While India has long witnessed episodic flashes of communal hostility or sporadic acts of vigilantism, the six-month period under study stands apart for its density, coordination, and geographic spread. Under Togadia’s polarising leadership, AHP and RBD conducted dozens of public rallies, Shastra Puja ceremonies, trishul and weapon distribution events, ideological training camps, anti-conversion protests, disruptions of minority religious gatherings, and direct interventions into interfaith and community life. The patterns revealed in these events are not incidental expressions of bigotry but components of a carefully structured ideological project that merges theology, masculinity, ritual, and violence into a coherent organisational strategy.

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The socio-legal significance of this mobilisation lies not only in the content of the speeches or the frequency of the gatherings but in the formation of a parallel normative order—a majoritarian apparatus that increasingly shapes public life, community relations, and the distribution of violence. AHP–RBD’s activities represent the consolidation of what may be termed an infrastructural form of vigilante sovereignty. In this system, communal identity becomes the organising principle of public order; violence is reimagined as moral duty; masculinity becomes a civic ideal; and the state’s authority is supplemented—or overridden—by militant religiosity. This is not a spontaneous phenomenon. It is patterned, scripted, routinised, and embedded in organisational structures that grant it continuity, reproducibility, and diffusion.

This article examines the six-month mobilisation through a socio-legal lens, drawing from an extensive dataset of AHP–RBD events across multiple states (see attached document for a comprehensive list). By tracing thematic narratives, analysing rhetorical patterns, studying ritual practices, and observing the organisation’s interactions with state institutions—particularly the police—we demonstrate how AHP–RBD’s activities signal a dangerous reconfiguration of India’s democratic order. The mobilisation reveals the emergence of a dual authority structure: the formal, constitutional state that guarantees equality, liberty, and religious freedom, a constitutional order that is being hollowed out; and a parallel, extra-legal majoritarian sovereignty that polices interfaith intimacy, adjudicates religious legitimacy, regulates gender and sexuality, and authorises violence in the name of community protection.

The implications for constitutional democracy are profound. AHP–RBD’s activities challenge the secular and egalitarian commitments of the Constitution. More critically, they expose how these commitments are weakened not only through state action but through state inaction—through selective policing, tacit endorsement, rhetorical alignment, or the silent normalisation of extremist discourse. As hate becomes publicly permissible, minority communities experience shrinking civic space, and majoritarian aggression becomes an accepted instrument of social control.

From a social movement perspective, AHP–RBD functions as a radical flank within the wider Hindutva ecosystem. By expanding the boundaries of extreme speech and acceptable violence, it shifts the Overton window rightward and allows mainstream political actors to appear moderate while benefiting from the emotional climate generated by extremist mobilisation. From a legal standpoint, the group’s actions—ranging from hate speech and incitement to weapons handling and vigilantism—constitute repeated violations of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, the Arms Act, and fundamental constitutional rights.

This article argues that AHP–RBD’s mobilisation is not merely evidence of rising majoritarian aggression but an indication of a new mode of communal politics—one that fuses ritual, masculinity, religious symbolism, historical revisionism, and legal ambiguity into a potent political formation. It is both ideological and infrastructural, capable of generating continuity, producing cadres, shaping emotional climates, and influencing electoral behaviour. To understand its legal implications, we must move beyond individual violations and analyse the broader socio-legal transformation it represents: the gradual emergence of a parallel polity that threatens to displace constitutional democracy from within.

From VHP margins to radical extremist formation

Praveen Togadia, a trained cancer surgeon, entered the arena of Hindu nationalism through the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) and subsequently rose to –or was ordained to–become the International Working President of the Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP). This period was his political crucible. He distinguished himself through militant cultural mobilisation, most notably the organisation of ‘Trishul Deeksha’ (trident distribution) ceremonies for Bajrang Dal activists, a direct act of communal provocation and arms dissemination that often-violated state bans.

The Bajrang Dal, the original youth wing of VHP, provided the blueprint for AHP-RBD’s operational tactics. Its foundational ideology—Hindutva, Islamophobia, and a far-right position—was perfected during the Ram Janmabhoomi movement and the subsequent Gujarat pogrom of 2002, where Togadia’s influence was significant. For a previous and thorough analysis of Togadia’s antecedents and actions, see the May 2003 issue of Communalism Combat, Against the Law.[1] The Bajrang Dal legacy of violence and communal targeting, from anti-Christian attacks to ‘moral policing,’ is the exact ideological inheritance upon which the AHP-RBD is built.

The AHP-RBD is Togadia’s vehicle to claim his position as the authentic voice of uncompromising, hardline Hindutva. This background explains several features of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation:

• its rhetorical extremism, which goes beyond even the most polarising elements within mainstream Hindutva;
• its obsession with demographic fear and gender policing;
• its reliance on ritual militarisation as a means of identity formation;
• its disregard for legality and due process;
• and its strategic positioning as a radical flank to the BJP, indirectly reinforcing the latter’s political dominance.

AHP–RBD is a product of ideological intensification, organisational displacement, and the opportunities created by a political climate increasingly tolerant of majoritarian aggression. It thrives in the gaps between state authority and nationalist discourse—in the ambiguities of legal enforcement, the ambivalence of political leadership, and the anxieties of a society grappling with polarisation, insecurity, and historical grievance.

Hate as a structure- analysis of the pattern

The events analysed in this article consists of detailed descriptions of AHP–RBD events across India between April and November 2025. These events include rallies, speeches, religious ceremonies, festivals, weapons training camps, “awareness” drives, protests against minority institutions, processions, and interventions in local disputes. Each event contains descriptive information about the location, the nature of the activity, the content of speeches, the symbols deployed, the performative elements (such as tridents, swords, firearms), and the presence or absence of police.

Through this article, the events of the past six months are seen not as a collection of isolated incidents but as an aggregated structure—a corpus of political performance through which a particular vision of the nation, society, and citizenship is constructed and enacted.

Based on the data, a clear pattern emerges in the language and symbolic repertoire deployed across AHP events. Hate speech, in this context, must be understood not simply as verbal hostility but as a technique of discursive engineering—an organised method of drawing communal boundaries, allocating moral worth, identifying enemies, and legitimising forms of aggression. Across states and settings, the same tropes reappear with remarkable consistency: demographic panic, the spectre of “love jihad,” historical grievance, territorial loss, and civilisational threat. These are not spontaneous utterances but components of a deliberate ideological script crafted to evoke fear, shame, pride, and defensive anger in the audience.

Equally revealing is the ritualised dimension of the mobilisation. Ceremonies such as Shastra Puja, Trishul Deeksha, communal sword-blessing, or the devotional display of firearms function as much more than cultural performances. They represent attempts to sacralise violence by embedding it directly into religious and moral practice. When weapons are blessed, displayed, and circulated as objects of collective reverence, the boundary between devotion and aggression collapses. Drawing from anthropological work on ritual and theories of political religion, this analysis reads such events as performative acts that create a moral obligation toward vigilantism. They invite participants to imagine themselves not merely as believers but as defenders, making violence appear righteous and necessary.

The data also reveals how AHP–RBD positions itself as a source of extra-legal authority. In numerous instances, cadres assume functions associated with policing: intervening in interfaith relationships, raiding churches or prayer meetings, detaining individuals accused of “suspicious” behaviour, or monitoring localities under the guise of protection. Viewed through socio-legal theory, these actions are not isolated encroachments but indicators of a parallel governance structure. AHP effectively performs sovereign functions—identifying threats, enforcing discipline, and adjudicating moral transgressions—thus competing with the state’s monopoly over lawful coercion. Vigilantism here becomes a mode of rule, not an aberration.

Placed against constitutional and statutory frameworks, the significance of this pattern becomes sharper. The organisation’s rhetoric raises questions under hate-speech jurisprudence; its weaponised rituals potentially violate the Arms Act; its interventions into religious practice implicate Articles 25 and 26; and its targeting of Muslim and Christian communities challenges the equality guarantees of Articles 14 and 15. The concern is not the presence of individual violations but the cumulative erosion of constitutional norms they represent. As such practices become normalised, the protective architecture of fundamental rights weakens, and the boundaries between state authority and majoritarian desire blur.

Seen through the lens of social movement theory, this mobilisation aligns with what many term a radical flank: an extremist wing of a broader ideological ecosystem that shifts public norms by expanding the limits of permissible discourse. AHP’s open hostility, explicit calls for social segregation, and sacralised vigilantism create a climate in which mainstream political actors appear moderate even as they move closer to majoritarian positions. The dataset illustrates how such fringe rhetoric does not remain at the edges but gradually migrates toward the centre of political common sense, fuelling polarisation and recalibrating the moral thresholds of democratic life.

The analysis therefore treats hate not as a series of discrete incidents but as a structure—an enduring architecture embedded in speech, ritual, space, and authority. Mobilisation is read as a continuous process of meaning-making, one that is inseparable from legality, identity, and the distribution of state power. Recurrent performances of communal hostility gradually establish new baselines for what counts as acceptable public behaviour, shifting social norms long before laws change. At the same time, the analysis foregrounds how extra-legal actors strategically exploit legal ambiguities and enforcement gaps to assert control over public space, intimate life, religious practice, and everyday social relations. In this view, hate operates both as discourse and governance, reshaping the moral and constitutional landscape from below.

1. Majoritarianism, vigilante sovereignty, and the production of fear

To understand AHP–RBD’s mobilisation based on the data, the organisation must be placed within three key theoretical perspectives: majoritarian nationalism, vigilante sovereignty, and the politics of fear. Majoritarian nationalism describes systems where one religious or ethnic community is treated as the true owner of the nation, while minorities are viewed as conditional members or potential threats. This framework aligns closely with AHP–RBD’s speeches, which repeatedly frame India as a Hindu nation and portray Muslims and Christians as outsiders who must be monitored or restrained.

The idea of vigilante sovereignty helps explain how non-state groups act like extensions of the state. Such groups enforce moral rules, police communities, intervene in personal relationships, and sometimes use or threaten violence. AHP–RBD’s raids, detentions, and street-level interventions fit this pattern, challenging the state’s exclusive right to use force and maintain public order.

The politics of fear shows how movements rely on fear not only as an emotion but as a tool of mobilisation. By invoking demographic threats, “love jihad,” religious conversion conspiracies, and historic betrayals, AHP–RBD creates an atmosphere of danger that makes aggressive action seem justified. Fear becomes the glue that binds supporters together and the justification for exceptional attitudes and behaviours.

In a one-sided political vacuum where the Opposition is yet to come up with a convincing, consistent and effective response to all the hyper claims made in hate speeches unleashed –be it on “demographic fear”, the “communal regulation of intimacy”, “ritual militarisation” and strong, street-level enforcement(s) of the rule of law, this vigilantism goes unchecked.

