Rabindranath Tagore’s nation: A dream of freedom beyond flags

Dipak Kurmi

(The writer can be reached at dipakkurmiglpltd@gmail.com.)

In the tumultuous early decades of the 20th century, as India witnessed a surge of militant nationalism and mass movements against British colonial rule, Rabindranath Tagore stood apart—not as a passive bystander but as a deeply committed patriot of a different kind. His was a patriotism rooted not in aggressive slogans or exclusionary pride but in introspective strength, intellectual freedom, and universal humanism. Tagore was a full-time patriot, perhaps more intense than many of his contemporaries, yet his love for the nation did not seek refuge in rabid nationalism. Instead, he urged Indians to turn their gaze inward, to reform the self, and expand the mind beyond the narrow confines of the nation-state.

Tagore’s critique of nationalism was not born of apathy or colonial appeasement. He supported India’s independence but vehemently opposed any version of patriotism built on fear, hatred, or blind obedience. He believed that nationalism, particularly in its militant form, stemmed not from a positive will to progress but from collective insecurities. A secure people, he thought, would not feel the need to vilify other nations or erect artificial heroes to validate their existence. In his worldview, the nation was not an idol to be worshipped but a platform through which humanity must evolve. His nationalism was an act of composed courage, not an emotional outburst.

This vision of the nation is most poignantly articulated in his poem “Where the Mind is Without Fear”, a timeless invocation for intellectual liberty and universal fraternity. Here, Tagore imagines a country where knowledge is free, where the world is not “broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls”, and where the mind is guided by reason. Written in the crucible of colonial oppression, this prayer offered not just a blueprint for India but a global vision of enlightenment. In an age of division and conflict, Tagore’s nationalism was inherently internationalist—a fact that set him apart from the popular political ideologies of his time.

Nowhere is this divergence starker than in his novel Ghare Baire (The Home and the World). Through the characters of Nikhil and Sandip, Tagore explores two competing visions of patriotism. Nikhil, the rational reformer, refuses to deify the nation at the cost of humanity, whereas Sandip, the charismatic nationalist, justifies violence and manipulation in the name of national devotion. The female protagonist, Bimala, initially swept up by Sandip’s passionate rhetoric, ultimately awakens to the dangers of unthinking patriotism. The novel is not just a story of personal awakening but a profound philosophical statement: patriotism, if idolatrous, leads inevitably to violence, delusion, and the betrayal of the very values it seeks to protect.

This scepticism toward militant nationalism intensified after the 1905 partition of Bengal and the Swadeshi movement that followed. While many nationalists celebrated acts like burning foreign clothes as symbols of resistance, Tagore saw them as symbolic, and often real, violence against the poor—who could afford only the cheap imported goods. His idea of Swadeshi was not destructive but constructive. He lamented the mindless imitation of nationalism that aped its Western imperial form. In Desher Kaaj (Duties Towards Our Nation), Tagore wrote: “We are foreigners… As long as we don’t know [our country] or don’t win it through our inner strength, the country is not ours.” For him, being a citizen of a country was not a matter of birth but of earned responsibility and intimate, moral association.

Tagore’s divergence from the mainstream was not limited to fiction or poetry. In his correspondence with A.M. Bose in 1908, he famously declared, “Patriotism cannot be our final spiritual shelter; my refuge is humanity.” It was a line that captured his core belief: that human dignity transcended national identity. Unlike Gandhi, whose Swadeshi campaign hinged on symbolic resistance like the spinning of the charka, Tagore was more concerned with intellectual emancipation. He respected Gandhi’s commitment but disagreed with the elevation of poverty and traditionalism as ideal virtues. For Tagore, self-sufficiency must go hand in hand with exposure to global ideas.

His critique of Western materialism was sharp, but never absolute. He envisioned a confluence between the East and the West—an idea he institutionalised in Visva-Bharati, the university he founded at Santiniketan. Here, he set up the first Chinese, East Asian, and West Asian studies departments in India, decades before the term “cross-cultural studies” entered academic discourse. His slogan for the university, “Yatra visvam bhavatyekanidam” (Where the world makes a home in a single nest), embodied his dream of East-West dialogue, not as conqueror and conquered, but as equals in a civilisational exchange.

Tagore’s travels across more than 40 countries were more than diplomatic tours; they were cultural missions. In Travels in Persia, he reflected on the shared Indo-Persian heritage and found comfort in cultural continuity across political boundaries. In his lectures at Oxford, later compiled as The Religion of Man, he warned against man’s “callous handling of his voracity” and the distortion of ambition into violence. Though speaking in spiritual terms, Tagore’s words could easily be read as a warning against expansionist nationalism—a sentiment he openly criticised in the context of rising Japanese imperialism.

That same warning seems ever more relevant today. The hyper-nationalists of our times, like their fascist forerunners, brand Tagore’s ideas as weak, utopian, or even “feminine”. In their worldview, the true patriot is one who surrenders critical faculties to the abstract notion of the nation, worships authority, and never questions its representatives. They thrive on imagined enemies—internal traitors and external conspirators—projecting insecurity as patriotism. Had they read Tagore with comprehension, they might have labelled him anti-national or worse. Fortunately for his legacy, as the writer wryly observes, “the fascists do not read him.”

Tagore’s nationalism was deeply spiritual, yet grounded in social reality. He understood that love for one’s country could not stem from fear or hatred. It had to emerge from an inner moral strength that refused to demonise others for self-validation. His internationalism was not the rejection of the nation but its moral elevation into a larger framework of humanity. A nation, in Tagore’s vision, would shine not because of its military might or material wealth, but because of its commitment to truth, justice, and human dignity.

As nationalism across the world becomes increasingly shrill, exclusionary, and xenophobic, Tagore’s ideas provide a much-needed counterpoint. His voice calls us back to a deeper form of patriotism—one that celebrates diversity, cherishes intellectual freedom, and seeks unity without uniformity. He reminds us that the true enemy of a nation is not always outside its borders; sometimes, it is the intolerance, ignorance, and arrogance within.

In the end, Tagore did not want an India that was simply free. He envisioned a country that was wise, just, and inclusive—an India that would be a beacon not of domination but of dignity. In the “heaven of freedom” he prayed for, the nation would not be a fortress of fear but a sanctuary of fearless minds, where humanity is the highest ideal and love is the strongest force. That India, as yet, remains a dream—but a dream well worth striving for.