Maulana Azad’s Idea of Rabubiyat, Secularism, and Nationalism

Maulana Abul Kalam Azad (1888–1958) remains one of the most compelling figures in India’s intellectual and political history. An Islamic scholar of immense learning, a formidable freedom fighter, and India’s first Education Minister, Azad shaped the foundations of India’s pluralist identity. His legacy was not confined to his political achievements; it extended deeply into philosophical and theological realms. At the heart of Azad’s worldview was the Quranic concept of Rabubiyat, i.e., God’s lordship, sustenance, and care over all creation. For Azad, Rabubiyat was more than a theological proposition. it was a moral principle that shaped his understanding of justice, secularism, and nationalism. Grounding his politics in Islamic ethics, Azad articulated a vision of India as a united, inclusive nation.

The foundation of Azad’s political theology was the Quranic description of God as Rabb al-‘Alamin—“the Lord of all the worlds”—a title that opens the Quran itself in Surah Al-Fatiha (1:2): “Alhamdu lillahi Rabbil ‘alamin” (“All praise is due to Allah, Lord of the worlds”). Azad understood this phrase not as a generic invocation but as an assertion of divine sustainment that embraces all of creation without partiality. In his commentary Tarjuman al-Quran, he emphasized that if God is the sustainer of all that exists, then the ethical implications are profound: no human being or community can claim superiority over another. The oneness of God (tawhid) necessarily implies the oneness of humanity and the indivisibility of its moral worth.

This theological vision found further grounding in Surah Al-Hujurat (49:13), which declares: “O mankind! We created you from a single pair of male and female, and made you into nations and tribes, that you may know one another. Verily, the most honored of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous among you. Indeed, Allah is All-Knowing, All-Aware.” For Azad, this verse provided divine sanction for human diversity. It affirmed that distinctions of nation, tribe, or ethnicity were not causes for division but opportunities for mutual recognition and respect. From this scriptural basis, Azad argued that sectarianism, racism, and nationalism premised on exclusion were all violations of God’s intent. The divine order, or mizan, as he described it, demands a just balance among all people, and both colonial domination and religious communalism disrupted this balance.

Though Azad did not explicitly use the term Rabubiyat in a formalized doctrine, his interpretation was later echoed and crystallized by figures like Maulana Abdul Hamid Khan Bhashani, who described it as the principle of “undivided equality of all people irrespective of caste, nationality, and religion.” Azad’s writings and speeches clearly anticipated this definition. In Al-Hilal, his groundbreaking political journal, he condemned British colonialism not just as a foreign occupation but as an affront to divine justice. Exploitation of India’s resources, economic subjugation, and cultural alienation were, in Azad’s view, contrary to the Quranic ethics of stewardship and human dignity.

Azad’s understanding of secularism flowed naturally from this moral universe. His secularism was not based on the European model that demands the exclusion of religion from politics. Rather, it was a spiritual secularism that allowed religious diversity to flourish under a shared ethical canopy. Azad found support for this view in Quranic verses such as Surah Al-Baqarah (2:62), which affirms: “Indeed, those who believed, and those who were Jews or Christians or Sabians— those [among them] who believed in God and the Last Day and did righteousness— will have their reward with their Lord. No fear will there be concerning them, nor will they grieve.” This verse, for Azad, was a theological affirmation of religious pluralism. It undercut any claims to exclusivist salvation and instead emphasized righteousness and ethical action as the true basis of divine reward.

Azad’s commitment to this pluralism was not theoretical; it had profound political implications. During the 1940 Ramgarh session of the Indian National Congress, he famously declared: “I am a Muslim and profoundly conscious of that fact… But I am equally proud that I am an Indian.” This was no mere rhetorical flourish. It was a statement of his belief that religious identity and national identity were not contradictory but complementary. His opposition to the Muslim League’s demand for Pakistan was grounded in this ethical framework. Azad warned that dividing India along religious lines would not heal communal tensions but deepen them, violating both the spirit of Islam and the cultural unity of the subcontinent.