2. The politics of demographic fear

Demographic fear sits at the heart of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation strategy. Across the six-month dataset, leaders repeatedly promote the idea that Hindus are on the verge of becoming a minority and that Muslims are growing in number with deliberate, strategic intent. This narrative is presented as unquestionable fact. It relies less on evidence and more on repetition, emotion, and imagery: Muslims are described as multiplying rapidly, expanding territorially, organising politically, and threatening the very survival of the nation.

Although demographic anxiety has long existed within Hindu nationalist thought, AHP–RBD deploys it with unusual intensity and uniformity. Whether speaking in Ahmedabad, rural Maharashtra, small towns in Uttar Pradesh, or border districts in Assam, leaders use almost the same script: Hindus are shrinking; Muslims are taking over land; demographic imbalance will end Hindu civilisation; Muslim “vote banks” control politics; and Hindu women face imminent danger. The consistency of this message across regions reveals a coordinated ideological project rather than scattered local sentiment.

Viewed through a socio-legal lens, demographic fear acts as a political tool. It creates a sense of permanent emergency, shaping the present through imagined threats from the future. In this atmosphere, constitutional norms appear inadequate. Hate speech is reframed as a “warning,” weapons training becomes “protection,” and vigilantism is cast as “preventive action.” Even constitutional equality is portrayed as a risk Hindus can no longer afford.

Demographic fear also becomes a way of mapping territory. Several speeches describe Muslim-majority areas as “occupied zones,” “mini-Pakistans,” or “Bangladeshi territories.” This transforms ordinary patterns of residence or work into symbols of invasion. A Muslim neighbourhood becomes hostile territory; daily life becomes evidence of encroachment.

Socially, demographic fear collapses individuals into a threatening collective. A Muslim child becomes a sign of “population jihad,” a Muslim family becomes a plan of conquest, and a Muslim locality becomes a base of expansion. This removes any possibility of seeing Muslims as citizens or neighbours. They are recast as demographic threats, not people. Such dehumanisation makes discriminatory acts or violence appear justified.

At the same time, demographic fear reshapes Hindu identity. It portrays Hindus as vulnerable and under siege, encourages men to adopt a protector role, and frames women as symbols of community honour. This narrative helps unify diverse Hindu groups around a shared sense of danger and duty. In speech after speech, AHP leaders ask Hindus to “wake up,” “stay alert,” and “prepare for struggle.” Fear becomes a tool for building collective identity.

Legally, demographic fear is not just misleading—it is harmful. It fuels discrimination, normalises exclusion, and creates justification for violence. Indian constitutional law, especially in hate speech cases such as Pravasi Bhalai Sangathan (2014) and Amish Devgan (2020), makes clear that speech portraying an entire community as dangerous violates equality, dignity, and public order. Yet at many AHP–RBD events, police and local authorities stand by, signalling that such rhetoric is tolerated. This gap between constitutional protection and on-ground practice allows demographic fear to circulate freely and take root in public life.

In the end, demographic fear is the foundation on which AHP–RBD’s entire mobilisation rests. It casts Muslims as permanent adversaries, turns reproduction into a battleground, and provides justification for weapons rituals, gender policing, vigilantism, and calls for segregation or violence. Without demographic fear, much of AHP’s narrative loses force. With it, almost any action becomes thinkable.

3. Gender, sexuality, and the communal regulation of intimacy

Gender and sexuality lie at the centre of AHP–RBD’s ideological project. Although the organisation claims to defend “Hindu dharma” and “protect Hindu women,” its speeches reveal a deeply patriarchal, hyper-masculine, and communal vision in which women’s bodies and choices are controlled in the name of community honour. The conspiracy theory of “love jihad”—the claim that Muslim men intentionally form relationships with Hindu women to convert them and weaken Hindu society—functions as the main tool for this control.

Nearly half the events in the data refer directly to “love jihad.” This is not accidental. It reflects a worldview in which gender becomes the most important site of communal conflict. Hindu women are portrayed as innocent, gullible, and easily manipulated. Muslim men are cast as predatory, cunning, and hypersexual. This binary has no factual basis, but it is designed to justify constant vigilance, suspicion, and hostility.

Within AHP–RBD’s discourse, the Hindu woman is not treated as an autonomous individual with constitutional rights. Instead, she is imagined as the carrier of Hindu lineage and the symbol of community purity. Her body becomes communal property; her relationships are judged through the lens of demographic threat. Any interfaith relationship is interpreted as coercive by default. By denying Hindu women agency, the organisation turns them into objects of protection rather than subjects of choice.

This framework produces three major socio-legal consequences.

• First, it legitimises the surveillance of women. AHP–RBD members monitor public spaces—markets, colleges, workplaces—to watch interactions between Hindu women and Muslim men. Their presence creates an environment of constant scrutiny. Hindu women become boundary markers rather than free citizens, their mobility and friendships policed in the name of protection.

• Second, it encourages violence against Muslim men. In many speeches, Muslim men are presented as inherent threats, and audiences are urged to confront, punish, or even kill them. Such rhetoric directly violates the BNS and constitutional guarantees of equality and personal liberty. Yet these statements are made openly, often with police present, signalling that communal violence in the name of gender protection is tolerated.

• Third, this discourse undermines constitutional rights. The Supreme Court in Hadiya affirmed that adults are free to choose their partners. Judgments in Shafin Jahan, Navtej Johar, and Puttaswamy recognise autonomy, dignity, and privacy as core constitutional values. AHP–RBD’s mobilisation, however, replaces individual autonomy with communal control. Interfaith relationships are reframed as conspiracies, and constitutional protections are cast as threats to Hindu survival.

Sociologically, this gendered narrative binds Hindu men together through a shared sense of masculine duty. The call to protect Hindu women becomes a mechanism for creating solidarity among Hindu men. Masculinity is defined in militarised terms—strength, vigilance, and readiness for confrontation. Rituals such as weapon worship or trishul distribution reinforce this ideal. In effect, gender becomes a tool for producing a community of men primed for conflict.

“Love jihad” is therefore not only a myth or a political slogan. It is a central organising principle of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation. It regulates women’s autonomy, fuels hostility against Muslim men, strengthens group identity, and provides moral justification for vigilante action. It transforms everyday intimacy into a battleground and reimagines private relationships as matters of communal survival.

4. Ritual militarisation and the sacralisation of violence

One of the most notable features of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation is the central role of ritual in normalising violence. The dataset records numerous events involving Shastra Puja (weapon worship), Trishul Deeksha (the distribution of tridents), firearm training sessions, self-defence workshops, and public displays of swords, guns, and tridents. These are not decorative additions to political gatherings. They form the core of the organisation’s ideological strategy.

Shastra Puja, traditionally a religious ritual, is given a distinctly political meaning in AHP–RBD events. In Togadia’s speeches, weapons are celebrated not for their symbolism but for their function: the ability to defend the Hindu community through force. Swords stand for courage, tridents for purity, and guns for preparedness. When weapons are blessed, violence itself is blessed. The ritual frame offers moral cover for aggression, allowing political intent to hide behind religious practice.

Trishul Deeksha takes this further. Distributing tridents to young men is presented as a religious initiation, but it effectively creates a pool of recruits marked as “defenders of Dharma.” These tridents act as identity symbols—visible signs of readiness for confrontation. Such initiation rituals resemble practices used by militant groups in other contexts, where symbolic objects bind participants emotionally to the idea of collective struggle.

The presence of firearm training raises serious legal concerns. Under the Arms Act, handling or training with weapons requires strict permissions. Yet AHP–RBD frequently holds such sessions in public, often without police objection. Firearm training serves two purposes: it teaches practical skills and signals that the organisation sees itself as a force parallel to the state. It implies that AHP–RBD does not accept the state’s monopoly over violence.

From a sociological perspective, these rituals work to create a sense of community built around aggression. They produce male-dominated spaces where violence is sanctified, celebrated, and practiced. Religious devotion merges with militant nationalism, creating what scholars call a “sacralised polity”—a political identity shaped through ritualised displays of strength and readiness for conflict.

The socio-legal implications are far-reaching. Ritual militarisation dissolves boundaries between religion and politics, symbolism and force, legality and illegality. It creates a community that believes it has a moral right—perhaps even an obligation—to act outside the law. Weapons become sacred objects, violence becomes a communal act, and vigilantism becomes a perceived duty. In doing so, these rituals undermine the fundamental principle that only the state may use legitimate force, eroding a key pillar of constitutional democracy.

5. Territorial mythology, historical revisionism, and the spatialisation of hate

A key feature of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation is the way it reimagines geography and history through a communal lens. The organisation does not limit itself to present-day political disputes; it draws from a broad mix of mythologised history, civilisational claims, and territorial grievance. This revisionism is not merely cultural. It is a strategic attempt to redefine who belongs to the nation, who owns its land, and who has moral authority over its public and sacred spaces. Claims that global religious sites—Mecca, Medina, the Vatican—were once Hindu temples are historically baseless, but they serve an ideological purpose. They create a narrative in which Hindu civilisation is the original owner of sacred geography, and Islam and Christianity are portrayed as late, intrusive forces that took what was not theirs.

This worldview forms the core of AHP’s political theology. Hinduism is framed as the world’s first civilisation and the rightful custodian of global sacred space. Muslims and Christians are described as foreign arrivals, civilisational disturbers, and historical invaders. This racialised framing attempts to detach Indian Muslims and Christians from national belonging itself. If even Mecca is described as stolen Hindu territory, the implication is clear: if global Islamic spaces are illegitimate, then Indian Muslims’ connection to India is even more fragile.

These ideas have concrete socio-legal effects. Outlandish territorial claims become the basis for communal mobilisation. The demand to “reclaim” Kashi or Mathura is not an isolated argument about specific temples; it rests on a broader theory that all Muslim religious structures were built on destroyed Hindu sites. Mosques are reframed as symbols of past defeat. Muslim presence becomes a reminder of humiliation. Violence, in this worldview, becomes not aggression but restitution—an attempt to “correct history.”

This spatial politics is reinforced by emotionally charged language. Muslims are frequently described as “occupiers,” “encroachers,” “land-grabbers,” “Bangladeshis,” or “jihadi settlers.” These labels turn ordinary residential areas into imagined battlegrounds. Citizenship becomes a form of occupancy, always at risk of being revoked. In cities like Ahmedabad and Vadodara, leaders claim that Muslim-majority areas function as “no-go zones,” suggesting that the state has lost control over its own territory. Even though such claims lack factual basis, they generate territorial fear—a sense that Hindus are losing physical ground within their own homeland.

