Part Three: Civilization: Two Visions, Two Paths
Once, when Mahatma Gandhi was asked, “What do you think of Western civilization?” he famously replied:
“I think it would be a good idea.”
(Reported in Louis Fischer, The Life of Mahatma Gandhi, 1950.)
This was not merely a witty one‑liner, but a quiet, cutting reflection.
It does not mean that the West and the rest are entirely different kinds of civilizations. All of them are called “civilization.” Yet, when we try to compare Indian civilization with the West, we must first notice the differences between them.
As noted earlier, an orange is not an apple, though both are fruits. In the same way, civilizations may belong to the same broad category, yet differ in essence. Even the orange and the apple are not originally Indian fruits—they came from outside; one might say they were imported. Which truly represents the native essence is left to the reader to decide.
The two “fruits” here are: Civilization in the West (British)—since many of today’s white Americans trace their roots back to England—and the Indic (Aryan) civilization, whose pan‑Indian, Aryan‑linked cultural influence stands out in a way that invites comparison with the British civilizational pattern.
To begin with the Indic, in my context of comparing it with the West, the Aryan element is part of it. Whether they migrated into India from outside or moved outward from India, they shaped a distinctive civilization here. They may have unsettled some communities at first, but eventually they settled, integrated, and became part of a broader civilizational fabric that already existed. As several scholars have noted, the Aryans tried to “Aryanise” the entire pre‑Aryan civilization, and there is some truth in that. But it never remained a one‑way traffic; in fact, the so‑called Aryan tradition, culture, and civilization were also deeply shaped by pre‑Aryan, especially Tribal, culture—what I would call the “tribalization of Aryan culture.”
In this process, they expressed their insights through profound compositions, especially in Sanskrit. Let us consider two such examples. The first one is more than two thousand years old, from the Upanishads. We cannot strictly say this genre of Vedic literature is exclusively Brahmin, but it largely emerged from urban centres and from Kshatriya circles, who, of course, still remain part of the Aryan varna system.
However, even before articulating such “universal prayers,” the Rigveda itself sets a bold and enduring foundation for inclusivism with the celebrated dictum:
आ नो भद्राः क्रतवो यन्तु विश्वतः
ā no bhadrāḥ kratavo yantu viśvataḥ
“Let noble thoughts come to us from every side.”(Ṛgveda 1.89.1)
The Universal Prayer
Sarveṣām svasti bhavatu
Sarveṣām śāntiḥ bhavatu
Sarveṣām pūrṇam bhavatu
Sarveṣām maṅgalam bhavatu
Sarve bhavantu sukhinaḥ
Sarve santu nirāmayāḥ
Sarve bhadrāṇi paśyantu
Mā kaścid duḥkha bhāg bhavet
Om śāntiḥ śāntiḥ śāntiḥ
Its meaning expresses a very universal vision:
May there be well‑being, peace, fullness, and auspiciousness for all.
May all be happy, free from illness, and see what is good.
May no one suffer.
Om. Peace, peace, peace.
Maitrīm Bhajata — A Modern Echo of the Same Spirit
The second example comes from the twentieth century, composed by the revered Jagadguru of Kanchi Kamakoti Peetham, Chandrasekharendra Saraswati (the late Paramācārya of Kanchi Mutt), for [late Srimati, Bharat Ratna] M. S. Subbulakshmi to sing at the United Nations:
Maitrīm bhajata akhila‑hṛjjetrīm
Ātmavat eva parān api paśyata
Yuddham tyajata, spardhām tyajata
Tyajata pareṣv akramam akramaṇam
Jananī pṛthivī kāmadughāste
Janako devaḥ sakala‑dayāluḥ
Dāmyata, datta, dayadhvaṁ janatāḥ
Śreyo bhūyāt sakala‑janānām
Meaning:
Cultivate friendship that conquers all hearts.
See others as yourself.
Renounce war and competition.
Give up injustice and aggression toward others.
The Earth is your mother, ever nurturing.
God is your father, full of compassion.
Practice self‑restraint, give generously, and be compassionate.
May the welfare of all humanity prevail.
These two compositions—thousands of years apart—share a common inner logic:
Civilization, in this Indic vision, begins within. It is rooted in harmony, compassion, self‑restraint, and the welfare of all beings. It seeks unity, dignity, and integration, not empire.
Yet, as we have seen, this does not mean that India or its traditions are free from domination. There have always been internal “civilising missions” too—caste hierarchies, majoritarian discipline, and state‑imposed order on the margins. My point here is not to claim perfection, but to note that the ideal impulse runs inward: toward self‑reform, inclusion, and solidarity with neighbours, rather than toward governing the internal lives of distant peoples.