After independence, Azad carried these principles into governance. As India’s first Education Minister, he laid the foundation for a modern, democratic, and inclusive educational infrastructure. He established institutions such as the Indian Institutes of Technology (IITs) and the University Grants Commission (UGC) not merely to modernize India but to democratize knowledge. For him, education was a moral imperative and a way to create citizens who were both intellectually competent and spiritually aware. He championed linguistic unity between Hindi and Urdu, promoted scientific inquiry alongside cultural preservation, and encouraged a composite nationalism that drew from India’s pluralistic heritage.

Azad’s nationalism was inseparable from his Islamic ethics. He did not view the struggle for independence as a secular battle alone; it was a form of jihad in its truest sense—a spiritual and moral struggle against injustice. He invoked verses such as Surah Al-Hajj (22:39–40), which states: “Permission [to fight] has been given to those who are being fought, because they were wronged. And indeed, Allah is competent to give them victory— [They are] those who have been evicted from their homes without right— only because they say, ‘Our Lord is Allah.’ And were it not that Allah checks the people, some by means of others, there would have been demolished monasteries, churches, synagogues, and mosques in which the name of Allah is much mentioned.” Azad interpreted this as a divine endorsement of resistance to oppression and a call to protect all places of worship, not just Islamic ones. This, he believed, was the true spirit of Islam: to stand against tyranny and to safeguard the dignity of all religious traditions.

His opposition to Partition was rooted in this profound theological and moral vision. He believed that India’s diverse religious and cultural landscape was a divine design, not a historical accident. “To divide India,” he wrote, “is to deny God’s wisdom in creating a land where multiple faiths coexist.” His 1946 speech in Delhi was a passionate plea for unity and a prophetic warning against the bloodshed and displacement that Partition would bring. Tragically, his fears were realized, but his vision of a united India has remained an enduring ideal.

For Azad, the cultural syncretism of India, its Sufi shrines, Bhakti poetry, shared festivals, and multilingual traditions, were not superficial symbols but deep manifestations of Rabubiyat in the Indian context. He saw in India a unique civilizational experiment where multiple truths could coexist, enriching rather than negating one another. His concept of composite nationalism was, therefore, both a political strategy and a spiritual commitment. While it shared some affinities with Gandhi’s idea of Ram Rajya, Azad’s vision was distinctly Islamic, rooted in Quranic ethics and a theology of justice and diversity.

Azad’s thought forms a coherent and compelling triad: Rabubiyat as the theological foundation of universal human dignity; secularism as the ethical mode of governance that protects religious plurality; and nationalism as the civic expression of a united, inclusive community. His educational reforms were an extension of this framework. They were not aimed merely at increasing literacy rates but at cultivating morally grounded citizens who embodied values of compassion (rahma), justice (adl), and moral responsibility (taqwa). The institutions he helped build—like the IITs—were, for him, symbols of how spiritual values and scientific advancement could coexist in a harmonious society.

In contemporary India, grappling with the resurgence of communal politics and majoritarian nationalism, Azad’s ideas remain profoundly relevant. His vision offers a powerful counter-narrative to exclusionary ideologies, reminding us that pluralism is not just a political arrangement but a spiritual truth. During the protests against the Citizenship Amendment Act, 2019 (CAA) in 2020, many demonstrators carried posters with Azad’s quotes and verses he had often cited, invoking him as a moral compass in troubled times. While some critics argue that Azad underestimated the depth of communal divisions, his emphasis on education, justice, and ethical governance continues to offer a compelling path forward.

Maulana Azad’s Rabubiyat was never a mere abstraction. It was a revolutionary philosophy that infused his politics with a profound sense of moral purpose. His secularism did not seek to marginalize religion but to elevate shared values above sectarian interests. His nationalism did not aim for homogeneity but celebrated India’s diversity as a reflection of divine intent. At a time when the world seems increasingly divided by race, religion, and nationalism, Azad’s life and thought remind us that true sovereignty begins with recognizing the sanctity of human dignity. As he himself once said: “The essence of secularism is not the rejection of religion, but the rejection of any form of discrimination.” In that statement lies a vision as necessary today as it was in his time.