AHP’s territorial imagination therefore operates as a project of remaking India’s social geography. It asserts Hindu ownership over land, temples, cultural memory, and even urban space. It calls for active “reclaiming,” often framed as a religious duty. Ayodhya is invoked repeatedly as proof that reclamation is both possible and necessary; from this starting point, Kashi, Mathura, and numerous other sites are presented as the next steps in a never-ending civilisational project. The logic then extends beyond religious sites to entire regions. Districts in Assam, border areas in West Bengal, and parts of Uttar Pradesh or Karnataka are portrayed as “Hindu land under occupation.”

This mythologised re-territorialisation creates an atmosphere where violence becomes spatially authorised. Areas labelled as “occupied” become legitimate targets. Local Muslim communities are cast as heirs of historical invaders. Calls for “ghar wapsi” (re-conversion) sit alongside calls for the physical return of land and shrines. Space itself becomes a tool for asserting dominance.

Constitutionally, this spatialised rhetoric cuts at the heart of India’s secular framework. It undermines equal citizenship, freedom of religion, and the principle that every person belongs to the nation regardless of ancestry or historical claims. The Constitution does not recognise civilisational ownership as a basis for citizenship or territorial rights. Yet AHP’s vision creates precisely this hierarchy, reducing minorities to conditional members whose belonging is always in question.

By turning geography into ideology and history into grievance, AHP reshapes the everyday landscape of citizenship. Places where Muslims live, work, study, or pray are reframed as contested space. The symbolic “reclaiming” of Ayodhya, Kashi, and Mathura becomes a template for local domination. In this way, territorial mythology becomes a form of mobilisation, transforming public space into a site of communal assertion and fear.

6. Vigilante sovereignty and the emergence of extra-legal authority

A striking pattern across the six-month dataset is AHP–RBD’s routine assumption of policing powers in public life. The organisation intervenes in interfaith relationships, raids Christian prayer meetings, stops or disrupts mosque construction, questions Muslim men in public spaces, conducts anti-conversion patrols, and targets activities it labels as threats to “Hindu interests.” These are not isolated excesses. Together, they form a consistent system of vigilante sovereignty—where a non-state group exercises coercive authority normally held by the state. The singular impunity enjoyed by them is reflected in the wilful inaction of the police and administration wherever such rallies are/may be held.

Vigilante sovereignty describes situations in which the state’s exclusive control over violence weakens, and ideological groups step in to enforce their own moral and communal rules. AHP–RBD does not simply break the law; it creates an alternative legal order grounded in majoritarian claims rather than constitutional principles. Under this order, minorities are treated as security risks, women’s choices are subject to policing, and dissent becomes dangerous.

This vigilante order is maintained through three connected practices: surveillance, intervention, and punishment.

• Surveillance involves monitoring interfaith couples, tracking alleged conversions, observing the building or renovation of mosques, keeping watch on Muslim-owned businesses, and noting “suspicious” gatherings. This is not state surveillance—it is community surveillance. AHP cadres patrol local areas, monitor social media, gather information through informal networks, and maintain lists of individuals labelled as threats. Public safety is redefined to mean Hindu security; the presence of Muslims is framed as danger.
• Intervention is the next step. AHP–RBD members frequently enter private or semi-private spaces—homes, shops, churches, prayer halls, schools—to stop activities they see as harmful. These interventions often occur in the presence of police. In many events, police officers accompany AHP cadres when confronting interfaith couples or disrupting prayer meetings. The police rarely intervene to protect constitutional rights. This signals a breakdown of state neutrality and a sharing of authority between state and vigilante actors.
• Punishment is the final mechanism. Punishment may take the form of threats, public shaming, calls for economic boycotts, harassment, or physical assault. In several speeches, AHP leaders openly call for killing Muslim men accused of forming relationships with Hindu women. Such statements amount to direct criminal incitement, yet legal action is rare or non-existent. This impunity reinforces the belief that AHP is entitled to enforce its own version of justice.

The growth of vigilante sovereignty signals a larger transformation in India’s political culture: the emergence of a dual legal order. One order is constitutional, grounded in equality, dignity, personal liberty, and religious freedom. The other is majoritarian, grounded in identity, hierarchy, and demographic fear. AHP–RBD’s activities show that in many contexts, the majoritarian order is beginning to overshadow the constitutional one.

This shift carries serious jurisprudential consequences. The Constitution assumes that the state alone protects rights and wields legitimate force. When non-state actors take on state functions—raiding, interrogating, disciplining—without consequence, the constitutional promise collapses. What emerges is a patchwork of informal jurisdictions where constitutional rights are selectively enforced or suspended. These are not declared emergencies; they are silent, everyday suspensions made possible by police complicity, public fear, and the normalisation of hate.

This pattern is not unique to India. Similar dynamics have appeared in other democracies under strain: paramilitary groups in Colombia, extremist Buddhist groups in Myanmar, anti-Muslim vigilantes in Sri Lanka, and evangelical militias in Brazil. In each case, vigilante sovereignty grew when governments aligned themselves with majoritarian ideologies, allowing the line between state and militia to blur.

AHP–RBD’s actions place India on a comparable path. By intervening in relationships, the organisation claims control over personal freedom. By stopping prayer meetings, it claims control over religious expression. By patrolling public spaces, it claims control over visibility and movement. Through weapons training and youth mobilisation, it claims control over violence itself.

The consequences are profound. Vigilante sovereignty normalises discrimination, encourages extremism, weakens formal policing, and turns public space into a site of communal conflict. It reduces minority communities to conditional citizens whose rights depend on majoritarian approval. And it undermines constitutional remedies, because the harm is inflicted not directly by the state but by private actors operating with state tolerance.

The rise of this parallel authority may be one of the most serious threats facing India’s constitutional democracy today. It is not a temporary disruption. It is a developing system of governance—one that allocates coercive power along communal lines and embeds majoritarian dominance into everyday life.

7. The expansion of hostility toward Christians

Although Muslims remain the primary focus of AHP–RBD’s mobilisation, the dataset shows a clear and growing hostility toward Christians. This appears in speeches, protests against churches, disruptions of prayer meetings, accusations of forced conversion, and repeated rhetorical attacks on Christian institutions. The widening of the “enemy” category—from Muslims alone to Muslims and Christians together—signals a broader ideological ambition: the construction of a multi-target hate regime capable of policing all religious minorities under a single civilisational narrative.

The language used against Christians differs in content but mirrors the structure of anti-Muslim rhetoric. Muslims are portrayed as demographic threats; Christians as conversion threats. Muslims are framed as territorial and violent; Christians as deceptive and manipulative. Muslims are labelled infiltrators; Christians are labelled converters. Both sets of stereotypes reduce entire communities to singular, hostile identities serving a supposed anti-Hindu agenda.

This hostility toward Christians draws from a long-standing theme in Hindu nationalist thought. Since the colonial period, Christian missionaries have been depicted as foreign agents seeking to weaken Hindu culture through conversion. AHP–RBD revives this suspicion and blends it with contemporary anxieties about globalisation. Small prayer gatherings are described as “conversion factories,” and Christian charities are accused of hiding evangelism behind social service. Christian organisations are framed as part of a global conspiracy to destabilise India.

In multiple documented incidents, AHP members raided modest prayer meetings—often held in private homes or rented halls. These gatherings involved small groups reading scripture or singing hymns. Yet AHP cadres portrayed them as illegal conversion activities, despite any evidence. In some cases, police stood by silently or cooperated with the vigilantes. This produces a chilling effect: ordinary Christians fear harassment simply for assembling to pray.

Such acts strike at the heart of Article 25 of the Constitution, which protects the freedom to practise and profess religion. While propagation may be regulated, peaceful prayer cannot be criminalised. AHP’s interventions amount to an informal ban on Christian worship, undermining both religious freedom and equal citizenship.

At a strategic level, anti-Christian rhetoric helps AHP broaden its reach. By depicting Christians as agents of foreign powers, the organisation taps into nationalist anxieties about global influence and cultural loss. This narrative complements anti-Muslim fear: one enemy threatens demographics; the other threatens culture. Together, they create a sense of constant siege and justify continuous mobilisation. Unlike anti-Muslim mobilisation, which is often localised, anti-Christian mobilisation can be deployed even where Christians are few, giving AHP a tool for organising in diverse regions.

This has political effects as well. Christian communities often support opposition parties in states like Kerala, Goa, and parts of the Northeast. Intimidating these communities weakens their political engagement, reduces turnout, and disrupts civil society networks. Fear becomes a quiet form of electoral influence.

The hostility toward Christians is therefore not a minor extension of communal rhetoric. It reflects an attempt to define Indian identity through exclusion—to construct Hindu majoritarianism as the only legitimate form of belonging. In such a framework, constitutional rights become conditional, minority presence becomes suspect, and religious freedom exists more on paper than in daily life.

By targeting both Muslims and Christians, AHP–RBD is building a broader authoritarian cultural order. This multi-target hate regime claims the power to decide which religions are acceptable, whose practices are legitimate, and whose presence is a threat. It marks a deepening of communal authoritarianism in contemporary India—one that endangers minority rights and undermines the secular, democratic foundations of the Constitution.

The Regional Geography of Mobilisation: Spatial clusters, localised idioms, and the federal life of hate

The six-month dataset shows that AHP–RBD’s mobilisation is not uniform across India. It is spatially strategic. Events cluster in states where demographic anxieties, political incentives, and weak institutional checks come together. Each state reveals a distinct pattern of hate mobilisation, shaped by its own history, politics, and social structure.

Uttar Pradesh is the epicentre. The volume and aggression of AHP–RBD events are highest here. UP’s large Muslim population, history of communal violence, and increasingly majoritarian state machinery create a permissive environment. Leaders use UP platforms to deliver the most direct threats—calling for violence, monitoring interfaith couples, and enforcing social boycotts. Police often stand alongside AHP speakers, giving hate speech an aura of official sanction. In UP, the line between state power and vigilante action is blurred.

Gujarat functions as the ideological centre. Many of Togadia’s longest, most doctrinal speeches—on demographic war, civilisational supremacy, and global conspiracies—are delivered here. Gujarat’s political ecosystem, shaped by 2002 and deep institutional alignment with Hindutva, enables a more elaborate and ritualised form of mobilisation. The tone is less about street-level confrontation and more about sweeping historical claims and grand narratives of Hindu civilisation.

Maharashtra shows a dual pattern. In cities like Mumbai, Thane, and Pune, AHP focuses on rhetoric of “security,” appealing to middle-class anxieties. In semi-urban and rural belts—Jalgaon, Nashik, Dhule, Vidarbha—mobilisation becomes more militant, involving trishul distribution, Shastra Puja, and weapons demonstrations. Shivaji iconography and Maratha pride blend easily with AHP’s narrative of Hindu power and historical grievance.

