — but also offers an opening.

Amir Khan Muttaqi, Foreign Minister of the Taliban-led government in Afghanistan and a senior figure in its political and ideological leadership, has recently completed a six-day visit to India — an episode loaded with meaning.

From his informal ban on female journalists, to the cancellation of his Agra leg, and his carefully choreographed stop at the Vivekananda Foundation. Yet, it is his visit to Dar ul Uloom Deoband, the theological heart of South Asian Deobandi Islam, that has invited sharpest scrutiny.

For years, Indian Muslims — particularly those aligned with the Deobandi school — have tried to draw a distinction between “their Islam,” described as democratic and egalitarian, and the Taliban’s brutal, patriarchal regime. Muttaqi’s pilgrimage to his ideological fountainhead has challenged that narrative.

When the Taliban’s foreign minister visits Deoband, and the seminary receives him with honor, it becomes almost impossible to sustain the claim that the Taliban are merely “misguided” Muslims. Why, then, should men who have subjugated women and silenced dissent be treated as heroes?

What emerges instead is a chilling recognition: the Taliban are not a deviation from Deobandi Islam according to the seminary, but one of its most literal political manifestations.

The confusion within India’s religiously-inclined Muslim intelligentsia over how to respond to this visit is telling — and repetitive. Some rush to rationalize it as “cultural diplomacy” or a gesture of goodwill in the national interest, strangely bringing the Muslim right and the Hindu right onto the same page.

Others recoil in discomfort but stop short of open criticism. Deoband’s endorsement of Muttaqi symbolically affirms the very doctrines that have justified gender apartheid, banned girls from education, and institutionalized moral policing across Afghanistan.

This moment is not merely about Afghanistan; it reflects a moral crisis within Indian muslims as well — a refusal to confront its own regressive solidarities under the pretext of religious kinship. The spectacle of Deoband greeting Muttaqi with reverence reveals the unbroken theological thread linking the 19th seminary to the taliban led theocratic governance.

Deoband’s embrace of the Taliban foreign minister is dangerous — but also offers an opening. If the Taliban truly draw their ideological legitimacy from Deoband, then Deoband carries a moral responsibility: to humanize that ideology, to insist that justice and compassion, not repression, define Islam.

The seminary has a proud history of standing against colonial injustice and for India’s freedom. Can it now stand for Afghan women denied education, or men imprisoned for thought?

If Dar ul Uloom Deoband wishes to remain relevant in a plural democracy, it must decide where it stands — with democracy, gender justice, and education, or with those who burn books, bury dissent, and blind the future of half their population.

Pakistan’s “Ummah message” is clear: solidarity is for wars and slogans, not for marriages, not for everyday equality.

The dream of Muslim unity—or Ummah solidarity—is often invoked in rhetorical, moral, and geopolitical terms. Yet for many Pasmanda and low-caste Muslims across South Asia, that narrative carries within it deep hypocrisy.

It asks suffering communities to rally, to protest, to pledge loyalty to a pan-Islamic identity, when in practice those same communities are neglected, excluded, or discriminated against by the very states and elites claiming to speak for all Muslims.

Caste, Discrimination, and Dissent within Pakistan

The critique of Pakistani “Ummah” rhetoric is not limited to India. Within Pakistan itself, low-caste Muslim communities—what some call “Pasmanda Muslims” there as well—face systemic discrimination rooted in caste-like hierarchies, structural exclusion, and social stigma.

Although Islam in its doctrine rejects caste, in practice the South Asian Muslim world has retained stratification. Scholars and activists have spoken openly of “Sayedism” or “Ashrafization” — the assertion by Sayeds or claimants to noble descent of superiority over lower-status Muslim groups.

In Pakistan, communities such as Mochi (traditional cobblers), Charhoa / Qassar (washer communities), and other artisan or “untouchable” lineage groups (sometimes Darzi, Dhobi, etc.) continue to experience social exclusion, discrimination in marriage, limited property rights, denial of equal respect, and denial of participation in religious authority circles.

An Al Jazeera commentary notes that literal violence, land grabbing, social ostracism, and the silencing of caste disputes in Pakistani media all serve to preserve an illusion that caste does not exist in Muslim society. The caste hierarchies are “publicly silenced but privately enforced”.

Thus, when Pakistani elites broadcast solidarity with distant Muslim struggles, but ignore or suppress demands from low-caste Muslims in their own society, the claim of universal Ummah becomes hollow.

It exposes a divide: those inside the circle of power receive moral voice, those outside it are silenced.

Elite Endogamy and the Hypocrisy of Solidarity

One of the most telling tests of true unity is marriage. In South Asian Muslim societies, marriage is a powerful vector of status, integration, and symbolic equality.

If the Ummah narrative were sincere, one might expect that Muslim elites—whether in Pakistan or India—would intermarry with deserving low-caste or Pasmanda Muslims, as evidence of transcending internal hierarchies. But that rarely happens.

In both Indian and Pakistani Muslim societies, Ashraf (so-called noble or high status) elites typically marry among their own lineages: Sayeds with Sayeds, Sheikhs with Sheikhs, Mirzas with Mirzas. Marriages across caste lines—especially downward—are extremely rare and usually stigmatized.

Anecdotally and observationally, it is almost unheard of for Ashraf elites to openly marry women from Pasmanda communities, or to give wives’ daughters to men from marginalized Muslim castes. Why? Because endogamy is both a social ritual and a power mechanism: it maintains status boundaries, control over lineage, and cultural prestige.

When those elites then preach Ummah solidarity, insisting that Muslims everywhere must unite under one banner, they are demanding emotional allegiance from those whose own status they refuse to cross. It is a double standard: unity in rhetoric, exclusion in practice.

That hypocrisy is especially stark when these elites use Pakistan’s foreign policy or missionary zeal to rally Muslims in India, Afghanistan, Palestine or elsewhere, while shunning egalitarian social relations even within their own societies.

Pakistan’s “Ummah message” is clear: solidarity is for wars and slogans, not for marriages, not for everyday equality.

The Indian Muslim Exclusion from OIC & the One-Sided Cry for Ummah

Consider first the status of Indian Muslims in the broader Muslim world. India is home to perhaps the world’s largest minority Muslim population—over 150-200 million by many estimates.

Yet curiously, Indian Muslims have never enjoyed institutional voice in the Organization of Islamic Cooperation (OIC). The OIC, which claims to represent the collective interests of Muslim nations, has never granted India—even as a non-member Muslim country—a meaningful seat, even consultative status, or real influence in its policymaking.

