I, Witness: India From Nehru To Narendra Modi – A Chronicle Of Conviction And Contradiction

In the vast library of Indian political memoirs, few volumes arrive with the quiet authority of I, Witness: India from Nehru to Narendra Modi by Shahid Siddiqui.

Published by Rupa Publications in August 2025, this 448-page tapestry of memory and history is not just a recounting of events but a deeply personal excavation of a nation’s soul.

Siddiqui, born on India’s Independence Day in 1950 in Delhi’s historic Ballimaran neighbourhood, positions himself as an ‘eyewitness’ – a term that encapsulates his multifaceted life as journalist, academic, activist, and politician.

From launching his fortnightly magazine Waqiat in 1971 to serving as a Rajya Sabha MP for Uttar Pradesh (2002–2008) and navigating alliances with parties like the Janata Dal and Samajwadi Party, Siddiqui has been both participant and observer. His narrative spans the highs of Nehru’s vision and the lows of Modi’s era, offering a lens sharpened by his identity as an Indian Muslim – a vantage point that lends unflinching honesty to tales of unity and fracture.

What sets I, Witness apart from the genre’s often self-serving fare is its restraint. Siddiqui doesn’t mythologise his role; instead, he weaves his biography into the broader fabric of post-Independence India.

Partition’s Shadow and the Test of Ideals

The book opens with the shadows of Partition, a cataclysm that scarred his family’s world even as it birthed the nation. These early chapters evoke the optimism of Nehru’s era – the Constitution’s promise of secularism, the Nehruvian socialism that built dams and dreams.

Yet Siddiqui doesn’t romanticise; he dissects the ‘betrayals’ of the 1962 and 1965 wars, portraying them as cracks in the edifice of national pride. His prose, crisp and Urdu-inflected in its poetic cadence (a nod to his literary translations and debut novel The Golden Pigeon), paints vivid vignettes: the steel resolve of Lal Bahadur Shastri during crises, or the ‘making and unmaking’ of Indira Gandhi, whose Emergency he critiques as a tragic pivot from democracy to despotism.

As the narrative marches through the turbulent 1970s and 1980s, Siddiqui’s journalistic ethos shines. A lecturer in political science at Delhi’s Deshbandhu College until 1986, he brings academic rigour to his anecdotes, refusing to indulge in gossip.

Riots, Regrets and the Burden of Power

The 1984 anti-Sikh riots emerge as a gut-wrenching centrepiece, where he indicts ‘real culprits’ across political lines – not just Congress but systemic failures. His account of the Rajiv Gandhi assassination conspiracy feels like a dispatch from the front lines, laced with insider whispers of LTTE machinations and domestic intrigue.

Morarji Desai’s Janata government is dismissed as a ‘castle of sands’, a fleeting experiment in coalition chaos, while PV Narasimha Rao’s economic gambits are lauded as bold strokes towards liberalisation.

Atal Bihari Vajpayee receives a nuanced portrait – the poet-statesman whose Pokhran tests symbolised assertive nationalism, yet whose tenure Siddiqui sees as marred by the Gujarat riots’ prelude.

Siddiqui’s Muslim perspective infuses the book with poignant urgency. He chronicles the ‘silent struggles’ of minorities amid rising communalism, from the Babri Masjid demolition to the Citizenship Amendment Act.

His fallout with the Samajwadi Party in 2012 over an interview underscores his commitment to ‘fearless journalism’, a theme that resonates in an age of polarised media.

Encounters with titans – Nehru’s intellectual heirs, Indira’s iron will, Modi’s unyielding pragmatism – show Siddiqui portraying them in human terms as fallible leaders burdened by ambition and circumstance.

A Portrait of India, Unvarnished

A particularly searing moment is Siddiqui’s exchange with Narendra Modi post-2002 Gujarat riots, where the then Chief Minister’s retort – ‘If I am guilty, hang me’ – dissected as evasive bravado.

Siddiqui demands accountability, drawing parallels to Rajiv Gandhi’s regrets over 1984, arguing that public remorse could heal national wounds. This isn’t polemic; it’s a call for maturity in power.

Yet, for all its strengths, I, Witness isn’t without flaws.

Siddiqui’s lens, while invaluable, occasionally tilts towards a critique of the BJP era, potentially alienating readers seeking balance. His optimism about Congress’s decline feels prescient but underexplored – how did secularism erode under UPA coalitions?

The book’s structure, chronological yet thematic, can meander, with personal asides (his literary passions, family lore) occasionally diluting the political thrust. At Rs 795, it’s a substantial read, but one wishes for more visual aids – timelines or photos – to anchor the dense recollections.

Ultimately, I, Witness transcends memoir; it’s a mirror for contemporary India.

In an October 2025 landscape still grappling with polarisation, Siddiqui’s voice – that of a man who walked ‘margins and mainstream’ – urges unity over division. He reminds us that history isn’t abstract; it’s lived, flawed, and redeemable.

For students of politics, journalists, or anyone pondering India’s 75-year odyssey, this book is essential. It doesn’t just witness the past; it illuminates paths forward, proving that one voice, steadfast and sincere, can echo across eras.