Returning to contemporary political writing after a long pause, I sought a work that would speak honestly about India’s political journey without falling prey to ideological allegiance. K. S. Komireddi’s Malevolent Republic came as an answer to that search: sharp, unsparing, deeply felt, and written with a sense of urgency rarely seen in recent Indian political commentary.
Plenty has been written on independent India, yet few books trace its trajectory with the candour Komireddi brings. Many historians have chronicled the major events that shaped the republic — wars with Pakistan and China, the Emergency, liberalisation of 1991, the Babri Masjid demolition, communal riots, and recurring crises of democracy. Sunil Khilnani’s The Idea of India offered an early intellectual framework for understanding the nation, while Ramachandra Guha’s India After Gandhi remains one of the most detailed and balanced accounts of the republic’s modern history.
Komireddi’s work finds its place somewhere between these two — neither as exhaustive as Guha nor as theoretical as Khilnani, but driven by a fierce personal voice. His narrative opens with a childhood memory: a secular upbringing that included early schooling in a madrassa, abruptly cut short by communal tensions. This experience becomes a lens through which he views the fragility of India’s pluralist promise. The blend of reportage, history, and autobiography gives the book emotional texture, making it more than just a political record.
Komireddi writes with remarkable fluency and moral conviction. He criticises failures across party lines, unafraid to attribute blame where he believes it belongs. Yet the same conviction sometimes sharpens into prejudice. His attempt at neutrality can waver, and in moments he appears to contradict himself — a reminder that Malevolent Republic is as much a work of interpretation as it is of history. For readers expecting strict neutrality or comprehensive documentation, these moments may feel unsettling. For others, they may be the book’s greatest strength, revealing the raw honesty of a writer wrestling with the republic he inherited.
This is not the definitive history of modern India, nor does it claim to be. Instead, it is a passionate, provocative interrogation of what went wrong with the world’s largest democracy. Those seeking archival detail will find better companions on their shelf. But for readers willing to engage with a sharply persuasive, deeply personal and at times uncomfortable critique of India’s political destiny, Malevolent Republic is a compelling read — one that sparks thought, argument, and reflection long after it ends.