Critics point out that at the 1969 Rabat Islamic Summit, India was invited, but under pressure from Pakistan was made to withdraw. Pakistani diplomacy and influence have long insisted that India’s Muslim question be mediated through Islamabad’s narratives.

As Middle-east expert Zahack Tanvir puts it, “in five decades … Indian Muslims have never had a seat at the table of the OIC”, leaving India’s vast Muslim population institutionally invisible.

This exclusion is not a mere oversight. It is a structural marker: Indian Muslims are asked repeatedly to “stand for Ummah” in speeches, protests, diplomatic gestures, yet in the actual halls of power they are never granted membership or say. As Zahack aptly asked: “why do Indian Muslims continue to sacrifice … for a ‘brotherhood’ that has consistently ignored and sidelined them?”

The pattern is obvious: Pakistan claims to champion Muslim causes abroad—Kashmir, Palestine, Rohingya—but excludes the very Muslims living inside India from its leadership of that narrative. How can Muslims be united under a banner that denies agency and representation to hundreds of millions at home?

Toward a Sincere, Inclusive Ummah

This critique does not deny the spiritual or moral appeal of Muslim unity. Many Pasmanda Muslims, Indian or Pakistani, do believe in a compassionate Ummah—one of mutual responsibility, equitable rights, and shared dignity.

But they reject the version of Ummah unity that is selective, hypocritical, and exclusionary.

What is demanded instead is an Ummah that begins by correcting the wrongs within: by recognizing the agency of excluded Muslims, by ensuring representation (for example, including Indian Muslims in OIC deliberations), by dismantling caste‐style hierarchies, by encouraging cross-caste marriages as a lived symbol of equality, and by ensuring that solidarity is not just turned outward but applied inward.

Until then, the rejection of Pakistan’s narrative by Pasmanda and low-caste Muslims—whether in India or Pakistan—is not a rejection of faith, but a rejection of being asked to wear unity as a hollow mask.

Real unity must include the oppressed, not merely summon their voices while denying them power.

If you like, I can prepare a version of this for Pakistani audiences, or include more incisive case studies or interviews.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Justice Chandrachud’s fresh remark, therefore, risks reigniting controversies which the judgment had carefully attempted to settle.

The Ayodhya dispute has always been one of the most sensitive and divisive issues in independent India. For centuries, the dispute over the Babri Masjid and the claim of it being the birthplace of Lord Ram caused tension, violence, and loss of life. After decades of litigation, the Supreme Court of India delivered its final judgment on 9th November 2019.

As an advocate and as the President of All India Pasmanda Muslim Mahaaz Telangana, my stand at that time was neutral. Not because the judgment was universally fair, but because it was long pending, and because thousands of lives had already been lost to this conflict. Closure was necessary. Endless agitation and litigation would have only deepened divisions and harmed the country further.

When the judgment was delivered, all political parties and communities gave their consent to abide by it. The nation was placed on high alert fearing unrest, but Indian Muslims—despite their disappointment—cooperated peacefully.

Even during the inauguration of the Ram Mandir after prana pratistha (consecration)  in January 2024, Muslims once again displayed patience and tolerance. Many even participated in the ceremony as a gesture of goodwill. These actions demonstrated the mature and tolerant character of Indian Muslims.

Yet today, almost six years later, former Chief Justice of India DY Chandrachud has stirred fresh controversy with his remarks.

Chandrachud’s Controversial Statement

In an interview with Srinivasan Jain on Newslaundry, Justice Chandrachud said that the construction of the Babri Masjid itself was an “act of desecration,” meaning it disrespected something sacred that already existed at the site. Coming from a jurist of his stature, this statement naturally carries weight. But it also raises concerns.

The Supreme Court, in its landmark judgment, consciously avoided such language. The Court dealt with evidence, possession, and patterns of worship, without branding the mosque’s very existence as unlawful or sacrilegious. Justice Chandrachud’s fresh remark, therefore, risks reigniting controversies which the judgment had carefully attempted to settle.

Justice Chandrachud’s recent statement is deeply problematic on two fronts.

First, it directly contradicts the Supreme Court’s own findings. The 2019 judgment never established that a temple was demolished to construct the Babri Masjid. The Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) had reported that remains of a 12th-century structure were found beneath the mosque, which itself was built in the 16th century—a gap of nearly four centuries.

Crucially, the ASI admitted it could not prove who destroyed the earlier structure, why it was destroyed, or whether the mosque was deliberately built over it. Recognizing these limitations, the Court made it clear that ownership of the land could not be determined solely on the basis of archaeology.

Despite this, Justice Chandrachud has now described the mosque’s very construction as an “act of desecration,” a remark that goes well beyond the careful balance of the judgment he himself had delivered.

Second, his words risk reigniting tensions that the Court had tried to settle. For Indian Muslims, the statement feels like salt rubbed into an old wound. The community has already borne immense pain and loss over the decades. To now be told that the very act of building their mosque was wrong from the beginning is not only deeply hurtful, but also threatens to undo the fragile peace and understanding that communities had painstakingly built in the aftermath of the judgment.

Justice Muralidhar’s Criticism

It is not just the Muslim community that finds fault with the handling of the Ayodhya case. Former Chief Justice of Odisha High Court, Justice S. Muralidhar, has also been critical of the 2019 verdict.

Justice Muralidhar observed that the judgment was effectively an “authorless judgment”. He also pointed out that sufficient time was not given for mediation. Given the centuries-old nature of the dispute, he argued, the mediation process could have been pursued more seriously to achieve a more consensual outcome.

When asked about this criticism in an interview with journalist Saurabh Trivedi on The Lallantop, Justice Chandrachud responded that the dispute was centuries old, had already claimed many lives, and that closure was necessary for the well-being of society. According to him, the intention of the bench was to end the matter so that the country could move forward.

Ironically, by making his recent statement about “desecration,” Justice Chandrachud has contradicted his own reasoning. Instead of bringing closure, he has reopened wounds and created new controversies.

A Blow to Judicial Credibility

When a retired Chief Justice speaks in ways that contradict a judgment he was part of, it inevitably raises questions about credibility—both of the individual and of the institution he once led.

Justice Chandrachud’s post-retirement interviews, where he repeatedly defends or expands on his judgments, have also come under scrutiny. Instead of clarifying, these interviews are worsening the situation. By taking a polarised stance, he is now being seen by many not as a respectable statesman, but as a controversial figure.

The judiciary is supposed to stand above politics. But such remarks blur the line between law and political narrative.