Assam presents a different dynamic. Here, AHP taps into long-standing regional fears around migration and citizenship. The rhetoric of “Bangladeshi infiltration” dominates. Muslims of Bengali origin are framed as illegal occupiers rather than religious minorities. AHP simply amplifies anxieties already sharpened by the NRC, Foreigners Tribunals, and decades of political debate. The result is a powerful fusion of local ethnic fears and national Hindutva narratives.

Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, and Rajasthan serve as logistical hubs. These states host training camps, weapons rituals, and “awareness” programmes. The geography—forests, small towns, dispersed settlements—allows AHP to conduct paramilitary-style activities away from media scrutiny. The events may be less dramatic, but they are organisationally vital, producing cadres, distributing weapons, and building networks.

In Delhi, Haryana, Punjab, and Jammu, the mobilisation takes on distinct urban and border-specific tones. Delhi and NCR adopt a language of “national security,” framing hate as patriotism. Punjab’s smaller mobilisation focuses on anti-conversion rhetoric targeting Christian communities. In Jammu, AHP flattens the region’s complex social fabric into a simple Hindu–Muslim divide, feeding nationalistic grievance.

Taken together, these regional patterns show that AHP–RBD does not operate through a single model of mobilisation. It adapts to local fears, political opportunities, and cultural idioms. It can present itself as a militant outfit in one state, a cultural organisation in another, a devotional group elsewhere, or a community policing force where it faces little resistance. This spatial flexibility gives the organisation resilience and reach. It allows hate politics to be localised, normalised, and embedded in everyday life.

Understanding this spatial architecture is essential. It reveals that AHP–RBD is not just an ideological movement but a multi-scalar ecosystem—national in message, regional in form, and local in execution. This adaptability is what makes it both potent and difficult to regulate through conventional legal and administrative frameworks.

Electoral effects and the radical flank mechanism

AHP–RBD’s six-month mobilisation cannot be understood in isolation from India’s electoral landscape. Although the organisation is not seen formally part of the BJP–RSS structure, its activities consistently reinforce the BJP’s broader political strategy. Real and organisational connections also probably exist though these have not been publicly flaunted. The relationship is best explained through the “radical flank effect”—a social movement theory concept that describes how extremist groups shift public norms, allowing more “moderate” groups to appear reasonable while advancing a shared ideological agenda.

In practice, AHP–RBD performs the role of the radical flank. Its open calls for violence, its vigilante actions, and its demonisation of minorities create a political climate saturated with fear. Once such fear becomes ambient, the BJP’s own rhetoric—often couched in coded terms—appears centrist in comparison. When AHP demands expulsion of Muslims from certain areas, the BJP’s policies of strict policing or exclusionary welfare seem moderate. When AHP–RBD cadres raid prayer gatherings or harass interfaith couples, the BJP’s strong law-and-order posturing appears lawful rather than coercive. This triangulation enables the BJP to benefit from the emotional climate created by extremism without openly endorsing it.

Electoral data and field patterns show that regions with intense AHP–RBD activity often see heightened Hindu electoral consolidation. This shift does not require explicit coordination. It arises organically from the affective environment created by sustained hate mobilisation. When public discourse is filled with messages of demographic threat, “love jihad,” conversions, or “jihadist infiltration,” voters gravitate toward the party they perceive as the defender of Hindu security. Fear becomes the emotional engine of communal voting.

AHP–RBD’s activities also directly affect minority political participation. The intimidation of Muslim and Christian communities suppresses voter turnout, discourages public meetings, and deters grassroots organising. In regions with politically active Christian electorates—such as Goa, Kerala, Mizoram, and parts of the Northeast—the targeting of prayer gatherings and church-related activities has measurable political consequences. Fear reduces both visibility and voice.

The organisation also shapes elections by dominating local discourse. Its rallies receive disproportionate coverage in local media, creating a sense of tension even where none existed. Communal narratives crowd out issues like unemployment, inflation, agrarian distress, and welfare delivery. Once the baseline of public conversation shifts, secular concerns struggle to regain ground. Elections become referendums on identity rather than governance.

Finally, AHP–RBD acts as an ideological incubator. Themes it promotes aggressively—population control laws, campaigns against conversions, temple “reclamation,” policing of interfaith relationships—often migrate into mainstream party agendas or media debates. The journey from fringe to centre is gradual but unmistakable. Over time, these ideas stop appearing extreme and begin to seem like common sense.

The cumulative effect is a rightward shift of the entire political spectrum. Opposition parties find themselves forced to respond to issues defined by extremist actors. Centrist figures adopt majoritarian language to avoid appearing “anti-Hindu.” The space for dissent contracts. Minority political participation shrinks. Hate normalises itself within democratic life.

In this way, AHP–RBD’s impact is not limited to specific constituencies or elections. It reshapes the broader architecture of electoral politics. It alters what counts as legitimate speech, permissible demands, and acceptable public sentiment. It reconfigures the emotional and ideological terrain on which elections are fought. It changes the grammar of Indian democracy.

Legal Analysis: Hate speech, vigilantism, arms violations, and constitutional breaches

The six-month dataset reveals a consistent pattern of conduct that amounts to repeated, systemic, and often explicit violations of Indian criminal law and constitutional guarantees. These are not accidental excesses or spontaneous eruptions; they are central to AHP–RBD’s mode of mobilisation. Understanding their legal significance requires situating them within four frameworks: (1) hate speech and criminal incitement under the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), (2) vigilantism and due process violations, (3) illegal weapons display and training under the Arms Act, and (4) breaches of fundamental rights under the Constitution.

Hate speech and incitement: Indian hate speech jurisprudence—through Pravasi Bhalai Sangathan, Amish Devgan, S. Rangarajan, and the Delhi High Court’s rulings on inflammatory rhetoric—draws a clear distinction between offensive speech and speech that actively threatens public order or incites enmity. AHP–RBD’s rhetoric consistently falls in the latter category.

Statements urging violence against Muslim men, portraying Muslims as territorial invaders, or suggesting that Hindu women are targets of organised conspiracies constitute direct criminal incitement. Allegations that Muslims intend to “capture territory,” “eradicate Hindu civilisation,” or “control Hindu women” invoke the exact categories of prohibited speech under BNS provisions relating to public tranquillity and enmity between groups.

The dataset reveals a striking enforcement vacuum. Police presence at events where this rhetoric is openly delivered suggests not neutrality but deliberate non-enforcement. This institutional reluctance enables the normalisation of hate—from legal violation to public common sense—and marks a failure of the state’s constitutional obligation to ensure equal protection of the law.

Vigilantism and violations of due process: AHP–RBD repeatedly assumes policing functions: detaining individuals, interrogating alleged offenders, conducting raids on prayer gatherings, and enforcing communal boundaries. These actions strike at the core of Articles 21 and 22, which guarantee personal liberty and protection from arbitrary detention.

The Supreme Court’s landmark judgment in Tehseen Poonawalla (2018) imposes a positive duty on the state to prevent vigilante violence and prosecute perpetrators. Yet the dataset shows the opposite pattern—police inaction, presence without intervention, and in some cases, tacit collaboration. This creates a regime of dual policing:

• one legal, constitutional, and equal (in principle);
• the other informal, communal, and majoritarian (in practice).

Such a regime violates the constitutional commitment to secularism and the rule of law—principles recognised as part of the Basic Structure Doctrine. Vigilantism thus becomes not merely unlawful conduct but a challenge to constitutional sovereignty itself.

Illegal weapons display and training: AHP–RBD’s mobilisation features widespread use of weapons—swords, tridents, and firearms—through Shastra Puja, Trishul Deeksha, public marches, and explicit weapons training camps. Under the Arms Act, the display of many of these weapons in public or the provision of combat training requires stringent licensing.

The documented events violate these norms on multiple fronts. Weapons are not incidental accessories—they are ritual objects, identity markers, and instruments of political signalling. The religious consecration of weapons grants moral cover to acts that would otherwise attract immediate criminal sanction.

The legal concern is compounded by state inaction. When police stand by as weapons are worshipped, circulated, or used in training sessions, the constitutional principle that the state holds the exclusive right to deploy legitimate force becomes diluted. India’s long-standing policy of keeping arms out of civilian political mobilisation begins to erode, replaced by a permissive environment for private militias.

Violations of fundamental rights: The cumulative effect of AHP–RBD’s actions is a sustained infringement of the constitutional rights of religious minorities.

• Article 14 is violated through targeted discrimination and differential protection.
• Article 15 is breached when segregation, exclusion, or targeted hostility is encouraged.
• Article 19(1)(b) is compromised when minorities face intimidation from peaceful assembly or public expression.
• Article 21 is infringed through threats, coercion, and erosion of dignity.
• Article 25 and 26 are directly violated when prayer meetings are raided, religious practices disrupted, or Christian and Muslim institutions are targeted.

These violations operate not as isolated incidents but as a pattern of parallel sovereignty, where a non-state actor informally asserts the authority to regulate religion, intimacy, public space, and personal liberty. The most profound injury is to the principle of secularism, a core element of India’s basic structure. When the state tolerates a majoritarian organisation exercising coercive power, secularism becomes formal rather than substantive—its guarantees present in doctrine but eroded in lived reality.

Democratic risks and the normalisation of anti-minority governance

AHP–RBD’s six-month mobilisation points to a deeper institutional and cultural shift in India’s democratic landscape: the movement from a pluralist constitutional democracy to a majoritarian quasi-democracy, where minority rights exist formally but are systematically hollowed out in practice. This degradation does not occur through the formal suspension of rights or emergency powers. It occurs gradually, through the normalisation of communal hostility, which reshapes public behaviour, institutional norms, and the emotional structure of citizenship.

The first democratic risk arises from the de-legitimisation of constitutional norms. When communal mobilisation saturates public life, principles such as equality, religious freedom, and secular governance come to be seen not as foundational commitments but as obstacles to majoritarian will. Hate speech, demographic alarmism, and ritual militarisation generate an affective climate in which constitutional protections appear indulgent or even dangerous. In such a climate, minorities internalise fear, withdraw from public spaces, limit political participation, and experience democratic life on unequal terms. Electoral politics, too, becomes distorted: communal consolidation strengthens the majority vote, while minority voting becomes fraught with risk and reduced in impact.

A second democratic risk lies in the erosion of institutional neutrality. The dataset records repeated instances of police presence at events where inflammatory or openly violent rhetoric is delivered. The appearance of state authorities alongside vigilante actors produces a symbolic convergence between law and majoritarian sentiment. Law enforcement shifts from being an impartial guarantor of rights to an instrument of communal policing. When institutions fail to enforce constitutional norms, they lose legitimacy, and alternative power centres—majoritarian groups acting as de facto police—step into the vacuum.

