Critics say the renaming drive sidelines real issues as Muslims fear symbolic exclusion; Congress MP Imran Masood says the government fights the ‘past as it cannot manage the present.’
NEW DELHI — Since the Yogi Adityanath-led government assumed power in Uttar Pradesh in 2017, the politics of renaming cities, localities, railway stations, and administrative terms has emerged as one of the sharpest cultural flashpoints in the state. The latest proposal—changing the name of Fazilnagar panchayat in Kushinagar to Pava Nagari—has rekindled an intense debate over identity, heritage, and political intent. While the government presents the exercise as a long-overdue “correction of historical distortions,” critics view it is a calculated move to erase Muslim heritage from the public imagination.
Supporters of the renaming spree claim that many existing names were imposed during the Mughal period and therefore do not represent the region’s “authentic cultural identity.” The state government insists it is merely restoring ancient nomenclature rooted in Hindu civilisation. However, political parties, historians, and Muslim groups question why nearly every altered name is associated with Islamic rulers, Urdu terminology, or Muslim history. To them, the project appears less like cultural reclamation and more like ideological sanitisation.
Over the past seven years, more than 50 names have been officially changed. Faizabad was renamed Ayodhya, Allahabad became Prayagraj, and Mughalsarai was rechristened Pandit Deen Dayal Upadhyay Nagar. Few dispute a government’s right to rename places—nations frequently do so in the face of political transitions—but the consistent focus on Muslim-associated names has raised alarm.
Observers fear a systematic recasting of historical consciousness, where Muslim contributions to the state’s cultural, architectural, and linguistic heritage slowly disappear from public memory. “It feels as if someone is rubbing an eraser over an entire community,” said Arshad Siddiqui, a teacher from Sambhal. “A name is not just a label; it carries narratives of belonging, migration, and contribution. If those names vanish, what happens to our place in history?”
Academics argue that renaming is never a neutral act. Dr Seema Azad of Lucknow University cautions that such changes alter not only signboards but memory itself. “Once old names are removed, future generations will not even know they existed. This is not the correction of history—it is the creation of a new one,” she said. According to her, the process subtly reframes Muslims as temporary inhabitants rather than foundational contributors to North India’s cultural fabric.
The campaign extends beyond geography. Administrative terms rooted in Urdu and Persian have been replaced with Sanskritised alternatives. Critics see this as a cultural purge, targeting Urdu despite its indigenous origins. “Urdu was born in India. Treating it as foreign is historical amnesia,” noted Prof Tariq Husain, a retired academic.
In Varanasi, now globally branded as Kashi, residents say nearly 50 Muslim-named localities have already been renamed without public consultation. Young residents describe the experience as emotional exile. “A name is a story,” a university student said. “If you delete it, you erase a chapter of who we were.”
Simultaneously, the government’s controversial bulldozer actions—often targeting Muslim-owned properties—have deepened the sense of insecurity.
Mohammad Salman from Moradabad alleged his home was demolished without due process. “The bulldozer may be a machine,” he said, “but to us it feels like a message.”
Opposition parties say renaming is a spectacle designed to overshadow issues such as unemployment, inflation, crime, and crumbling public infrastructure. Congress member of Lok Sabha from Saharanpur Imran Masood remarked, “The government fights the past as it cannot manage the present.”
The Samajwadi Party termed the exercise “symbolic warfare”—cheap, headline-grabbing, and electorally profitable.
The government is now reportedly considering changing the names of 12 major cities, including Aligarh, Sambhal, Shahjahanpur, Muzaffarnagar, and Farrukhabad—places deeply intertwined with Muslim rulers, Sufi saints, artisans, and freedom fighters.
Analysts warn that if this trajectory continues, the cultural map of North India will look unrecognisable within a generation. “History will not be erased,” said analyst Abhishek Anand, “but it will become harder to trace.”
For many Muslims, the renaming spree feels like a quiet dislodging of their identity. Shabbir Khan, a vegetable vendor in Farrukhabad, confessed, “Every new name feels like someone is turning the page on our existence. What if one day there’s no page left?”
Cultural experts argue that shared history, not selective memory, has allowed India to survive as a civilisation. “Names are anchors,” said cultural researcher Dr Harjot Singh. “Pull them out, and communities drift.”
The renaming controversy is now a national debate about what it means to be Indian. Is identity inherited or manufactured? Can a nation with layered histories cleanse itself into a single narrative without fracturing its soul?
For now, the renaming continues. The debates grow fiercer. And a fear persists—not that history is being rewritten, but that history may one day forget an entire people.