Illegal Acts Acknowledged, Yet No Accountability

The Ayodhya judgment of 2019 categorically held that both the installation of idols inside the Babri Masjid in December 1949 and the demolition of the mosque in December 1992 were illegal acts. Yet, in the aftermath of the verdict, several individuals—including Members of Parliament at that time—openly boasted on media channels that they were proud to have participated in the demolition.

What is even more shocking is that despite the Supreme Court itself declaring the demolition unlawful, all those accused in the case were later acquitted by a special CBI court, raising serious questions about accountability and the consistency of our justice system.

The Sufferings of Pasmanda Muslims

For Muslims, the Ayodhya judgment was already painful. Thousands of lives—mostly disproportionate Pasmanda Muslims—were lost in the riots and violence that followed the Babri Masjid conflict over the decades. Many Pasmanda Muslims lost their homes, livelihoods, and dignity in the aftermath of this dispute.

To now hear, years later, that the mosque’s construction itself was a “fundamental act of desecration” is not just painful—it is an insult to the memory of those who suffered and a reopening of wounds that had only just begun to heal.

The Absence of Pasmanda Representation in Judiciary

This controversy also forces us to look at a broader problem: the absence of Pasmanda Muslim representation in the higher judiciary.

In 75 years of the Republic, no Pasmanda Muslim has ever risen to the position of Chief Justice of India. In fact, Muslims as a whole are severely underrepresented in the higher judiciary. This absence matters. When decisions and remarks of great consequence are made about our faith, our history, and our future, the lack of Pasmanda voices at the table becomes glaring.

How can justice feel inclusive when entire communities are excluded from positions of power? The judiciary, like the legislature and the executive, must reflect the diversity of India. Otherwise, it remains an elite space dominated by a few privileged groups, leaving Pasmanda Muslims and other marginalized sections unheard.

Justice Chandrachud’s remarks were not just unnecessary—they were damaging. The nation had already moved forward after the 2019 judgment. Muslims, despite their pain, showed maturity, cooperation, and restraint. By reopening this matter, Justice Chandrachud risks disturbing the fragile social fabric once again.

The way forward is not to dwell on divisive statements but to demand greater inclusivity in our institutions. Pasmanda Muslims, who form the overwhelming majority of India’s Muslims, must step forward in education, in the Bar, in the Bench, and in public life. Until our voices are represented in decision-making spaces, justice will always feel incomplete.

India deserves a judiciary that not only delivers justice but also reflects the nation’s true diversity. Only then can peace and harmony be truly secured.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Far from empowering Muslims, Akbaruddin’s rhetoric is downright foolish.

In the complex and often combustible landscape of Indian politics, few figures have stirred as much controversy as Akbaruddin Owaisi—the younger brother of Asaduddin Owaisi, head of the All India Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen (AIMIM), a Muslim-centric political party with influence in southern and parts of northern India.

Akbaruddin became a national—and international—talking point in 2012 when a provocative excerpt from one of his public speeches in Nirmal, Telangana, went viral. In the clip, he is seen declaring: “If the police are removed for 15 minutes, we are 250 million and you are 1 billion. We will show you who is more powerful, who has balls.”

The statement was a blatant threat wrapped in communal arithmetic, referencing the Muslim and Hindu populations of India. The crowd erupted in applause. Shortly afterward, Owaisi was arrested on charges of hate speech, released on bail, and ultimately acquitted in 2022.

But revisiting this case solely as a legal episode misses the point. It is a revealing lens into the enduring toxicity of communal rhetoric in Indian politics—particularly within some segments of the Muslim leadership—where hate is no longer an outlier but a weaponized tool, used across the spectrum to polarize and provoke.

Hate Speech Is Not a One-Way Street

Akbaruddin’s speech stands as one of the clearest examples of hate speech by a Muslim politician in India. It was not vague or symbolic rhetoric aimed at resisting “Muslim oppression,” but a direct provocation against an entire (albeit imaginary) community—articulated through communal arithmetic: 25 crore versus 100 crore.

Ironically, the speech played right into the hands of those it ostensibly opposed. It gave the Hindu Right a moral and political tool: “If Muslim leaders can openly threaten us, why shouldn’t we respond in kind?” In that sense, Owaisi’s speech, like many instances where the idea of Muslim empowerment morphs into rabid communalism, deepened the communal fissures that the ruling dispensation now capitalizes on with its own stream of hate speeches.

Yet, here lies a deeper hypocrisy within sections of the Indian Muslim community. Many Muslims, in private conversations, while disagreeing with AIMIM’s political opportunism, tend to justify Akbaruddin’s words as a symbolic show of resistance—an assertion that “we will not take oppression lying down.” But symbolic resistance through hate speech is a double-edged sword. It only reinforces existing suspicions and increases hostility.

The Dangerous Myth of Communal Arithmetic

The core of Akbaruddin’s speech rests on a fundamentally flawed idea: that Muslims are a monolithic, homogeneous bloc of 25–30 crore standing against 100 crore Hindus.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The Muslim community in India is deeply diverse and internally fractured—across sects, castes, regions, and languages.

Sunni–Shia, Deobandi–Barelvi, and Ashraf–Ajlaf–Arzal divisions are an open secret. The imagined “25 crore Muslims” myth collapses the moment these internal differences are acknowledged—which, in the age of Hindutva, seems conveniently forgotten.

Likewise, the notion of “100 crore Hindus” is equally imaginary. Caste, regional, and linguistic divides among Hindus remain sharp and visible, only temporarily papered over by the Hindutva project. Communalism gives life to these mythical numbers because communal politics thrives on binaries—usually imaginary, always forced.

When Akbaruddin says “15 minutes without police,” he frames the state—particularly the police—as the central oppressor during pogroms. There is some truth to this. The history of riots, from Nellie (1983) to Delhi (2020), shows police complicity or selective inaction. But his imagined scenario is suicidal. If the police disappear and the battle is framed as 30 crore versus 100 crore, it effectively calls for Muslims to engage in self-annihilation.

Three Hindus for every one Muslim—Owaisi’s way of calling for suicide reminds one of the now-famous meme: “Marwana ka tareeqa thoda casual hai.”

Far from empowering Muslims, Akbaruddin’s rhetoric is downright foolish.

The Responsibility to Condemn Across the Board

Akbaruddin Owaisi has made many such remarks, including derogatory statements about Hindu gods—calling them “manhoos” (inauspicious). Imagine if any Hindu politician had used even mildly similar language for Allah or the Prophet—the reaction from Muslims and the media would have been explosive. This asymmetry in moral outrage is dangerous.