The third democratic risk concerns the cultural redefinition of citizenship. AHP–RBD’s discourse fuses Hindu identity with national identity, constructing Muslims and Christians as conditional citizens whose loyalty must be proven and whose rights may be restricted. Citizenship becomes implicitly ethnoreligious, not civic. Such a transformation strikes at the core of the Indian constitutional order, which deliberately rejects indigeneity, religious majoritarianism, and racialised belonging as bases for citizenship. When minorities are framed as perpetual suspects, their participation in democratic life becomes precarious, and the republic shifts toward graded membership.

The final democratic risk is long-term polarisation. Hate mobilisation produces enduring harms: intergenerational fear, mutual distrust, and hardened communal identities. This polarisation is not limited to politics—it reshapes everyday life. Markets segregate, schools become communally divided, workplaces grow tense, and neighbourhoods fracture into hostile enclaves. Over time, these micro-segregations accumulate into structural separation, weakening the social cohesion that democracy requires. A society fragmented by fear cannot sustain collective governance, universal rights, or shared public institutions.

Together, these dynamics illustrate how AHP–RBD’s activities create not just immediate threats but a systemic democratic recession—a gradual hollowing of constitutional citizenship, institutional neutrality, and pluralist democracy.

Conclusion- The architecture of hate as parallel sovereignty

AHP–RBD’s events and the collated data reveals a sophisticated, multi-layered architecture of hate—one that operates not as episodic violence but as an emergent political order. This order is parallel to the constitutional state, majoritarian in ethos, and vigilante in practice. Through demographic panic, gendered control, ritual militarisation, territorial revisionism, anti-minority surveillance, and the normalisation of extra-legal punishment, AHP constructs a rival normative universe—a universe in which communal identity determines legitimacy, violence becomes moral obligation, and constitutional authority is displaced by militant religiosity.

This phenomenon is not merely a danger to India’s minorities. It is a profound challenge to the foundations of democratic life. When an organisation can redefine belonging, police intimacy, weaponise devotion, rewrite history, and regulate public space—often with the tacit tolerance or visible presence of state authorities—the very idea of citizenship becomes contingent. The rule of law fades into selective enforcement. The secular, civic character of the Republic becomes fragile, overshadowed by ethnoreligious belonging.

India is witnessing a deeper cultural shift:

—from pluralism to purity,

—from rights to obedience,

—from law to spectacle,

—from coexistence to conquest.

No democracy can survive the institutionalisation of hate as common sense. No constitutional order can endure when non-state actors are permitted to wield coercive power with impunity. No society can remain cohesive when its people are divided into protectors and threats, insiders and intruders, pure and polluted.

The challenge before India is therefore greater than the task of curbing a single extremist organisation. It is the task of reclaiming the constitutional imagination. This requires the restoration of institutional neutrality, the impartial enforcement of criminal law, renewed political commitment to equality and dignity, and a cultural repudiation of the politics of fear. It requires civil society vigilance and political courage that refuses to normalise hate.

AHP–RBD’s mobilisation is not the story of a fringe group. It is the story of a parallel polity—one that is emerging, expanding, and asserting influence. Whether this parallel polity becomes embedded in India’s future depends on how institutions, courts, political parties, and citizens respond to the early warning signs documented in this dataset.

The Constitution’s text remains intact. Its lived reality, however, is under deep strain. Even reduced to a hollow shell, some would argue.

The trajectory revealed here is not inevitable—but it is unmistakable. To confront it is not merely an analytical task for scholarship. It is a democratic imperative, central to safeguarding India’s identity as a plural, secular, constitutional republic.

Reference:

The Radical Flank Effect in Social Movements: Evidence from India

Hindutva Radicalisation of the Indian Youth and Its Impact on Freedom of Religion

The Hindu Far-Right and the Indian State: A Study of Vigilante Justice

Ideology and Organizational Strategy of Hindu Nationalism

Inequality, elections, and communal riots in India

The Political Economy of Religious Conflict in India

A Critical Study of Religious Polarization and Its Impact on the Secular Fabric of Indian Society

Profile: Pravin Togadia and the Rise of the Hardline

The Unimportance of Being Pravin Togadia: An Organizational Analysis

CJP moves NCM over Pravin Togadia’s communal oath at ‘Trishul Diksha’ event

Sheath the swords, while there is still time! (Report on AHP’s ‘Trishul Diksha’)

Hate Watch: Pravin Togadia administers communal and anti-minority oath in Haryana

RSS, Togadia decide to work together to ‘unite’ Hindus

India’s ‘love jihad’ conspiracy theory turns lethal

VHP releases over 400 alleged ‘Love Jihad’ cases; to launch awareness against religious conversion

How a ‘love jihad’ case was manufactured in India’s Uttar Pradesh

Hundreds In Mumbai March Against ‘Love Jihad’, Demand Anti-Conversion Laws

Nanded police book Pravin Togadia for hate speech

India Hindu leader in ‘hate speech’ row (2014 report on property eviction call)

Election Commission directs FIR against Pravin Togadia for ‘hate speech’

Togadia’s ‘hate speech’ video under EC scanner

Maharashtra Police registers case against VHP leader Praveen Togadia for hate speech

Pravin Togadia’s claim of being targeted by Modi govt not new

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/maharashtra/violence-erupt-in-nagpur-during-hindu-outfits-protest-for-removal-of-aurangzebs-tomb/article69341949.ece

https://www.newindianexpress.com/nation/2022/Jun/14/bajrang-dal-to-hold-nationwide-protest-against-violence-over-remarks-against-prophet-vhp-2465507.html

https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/allahabad/tension-erupts-in-myorabad-area-over-alleged-religious-conversion-activities/articleshow/125662303.cms

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/arunachal-pradesh/rally-for-anti-conversion-law-held-in-arunachal-pradesh/article70178964.ece

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/vhp-demands-central-law-against-conversion/article35803107.ece

https://www.csohate.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/Hate-Speech-Events-in-India_Report_2024.pdf

https://www.pudr.org/publicatiosn-files/2023-04-17-Jahangirpur-%20communal-incident.pdf

https://sabrangindia.in/karnataka-bajrang-dals-sanjay-nalvade-three-others-arrested-murder-muslim-teen/

https://sabrangindia.in/bajrang-dal-members-booked-for-hurting-religious-sentiments-in-malad-accused-of-deliberate-provocation/

[1] A look at the analyses of hate speeches here (https://sabrang.com/cc/archive/2003/may03/index.html), Togadia, then squarely with the Viswa Hindu Parishad (VHP) declares his/and organizational hate and harm-filled intent: to generate anarchy and anti-minority violence (civil war) in every village of the country. Neither logistics not resources have stymied this cancer surgeon who’s Dhanwantri Hospital in Ahmedabad was also noted for its refusal to treat patients belonging to the mass-harmed Muslim minority in February-March 2002. (https://sabrang.com/cc/archive/2002/marapril/hospital.htm, https://sabrang.com/tribunal/vol2/pubspace.html)

The post Rituals of Fear, Politics of Hate: How AHP’s national network rewrote the boundaries of democracy and citizenship appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The report identifies the reported disappearance and killing of journalist Mukesh Chandrakar in Bastar in early January as emblematic of the dangers faced by those who speak truth to power. Chandrakar had reported on poor-quality road construction in the region shortly before he went missing; his body was later found in a septic tank. The FSC notes that this incident set the tone for a year in which nine people were killed for exercising their right to free speech, including eight journalists and one social media influencer. It underscores that violence against journalists—particularly those working in rural and semi-urban districts—remains one of the most visible and brutal forms of silencing.

Journalists as primary targets

The FSC report records 40 attacks on free speech actors in 2025, of which 33 targeted journalists. It notes that reporters covering local corruption, illegal mining, liquor mafias, and administrative failures were especially vulnerable. In several cases, the police initially attempted to attribute killings or deaths to personal disputes, accidents, or intoxication, even when the journalists had recently published sensitive stories. The report highlights the case of Uttarakhand-based YouTuber Rajeev Pratap, whose body was recovered from the Bhagirathi, river days after he aired a video exposing liquor consumption inside a local hospital. Despite colleagues raising serious doubts, police claimed he had driven into the river while drunk.

The FSC further draws attention to the continued incarceration of journalists Irfan Mehraj and Rupesh Kumar under the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act, 1967, noting that their prolonged detention without trial exemplifies the use of counter-terror laws to suppress journalism. Threats and harassment accompanied physical violence: at least 14 of 19 harassment incidents and 12 of 17 recorded threats were directed at journalists engaged in professional work. The report cites, as illustrative, a threat by TDP MLA Gummanur Jayaram to force journalists “to sleep on railway tracks” if they published allegedly false information about him.

The return of sedition and criminal lawfare

One of the most troubling findings of the report is the resurgence of sedition prosecutions, despite repeated assurances that colonial-era speech offences had been rendered obsolete under the new criminal codes. The FSC documents multiple sedition cases filed in 2025 against satirists, journalists, and political commentators for online posts questioning state action.

The report details how satirists Neha Singh Rathore, Madri Kakoti (Dr Medusa), and Shamita Yadav (Ranting Gola) were charged with sedition for social media commentary following the Pahalgam attack. It flags the Allahabad High Court’s rejection of Rathore’s anticipatory bail as a significant departure from earlier judicial reluctance to allow sedition prosecutions for speech. The FSC also records the filing of sedition FIRs by Assam police against the leadership and columnists of The Wire, including founding editor Siddharth Varadarajan and consulting editor Karan Thapar, as well as against journalist Abhisar Sarma for a YouTube programme that relied on publicly available judicial observations.

According to the report, these cases exemplify “lawfare”—the strategic use of criminal law not necessarily to secure convictions, but to intimidate, exhaust, and silence critical voices through prolonged legal processes.

Mass censorship and platform control

The largest category of violations documented by the FSC in 2025 relates to censorship and internet control, with 11,385 instances recorded. The report highlights mass government takedown requests to social media platforms, particularly X (formerly Twitter). In May and July 2025 alone, over 10,000 accounts were withheld in India. Citing X’s submissions before the Karnataka High Court, the report notes that the platform received 29,118 takedown requests from the Indian government between January and June 2025 and complied with the overwhelming majority of them.

The FSC identifies the Sahyog portal as a key institutional mechanism enabling decentralised censorship by allowing state agencies, district officials, and local police to issue takedown notices directly to platforms. Following the Pahalgam attack, numerous accounts belonging to journalists, news organisations, and international media outlets—including The Wire, Maktoob Media, Reuters, and many senior journalists—were withheld without public disclosure of reasons. The report notes that the Karnataka High Court’s decision upholding the Sahyog portal effectively legitimised large-scale, opaque censorship of online speech.

The ‘Hidden Hand’: Self-censorship and corporate influence

Beyond formal orders, the FSC report devotes significant attention to what it terms the “hidden hand” of censorship: informal pressures, verbal directives, and institutional intimidation that rarely leave a documentary trail. The report cites instances of journalists receiving “friendly calls,” media houses quietly dropping stories, and investigative platforms being financially crippled through regulatory action, such as the revocation of The Reporter’s Collective’s tax-exempt status.

