Religious Conversions in India: Freedom or a Hidden Agenda?

A few years ago, during a reporting trip to a tribal village in Chhattisgarh, I met a man named Mangal. He had recently converted to Christianity from his tribal faith. When I asked why, he simply said, “They helped us when no one else would. They treated us like humans.”

There was no scriptural debate. No mention of divine visions. Just dignity. Food. Healthcare. Community. And yet, when word spread of his conversion, local activists stormed the village, accusing missionaries of “brainwashing” him. Mangal just shook his head and said, “If feeding my children is brainwashing, maybe more of us need it.”

That one conversation stuck with me. Because at the heart of India’s debate on religious conversions isn’t just theology—it’s inequality, identity, and often, invisible desperation.

The Right to Believe—or Not

India’s Constitution is clear: everyone has the right to “profess, practice and propagate” their religion (Article 25). In theory, this includes the right to change one’s religion. So why is conversion treated like a crime in so many parts of the country?

Over the past two decades, several states—including Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Gujarat, and Himachal Pradesh—have passed laws that restrict religious conversions. These “anti-conversion” laws are often marketed as protections against “forced or fraudulent” conversions. On the surface, that sounds fair. No one should be coerced into any faith.

But dig deeper, and you’ll find the language vague, the implementation uneven, and the intent... questionable.

Who’s Afraid of Conversion?

Let’s be honest. The fear isn’t really about force. It’s about numbers.
India’s religious demographics have remained largely stable for decades, yet the idea that Hindus are being converted “en masse” by foreign-funded missionaries continues to stoke public paranoia. Social media fuels it. Politicians amplify it. And fringe groups act on it—with threats, violence, or worse.

Take the case of Pastor Babu in Uttar Pradesh, who was arrested in 2022 on charges of “forced conversion.” His crime? Holding a prayer meeting in his home. No complaints from the attendees, no proof of coercion—just the fact that a group of people were praying in a language or faith others didn’t understand.

It's not about preventing force. It's about controlling choice.

Why Do People Convert?

It’s a question worth asking—but also worth answering honestly.

People rarely change religions because of a sermon. They do it because they’re seeking dignity, equality, and inclusion—things they’ve been denied in their existing social framework.

Dalits and Adivasis, in particular, have long faced discrimination within Hindu caste structures. For many, converting to Buddhism, Christianity, or Islam isn’t about theology—it’s an escape. An act of rebellion. A bid for self-worth.

I met Sunita, a former Hindu woman who converted to Buddhism after years of being treated as “untouchable.” “I didn’t stop believing in God,” she told me. “I just stopped believing I was less than others.”

Conversion, for many, is a deeply personal and often painful choice. Reducing it to "agenda" dismisses their lived experience.

The Political Playbook

Religion in India is never just religion. It’s politics.
Conversion is often weaponized by political parties to mobilize vote banks, demonize minorities, and paint NGOs or missionaries as national threats.

The recent “Love Jihad” debates—where interfaith marriages are portrayed as covert conversion plots—follow the same script. The idea is not just to control religious choice, but to regulate personal ones: who we marry, love, live with, or worship beside.

In this narrative, freedom becomes subversion. And those who convert become traitors to their community.

Conversion vs. Coercion: Know the Difference

Yes, coercion exists. There have been cases of vulnerable people being misled with false promises or material bribes. But those are the exceptions, not the norm.

And let’s not pretend coercion is exclusive to missionaries. Social pressure, family control, caste-based segregation, and communal policing—these are also coercion. But they’re so normalized that we no longer question them.

If conversion is only “free” when it’s towards the dominant faith and always “fraudulent” when away from it, then the debate isn’t about coercion. It’s about control.

Where Do We Go From Here?

Religious freedom doesn’t mean religious chaos. But the answer to concerns about conversion cannot be banning belief. It has to be respecting autonomy.

Here’s what we need instead:

Clear, fair laws that protect freedom of religion while punishing actual coercion—without targeting specific groups.
Transparency in NGO activities—religious or otherwise—to ensure genuine social service isn’t misused as bait.
Community dialogue, not police crackdowns. Understanding why people convert is more useful than blaming them.
Empowerment, not policing—uplift marginalized communities so they aren’t forced to choose between dignity and dogma.
Stop the political fearmongering. People’s faith is not a threat to national unity.

At its core, the debate over religious conversion in India is a test of how seriously we take freedom. Do we trust our citizens to choose for themselves? Or do we only like freedom when it confirms our own biases?

Mangal didn’t convert to spite anyone. Sunita didn’t reject her old religion out of hate. They did it for a better life. Whether you agree with their decision or not, it was theirs to make.

And that’s the real issue here. Not faith. Not agenda. But freedom.

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