It is also telling that his elder brother, Asaduddin Owaisi—otherwise vocal in dissecting Hindu right-wing hate speech—has never meaningfully condemned his brother’s 2012 remarks. This selective silence undermines the moral standing of anyone claiming to fight hate.

If Muslims wish to oppose Hindutva hate speech with credibility, they must also hold their own leaders accountable. Tacit approval or silence emboldens hate-mongers from within, leaving ordinary Muslims to face the consequences of fires lit by their ‘leaders.’

Communalism Is a Two-Edged Sword

The truth is stark: speeches like Akbaruddin Owaisi’s do not protect Muslims. They further communalize Hindus, provide ammunition to the ruling party, and push India’s already fragile social fabric closer to collapse.

Muslims must therefore develop a politics rooted not in reaction, but in principled opposition to all forms of hate. That essentially means condemning both Hindu and Muslim hate speech—without excuses, without bias.

The flames of hate consume the weakest first. Those who light them rarely burn. Let us never forget: hate can never be fought with hate.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

As Telangana heads toward local elections, a caste-blind political consensus continues to marginalize the Muslim majority within its own minority.

In India’s southern state of Telangana, a political drama is quietly unfolding — one that exposes the complex and often uncomfortable intersections of religion, caste, and electoral opportunism. As the state prepares for its local body elections expected in late summer 2025, a critical segment of the Muslim population — the Pasmanda community — is once again confronting political invisibility.

Comprising 81% of Telangana’s Muslim population, Pasmanda Muslims represent a mosaic of historically marginalized occupational groups — from butchers and barbers to weavers and tanners. Yet, despite their demographic dominance and backward caste status, they remain conspicuously absent from political leadership and policy-making. Their plight offers a telling glimpse into how electoral democracies can fail the very majorities they claim to represent.

A Demographic Power with Political Silence

India is often celebrated as the world’s largest democracy. But democracy, in form, doesn’t always guarantee inclusivity in substance. In Telangana, Muslims make up roughly 12.56% of the population, and within them, Pasmanda groups are the overwhelming majority. However, representation in political parties, legislative bodies, and even local governance structures remains disproportionately skewed in favor of elite Ashraf Muslims — a minority within the minority.

This disconnect is not merely symbolic; it has tangible socio-economic consequences. Pasmanda communities are consistently ranked among the poorest, least educated, and most job-insecure segments in Indian society. But when it comes to political alliances and candidate selections, their voice is rarely heard.

Congress and the Illusion of Social Justice

The ruling Congress Party, which reclaimed power in Telangana in 2023, has made significant overtures toward caste equity. It recently released long-demanded caste census data and expanded reservations for Backward Classes (BC) in local body elections to 42%. On paper, these are progressive steps.

But the devil lies in the details — or rather, in their absence. While Pasmanda Muslims are classified under BC, no sub-quota or reserved seat allocations have been announced. The risk? That dominant caste groups — both Hindu and Muslim — will continue to monopolize the benefits, leaving Pasmandas with little more than symbolic inclusion.

For a party that brands itself as the custodian of social justice, the refusal to institutionalize representation for the numerically largest Muslim group reeks of electoral calculus, not ideological conviction.

AIMIM: A Partner or a Gatekeeper?

Further complicating matters is Congress’s increasing alignment with the All India Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen (AIMIM), a Hyderabad-based Muslim party led by the influential Owaisi family. While AIMIM positions itself as the voice of Indian Muslims, critics argue that its leadership — drawn from Ashraf elites — has shown little appetite for addressing internal caste disparities within the Muslim community.

To many Pasmanda activists, the Congress-AIMIM partnership is not a bridge but a barrier. It effectively outsources Muslim political representation to a party that has historically sidelined backward caste Muslims. The result? A political paradox in which the Muslim majority within Telangana’s Muslims is structurally locked out of power, even in elections meant to empower the grassroots.

BJP’s Pasmanda Rhetoric: Inclusion in the North, Exclusion in the South

At the national level, India’s ruling Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) has launched an aggressive campaign to court Pasmanda Muslims, particularly in northern states like Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. Prime Minister Narendra Modi has invoked their historical marginalization in multiple speeches, presenting the BJP as a party that transcends religious lines in its fight against caste inequality.

Yet in Telangana, the BJP sings a different tune. Its state unit has vehemently opposed the inclusion of Pasmanda Muslims in the BC list, citing religious objections. This double standard not only undermines the central leadership’s narrative but also exposes a deeper contradiction — one where caste equality is conditional upon geography and political expedience.

Pasmanda Voices: Demanding Justice, Not Charity

From within the community, frustration is mounting. Mohammed Shabbeer, working president of a Pasmanda advocacy group, puts it plainly: “Numbers mean nothing without representation. Congress hides behind broad quotas, and BJP hides behind religious lines. Neither wants to genuinely empower us.”

Shukuroddin, who leads an association representing backward Muslim groups like the Dudekulas and Noorbash, echoes this sentiment: “We are always good enough to vote, but never good enough to lead. This isn’t inclusion — it’s electoral exploitation.”

These voices don’t demand charity. They demand justice — a fair share of political space in accordance with their demographic reality.

The Global Lens: Why This Story Matters

For an international audience watching India’s democratic evolution, the Pasmanda issue is more than a local or sectarian squabble. It’s a case study in how caste hierarchies can fracture even ostensibly unified religious identities. It is also a reminder that marginalization operates in layers — and that the language of rights must reach beyond majoritarian binaries of Hindu and Muslim.

In a world grappling with the politics of inclusion — from African-Americans in the U.S. to migrant communities in Europe — the Pasmanda struggle adds a uniquely South Asian dimension to a global conversation.

Will the Cycle Finally Break?

As Telangana moves toward local elections, the answer to whether Pasmanda Muslims will finally gain real representation is far from clear. What is clear, however, is that continued silence — both institutional and electoral — will only deepen existing fissures.

Democracy thrives not merely on votes, but on voice. Unless Telangana’s political parties are willing to recognize the latter, the largest segment of its Muslim population will remain politically invisible — again.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Indian Muslims are not just part of India’s future. They are helping to create it.

A popular narrative aggressively pushed in the international media is that Indian Muslims are oppressed, unsafe, and voiceless. Unfortunately, many—both within and outside India—still buy into this rusted propaganda. It paints a bleak picture of victimhood and exclusion, often ignoring the lived realities and actual progress of Muslims across the country.

But beyond this outdated and politically motivated narrative lies a far brighter, bolder, and more grounded truth: Indian Muslims are not just surviving—they are thriving. From civic activism in Delhi’s Seelampur to entrepreneurship in Bengaluru, from World Cup victories to legal advocacy, Muslims across India are shaping their identity through education, democratic participation, innovation, and resilience.