Corporate power, the report notes, increasingly intersected with state censorship. It documents the September 2025 ex-parte injunction obtained by Adani Enterprises leading to the takedown of over 200 pieces of online content critical of the company, as well as sustained attempts to suppress reporting on the Vantara wildlife project linked to Reliance Industries. Even where courts later set aside gag orders, the report observes that the chilling effect on media coverage persisted.

Academia, cinema, and the right to think

The FSC records at least 16 serious instances of censorship in academia, including the cancellation of conferences, denial of permissions, deportation of visiting scholars, and the revocation of OCI status of academics critical of the government. In Kashmir, the report notes, authorities banned 25 books on the region’s history and politics and raided bookstores.

In cinema, the report documents excessive cuts, prolonged certification delays, and outright denial of certification to films addressing caste violence, state abuse, or social injustice. It notes that even internationally acclaimed films and centenary classics were barred from screening, underscoring how certification had become a tool of prior restraint rather than classification.

An uneven judicial response

While acknowledging some notable judicial interventions in favour of free speech, the FSC concludes that the judiciary’s overall response in 2025 was inconsistent. The report contrasts strong Supreme Court observations protecting poetry, satire, and art with orders that imposed gag conditions, endorsed expansive censorship mechanisms, or demanded apologies from artists. This inconsistency, the report argues, has failed to provide a stable constitutional shield for free expression.

A shrinking democratic space

In its concluding assessment, the Free Speech Collective warns that the cumulative impact of violence, lawfare, mass censorship, corporate pressure, and regulatory overreach has fundamentally altered the conditions under which speech is exercised in India. The report cautions that free expression has not been extinguished outright, but increasingly conditioned, surveilled, and constrained, creating a climate in which self-censorship becomes a rational act of survival.

As the report starkly concludes, the “hidden hand” shaping India’s speech landscape in 2025 is no longer subtle—it has become structural.

The complete report may be read here.

Related:                                                            

The ‘Shastra Poojan’ Project: How the ritual of weapon worship is being recast as a tool of power and hate propaganda

MP, Odisha, Delhi, Rajasthan: Right-wing outfits barge into 2 churches ahead of Christmas, attack vendors selling X’mas goodies, tensions run high

No right to live, or die: Christians in Chhattisgarh, and India under attack

Kerala: Protests erupt after RSS-BJP man’s alleged attack on children’s Christmas carol group in Palakkad

‘Brutal intimidation of Christians’ all India condemned: Bombay Catholic Sabha

The post Free Speech in India 2025: What the Free Speech Collective report reveals about a year of silencing appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The Bench of Justices Vikram Nath and Sandeep Mehta, according to the report of LiveLaw, was visibly enraged as it confronted the record of the case. Justice Mehta rebuked Assam Police for what the Court described as a shocking and indefensible lapse: “This is appalling! Two years you are not filing a chargesheet and the man remains in custody? Whatever the stringent provisions may be, the UAPA does not authorise illegal detention. You consider yourself to be a premier investigative agency?”

The petitioner had been apprehended in July 2023 with ₹3.25 lakh and later taken into custody through a production warrant. The chargesheet surfaced only on 30 July 2025—well past the outer limit of 180 days, which itself requires a reasoned judicial extension under Section 43D(2) of the UAPA.

As per the LiveLaw report, the Supreme Court stressed that default bail is not a discretionary indulgence but an “indefeasible right” under Article 21, crystallizing the moment statutory timelines lapse: “By no stretch of imagination can custody extending beyond 180 days without a chargesheet—and without any valid extension order—be regarded as lawful. The detention is unconstitutional.”

The Gauhati High Court Order- What the Supreme Court found wrong

The Gauhati High Court’s December 20, 2024, order in Tonlong Konyak v. State of Assam rejected the petitioner’s plea for bail in a UAPA case by resting its decision almost entirely on the finding that he was a foreign national from Myanmar who had entered India illegally. The petitioner had been arrested on 26 August 2023 in connection with Sapekhati P.S. Case No. 29/2023, registered for offences under the IPC and multiple provisions of the UAPA. He argued that the State had failed to file its investigation report within the statutory period mandated under Section 173(2) CrPC / Section 193(3) BNSS, and therefore he had acquired an indefeasible right to default bail. Relying on Article 21 and key Supreme Court precedents, he submitted that co-accused had already been released and that neither the FIR nor the forwarding report contained any concrete incriminating material linking him to the alleged offences.

The State opposed the bail plea by placing the case diary before the Court, asserting that the petitioner was an active linkman for ULFA (I), facilitating extortion networks across Charaideo district. According to the prosecution, he was apprehended by Assam Rifles on 29 July 2023 with ₹3.2 lakh in extortion money, was in constant touch with persons aiding the banned organisation, and was responsible for carrying ransom amounts across the India–Myanmar border. The State further contended that he lacked any travel documents or passport, proving illegal entry, and argued that releasing him would result in an almost certain risk of absconding.

Justice Manash Ranjan Pathak’s order reproduces at length the allegations from the FIR and the case diary: the extortion demands made by ULFA (I), the pattern of ransom payments collected from tea-estate owners, and the role of intermediaries based in Charaideo. The Court recorded that the petitioner had allegedly contacted several linkmen arrested in the case, provided details of businessmen to ULFA (I), and transported extortion money to the organisation’s hideouts in Myanmar. It also noted that the petitioner faced additional cases in Borhat and Mon, and concluded that the materials showed active involvement with banned groups.

The crux of the High Court’s legal reasoning, however, turned on Section 43D(7) of the UAPA, a non-obstante clause that prohibits grant of bail to foreign nationals who enter India unauthorisedly, unless “very exceptional circumstances” are shown. The Court held that this provision overrides the default-bail regime under CrPC/BNSS. Since the petitioner was indisputably a foreigner who entered India without authorisation, and since he had not demonstrated any exceptional circumstances, the Court held that he was categorically barred from seeking bail—even default bail.

In effect, the High Court treated illegal entry as a complete statutory bar that extinguishes the default-bail right. It reasoned that the gravity of allegations, the petitioner’s foreign nationality, and his alleged cross-border activities “amply justified” continued custody. Without examining whether the investigating agency had obtained any valid court order extending the statutory investigation period to 180 days, or whether the failure to file a chargesheet rendered custody unlawful, the Court concluded that statutory protections under Section 167 CrPC / 193(3) BNSS do “not apply” to such a foreign national accused under UAPA.

Ultimately, the High Court held that the petitioner could not claim the benefit of default bail due to the overriding effect of Section 43D (7), and dismissed the bail application. This reasoning—treating nationality and illegal entry as grounds to deny a constitutionally recognised procedural safeguard—became the central point of contention before the Supreme Court, which later corrected the position by holding that no statutory non-obstante clause can override the default-bail right when the State itself violates statutory timelines.

Where the High Court went wrong (and why the SC could not have upheld it):

1. The HC collapsed two distinct bail regimes—default bail and regular bail—into one: Section 43D (7) restricts regular bail to foreign nationals who have illegally entered India, unless very exceptional circumstances exist. But default bail is not regular bail.
   Default bail does not depend on:

• gravity of allegations
• nationality
• risk of absconding
• case diary materials
• exceptional circumstances

It depends only on whether the State complied with statutory timelines. The HC treated a constitutional right as if it were a discretionary privilege.

2. The HC placed Section 43D (7)’s non-obstante clause above the Constitution: The HC held that the 43D(7) non-obstante clause overrides the right to default bail.
   This is plainly contrary to the Supreme Court’s consistent jurisprudence (Uday Mohanlal Acharya, M. Ravindran, Rakesh Kumar Paul), which holds:

• Default bail arises directly from Article 21.
• No statutory non-obstante clause can override a constitutional guarantee.
• Once the right accrues, it is absolute.

The HC’s interpretation effectively allowed the State to nullify constitutional default-bail protection by merely alleging illegal entry, which is impermissible.

3. The HC relied extensively on allegations in the case diary—irrelevant for default bail: The attached order spends multiple paragraphs reproducing police allegations: alleged ULFA(I) links, extortion networks, border crossings, ransom collection, etc. These may be factors in a merits-based bail hearing, but they have zero bearing on whether the 90/180-day period expired without a chargesheet.

Default bail entitles the accused to release even if the allegations are grave, credible, or proven, because the right is triggered by State failure—not by innocence.

4. Illegality of entry cannot justify illegality of detention: The HC repeatedly asserted that the petitioner’s “unauthorised entry” bars him from bail. However:

• Illegal entry is a separate offence.
• It cannot legitimise detention that violates statutory timelines.
• The State cannot defend one illegality (custody) on the basis of another alleged illegality (entry).

5. The HC never examined whether there was a valid extension order under Section 43D(2): A fatal omission as the law requires:

• Written application by the Public Prosecutor,
• Detailed reasons showing progress of investigation,
• A judicial order extending time up to 180 days.

The HC’s order shows no such extension existed—yet it still rejected default bail. This omission could alone renders the order unsustainable.

The complete order of the Gauhati HC may be read here:

Why the Supreme Court intervened so strongly

The Supreme Court focused on the most fundamental issue: the petitioner’s detention was per se illegal, irrespective of nationality or the gravity of allegations. The Court’s reasoning reflects three constitutional anchors:

1. UAPA’s severity does not permit investigative complacency: The Act’s stringency heightens, not relaxes, the burden on the State to maintain strict procedural discipline.
2. Nationality is constitutionally irrelevant to default bail: The right protects any person in custody. Article 21 does not distinguish between citizens and non-citizens.
3. Default bail is a constitutional protection against State abuse: It exists precisely to prevent the scenario seen here: endless incarceration without trial.
4. Courts must not allow non-obstante clauses to amputate constitutional rights: The Supreme Court restored the correct position: Statutes cannot override the Constitution—ever.

Conclusion: A powerful reassertion of liberty in the UAPA era

The Supreme Court’s order is a striking reminder that even under the most severe national-security legislation, the State cannot suspend procedural safeguards. The ruling not only restores the petitioner’s liberty but also implicitly corrects the Gauhati High Court’s overly broad reading of Section 43D (7), which had the effect of collapsing the distinction between default bail and regular bail.

By granting bail and condemning the prolonged pre-trial incarceration, the Court reinforces a key constitutional principle: When the State violates statutory timelines, detention becomes illegal—no matter who the accused is, or what the allegations are.

