The story begins in 1985, in Kolkata, when Chandmal Chopra—a businessman and Hindu activist—filed a petition before the Calcutta High Court seeking a ban on the Qur’an. His argument? That certain verses in the Islamic scripture incited violence and hatred against non-Muslims, and that therefore, under Indian law (specifically Section 153A of the Indian Penal Code, which prohibits the promotion of enmity between communities), the text should be proscribed. It was a shocking, almost unthinkable move—to use the very legal instruments of secular India against a foundational religious text. And of course, it exploded like a political grenade.
Sita Ram Goel, already known for his firebrand writings on Hindu identity and secular hypocrisy, saw in this episode a microcosm of what he considered the asymmetrical power dynamics of Indian secularism. His role in The Calcutta Quran Petition is that of an intellectual combatant and chronicler. He compiles the documents — the petition, the legal reasoning, the press reactions, the governmental responses — and surrounds them with his own commentary, which turns the whole book into a polemical text masquerading as a dossier. It’s not journalism; it’s political theatre in prose.
To be fair, Goel doesn’t pretend to be objective. His voice throughout the book is iron-willed, deliberate, and deeply ideological. He presents the case not as a mere legal curiosity but as a moral and civilizational test — one that, in his view, India failed. When the case was summarily dismissed by the court and the government came down heavily against the petitioners, Goel saw it not as a defeat of extremism (as most of India did) but as proof of what he called “minority appeasement” and the moral cowardice of the Indian elite.
This framing, of course, is what makes the book so explosive — and so enduringly relevant. Goel positions himself and Chopra as truth-tellers silenced by a politically correct establishment. His commentary moves from legal analysis to historical argument, tracing what he sees as a pattern of Islamic aggression in Indian history, and then to philosophical critique — a claim that “secularism” in India had become a weapon used selectively against Hindus while shielding minority sensibilities. Whether you agree or disagree, you can’t ignore the intellectual precision with which he builds this argument.
What’s fascinating — and uncomfortable — about reading The Calcutta Quran Petition is that it reveals how law, religion, and emotion intertwine in the Indian psyche. The petition itself, though legally untenable, forced into the open a question most would rather avoid: can a secular state apply its hate-speech laws equally to all religions, or are some texts beyond question? Goel’s point — framed provocatively but not without logic — was that if Hindu texts could be critiqued, parodied, or even banned for alleged offensiveness (as had happened in several instances before), why should other religions enjoy immunity? It’s the age-old argument for parity dressed in the rhetoric of justice.
At one level, Goel’s book can be seen as a cry of frustration against what he perceives as double standards in India’s intellectual and political discourse. But at another level, it’s also a warning — a Cassandra-like wail — about what happens when a state tries to manage faith through law instead of through freedom. His insistence that “all scripture must be open to scrutiny” resonates beyond its polemical surface; it’s a genuinely philosophical question. Can faith survive critique? Can truth coexist with law? Can tolerance coexist with taboo?
Yet Goel’s tone is never purely Socratic — it’s charged, urgent, and often abrasive. He doesn’t just critique Islam; he indicts what he sees as the cowardice of Hindu leadership and the self-loathing of the Indian intelligentsia. Reading him, one often feels the collision of two temperaments: the scholar and the street-fighter. His footnotes are as sharp as his polemics — full of quotations, statistics, and historical references marshaled not to open dialogue but to score decisive blows. He writes not to persuade gently but to force the reader to confront discomfort.
What’s remarkable is that Goel, despite his intensity, is never lazy in argumentation. The book is meticulously documented. He reproduces the entire petition, lists every verse cited, references every legal clause, and includes correspondence with authorities. It’s both a polemical essay and a bureaucratic archive — and that mix gives it a strange power. You’re not just reading an opinion; you’re witnessing a case file turned into a moral drama.
Comparatively, The Calcutta Quran Petition occupies the same controversial shelf as Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses — though from a completely opposite angle. While Rushdie, through fiction, challenged the sanctity of scripture from within Islam, Goel and Chopra challenged it from without, through the apparatus of secular law. Both acts were seen as provocations, both provoked outrage, and both illuminated the paradox of modern pluralism — that in a society committed to free expression, certain subjects remain untouchable.