The Wqaf Amendment: A Secular State's Selective Interference

 On April 5, 2025, the Waqf (Amendment) Act, 2025 received Presidential assent and became binding law. What was introduced as a set of administrative reforms has, in reality, made sweeping changes to the legal framework governing waqf properties—assets that have, for centuries, formed the backbone of religious, charitable, and welfare activities in India’s Muslim community. These properties, once dedicated as waqf, are intended to remain forever devoted to the service of the public through mosques, schools, graveyards, hospitals, orphanages, and other such institutions. The waqf system is rooted in a deep religious tradition that treats such property not as personal or transferable wealth, but as a perpetual endowment—a trust in the service of God and society. By enacting this amendment, the state has imposed new controls and conditions on the management of these properties, and in doing so, it has stirred serious constitutional and ethical concerns that go to the very heart of India’s secular and democratic fabric.

One of the most significant and contentious aspects of this new law is its requirement that non-Muslim members be included in the governing bodies responsible for waqf administration. Until now, both the Central Waqf Council and the various State Waqf Boards have been comprised solely of Muslims, based on the reasonable and well-understood logic that a religious endowment grounded in Islamic jurisprudence should be managed by those who understand and adhere to that faith. Waqf is not a neutral asset; its creation, governance, and purpose are tied directly to religious doctrine. By mandating the inclusion of individuals from outside the Muslim faith into the core decision-making process, the law interferes with the internal affairs of a religious community in a way that is unprecedented, discriminatory, and constitutionally unsound.

This move strikes directly at the heart of Article 26 of the Constitution of India, which guarantees to every religious denomination the right to manage its own affairs in matters of religion. This right is not conditional on state approval; it is an autonomous space protected from majoritarian control. The state, in its role as a secular entity, has no business deciding how a religious body should govern itself, unless there is clear evidence of harm or illegality. In this case, the inclusion of non-Muslims is not based on any identified abuse or failure of the waqf system, but on a vague desire to “reform” or “standardize” it—standards that are not being imposed on other religious communities. Hindu temples are not required to appoint non-Hindus to their trust boards. Christian churches and Sikh gurdwaras are not compelled to allow outsiders into their governing bodies. Only the Muslim community is being asked to alter its religious institutions in a way that directly contradicts its religious principles and institutional independence. This selective interference makes a mockery of the secular ideal.

The principle of secularism, which is a part of the basic structure of the Indian Constitution, requires that the state maintain an equal distance from all religions. Secularism does not mean that the state should suppress religion—it means the state must avoid interfering in religious matters and must treat all faiths with the same degree of respect and restraint. The Waqf (Amendment) Act violates this principle by singling out one religious community and placing its institutions under conditions that others are not subject to. Far from being a neutral act of reform, the law appears to be based on an assumption that Muslim religious institutions require special oversight or control, while others are allowed to function autonomously. This is not secular governance—it is a form of state favoritism and distrust that targets one community under the guise of administrative reform.

The inequality is further compounded when we consider Article 14, which promises all persons equality before the law and equal protection of the laws. Any law that treats one group differently from others must be based on an intelligible classification and must have a rational connection to a legitimate objective. Here, the law applies intrusive controls only to Muslim endowments, without any demonstrated reason why waqf institutions uniquely require such measures. If transparency, accountability, or efficiency are the goals, then all religious and charitable trusts—regardless of religion—should be subject to the same standards. By applying special burdens only on waqf institutions, the law creates a classification that is both arbitrary and unconstitutional. This kind of discrimination violates the very spirit of equal treatment that the Constitution guarantees and erodes public faith in the neutrality of the legal system.