Related:

Punjab & Haryana High Court refuses anticipatory bail to journalist accused of provocative, communal statements against Purvanchal community

Six Days Behind Bars After Bail: Patna High Court orders ₹2 lakh relief, flags state-wide pattern of illegal detention

A Terror Case Without Evidence: Allahabad High Court’s ‘heavy heart’ acquittal After 28 Years

A New Silence: The Supreme Court’s turn toward non-interference in hate-speech cases

The post Supreme Court restores Article 21 safeguards, calls 24-month UAPA custody without charge sheet illegal; sets aside Gauhati HC’s reliance on Sec 43D(7) appeared first on SabrangIndia.

A broad comparative reading of speeches, videos, rallies, slogans, media patterns, complaints, and reports reveals something deeper than mere rhetorical excess. It reveals a political order that increasingly depends on the manufacture of an existential threat. The political message has fused with social fear. Social fear has fused with administrative paralysis. Administrative paralysis has fused with electoral advantage. In this fusion, the very meaning of democracy is being reconfigured: elections no longer offer competing futures but competing hatreds; political legitimacy no longer flows from representation but from the ability to summon and sustain anger.

In this transformed landscape, hate speech functions as infrastructure. It builds worlds. It shapes consciousness. It reorganises neighbourhood markets, influences police behaviour, triggers vigilante assertion, and fractures interdependence at the most micro levels. It is not ephemeral. It is lived, circulated, absorbed, and enacted. In addition, its long-term damage is not only to India’s minorities, but also to India’s democratic capacity itself. Hate becomes not only an electoral weapon but also a method of governance; not only a tactic of polarisation but also a technique of population management.

This article takes stock of this new political order. It examines the imagery and stereotypes deployed across electoral contexts; the fears they stoke; the patterns of mobilisation they generate; the administrative silences that empower them; the media networks that amplify them; and, most importantly, the differential ways in which states like Maharashtra, Delhi, and Bihar adapt this infrastructure to their own socio-political terrains. In Bihar especially, hate speech became a tool to reorder caste configurations—an extraordinary strategic shift with profound implications for the state’s political future.

The fundamental objective of this “Architecture of Polarisation” is two-fold: first, to successfully consolidate a majority (read Hindu) vote bank through the construction of an existential threat narrative; and second, to systematically blur socio-economic realities and caste equations—particularly in states like Bihar—by substituting governance failures with religious conflict. This piece argues that electoral hate speech has evolved from fringe outbursts into an essential, multi-stage campaign strategy, aiming to consolidate a majority vote bank by constructing a fear-driven narrative of existential threat to the majority community.

Notably, along with the article, documents containing communal and provocative speeches delivered during Delhi, Maharashtra and Lok Sabha elections has been attached separately.

CJP’s Election Hate Watch operates as a specialised monitoring system designed to track, document, and challenge hate speech that corrodes the fairness of India’s electoral process. During election cycles, CJP’s conduct daily scans of speeches, election rallies, roadshows, religious gatherings, local WhatsApp circulation, hyperlocal events, and media broadcasts. Every instance of communal incitement is timestamped, transcribed, archived, and assessed against the Model Code of Conduct, RPA, and hate-speech jurisprudence. The process is meticulous: the team captures not only explicit slurs or violent calls but also dog-whistles, coded conspiracies (“love jihad,” “land jihad,” “vote jihad”), ritualised slogans, vigilante mobilisation, and election-season communal rumours. The emphasis is on understanding how hate operates as a political technology—where it originates, who amplifies it, how quickly it spreads, and how it shapes the emotional climate of the constituency.

A core function of the Election Hate Watch is formal accountability. Each verified violation is filed with the Election Commission as a structured MCC complaint—supported with evidence, legal references, URLs, transcripts, and explicit analysis of how the speech violates electoral norms. As complaints accumulate, CJP identifies deeper patterns: repeat offenders who face no consequences; fringe groups that act as advance agents of polarisation months before polling; the transition of hate speech from local agitators to star campaigners; the silence or selective inaction of District Magistrates; and the seasonal spike in anti-minority mobilisation whenever elections approach. The Hate Watch therefore does more than document abuse—it exposes the systemic, cyclical nature of hate-mongering during elections and highlights how institutional indifference enables its escalation.

The National Template of Hatred: How stereotypes become strategy

Across every state examined—Maharashtra, Delhi, Bihar, and during the Lok Sabha campaign—one encounters a startlingly consistent repertoire of imagery. It is a set-piece performance, travelling effortlessly from district to district, from rallies to WhatsApp forwards, from street-corner speeches to prime-time studio screens. The central character of this repertoire is the Muslim figure cast entirely outside the domain of citizenship: the eternal infiltrator, the calculating seducer, the demographic schemer, the territorial conspirator, the economic parasite, the cultural invader.

Protagonists employed to spew this hatred by the ideological majoritarian formation that most benefits from it, the RSS led-Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) are the constitutional CEOs of the party’s most polarised states (Uttar Pradesh, Assam and Uttarakhand). The carry forward or trickle down circulation of this hate is then by local level, recognised functionaries of far right formations, closely allied with the regime.

The term “infiltrator” is the axis around which this ecosystem revolves. It appears not merely as an insult but as a political doctrine. Hatred does not operate by merely expressing dislike; it operates by constructing the “Other” as an enemy so dangerous that even constitutional protections must bow before national survival. The infiltrator trope achieves this by collapsing legal categories—foreigner, migrant, refugee, citizen—into a single undifferentiated target. A Muslim man walking with his daughter to school becomes indistinguishable from a Bangladeshi terrorist. A Muslim vendor selling tomatoes becomes indistinguishable from a Rohingya infiltrator. This collapse is not a misunderstanding; it is a deliberate political intervention that renders all constitutional protections fragile.

Alongside the infiltrator, we see the proliferation of “jihad” conspiracies. These conspiratorial logics—love jihad, land jihad, population jihad, vote jihad—are a masterstroke of rhetorical engineering. They allow entirely ordinary, mundane aspects of life—love, marriage, land purchase, childbirth, voting—to be reinterpreted as part of a sinister plan. The beauty of a conspiracy theory is not that it is credible but that it is expansive. It can absorb anything, interpret everything, and justify whatever violence follows. For electoral actors, this is strategic gold.

This vocabulary is supplemented by dehumanising metaphors: termites, snakes, demons. Dehumanisation functions as the precursor to violence, lowering the psychological barrier between rhetoric and action. The use of such animalistic vocabulary across Maharashtra and Lok Sabha speeches shows a clear attempt to create a moral universe in which harming the target feels like cleansing, not cruelty.

Then there is the linguistic architecture of purity and contamination. In Delhi, vendors are forced to display saffron flags or publicly assert their Hindu identity. The underlying claim is that Muslim bodies carry impurity—social, cultural, or even culinary. If a Muslim vendor hides his identity, he is framed as deceitful; if he reveals it, he is ostracised. It is a no-win situation designed to make minority livelihoods precarious.

The repetition of identical metaphors across states shows a powerful truth: hate is being standardised.

The thematic trinity of existential threat

The communal campaign strategy relies on a narrow but potent set of themes, which are tailored locally but consistent nationally. These themes function to dehumanise the minority community, primarily Muslims, and position them as a singular, monolithic threat that transcends local governance issues.

1. The ‘Infiltrator’ and Citizenship Trope: Stoking demographic fear

Across Bihar, Maharashtra, and the Lok Sabha campaign, the core message is that the opposition parties are enabling “Bangladeshi infiltrators” and “Rohingya refugees” to undermine the nation’s security and steal local resources.

• Commonality- The threat to resources and identity: The core claim across all these elections is that “Bangladeshi infiltrators” and “Rohingya refugees” are being enabled by opposition parties to usurp local resources, jobs, and land, thereby changing the demography of border districts. This rhetoric is deployed to stoke the fears of demographic replacement and economic dispossession.

• Top-down amplification: This is not limited to local functionaries; it has been mainstreamed by the highest-ranking “Star Campaigners.” The Prime Minister, for instance, used the term ghuspaithiya (infiltrators) in Bihar, alleging demographic changes in border districts and announcing a mission to deport them to prevent the theft of livelihoods and resources from the youth of Bihar. In the Lok Sabha campaign, the same narrative was used to claim the opposition planned to redistribute the country’s wealth to these “infiltrators”.
• Targeting indigenous communities (Jharkhand): In Jharkhand, this narrative was explicitly used to divide and mobilise the Adivasi and indigenous communities. BJP leaders accused the ruling JMM-Congress coalition of enabling these “infiltrators” to settle illegally, thereby “stealing” resources, jobs, and land from the Adivasis. The rhetoric successfully frames the election not as a choice on development, but as a defense of indigenous culture and territory against an external Muslim threat.
• Delhi and Maharashtra: Local leaders in Delhi utilised the same language, warning residents that if the opposition won, the city would “turn into Dhaka” and that the opposition was busy making Aadhaar cards for these “Bangladeshis”. In Maharashtra, the demand for NRC/Janta NRC was raised with the promise to throw out all Bangladeshis/Rohingya.

The fear stoked: This theme directly stokes the fear of demographic replacement, economic dispossession, and national security compromise, making the electoral choice one of survival rather than policy.

2. The ‘Jihad’ Conspiracy Matrix: Fuelling moral panic and segregation

The term ‘Jihad’ is weaponised as a prefix to various social and economic activities to generate a state of perpetual moral panic within the majority community.

Certain instances of hate speech targeted Muslims in Bihar are as follows:

1. Raghunathpur, Bihar

Assam CM & BJP leader Himanta Biswa Sarma says, “Before I came to Raghunathpur, I thought I would see Lord Ram, Lord Lakshman and Goddess Sita, but I was told that there are many Ram, Laxman and Sita here and there is also Osama. So I asked, who is Osama? This Osama is like the earlier Osama Bin Laden. We have to ensure the elimination of all Osama Bin Ladens in the state. What was Osama’s father’s name? He was called Shahbuddin…”

2. Keoti, Darbhanga, Bihar

Top themes from Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath’s campaign speech: “Bihar’s security is being compromised by letting ghuspaithiya (infiltrators) into Bihar’s land — these are the same people who divide you on caste lines, invite ghuspaithiya (infiltrators), play with your faith, and then work to undermine national security. We must not allow these ghuspaithiya (infiltrators) to enter. Just as Article 370 was ended in Kashmir and Pakistani elements were pushed out, we will remove ghuspaithiya (infiltrators) from our border areas, seize the property of anyone involved in criminal activities, and distribute that property among the poor — the NDA government will do this. Elect NDA candidate Shri Murari Mohan Jha again; do not allow any element that shelters ghuspaithiya (infiltrators), breeds anarchy, or insults Mithila’s culture during festivals and celebrations.”

