Republic Day is not merely a celebration of independence institutionalised; it is a reminder that the Indian Republic was built through ideas, arguments, and anxieties. Among its principal architects, Jawaharlal Nehru and B.R. Ambedkar stand out—not as rivals, but as complementary thinkers whose words continue to interrogate the present. In his Tryst with Destiny speech, Nehru famously declared, “A moment comes, but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance.” For Nehru, the Republic was an ethical leap—towards reason, pluralism, and democratic faith. He believed freedom was incomplete without the cultivation of scientific temper and respect for diversity. Democracy, in his view, was sustained not by obedience, but by dialogue. Ambedkar, while sharing the democratic aspiration, was more guarded. On 25 November 1949, in his final speech to the Constituent Assembly, he issued a warning that remains central to Republic Day reflections: “On the 26th of January 1950, India will be an independent country… but in social and economic life, we shall have inequality. How long shall we continue to live this life of contradictions?” For Ambedkar, political democracy divorced from social justice was inherently fragile. Ambedkar’s concept of constitutional morality was foundational to the Republic. He defined it as “a paramount reverence for the forms of the Constitution,” but went further to argue that constitutions fail not because of their text, but because those in power refuse to honour their spirit. This insistence on restraint, accountability, and institutional autonomy was born from his deep awareness of social hierarchies and historical exclusion. Nehru, too, warned against narrowing democracy into conformity. He wrote, “Democracy is based essentially on free debate and open discussion, for that is the only way to arrive at the truth.” Today, when dissent is frequently portrayed as disruption and criticism as disloyalty, Nehru’s insistence on debate feels especially relevant. Both thinkers were sceptical of concentrated power. Ambedkar cautioned the nation: “Bhakti in religion may be a road to the salvation of the soul. But in politics, bhakti or hero-worship is a sure road to degradation and eventual dictatorship.” Nehru echoed this concern differently, arguing that democracy required humility from rulers and vigilance from citizens. Republic Day, therefore, is not just about constitutional birth, but constitutional behaviour. The selective invocation of Nehru or Ambedkar—often to legitimise present power rather than question it—does violence to their shared legacy. Nehru’s optimism without Ambedkar’s safeguards risks naïveté; Ambedkar’s constitutionalism without Nehru’s democratic imagination risks rigidity. As India navigates centralisation of authority, erosion of institutional autonomy, and persistent social inequality, their combined message is unmistakable. The Republic can survive diversity, disagreement, and dissent—but it cannot survive the normalisation of inequality or the erosion of constitutional restraint. Republic Day is thus not an occasion for comfortable pride, but for uncomfortable questions. As Ambedkar reminded us, “However good a Constitution may be, it is sure to turn out bad because those who are called to work it, happen to be a bad lot.” And as Nehru believed, the answer lies not in silencing disagreement, but in deepening democracy. To honour the Republic is to read these words not as history, but as instruction. For the Constitution was not meant to be celebrated once a year—it was meant to be practised every day.