Goel’s work, unlike Rushdie’s, isn’t literary — it’s raw political philosophy. But both share a strange kinship in their understanding that modernity and sacredness are in permanent tension. The Indian state’s reaction — quick dismissal, censorship, moral outrage — in both cases reveals that India’s secularism is more about balance than principle. Goel’s fury, when read today, feels like a dark mirror held up to that reality.
It’s also worth noting that Goel’s editorial framing of the petition isn’t merely anti-Islamic; it’s anti-hypocrisy. He repeatedly insists that he’s not calling for censorship — in fact, he argues the exact opposite. He wants no text banned. His deeper provocation is: if you truly believe in secularism and freedom of expression, then you cannot apply the law selectively. Either everything is open to critique, or nothing is. This is where his logic takes an almost Voltairean turn — though his tone is much more volcanic than Enlightenment cool.
The historical sections of the book — where Goel digresses into accounts of Islamic invasions, temple destruction, and cultural conflict — can be read as his attempt to contextualize the petition within a millennium-long civilizational trauma. Here, however, the book moves from legal reasoning to moral narrative, and it’s where his most passionate readers find strength and his critics find cause for alarm. He’s not writing a neutral history; he’s writing from the wound of collective memory. And that’s both his greatest rhetorical power and his greatest danger — because such writing, when received without nuance, can be weaponized by those seeking conflict rather than understanding.
To modern readers, The Calcutta Quran Petition feels eerily prophetic. The same debates about freedom of speech, blasphemy, and religious offence that roiled India in the 1980s continue today — in fact, they’ve intensified. Goel’s central question — can a democracy handle the sacred with honesty? — remains unanswered. The book, therefore, continues to have a strange half-life: quoted in online debates, banned from libraries, whispered about in academic circles, and yet still read in photocopied form in ideological enclaves.
As a piece of writing, it’s both fascinating and flawed. Goel’s intellectual courage is undeniable — he dared to say what few others would even whisper — but his empathy often goes missing. His righteous anger hardens into rigidity. His belief in the truth of his cause leaves little room for ambiguity, for the messy humanity that dwells between belief and critique. That’s where the work of someone like Ashis Nandy, who explored similar civilizational questions through compassion and psychology, feels more balanced. Nandy would have asked not just what the Qur’an says, but why believers hear it as they do. Goel, on the other hand, is interested in winning the argument, not understanding the faith.
Yet — and this is the paradox — his confrontation forced Indian intellectual life to acknowledge a blind spot. Before Goel, very few dared to question the selective pieties of secular discourse. After Goel, even those who despised his tone could no longer ignore the question of equal scrutiny. In that sense, The Calcutta Quran Petition performs the role of the gadfly: irritating, necessary, impossible to ignore.
Read alongside How I Became a Hindu, this book feels like its political sequel — the externalization of an inner awakening. If the earlier book is about personal re-rooting, this one is about institutional confrontation. Goel moves from the realm of the soul to the realm of the state. It’s the same voice, but angrier, louder, and more public. The spiritual convert becomes the activist chronicler. The philosopher becomes the dissident.
By the final sections, the book reads almost like a courtroom in eternity — with Goel arguing not before judges but before history itself. He knows he will lose the case, but he wants the record to exist. And that’s precisely what the book achieves — it becomes a document of dissent, not for its legality but for its audacity.
The Calcutta Quran Petition is not an easy book to read, nor should it be. It’s incendiary, exhausting, and morally demanding. But to dismiss it outright would be to miss an essential thread of India’s intellectual evolution — the restless, conflicted attempt to define what secularism, freedom, and faith really mean in a civilization that has always contained them all.
In the end, Goel’s voice lingers like the echo of an argument that refuses to die. Whether you find him liberating or dangerous, you cannot unread him. And perhaps that’s the truest mark of significance — he leaves you thinking long after you’ve disagreed.