Equally troubling is the Act’s transfer of adjudicatory power from Waqf Tribunals to ordinary government officers in determining whether a property is waqf or not. Previously, such matters were heard by specialized tribunals that, although imperfect, at least functioned as quasi-judicial bodies with some familiarity with Islamic law and waqf practice. The new law hands this power over to revenue officials, such as district magistrates or collectors—executive agents of the state who lack judicial independence and religious expertise. This move not only politicizes the process but also weakens due process protections. Under Article 21, no person shall be deprived of life or personal liberty except according to a procedure established by law. And over decades of jurisprudence, the Supreme Court has clarified that this procedure must be just, fair, and reasonable—not arbitrary, opaque, or biased.

Giving government officers the final say in disputes over religious property strips away this fairness. Such decisions are likely to be influenced by political pressure, land-use priorities, or personal prejudice. In a country where land is scarce and waqf properties are often located in prime areas, this opens the door to massive misuse. Communities could lose control over mosques, schools, or graveyards not because of any legal fault, but because a bureaucrat deemed the land to be non-waqf. The loss here is not only of real estate, but of identity, heritage, and sacred space. Due process is reduced to a formality, and fundamental rights are rendered meaningless in practice.

Another devastating consequence of the new law is its removal of waqf property’s exemption from the Limitation Act, 1963, thereby allowing adverse possession to extinguish waqf claims. Under the previous regime, waqf land could not be lost merely because someone had occupied it for twelve years without contest. The reason was clear: waqf property is held in trust not for the trustee, but for the public—specifically for religious or charitable use. It is not like private property that a person can forget to protect. The very purpose of waqf is continuity and perpetuity. By making it subject to adverse possession, the new law effectively allows waqf land to be stolen through encroachment, and then legalized through bureaucratic inaction. In many cases, waqf boards lack the resources to track or litigate every piece of land. Under this regime, they will now also lose land they cannot immediately recover, even if it was wrongfully taken. This violates not only religious trust but also the constitutional right to property under Article 300A, which protects individuals and communities from being deprived of their property without legal authority. The irony is that the very law intended to regulate waqf may now become the means by which waqf property is legally lost forever.

In addition to all of this, the law demands that waqf properties must have formal documentation—a registered waqfnama—to be recognized. While this might seem like a logical administrative requirement, in practice, it means that a vast number of older waqf properties will be excluded from the official record simply because they were established in an era when documentation was rare. Many waqf lands are known by local custom, oral tradition, and continued community use. To now require them to produce written deeds is to apply modern bureaucratic standards to historical realities, with disastrous consequences. This not only undermines the protection of genuine waqf assets but also punishes communities for their historical poverty or illiteracy.

Altogether, the Waqf (Amendment) Act, 2025 is not a minor regulatory adjustment—it is a profound disruption of constitutional norms, legal protections, and secular principles. It treats Muslim institutions differently from others, burdens them with special restrictions, exposes them to state interference, and deprives them of rights that other communities take for granted. It violates Article 14’s promise of equality, Article 21’s guarantee of fair process, Article 26’s assurance of religious autonomy, and Article 300A’s protection of property. It also departs from the spirit of secularism by casting the state not as a neutral guardian, but as an active participant in the internal affairs of one particular faith.

The dangers of this law are not hypothetical. They will be felt in everyday ways—when a mosque is lost to encroachment, when a waqf school is shut due to lack of recognition, when a community can no longer bury its dead in ancestral graveyards, or when an honest mutawalli (trustee) is replaced by a politically connected appointee. The consequences will be deeply human, and often irreversible.

If India is to remain true to its founding ideals—of pluralism, equality, justice, and secular governance—then laws like the Waqf (Amendment) Act must be reconsidered and challenged. The rights of religious communities cannot be made subject to the convenience of the state. They cannot be taken away quietly, under the pretext of reform. Constitutional rights are not privileges—they are guarantees. And they must be defended, especially when it is unpopular, inconvenient, or politically costly to do so. The Constitution does not allow for second-class rights, and it does not recognize second-class citizens. That must include the Muslim community, and it must include the institutions it holds sacred.All reactions: