A Marxist Celebration of Silence

If there’s one group responsible for the intellectual derailing of this country, it’s the elite clique of left-liberal historians and writers. Not content with simply recording history, they twisted it—kneaded facts into ideologies, and whenever a civilization groaned in agony, they labeled it "majoritarian dominance" and moved on.

For these writers, the word “truth” doesn’t exist. Their dictionary begins and ends with “selective silence.”

Just recently, a celebrated author—one who waves the flag of progressivism from Sahitya Akademi platforms to Instagram reels—proclaimed with poetic agony:
"It is better to stay silent in the face of such brutality."

Excuse me…what?

So now, when horrors unfold, you simply drop your pen, shut your eyes, and hide your conscience behind a story-mode filter. These are the same people who scream bloody murder over one community’s pain but treat another’s genocide like a mere footnote in a policy paper.

Their love for history is, frankly, poetic. For them, Indian history has just two chapters—one called “Ganga-Jamuni Tehzeeb” during the Mughal rule, and the other called “Intellectual Renaissance” during the British Raj. Everything else—like the exodus of Kashmiri Pandits, burning of Hindu pilgrims in Godhra, massacre of Hindu activists in Kerala, ethnic cleansing of Hindus in Bangladesh—gets buried under a clever parenthesis labeled “unfortunate incident.”

And the phrase they absolutely adore? False Narrative.
They weave fiction with the grace of a poet, not a historian.

“Babur was not just an invader, he appreciated architecture.”
“Aurangzeb was harsh, but deeply just.”
“Tipu Sultan protected temples too.”
These are the dazzling jewels of their imagination-based history.

For them, history is neither sacred nor scientific. It’s just a tool—to serve their pickled ideologies, fermented over decades in Marxist basements.

Then come the self-proclaimed sensitive writers—those who can smell patriarchal violence in every breath, but conveniently develop political muteness when a seven-year-old girl in Kashmir is raped and killed.
A sadhu is lynched in Rajasthan? “Too communal to comment on,” they mumble.
But if a boy from a vote-sensitive community falls off a cliff, the Twitter Brigade roars:
"India is no longer safe!"

Their pens only bleed when assured they won’t face backlash, when no vote bank is threatened, and if it ever is—they activate the emergency switch: Selective Amnesia.

This comfortable silence has now become a “literary virtue.”

They preach: “Art must be separate from politics.”
But in their novels, the oppressor always belongs to the same religion, caste, and gender—and the oppressed, always the opposite.
Books sell. Awards rain. And readers whisper: “This is real literature.”

Leftist historians have made generations of children believe that Ram was a myth, Rana Pratap fought unnecessary wars, and India was basically a colonial charity project. But now, those same children are asking:

"If our heroes were myths, why were our ancestors exiled?"
"Why do our memories lie in ashes?"
"And why do history books never record our tears?"

The truth is—truth never mattered to these writers. What mattered was—
Who’s the publisher?
When’s the next award?
And how cozy are we with power?

Their pens run not on empathy, but entitlement.
Not on facts, but favors.

The time has come to question this intellectual hypocrisy.
To identify the silences that scream.
And to confront the selective “sensitivity” of writers who judge trauma by religion and scream only when it’s conveniently fashionable.

So dear Madam, if you find brutality best met with silence—
Please, by all means, be silent.
But don’t call yourself a “voice of truth.”
Call yourself what you are:
"A ceremonial silence-bearer of convenient history."

©®Payal laxmi soni