Failed Success

There is a peculiar kind of success which is actually a failure. We sometimes imagine that we have succeeded simply because we have done what we set out to do. But an action by itself is not necessarily an achievement. What matters is whether the purpose behind the action has been fulfilled. This thought came to me while reading an interesting episode from Madras, present-day Chennai, almost a hundred years ago.

In 1927, a group of young volunteers were agitating for the removal of the statue of General Neill, remembered for his role during the Mutiny of 1857. To many Indians, the statue had become an offensive reminder of British rule and repression. Interestingly, Mahatma Gandhi himself had no hesitation in supporting the demand for its removal. In Young India of 25 August 1927, he wrote that a wise government should remove such “offensive” reminders rather than provoke public opinion, and suggested that the Municipality of Madras, which owned the statue, should remove it (CWMG, Vol. 34, pp. 396–397).

So there was nothing wrong, in Gandhi’s view, with the objective. What concerned him was the manner in which some of the volunteers were pursuing it.

The volunteers had earlier undertaken what they called “Sword Satyagraha” at Madura. They carried swords publicly in defiance of the Arms Act. When Gandhi met about twenty members of the Tamil Nadu Volunteer Corps in Madras on 6 and 7 September 1927, they explained their activities to him. The conversation, recorded by The Hindu and revised by Gandhi, was subsequently published in the Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi (Vol. 34, pp. 467–478).

At one point Gandhi asked whether the Madura action had followed an earlier failure. One of the volunteers immediately objected. It was not a failure at all, he insisted. They had gone into the streets freely carrying their swords and had not been arrested. They had therefore, in their own understanding, successfully broken the Arms Act.

Gandhi could not contain his laughter.

He then explained why he did not accept this claim of success. The government, he pointed out, had seen that the swords were merely tin swords and that the volunteers had no public backing. THE AUTHORITIES THEREFORE HAD SIMPLY LEFT THEM ALONE RATHER THAN GIVE THEM PUBLICITY. Not being arrested, Gandhi told them, could not therefore be presented as a success. Their real objective would have been achieved only if the Arms Act had actually been removed. Gandhi went so far as to tell them plainly: “I would like you to believe that the Madura Satyagraha has failed.” And then came the sentence which, for me, gives this whole episode its significance: “It is much better to own our failures, if we are to succeed henceforward” (CWMG, Vol. 34, p. 468).

That is a remarkable statement, particularly because Gandhi was speaking to people who were convinced that they had succeeded.

What had happened? They had performed an action. They had carried swords. They had entered the streets. They had not been arrested. From these facts they had constructed a story of success. Gandhi looked at the same facts and came to the opposite conclusion. The government had deliberately ignored them, and the Arms Act remained. Their action had therefore not achieved the objective they had claimed to pursue.

This distinction between an action and an achievement is, I think, the most interesting lesson in the episode. We can easily mistake activity for accomplishment. We march, demonstrate, shout slogans, attract attention, receive applause and then declare victory. But the real question is much simpler: what has actually changed?

The episode becomes still more interesting because of the word “Satyagraha.” The volunteers had called their action “Sword Satyagraha.” But Satyagraha was not merely a name that could be attached to any agitation. Gandhi had developed it as a disciplined method based on truth, non-violence, self-suffering and moral courage. To borrow the word while ignoring the spirit behind it was to retain the label while losing its meaning.

That is what makes the expression “Sword Satyagraha” so revealing. The word “Satyagraha” carried the prestige of Gandhi’s method, while the word “Sword” pointed in a very different direction. The danger was that the name itself could create the impression that the action belonged to the same tradition as genuine Satyagraha. Gandhi, however, was unwilling to allow the label to determine the substance.

This is where I find the episode surprisingly contemporary. Even today, public movements often borrow the names, slogans, symbols or methods of earlier successful movements. Once a particular form of agitation becomes famous, others may imitate its outward appearance without understanding the principle that made the original movement meaningful. The label is copied much more easily than the discipline behind it.

There is another aspect of Gandhi’s position which deserves attention. His criticism of the volunteers did not mean that he opposed their cause. In fact, he had already argued that the Neill statue should be removed because it was an offensive reminder that wounded legitimate national sentiment (CWMG, Vol. 34, pp. 396–397). Thus Gandhi could simultaneously support the objective and criticise the method. He did not believe that agreement with a cause required him to approve every action undertaken in its name.

That, perhaps, is an even greater lesson. It is easy to support people when they are doing what we want them to do. It is much more difficult to tell them that their method is wrong, or that their claim of success is unjustified. Gandhi did precisely that. He did not tell the volunteers what they wanted to hear. He told them that they had failed and that they should have the courage to admit it.

There is something almost humorous about the whole episode. The volunteers came to Gandhi apparently expecting advice and support, but at one point they had to listen to him laughing at their declaration of victory. They had proudly announced that they had broken the Arms Act because the police had not arrested them. Gandhi essentially told them that they were celebrating the fact that the government had decided not to take them seriously.

That is what I mean by “Failed Success.”

The failure was not simply that the statue remained. The deeper failure was the confusion between doing something and achieving something, between being active and being effective, and perhaps most importantly, between adopting the label of Satyagraha and understanding its spirit.

Gandhi’s advice therefore goes beyond this particular agitation. “It is much better to own our failures, if we are to succeed henceforward.” There is a great deal of wisdom in that sentence. A failure honestly recognised can become a lesson. A failure disguised as success becomes an obstacle to learning.

Perhaps this is why the episode, though nearly a century old, still speaks to us. We live in a time when every protest can be presented as a victory, every gathering as a movement, every slogan as an achievement and every failure as a strategic success. We sometimes seem more interested in proving that we have won than in asking whether we have actually achieved what we set out to achieve.

Gandhi’s question was much more demanding: did you accomplish your purpose?

If the answer is no, perhaps the honest thing is not to invent a success but to admit the failure, learn from it and begin again.

After all, there is no shame in failing. The real danger lies in failing and then proudly calling the failure a success.

That, to me, is the real meaning of Failed Success.

Note: The Neill statue was not removed as a result of the 1927 agitation. It remained on Mount Road until 1937, when the Congress Ministry headed by C. Rajagopalachari ordered its removal and it was transferred to the Government Museum at Egmore. Thus, the immediate “Sword Satyagraha” of 1927 did not achieve the removal of the statue, although the larger objective was eventually achieved ten years later by a different political process.

Ashram, August 23, 2026