If Lohia were alive today, he might find that Gen Z has, in some curious and unintended ways, begun listening to him.
Ram Manohar Lohia once remarked, ” Log meri baat sunenge jarur, lekin mere marne ke baad ” (People will certainly listen to me, but only after my death).
Lohia never married and rejected marriage as an unquestionable social institution. In the 1950s he lived openly in a relationship with a Miranda House professor – an extraordinary act at a time when the idea of live-in relationship was deeply uncomfortable for even western first world countries. Gen Z’s greater acceptance of live-in relationships and its insistence on personal autonomy might have drawn them to him. Both fiercely place enormous value on individual freedom and resist social or familial restrictions or authority on private life. Yet Lohia paired that freedom with radical material detachment. Gen Z pursues similar autonomy without the same detachment. One may call Lohia’s stance a form of spiritual individualism; Gen Z’s, material individualism. He held Draupadi, not Savitri, as the true symbol of the Hindustani woman – knowledgeable, mature, brave, courageous and sharp-witted. He acknowledged that he had not come across any woman like Draupadi, not only in India but in the whole world. In personal relationships he was very sensitive and perceptive and valued honesty, transparency and delicacy. He idealised the relationship between Draupadi and Krishna as one of utmost companionship. Gen Z could usefully absorb his insight that freedom in relationship requires sincerity, reciprocity and dignity. Born into a forward-caste Marwari Baniya family, he refused to allow his temporary identity of birth to define him by declaring: ” Main Marwari baniye ke roop me paida jarur hua hu, lekin marunga nahi . Thus Lohia abandoned both privileges and social hierarchy attached to his identity for equality, which he called the greatest aim of life.
Lohia’s vision and lifelong struggle for the representation of backwards, SC, ST, women, rural poor, vernacular speakers and the economically disadvantaged among the forward caste (whom he called “false high castes”) reshaped Indian politics and society.
Gen Z might ponder a hypothetical scenario: what if in some imagined previous or future birth one were born into the opposite caste group, or if departed elders now take birth in a different caste- would views on affirmative action, equal opportunity, caste pride or discrimination remain the same Although caste cannot be changed in this life. Can Gen Z apply this yardstick through such an experiment to arrive at a fairer understanding of social justice envisaged by Lohia? We proclaim equality but reproduce hierarchy. We praise freedom while policing women’s choices. We celebrate merit while ignoring inherited advantage.
Lohia warned India suffers from the disease of “total separation of the abstract and the concrete” – a tendency of mind to maintain noble ideas in theory while behaving differently in practice.
Gen Z’s individualism and freedom-oriented aspirations carry real promise. If individual autonomy remains confined to lifestyle choices, it may simply produce a more sophisticated consumer society. Perhaps that is where Lohia and Gen Z might finally meet. Not in their lifestyles, and certainly not in their politics, but in their shared impatience with inherited constraints. (Authors are Additional Deputy Commissioner with Delhi Police & Defence Estate Officer, Pune Cantonment respectively)
The question, therefore, is what Gen Z does with its freedom. But if that freedom is lifted toward broader societal emancipation – diluting materialism with a measure of minimalism, sustained self-questioning and commitment to social equality – it could open the way for a Lohia 2.0 – less austere perhaps yet with the eclectic approach of an indefatigable Lohia, technologically native, yet capable of resisting technological and material seductions.
