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The Nasadiya Sukta of the Rig-Veda

The Vedas never claimed exclusivity. They never insisted that a single prophet, a single book, or a single revelation should bind the whole of humanity. Instead, they opened with hymns of awe and questions of doubt. The Nasadiya Sukta of the Rig Veda asks, with a voice both trembling and defiant, whether anyone—gods included—knows how the universe came to be. This is not divine arrogance, but philosophical humility —a recognition that even the loftiest wisdom may fall silent before the abyss of creation. 
What other scripture dares to question the very existence of God? What other ancient text admits that the ultimate answer may not be known? The genius of India lies not in its certainties but in its refusal to strangle human inquiry.
The Upanishads extend this spirit with audacity. They declare that truth is one, but the paths are many. They announce that the godhead is not the private property of a tribe, a desert, or a single book. The line “Ekam sat viprā bahudhā vadanti”—truth is one, sages call it by many names—stands as the most radical rejection of monopoly in the history of religion. 
Where the Semitic traditions insist on “the way, the truth, the life” as a singular claim, the Upanishads throw open the doors of infinity, inviting seekers to enter by whichever path their conscience demands. 
And their most celebrated cry—“Asato mā sad gamaya, tamaso mā jyotir gamaya, mṛtyor mā amṛtaṃ gamaya”—is not a threat of damnation but a plea for liberation: lead me from unreality to reality, from darkness to light, from death to immortality. 
This is religion not as dogma but as aspiration.
It is worth contrasting this openness with the exclusivism of the desert traditions. Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, for all their differences, share one instinct: theological imperialism. They declare, each in turn, that they alone possess revelation, they alone are chosen, they alone have the key to salvation. 
The logic is brutal and unyielding: outside the covenant, the church, or the ummah, there is no redemption. Question the prophet, and you are damned. Reject the book, and you are cursed. Refuse obedience, and you are cast into fire. This is the iron cage of monotheism, where obedience is demanded, diversity is extinguished, and inquiry is punished.The Indian tradition could not be more different. It has no founder. It has no fixed revelation. It has no moment of closure when God speaks for the last time and forever. Instead, it is a river of thought, flowing across millennia, welcoming tributaries of skepticism and devotion alike. Buddha could deny the Vedas and still be embraced by the Indian imagination.
 Charvaka could mock the gods and still find a place in the great conversation. Shankara could drown the world in metaphysics, Ramanuja could insist on devotion, and both could be revered. There is no heresy, because there is no orthodoxy. There is no blasphemy because there is no final word.

Theological exclusivism breeds violence. It cannot tolerate the other because the other, by existing, is a rebuke. The history of the Middle East is a graveyard of rival revelations—Jews and Christians persecuted by Rome, Christians persecuting heretics and Jews, Muslims conquering both, and all three locked in endless war over the same patch of sacred geography. Each claims to be the heir of Abraham, each clings to the same revelation, and each insists on being the sole chosen. The result is not peace but perpetual conflict. Exclusivity demands enemies.By contrast, the Indian tradition produced no crusades, no inquisitions, no jihads. It did not burn heretics because it had no category for heresy. It did not massacre unbelievers because unbelief was a legitimate stance within its own horizon. Even atheism was allowed to breathe under its canopy. A civilization that begins with the Nasadiya Sukta cannot become a civilization of inquisitors. 
A philosophy that admits “perhaps no one knows” cannot slaughter in the name of “I alone know.” That is why Hindu civilization endured, absorbing waves of invasion, accommodating new gods and philosophies, adapting and surviving without losing its core openness.

Semitic exclusivism has always demanded submission. Judaism insists on the covenant with Yahweh, Christianity on obedience to Christ, and Islam on surrender to Allah. These are not invitations but commands. Believe or perish. Obey or be damned. The Vedic–Upanishadic voice could not be more alien to this. It speaks not of submission but of seeking. It urges not obedience but inquiry. It does not threaten, it entices. It does not curse, it questions. It does not damn, it dreams. The contrast could not be starker: where the Semitic imagination builds fortresses of truth with locked gates, the Indian imagination raises an open sky without walls.

The consequences are enormous. A civilization built on exclusivity inevitably collides with others; a civilization built on plurality can coexist. Monotheism, armed with revelation, becomes a weapon; pluralism, armed with inquiry, becomes a philosophy. The former produces holy war; the latter produces debate. The former silences doubt; the latter enshrines it as sacred. The former burns books; the latter produces libraries. Which model is more humane, more sustainable, more worthy of a global civilization?India today must remind itself of this inheritance. Too often, it is tempted to imitate the exclusivism of its conquerors—whether Islamic or Christian. Too often, its own children mistake the pluralism of their tradition for weakness, when in fact it is a strength. The refusal to monopolize truth is not cowardice but courage.
 The willingness to admit uncertainty is not a sign of confusion, but rather wisdom. The recognition that there are many paths is not relativism but realism. The world is too vast, too complex, too mysterious for one book, one prophet, one revelation. Only a civilization that acknowledges this can endure without splintering into warring sects.The future of humanity depends on learning this lesson. Religious wars, terrorism, and theological arrogance already scar the 21st century. The Abrahamic impulse—to conquer in the name of revelation, to silence doubt in the name of certainty—has not exhausted itself. However, it has been exhausted as an idea. It offers nothing but endless repetition of its old cruelties.
 The Vedic–Upanishadic alternative—skeptical, plural, open—offers something else: a way of living with difference without demanding submission—a way of seeking truth without closing the door on doubt. A way of praying that is also a way of questioning.The time has come to abandon theological imperialism and embrace philosophical humility. The desert religions, despite their rich history, cannot escape the logic of exclusivity. India, for all its flaws, has preserved another way. 
The Nasadiya Sukta is more relevant than ever: perhaps no one knows, maybe no one will ever know. In that admission lies not despair but liberation. For when we admit that truth is not possessed but pursued, we cease to kill in its name. When we acknowledge that paths are many, we cease to demand that others walk only ours. When we cry, as the Upanishads did, to be led from darkness to light, we cry not for conquest but for wisdom. That cry is universal, human, timeless.

The Vedas did not claim exclusivity. The Upanishads did not build dogma. They built something greater: a civilization that could live without theological imperialism. That, in the end, is the highest gift India has given the world.