Community Participation: Grassroots Power and Local Leadership

From narrow lanes to open fields, from rural bastis to urban settlements, Muslim communities are quietly but powerfully transforming their surroundings. In places like Seelampur in Delhi, Kishanganj in Bihar, and parts of Hyderabad and Bengaluru, locals are coming together to run evening schools, healthcare camps, and vocational training centers.

What makes this effort remarkable is its community-led nature. Whether it’s women teaching literacy in local madrasas, youth groups spreading digital awareness, or NGOs providing scholarships, Muslims are choosing action over apathy, proving that true change begins from within. These initiatives show how local efforts can create national impact, and how compassion, unity, and service define real leadership.

Across India, Muslims are participating in democracy with greater conviction and clarity. From voting in record numbers to contesting panchayat, municipal, and state elections, the community is increasingly aware that political engagement is empowerment.

Parties like the Indian Union Muslim League (IUML) in Kerala and All India United Democratic Front [AIUDF]  in Assam have long reflected strong regional aspirations. Meanwhile, new political energies are rising, with youth-led forums, independent candidates, and Pasmanda coalitions pushing for inclusive representation.

Rather than being boxed into stereotypes or reduced to a “vote bank,” Muslims today are asserting their place in politics as equal stakeholders in the Indian democratic project.

Socio-Economic Growth: A Quiet Revolution

Despite socio-economic challenges, Indian Muslims are turning adversity into opportunity. Across the country, young Muslims are breaking generational barriers, entering fields like technology, law, medicine, digital media, and entrepreneurship. Startups run by Muslims in Bengaluru and Hyderabad are making headlines, while artisans from Kashmir to Tamil Nadu are reviving traditional crafts with global flair.

Pasmanda Muslims in particular are embracing change with boldness – sending their children to school, seeking skill-based jobs, and tapping into government and private opportunities. The growth of community microfinance, women-run cooperatives, and online learning platforms is enabling them to step into a new era of progress with confidence.

This quiet revolution is powered by faith, family, education, and a determination to create a better tomorrow.

From bustling marketplaces to tech startups, Muslim entrepreneurs are innovating, building, and thriving. Their businesses, be it in food, textiles, fashion, or digital spaces blend traditional skills with modern innovation, creating employment and preserving cultural legacies.

More Muslim women and youth are entering business with confidence, supported by community-led initiatives and digital platforms. Their success stories are inspiring and show that talent and hard work know no barriers. Muslim entrepreneurs are not just economic contributors, they’re culture-keepers, job creators, and visionaries building a better tomorrow.

Civic Participation: Youth, Women, and New Voices Rising

Indian Muslims are no longer waiting to be included-they are making space for themselves. From campus activism to legal advocacy, from media awareness campaigns to environmental initiatives, Muslim youth are at the forefront of civic change. Students from institutions like Jamia Millia Islamia and  Aligarh Muslim university, are building coalitions across communities to protect constitutional values and ensure everyone’s voice is heard.

Indian Muslim women are leading too — organizing health awareness drives, running schools, and becoming lawyers, entrepreneurs, and elected representatives. Their courage is reshaping the narrative and inspiring future generations to aim higher.

In stadiums across the nation, Indian Muslims are not only participating in sports, they are excelling, inspiring, and breaking barriers. Their achievements are rewriting narratives and reaffirming that talent knows no religion, only determination and dreams.

Take the example of Mohammed Shami, whose breathtaking performance in the 2023 Cricket World Cup was not just about wickets — it became a symbol of national pride. From humble beginnings in Uttar Pradesh to becoming India’s strike bowler, Shami’s journey inspired millions, transcending religious divides and uniting cricket fans across communities.

Alongside him, Mohammed Siraj has emerged as a fast-bowling force, celebrated not just for his talent, but for his emotional journey, including his tribute to his late father during India’s historic win in Australia.

In tennis, Sania Mirza stands as an icon of women’s empowerment and sporting excellence. As a Muslim woman who dominated global tennis rankings while proudly embracing her identity, Sania has become a role model for girls across India — especially from minority communities — proving that boundaries are meant to be broken.

Young Muslim athletes are also rising in sports like football, wrestling, boxing, and athletics. Across Kashmir, Kerala, Hyderabad, and West Bengal, local tournaments often spotlight Muslim talents, many of whom come from modest backgrounds and dream of representing India on the world stage. Academies and training camps run in community centers and minority-dominated areas are nurturing these dreams, showing how access and encouragement can change lives.

Importantly, young Muslim women are claiming their space in the sporting world too. Initiatives like Girls Kick Football Academy , and rising stars in boxing like Tabassum Pasha, are leading a quiet revolution – challenging stereotypes, inspiring the next generation, and reminding the nation that the future of Indian sports lies in its diversity.

In every sprint, serve, and six, these athletes reflect a spirit of resilience and unity. Their stories remind us that sports, at its best, mirrors the country we aspire to be — inclusive, aspirational, and full of heart.

Representation: From Silence to Strength

For too long, the question of Muslim representation in India was limited to numbers. But today, it is about voice, visibility, and value. Whether in law courts, newsrooms, legislatures, or classrooms, Muslims are demanding and gaining spaces that reflect their realities and ambitions.

What’s heartening is that the new wave of leadership is not confined to religion or identity alone. It is intersectional, inclusive, and idea-driven. From Pasmanda activists to Hindu-Muslim coalitions, from Muslim women’s rights defenders to secular regional parties: the message is clear: Muslims are no longer on the margins. They are shaping the center.

India’s Muslim community, with its rich cultural legacy and youthful energy, is moving forward with purpose and pride. They are not just surviving, they are building, learning, leading, and contributing to the national vision of progress and pluralism.

As this vibrant community continues to dream, organize, and uplift one another, one truth becomes more visible than ever: Indian Muslims are not just part of India’s future. They are helping to create it.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Instead of hastily jumping to ideals of Hindu-Muslim brotherhood, perhaps we should first strive to humanize the Shia or Sunni next door—recognizing that they are as human as the Hindu in the neighboring town.

Blaming the West and the Cold War for the problem of Islamist terrorism and extremism is a convenient way of washing our hands of the issue. This narrative often ignores the fact that many Muslims themselves have normalised certain extremist ideas in everyday conversations. When a child is taught from an early age to view others as the other, some form of distance, hostility, and ultimately ghettoisation if not spatial , mental is bound to follow.

