Pavan K Varma | Dharma, Nyaya, Niti & The Indian Art Of The Excuse

What is Dharma? Derived from the root word ‘dhr’, which means to support and to uphold, dharma is commonly translated as duty, righteousness, morality, law, or the ethical order that sustains society. But none of these words quite captures its extraordinary range. In the Hindu conception of life, dharma is not merely a set of commandments telling us what we must and must not do. It is a way of negotiating the moral complexities of existence.

That is precisely what makes it both intellectually exhilarating and morally dangerous. Dharma is one of the four purusharthas, the legitimate goals of human existence, along with artha (material prosperity), kama (desire) and moksha (liberation). The Hindu genius was perhaps to recognise that human beings cannot live by morality alone. They desire wealth, pleasure, power, family, achievement and ultimately transcendence. The challenge is to pursue these without destroying the larger moral order.

But unlike a rigid code, dharma does not always provide a ready-made answer. The Hindu epics are full of situations in which the apparently righteous course conflicts with another moral obligation. Truth can collide with compassion; loyalty with justice; duty to the family with duty to society; individual virtue with a larger collective purpose. The Mahabharata, in particular, is less a manual of morality than an immense laboratory of moral ambiguity.

This is why the Hindu imagination is reluctant to divide the world permanently into saints and sinners. Dharma certainly provides a clear normative framework of ethical conduct, but human ingenuity has allowed dharma to be influenced by several expedient factors: desh dharma, or conduct in different regions, ashram dharma or stage of life, kula dharma or family duties, jati dharma or caste loyalties, svabhava dharma or personal nature, svadharma or choice of conscience, and appadharma or action taken in times of dire emergency.

The caveats can be endless, because dharma puts the onus on the individual to interpret it correctly. The Hindu epics are full of situations in which the apparently righteous course conflicts with another moral obligation. Truth can collide with compassion; loyalty with justice; duty to the family with duty to society; individual virtue with a larger collective purpose. This is why the Hindu imagination is reluctant to divide the world permanently into saints and sinners. Duryodhana is unquestionably responsible for grave wrongdoing. Yet, in the epic, the heavens rein flowers on him when he dies. Ravana commits acts that cannot be morally defended, yet the Ramayana remembers him also as a scholar and a great Shiva devotee.

In theory, dharma is a profoundly courageous idea. It refuses the comfort of moral absolutism. It asks us to examine context, motive, circumstance and consequence before passing judgment. But this sophisticated complexity also cynically — and criminally — allows people to use dharma to justify transparent culpability. Consider the familiar response of the powerful when confronted with wrongdoing. There was a compelling circumstance. There was political pressure. There were security considerations. The decision was taken in the larger public interest. Someone else was responsible. The intention was not corrupt. The circumstances were exceptional. The rules were interpreted differently.

If every action can be explained by circumstances, then every wrongdoing can acquire an alibi. If every violation is accompanied by an explanation, explanation can gradually become exoneration. And if moral judgment is endlessly postponed until every nuance has been considered, responsibility itself can disappear into an ocean of qualifications.

One could argue that something similar has happened in our jurisprudential culture. The principle that it is better for several guilty persons to escape than for one innocent person to be punished is humane. But a noble principle can produce ignoble consequences if the system becomes so labyrinthine that establishing culpability becomes almost impossible. The innocent must certainly not be punished. But what happens when the guilty are allowed to escape accountability because the machinery of accountability moves too slowly, or because the law provides innumerable procedural avenues through which responsibility can be postponed?

The danger is particularly acute in public life. A private citizen who commits an offence may have to face the consequences. But the person who occupies high office can surround an action with explanations: constitutional compulsions, political compulsions, administrative compulsions, coalition compulsions, national security compulsions. The greater the power, paradoxically, the greater the number of circumstances available to explain away its misuse.

This is where dharma demands something more rigorous than relativism. For dharma does not mean that anything is permissible if a sufficiently persuasive explanation can be found. The Mahabharata itself repeatedly demonstrates that actions have consequences, that moral evasion carries a price, and that the most dangerous form of self-deception is to believe that one's own cause automatically sanctifies one's conduct.

Have we, therefore, transferred the Hindu reluctance to make simplistic moral judgments from the realm of philosophy into the art of evading accountability? And, while guilt must be established according to evidence and due process, has our legal system reinforced this tendency by providing the powerful a means to avoid justice?

Unfortunately, today, the greater the power the greater the number of circumstances available to explain away its misuse. What we need to understand is that even if Dharma is contextual, it is not consequence-free. Similarly, law and morality are not identical. Something may be technically difficult to prosecute and yet morally indefensible. A mature society must understand both distinctions.

A commandment tells us: do not do this. Dharma asks: given the circumstances, what ought you to do? This requires integrity, courage and honesty. The person who is told what not to do has fewer escape routes. The person who is asked to determine what is right can always convince himself that his particular circumstances make him the exception. A genuinely dharmic ethic asks whether my conduct sustained or damaged the larger moral order. The test of dharma cannot be how ingenious we are at explaining our actions. It must be whether we are still willing to accept responsibility for them. This is perhaps where modern India needs an ethical revolution.