The Silly Season of Offence, and Javed Akhtar’s Irreverence

 

So, Javed Akhtar is a “selective atheist”? Really? That’s like accusing someone of being a “part-time vegetarian” because they eat paneer on weekdays and butter chicken at weddings. It’s a joke—except in our poor excuse for a public debate, people are deadly serious when they say such things.

Let us begin with first principles. As Benedict Anderson reminded us, nations are “imagined communities.” They are held together not by dogma or theology but by stories, symbols, songs, and rituals. In India, this imagination was never purely Hindu, never purely Muslim, never purely secular either. It has always been a messy, colourful patchwork woven from Tagore’s verse, Gandhi’s politics, Ambedkar’s law, and yes, Bollywood’s lyrics.

Now, in this fabric, why must you prove your secularism by mocking every religion equally? Who came up with that idiotic standard? Religion in India is lived in fragments, in uneven doses. Salman Rushdie once joked that being Muslim in Bombay simply meant no pork and one annual mosque visit. That’s it. Religion wasn’t a jail—it was background music. Same with Hindus playing Holi or Sikhs sharing sheer khurma at Eid. Nobody is signing theological contracts. It’s neighbourhood life, nothing more.

So when Akhtar accepts national symbols or sings about India while ridiculing both Hindutva politics and Islamist zealotry, he is not being “selective.” He is simply being Indian.

Much of the critique against him treats national symbols as untouchable icons. But symbols are never static; they are constantly reshaped by power. Consider Pakistan’s transformation under Zia-ul-Haq. A Dawn essay once described the journey from “Khuda Hafiz” to “Allah Hafiz.” By replacing the Persianate “Khuda” with the Arabic “Allah,” Zia compressed centuries of cultural history into a narrower, harder mould. The result was a society less tolerant, more rigid, more paranoid.

And yet we sit here pretending India’s symbols can never be hijacked. Really? Every time a politician screams that you must prove loyalty with slogans or flag-waving, what’s happening? Symbols are being weaponised. In that context, Akhtar questioning them is not betrayal—it’s patriotism. The tougher kind, the kind that refuses to be bullied.

Now, let’s talk about his remarks on Muslims being denied housing. Out came the hashtags: “communal!” “Divisive!” But what did he actually say? That many Hindu families refusing Muslims are themselves Partition refugees, chased out by Muslim mobs, carrying their trauma with them. You may not like it, but it’s true. Anyone who’s ever sat with Partition survivors knows the wounds never healed. Akhtar said it plainly. And he added what should be obvious—that prejudice must be resisted, but history cannot be erased. Trauma explains; it does not excuse. But in today’s discourse, nuance is a banned substance.

In this, Akhtar resembles Richard Dawkins. Dawkins began with sweeping, often offensive remarks about religion. But as political Islam rose, he sharpened his focus: distinguishing between ordinary believers and theocrats, between personal faith and Islamist ideology. His sharpness remained, but his target became clearer. Akhtar’s trajectory is similar. He has been equally caustic toward Islamist extremists and Hindu majoritarianism. And that, of course, earns him abuse from both sides. Sanghis denounce him as anti-Hindu; Islamists denounce him as a traitor. Perhaps that is the surest proof of his secularism.

The Kolkata festival drama? Same story. Media rushed to paint Akhtar as a hypocrite. The Left got its soundbites, the Right its outrage. Meanwhile, the real issue went ignored: Bengal’s plural culture is under siege. Bengal thrived on Tagore’s humanism, Nazrul’s syncretism, Vivekananda’s universalism. Its festivals were everybody’s. Mamata Banerjee, for all her faults, still defends that culture. BJP’s Hindutva project, on the other hand, thrives on dividing, on painting Muslims as intolerant. And when the Left parrots those lines against Mamata, they don’t defend secularism—they hand Hindutva free ammunition.

But no, let’s keep nitpicking Akhtar. Because it’s easier to play morality theatre than to confront the actual danger: the march of Hindu Rashtra.

And so we come to the heart of the matter. We live in an age where being offended is a full-time profession. Sanghis are offended when Akhtar compares them to the Taliban. Islamists are offended when he condemns jihadist terror. Writers are accused of “selective atheism.” Politicians are accused of “soft Hindutva.” Everyone is hunting for insult; no one is listening for meaning.

Akhtar doesn’t care. He has written patriotic songs, defended pluralism, condemned terror, and stuck pins in the inflated egos of the powerful. Is he always consistent? No. Who is? But look at his principle: a lifelong refusal to bow before religious orthodoxy, whichever its colour. That’s consistency enough.

The truth? Akhtar’s irreverence is his gift. In a democracy, offending everyone equally is not a flaw—it’s a sign of health. Those who want him silenced for “opportunism” only reveal how fragile their own dogmas are.

We live in a silly season where it’s too easy to anger both saffron and bearded brigades. One wants you to chant slogans, the other wants you to police memory. Javed Akhtar does neither. He needles, provokes, laughs, and yes, offends. That’s his job. And frankly, that’s a service to India far greater than the hollow patriotism of his critics.