Let’s be clear: this ghettoisation is, to a large extent, self-imposed by Muslims who prefer to live “amongst their own.” But who is “their own”? This very idea contradicts the oft-repeated narrative that “we rejected Pakistan.” But what is Pakistan? It is not just a territory—it is an idea. An idea that Muslims of the subcontinent cannot coexist with non-Muslims, primarily Hindus, and therefore need a separate space to live and in essence explore our religiosity as a state and a community .

If that is so, how is ghettoisation any different? Isn’t it the same idea in practice—that Muslims cannot live among Hindus and must live solely among themselves? Various reasons are given for this self-imposed segregation—such as the reluctance of Hindus to rent or sell property to Muslims. But let us admit: in many so-called Hindu-dominated areas, Muslims do live—let’s not delve into their religiosity, though they often tend to be those who do not wear their religion on their sleeves, who have retracted religion to their homes, hearts, and mosques.

The claim that a Muslim cannot live among non-Muslims is a myth, and it ignores the broader sociological fact that segregation is not unique to Muslims. Other religious, ethnic, and linguistic groups in India also tend to cluster together, yet no one calls that oppression. People often prefer to live among those who share cultural and linguistic affinities. Why should that inherently be seen as exclusionary and wrong?

A large section of Muslims have migrated from Hindu-dominated areas to Muslim-dominated ones—such as Mumbra, Kurla, Mira Road in Maharashtra. These areas were initially chosen because they were on the periphery of Mumbai, relatively underpopulated, and affordable. Over the years, they transformed into Muslim-majority areas, derogatorily called “Mini Pakistan”—Mumbra in Maharashtra, Jamia Nagar in Delhi, Juhapura in Gujarat.

Initially, Muslims shifted to these spaces due to real threats of communal violence, but later, the migration became driven by perceived threats. However, a troubling development occurred: as Muslims moved into these spaces, they started cultivating a hyper-nationalistic and hyper-religious consciousness, and they didn’t see contradiction between the two, all the rage against the state and other communities got very conveniently channelised into fuelling sectarianism.

In these ghettoes, communalism of a specific intra-Muslim kind flourished—sectarianism became even more intense than Hindu-Muslim communalism. The Wahhabis, Barelvis, Deobandis, and Shias engaged in pitched ideological battles, throwing each other out of Islam every day and taking them in everyday to be kicked out the next and suddenly uniting with them in the face of the larger Hindu threat, This all happened in these very ghettoes. 

I feel that in the study of Indian Muslim ghettoes, how sub-divisions among Muslims also find expression in ghettoisation is often missed. For example, there are Shia ghettoes or, to be apolitical, Shia settlements within the larger Sunni ghettoes in India. Shias usually don’t reside among Sunnis, as every year Sunnis take offence at their mourning of Hussain, the grandson of Prophet Mohammed. Similarly, Ahl-e-Hadith to a large extent live near Ahle Hadees masjids, and the same is partially true for every major sect.

I remember a friend narrating an incident from Mumbra—the largest Muslim ghetto in India. He lived in one of its best buildings. During Muharram, some Sunnis in the building objected to the mourning rituals of Shias. Instead of asserting their right to peacefully observe their faith, some residents demanded that the Tablighi Jamaat’s halqas (religious circles) also be stopped.

In the same friend’s building, there was a man who never greeted others with salaam. When asked why, he replied, “I don’t greet kafirs,” referring to other Muslims who did not align with his sect. Let me reiterate this is one of the best buildings in the ghetto.

Recently, I met a man who recounted his experience at an Eid-ul-Adha prayer. The imam there declared that if the animal sacrifice was not performed by a Sunni Imam, it would be invalid. He also insisted that the skin of the sacrificed animal should be donated only to “Our Masjid.”

Let us not deceive ourselves: sectarianism is real and deep-seated within Muslim communities. Instead of hastily jumping to ideals of Hindu-Muslim brotherhood, perhaps we should first strive to humanize the Shia or Sunni next door—recognizing that they are as human as the Hindu in the neighboring town.

A humanist lens demands that we first dismantle our internal sectarianism before talking of communal harmony at large. Only when we see each other as human—across sects, faiths, and communities—can we hope to create a society not based on hatred but on larger and real Harmony.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

But Indian Muslims must pause and reflect. Are we seen as comrades in these causes, or merely as expendable emotional masses?

Indian Muslims are among the most emotionally responsive people when it comes to the global Muslim narrative. We protest for Gaza, chant for Palestine, and stand in solidarity with Muslims in far-off lands — from Iraq to Syria, from Myanmar to Sudan. But when we look back at what the so-called Ummah has done in return for us, the answer is chillingly clear: nothing.

Despite being home to one of the largest Muslim populations on earth — over 200 million — Indian Muslims have never had a seat at the table of the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation (OIC). Not once in its five-decade existence has this body, which claims to represent global Muslim interests, offered us any representation or voice. This deliberate exclusion begs a serious question: why do Indian Muslims continue to sacrifice their time, emotions, and sometimes even freedom, for a “brotherhood” that has consistently ignored and sidelined them?

Historical Snub: The 1969 Rabat Conference

Let us revisit a painful yet revealing moment in history. In 1969, during the first Islamic Summit in Rabat, Morocco, India was invited to participate. Representing India was Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed, a respected Muslim statesman who would later become President of India. Yet, under pressure from Pakistan, India was unceremoniously shown the door. This wasn’t merely a diplomatic slight — it was a clear message from the Muslim world: your faith is not enough. Your political identity — as an Indian — is a disqualifier.

The Organisation of Islamic Cooperation, under the guise of representing 57 Muslim-majority countries, chose to side with Pakistan’s insecurities over India’s reality. And from that moment onward, Indian Muslims were treated as outsiders in Islamic diplomacy. One of the world’s largest Muslim populations became invisible in the OIC’s corridors.

The Illusion of Ummah: What Are We Marching For?

Despite this snub, Indian Muslims continue to march passionately for causes like Palestine. They protest Israel’s actions, mourn Gaza’s dead, and share viral slogans of unity. But do Palestinians, or the Arab states, reciprocate this solidarity?

India’s position on the Palestine-Israel conflict has been nuanced, and while it still supports a two-state solution, its growing ties with Israel have been met with strategic silence from Arab capitals. They don’t criticize India, but the Ummah doesn’t protest for Indian Muslims the way Indian Muslims protest for it.

We romanticize Iran — forgetting that Iranian proxies like the Fatemiyoun Brigade killed thousands of Muslims in Syria. We chant the names of Turkish leaders who have more business deals with Israel than speeches about Gaza. We cling to a one-sided idea of the Ummah that refuses to acknowledge us.