A Contrasting Vision
Now, unfortunately, I cannot go back two thousand years to find a direct textual parallel in the West for this comparison. In that period, of course, the Roman civilization tried its best to Hellenize—or more broadly “Romanize”—the rest of the then‑known world, both by brute force and through cultural influence. But I was not sure whether I could cite something exactly like Kipling’s “The White Man’s Burden”.
When I sought help, I was guided [by Perplexity] to a close conceptual analogue in classical Latin literature: a famous line from Virgil’s Aeneid that Roman imperial ideology later used to justify “guiding” or “ruling” other peoples, much as Kipling’s poem would later justify British and American rule over colonized subjects.
A Virgilian “Roman burden”
In Aeneid Book 6, Anchises tells Aeneas that Rome’s special task is:
“Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento:
haec tibi erunt artes: pacique imponere morem,
parcere subiectis et debellare superbos.”
In a simple paraphrase:
“Remember, Roman, that your role is to rule nations; your arts will be to impose the habit of peace, to spare the subdued, and to crush the proud in war.”
This line, in Roman propaganda and in how later Romans saw themselves, works almost like a Roman “White Man’s Burden” in miniature. It turns empire into a vocation—a special duty to pacify, organize, and “civilize” others, all under the noble heading of bringing order and peace.
How it echoes Kipling’s tone
Kipling presents imperial conquest as a moral “burden” undertaken for the benefit of supposedly backward peoples (“half devil and half child”), framing domination as a labor of uplift and protection rather than mere exploitation. In a similar way, Virgil’s prophecy presents Roman rule as a defining art and virtue: to pacify, to show mercy toward the subdued, and yet to crush the proud—thereby wrapping domination in the language of justice, order, and benevolent authority. It is exactly the kind of rhetoric that later European imperialists, including the British, would echo in their own “civilising mission” claims.
So while there is no surviving Roman marching‑tune or song titled “The Roman’s Burden,” this Virgilian line captures the same ideological heartbeat: a high‑moralised, paternalistic way of justifying empire—something the modern West, in its own voice, would later spin into its own “civilising” narratives.
Now let us turn to a modern Western expression. Rudyard Kipling, in his poem The White Man’s Burden, offers a very different conception of what “civilization” means (see below for the full poem).
Written in the context of imperial expansion, the poem urges powerful nations to take up a so‑called “burden”—to send their best people to rule distant lands, govern other societies, and endure hardship in the name of “civilizing” them. It portrays this task as noble yet thankless, even when met with resistance, resentment, or criticism.
Yet beneath this framing lies a deeper assumption: that one group stands above another and bears the authority to guide, control, and reshape them.
In our own time, this same pattern of thought can be seen in the way some powerful states treat their neighbours. When the United States, acting through sanctions, once blocked Venezuelan oil from reaching Cuba, it contributed to a deep energy crisis on the island. The power to cut off basic fuel supplies became a political weapon, a way to pressure and punish.
At the same time, in our own neighbourhood, we have seen different responses. During the pandemic, India’s “Vaccine Maitri” policy sent vaccines to many countries, including to smaller neighbours facing the same terror of disease. More recently, when Sri Lanka found itself in a desperate fuel crisis, India quickly sent a large emergency shipment of oil. Bangladesh and the Maldives, also under energy stress, have turned to India and received fuel supplies to tide them over.
These are not pure acts of charity, but they lean in a different direction. They show a kind of power that is exercised toward solidarity rather than isolation, toward sharing rather than withholding.
The Civilizational Contrast
Here, the contrast becomes unmistakable.
In the earlier vision, civilization begins from within:
It is rooted in harmony, compassion, self‑restraint, and the welfare of all beings.
It seeks unity, dignity, and integration, even when it is entangled with its own forms of hierarchy and domination.
In the later vision, civilization is projected outward:
It becomes a mission—framed as a “burden”—often imposed on others, rooted in hierarchy, control, and a sense of superiority.
Conclusion
Thus, though both speak of “civilization,” their foundations differ profoundly. One is more integrative, inward‑looking, and universal; the other is more interventionist, outward‑thrusting, and hierarchical.
The difference, then, is not merely between civilizations—but between two fundamentally different ways of understanding what it means to be civilized.
All three pieces, read together, form a simple but deep question: When we say “civilization,” are we talking about a higher way of living together, or only a more polished way of dominating others? The West, with its Roman–British–American inheritance, has often projected civilization outward—as a mission, a burden, a right to shape distant lands. India, for all its internal contradictions and hierarchies, has tended to turn that same civilizing energy inward—toward self‑reform, inclusion, and solidarity with its neighbours. None of this makes either side perfect, but the direction of the gaze—whether outward or inward—makes a real difference in how power is felt in the world. In the end, the most honest test of any civilization may not be its flags, laws, or universities, but how it treats the weak, the poor, and the “other,” both within its own borders and beyond.
April 10, in train [8.00 pm. Revised on 11th, Chennai]
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