Historical Loyalty for Foreign Thrones

This is not new. In the 1920s, Indian Muslims organized the Khilafat Movement to defend the Ottoman Caliphate. The irony? The Ottomans never ruled India. Our ancestors had no direct stake in Turkish affairs. Yet we mobilized nationwide protests, boycotted British goods, and even clashed with colonial authorities — all for a distant throne in Istanbul.

In hindsight, what did the Turks ever do for us? The Caliphate collapsed, Turkey became secular under Atatürk, and Indian Muslims gained nothing from the movement — except perhaps a precedent of misdirected loyalty.

Dr. B.R. Ambedkar — often quoted by modern secularists and even Muslim youth today — was brutally honest in his analysis. He wrote that for many Muslims, the idea of the Ummah superseded national identity. In Thoughts on Pakistan, he cautioned that such a mindset made political loyalty to the nation-state difficult.

Many labelled him a bigot back then. But today, his words resonate more than ever. The hypocrisy is stark: we use Ambedkar as a shield in domestic debates while ignoring his core warnings about divided loyalties and misplaced priorities.

Time to Wake Up

Today, Israel’s war with Hamas evokes mass outrage. Rightly so — civilian casualties are a tragedy. But that energy, that anger, that time — could it not also be directed toward our own local causes?

Thousands of Indian Muslim youth are unemployed. Our schools are crumbling. Our institutions are infiltrated by radicals who don’t empower, but exploit. Women in our community still struggle for basic education and healthcare. Where is our outrage for that?

Why not march for better schooling in Bihar? Why not raise slogans for economic reforms in Uttar Pradesh? Why not channel our collective passion into building libraries, funding scholarships, and creating think tanks? Why must we always be foot soldiers in someone else’s geopolitical war?

A Final Thought

Palestine deserves justice. So do the people of Syria, Yemen, Sudan, and every other place ravaged by violence. But Indian Muslims must pause and reflect. Are we seen as comrades in these causes, or merely as expendable emotional masses? If the OIC can reject us, if Arab regimes can ignore us, if Iran can manipulate us, if Turkey can exploit us — shouldn’t we stop bleeding for them blindly?

The Ummah is a powerful spiritual idea, but as a political reality, it is highly selective. And in that selectivity, Indian Muslims have always been left out.

It’s time we stopped marching for a club that won’t even give us a visitor’s pass.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

If any country, including Pakistan, ever invades India in the name of Ghazwa-e-Hind, they will find Indian Muslims defending their homeland

Among the many ideas that have found their way into the modern Islamic revivalist narrative, few are as persistently misunderstood—or dangerously misused—as the concept of Ghazwa-e-Hind. Popularized in contemporary times by figures like the late Dr. Israr Ahmed, it has come to be viewed not as a historical episode or a symbolic metaphor, but as a yet-to-be-fulfilled call to military conquest. This interpretation, though emotionally charged, is divorced from Islamic orthodoxy, historical context, and contemporary political reality.

This misreading of Islamic eschatology has become especially potent in Pakistan, where it has been weaponized by a segment of the clergy and even military-linked media. But what the masses often don’t see is that such a vision not only contradicts Islamic legal tradition, but also threatens the harmony of the Indian subcontinent, especially the future of Indian Muslims.

A Historical View—Not a Military Manual

The hadith that mentions Ghazwa-e-Hind is reported in Sunan an-Nasa’i (Hadith 3175), Musnad Ahmad (Hadith 23804), and al-Tabarani’s al-Mu’jam al-Kabir. The narration speaks of two groups saved from Hellfire—one that fights in India and another that accompanies Jesus, the son of Mary, during his second coming. However, Islamic scholars have long disagreed about the authenticity, context, and timeline of these narrations.

Renowned Hadith scholar Shaykh Nasiruddin al-Albani graded some of the chains as weak (da’if), while others like Ibn Hajar al-Asqalani in Fath al-Bari considered them authentic but possibly fulfilled during the early Islamic conquests. Ibn Kathir, in Al-Bidaya wa’l-Nihaya, also noted that the interpretation of these ahadith was limited to earlier periods of conquest.

Classical historians like al-Baladhuri in Futuh al-Buldan detail the campaign of Muhammad bin Qasim into Sindh (712 CE) as a response to an appeal from Muslim merchants and not as a sweeping religious war. The conquest was confined to a narrow region and did not reflect any systematic plan to convert India. Furthermore, the Chachnama, a semi-legendary Persian text documenting this campaign, narrates how religious freedom was granted to local Hindus and temples remained operational under Islamic rule.

Islamic scholar Dr. Ayesha Jalal, in her book Partisans of Allah: Jihad in South Asia, asserts that Ghazwa-e-Hind has been inflated in Pakistan’s religious discourse not because of religious necessity, but due to state-sponsored ideology. She writes that this hadith has “resurfaced with renewed intensity in Pakistan’s strategic imagination, filtered through a millenarian lens.”

The Qur’anic Command: No Compulsion in Religion

The most authoritative source in Islam—the Qur’an—states unequivocally: “There is no compulsion in religion” (Qur’an 2:256). This verse, supported by the consensus (ijma’) of scholars, has been interpreted as a foundational principle of religious freedom. In Tafsir al-Qurtubi, Imam al-Qurtubi elaborates that Islam forbids coercion because belief requires conviction, not force.

The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), when inviting tribes to Islam, used persuasion, kindness, and exemplary character—not threats. As recorded in Sirat Ibn Hisham and Tabaqat Ibn Sa’d, his approach to da’wah was rooted in wisdom, not warfare.

Moreover, Tafsir al-Tabari on verse 16:125—“Call to the way of your Lord with wisdom and beautiful preaching…”—explains that this verse sets the tone for all Islamic outreach. Any idea that religious dominance can be achieved through military force runs counter to the Qur’anic message and Prophetic model.

Prophecy ≠ Policy

Yes, Islam contains eschatological prophecies—many of which describe dramatic geopolitical changes in the end times.

The Prophet (peace be upon him) never told Muslims to build strategies around ghazwaat of the future. Instead, he focused on justice, reform, and internal purification.

Consider the Ghazwa of Abwa and Ghazwa of Ushayrah—expeditions that ended without a single arrow being shot. As documented in Al-Maghazi of al-Waqidi, many ghazwaat were precautionary or diplomatic. This is supported by Imam al-Nawawi’s commentary on Sahih Muslim, where he notes that military action in Islam is conditional on ethical, legal, and political necessities—not eschatological ambitions.

The Spread of Islam: A Moral Project, Not a Military One

Historically, Islam’s most significant growth occurred in regions where armies never marched. Southeast Asia, East Africa, and large swathes of India were introduced to Islam not through conquest but through trade and spiritual invitation.

Dr. Richard Eaton, in his landmark study The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier, highlights how Sufi saints and local rulers facilitated Islamization in Bengal through land reforms, spiritual guidance, and social integration—not through war. Similarly, Syed Abul Hasan Ali Nadwi in Islam and the World emphasizes that Islamic civilization at its best was spread through service, justice, and education.

The Prophet himself said: “I was sent to perfect noble character” (Musnad Ahmad, Hadith 8595). This foundational hadith is echoed in the works of Imam al-Ghazali in Ihya Ulum al-Din, who taught that spiritual excellence—not militarism—is the soul of Islamic revival.

Pakistan’s Fantasy vs Indian Muslims’ Reality

One of the more troubling developments is the Pakistani state’s occasional use of Ghazwa-e-Hind as a symbolic justification for cross-border ambitions. In textbooks, speeches, and even TV dramas, the narrative of a future campaign to “liberate” Indian Muslims is floated as a divine responsibility.

But such narratives overlook one major truth: Indian Muslims are not waiting for salvation. They are proud citizens of India, heirs to over a thousand years of Islamic contribution to the subcontinent.

India has produced towering Islamic scholars—Shaykh Abdul Haq Muhaddith Dehlawi, Shah Waliullah al-Dihlawi, Maulana Azad, and countless others. Its institutions—from Darul Uloom Deoband to Nadwatul Ulama—have trained generations of global scholars. The Indian Muslim identity is not subordinate to any external power. It is deeply rooted in the land, language, and ethos of India.

If any country, including Pakistan, ever invades India in the name of Ghazwa-e-Hind, they will find Indian Muslims defending their homeland, not cheering from the sidelines. As the Qur’an instructs: “Stand firmly for justice…” (4:135). That includes standing against unjust aggression—even if it’s done in the name of religion.

From Brigadier Muhammad Usman, the hero of Nowshera, to Captain Haneefuddin, who laid down his life in Kargil, Indian Muslims have proven their loyalty with blood.

Let no one mistake their silence for weakness or their faith for disloyalty. The Prophet loved Makkah. The Indian Muslim loves India.

Time for Responsibility, Not Rhetoric

Dr. Israr Ahmed’s intellectual legacy is mixed. While he awakened many to the idea of Islamic revival, his fixation on militarism—untethered from contemporary fiqh and political wisdom—misguided many. Today, young Muslims must be trained not in war slogans but in the Qur’an, Hadith, ethics, law, and service.

The return of a Caliphate, if it happens, must mirror the model of the Prophet—founded on justice, consultation, and mercy. Not through firebrand nationalism or weaponized hadiths.

Ghazwa-e-Hind has become more of a political trope than a theological reality. When read responsibly, Islamic tradition offers no justification for cross-border aggression dressed in prophecy. The real ghazwa we need today is against ignorance, sectarianism, and political manipulation.

Let us turn our energies toward rebuilding our societies—through knowledge, reform, and character. That is the legacy of the Prophet. That is the path of the righteous.

Recognizing caste within the Muslim population isn’t a threat to unity; it’s a path toward justice.

In a landmark shift, India’s central government has decided to include caste data in the upcoming national census—the first time such a detailed caste count will take place since 1931. On paper, it’s a technical change. But for millions of India’s most invisible citizens, it’s potentially transformative.

Among those who stand to gain the most are Pasmanda Muslims—a broad umbrella term that includes Dalit, Adivasi, and other backward-class Muslim communities. Despite being the numerical majority among India’s Muslims, Pasmandas have long lived in the shadows of policy, politics, and even community representation.

A recent caste survey in Telangana revealed something telling: nearly 80% of the state’s Muslims belong to Pasmanda backgrounds. It was a statistic that didn’t surprise social scientists or grassroots activists—but it was a rare moment of clarity in a country where Muslim identity is often painted with one broad brushstroke.

That simplification has done real harm. The Indian Muslim is frequently seen as a singular, undivided bloc—one minority, one vote bank, one voice. But that narrative erases the deep social hierarchies and caste divisions within the community itself. And Pasmandas, who bear the brunt of poverty, discrimination, and social exclusion, are the ones who disappear from view.

Within the community, elite Muslim groups—those traditionally seen as Ashraf or upper caste—have dominated platforms of power: political parties, religious boards, cultural institutions, and media narratives. Meanwhile, Pasmandas have remained underrepresented, often struggling with lower literacy rates, poorer healthcare, and fewer job opportunities.

The last significant spotlight on Muslim marginalization came nearly two decades ago, through the Sachar Committee Report in 2006. Its findings were damning: many Muslim groups, especially those from Pasmanda backgrounds, fared worse than Scheduled Castes in key development indicators. Yet the lack of caste-disaggregated data meant that policies based on these findings were broad and ineffective. Everyone got lumped together. And as usual, those at the bottom lost out.

That’s why this new caste census matters. It could offer, for the first time in independent India, a full picture of caste realities within the Muslim community. It could provide a foundation for smarter, more targeted policies—ones that don’t just benefit “Muslims” in general, but specifically uplift those most in need.

It also corrects a historical oversight. During British rule, caste among Muslims was acknowledged and documented. The 1901 and 1931 censuses classified Muslims into categories like Ashraf (nobles), Ajlaf (backward), and Arzal (Dalit or “untouchable”). These categories were crude, but they at least reflected a social truth. After independence, however, India adopted a more homogenized view of its minorities—particularly Muslims—and quietly dropped caste from the conversation.

This erasure wasn’t just bureaucratic. It had real consequences. In 1950, Dalit Muslims lost their eligibility for Scheduled Caste (SC) reservations. To this day, they are denied affirmative action on the basis of caste, despite experiencing the same structural discrimination as their Hindu Dalit counterparts.

Welfare schemes and affirmative policies, designed without acknowledging these internal hierarchies, have repeatedly missed their mark. Upper-caste Muslims—though a minority within the minority—have often been the primary beneficiaries. Pasmandas remain at the margins.

For the upcoming census to make a difference, it must be handled transparently and without political interference. The data should be released in full. No filters. No spin. Only then can it serve as a blueprint for real change.

This isn’t about dividing communities—it’s about understanding them. Recognizing caste within the Muslim population isn’t a threat to unity; it’s a path toward justice. It gives voice to those who have long been ignored and lays the groundwork for more inclusive policies.

For Pasmanda Muslims, this census isn’t just a count. It’s a chance to be seen.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.