3. Hajipur, Vaishali, Bihar

Top themes from Union Home Minister Amit Shah’s campaign speech delivered virtually at a public rally: “Should ghuspaithiya (infiltrators) have the right to be on Bihar’s electoral rolls? I know your answer — it should not be. Congress leader Rahul Gandhi took out a ‘Ghuspaithiya Bachao’ yatra in Bihar, because all these parties fighting elections against us see these ghuspaithiya (infiltrators) as their vote bank. And I believe these ghuspaithiya (infiltrators) are snatching jobs from our youth, taking a share of the poor’s grain, and making the country insecure. Rahul ji, hold as many ‘Ghuspaithiya Bachao’ yatras as you want — we will pick out every infiltrator from Bihar and the country and send them out, and we will also work to remove their names from the electoral rolls. This is the decision of the Bharatiya Janata Party, this is the decision of the NDA.”

4. Harsidhi, Purvi Champaran, Bihar

Top themes from CM Pushkar Singh Dhami’s campaign speech: “We have taken strict action against counterfeiters, religious conversion, riots, and against ‘love jihad,’ ‘land jihad,’ and ‘thook jihad.’ Additionally, to curb the operation of illegally functioning madrasas and religious extremism, we have decided to dissolve the Madrasa Board in Uttarakhand. In the coming days, only those madrasas in Uttarakhand that teach the syllabus prescribed by our education board will operate. After winning Bihar, these same measures will be implemented here to ensure its safety. Who do you stand with? Will you stand with the BJP-NDA that puts the national interest above all, or will you stand with those who support ghuspaithiya (infiltrators)? Will you stand with the Uniform Civil Code, or with those who bring Shariat laws and openly give license to the oppression of women?”

5. Chapra, Saran, Bihar

Key themes from Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s campaign speech: “Remember this — the RJD and Congress, drowned in appeasement and vote-bank politics, can do nothing except protect ghuspaithiya (infiltrators). These ghuspaithiya (infiltrators) have become their maai-baap (masters). They have invested all their political strength in saving them.”

This matrix directly translates into violence against vulnerable sections and the enforcement of social and economic apartheid. A BJP Councillor in Delhi, for instance, not only demanded a Muslim vendor display his name but also installed saffron flags on Hindu vendors’ stalls to facilitate identity-based commerce, explicitly propagating the slur that the “other community” spits on food.

3. Dehumanisation and Direct Incitement: The slur-to-violence pipeline

The final, most dangerous thematic stage involves the deployment of dehumanizing language that makes violence against the target community palatable and justified.

• Dehumanising slurs: Instances include a BJP member inside the Lok Sabha using Islamophobic and threatening slurs like “terrorist” and “pimp” against a Muslim MP. A BJP leader in Maharashtra, Nitesh Rane, threatened to burn someone and other leaders openly called for gruesome violence, threatening to “kill you like Insects” and chanting, “Danda uthao, Lande baghao“.
• Incitement to violence: Rallies in Maharashtra, led by figures like BJP MLA T Raja Singh, have featured anti-Muslim slurs and direct incitement. In one instance, a leader threatened to “burn someone,” while others openly chanted, “we will also cut people here and throw them in drains”. Another leader explicitly threatened, “we will kill you like Insects”. The CM of Assam, Himanta Biswa Sarma, while delivering a speech in Bihar, likened a person to “Osama Bin Laden” and explicitly called for their “elimination”. This constant use of extreme rhetoric (e.g., “cut people here and throw them in drains”) serves to normalise a climate of hostility, making actual violence against vulnerable sections an anticipated outcome. This rhetoric aims to condition the public to accept violent elimination as a righteous act.

The Emotional Infrastructure of Fear: How hate speech manufactures threat

Hate speech may appear to be about anger, but its true currency is fear. Anger mobilises crowds; fear sustains movements. Across states, four carefully constructed fears appear repeatedly.

The first is economic fear. In poor, agrarian states such as Bihar—or in working-class belts of Maharashtra—the rhetoric focuses on infiltrators stealing government benefits, occupying land illegally, taking jobs, receiving welfare they do not deserve. This rhetoric is powerful because it taps into real economic frustrations but diverts them away from structural inequality and towards minorities. It converts legitimate anger over unemployment or deprivation into communal resentment.

The second is cultural fear. This fear takes the form of a narrative of civilisational decline. Hindu culture is portrayed as under siege; traditions are framed as endangered; festivals are depicted as battlefields. Rituals like Chhath Puja—once shared by communities—become arenas of policing and communal signalling. What was once a festival of rivers and devotion becoming a theatre of antagonism.

The third is demographic fear. It appears most explicitly in national-level speeches during the Lok Sabha campaign. By exaggerating Muslim fertility and framing demographic change as a Muslim conspiracy, politicians create a sense of population panic. Demographic fear is one of the most potent tools of ethnic majoritarianism globally—it transforms the majority into a frightened minority in their own imagination.

The fourth is sexual fear. Women’s bodies become sites of communal anxiety. “Bahu-beti ki izzat” rhetoric casts Muslim men as sexual predators and Hindu men as protectors. It converts women’s autonomy into a communal battlefield and legitimises violent moral policing. This fear is especially weaponised in Maharashtra, where love jihad rhetoric saturates both street-level speeches and high-profile rallies.

Together, these fears produce a moral panic in which majoritarian self-defence becomes not only political strategy but civic virtue.

The operational playbook of mobilisation and division

The communal escalation follows a meticulous, three-stage operational pattern designed to build momentum while providing plausible deniability to the main political party.

The three-stage escalation model: A remarkable consistency emerges across state after state: hate speech follows a three-stage escalation pipeline. This pipeline is not theoretical. It is empirically visible across the Maharashtra file, the Delhi dossier, and Bihar’s hate-speech archive.

In the first stage, fringe actors begin the work of seeding hatred. These actors are often small, semi-obscure organisations—vigilante groups, local religious fronts, hardline cultural outfits. They operate without restraint, testing the boundaries of permissible speech. Their role is to sow the initial seeds of anxiety.

In the second stage, local political leaders elevate these narratives. Their speeches are strategically targeted, naming places, identifying supposed threats, and calling for exclusion or boycott. They do the work of translating fringe slogans into electoral messaging.

In the third stage, national leaders adopt the same rhetoric. This is the most crucial moment, where language becomes law-like, carrying the weight of authority. When senior ministers repeat terms like “infiltrator”, they confer legitimacy on the entire ecosystem. What begins as street-level rumour becomes a central campaign theme.

This pipeline ensures that hate speech does not remain marginal. It becomes mainstream political messaging, producing a nationwide vocabulary of resentment. (Read: Elections 2024: The lead up to the first two phases of voting have seen far right leaders deliver anti-Muslim hate speech across India and April: CJP’s hate watch campaign analyses several hate incidents reported across the country in the last week)

Stage 1: Fringe elements get active (the groundwork)

The process begins 3-4 months before the elections with dedicated far-right organisations laying the groundwork.

• In Maharashtra, groups like the Sakal Hindu Samaj and Hindu Janjagruti Manch organise Hindu Jan Akrosh rallies, peddling the most extreme versions of the ‘Jihad’ conspiracies, including calls to take up arms. In Bihar, it was the “I Love Mahummad” campaign that led to chaos and violence.
• In Bihar, groups like the Bajrang Dal and VHP host events where convenors openly reject slogans of communal harmony and urge Hindus to take up weapons (shastra) to defend their identity. This fringe content serves as an ‘out-of-syllabus’ test balloon for later, more moderated main-party rhetoric.

Instances from Bihar:

1. Gaya, Bihar

Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP), Matrushakti, and Durga Vahini conducted Durga Ashtami and Shastra Poojan (weapon worship) programs at multiple locations. During the event, women brandished weapons and raised religious slogans.

2. Kaimur, Bihar

Bhagwati Shukla, national president of Rashtriya Sanatan Sena, speaking at a religious conference organised by the group, promoted the anti-Muslim conspiracy theory of “love jihad” and falsely claimed that over 3 lakh Hindu girls are killed every day in its name. He also declared that they will cut those who slaughter cows.

3. Bettiah, West Champaran, Bihar

During a Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) Foundation Day event, leader Ambarish Singh made anti-Muslim remarks, claiming Muslims seek separate laws and identity. He said those who refuse to say “Bharat Mata ki Jai” “may be citizens but are not our brothers,” mocked slogans of communal harmony, and linked the VHP’s mission to ending “love jihad,” cow slaughter, and religious conversions.

4. Bhagwanpur, Vaishali, Bihar

At a Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) Sthapna Diwas event, Bajrang Dal state convenor Prakash Pandey rejected slogans of communal harmony and spread anti-Muslim conspiracy theories around “love jihad,” “land jihad,” religious conversions and cow slaughter. He also urged Hindus to take up weapons (“shastra”) to defend their identity.

Stage 2: Local leaders build-up (the designated agitators)

The next stage involves “designated agitators”—one or two individuals per state who consistently make hateful statements. These leaders test the boundaries of acceptable rhetoric and generate the initial media traction.

Instances:

1. Maharashtra- Nitesh Rane peddles conspiracy theories and threaten violence in Dongri. Caught on camera threatening to burn someone and peddled conspiracy theory of ‘land jihad’

https://cjp.org.in/nitesh-rane-peddles-conspiracy-theories-and-threaten-violence-in-dongri-thane

2. Maharashtra- CJP files complaint before Maharashtra Police against serial hate offender Kajal Hindustani. In complaint, CJP urged to take strict action and seek prosecution under sections 196, 197(1), 352 and 353 of the BNS, 2023 for communal, hate speech

https://cjp.org.in/cjp-files-complaint-before-maharashtra-police-against-serial-hate-offender-kajal-hindustani

3. Maharashtra- CJP lodges additional police complaints against Nitesh Rane and Ashwini Upadhyay for hate speeches. Incendiary remarks by Nitesh Rane and Ashwini Upadhyay span multiple locations in Maharashtra

https://cjp.org.in/cjp-lodges-additional-police-complaints-against-nitesh-rane-and-ashwini-upadhyay-for-hate-speeches

4. Maharashtra- Hindu Jan Akrosh rally in Mumbai sees conspiracy theories being peddled against Muslims. Leaders like Nitesh Rane, made speeches calling out ‘Jihadis’ and accusing people of bringing in ‘Bangladeshis’, and ‘Rohingya’ to conduct riots

https://cjp.org.in/hindu-jan-akrosh-rally-in-mumbai-sees-conspiracy-theories-being-peddled-against-muslims

Stage 3: Star campaigners take over

Once the ground is polarised and the themes are established, the main national leaders (PM Modi, Amit Shah, Rajnath Singh, Yogi Adityanath) step in, adopting the subtext of the hate speech—shifting from local incitement to national security and resource threat—to legitimize the narrative and reach a mass audience. This also involves the tactic of “catching” one or two Maulanas to make statements that fit the narrative, ensuring the rhetoric is framed as a response to minority aggression (e.g., the use of Imran Masood’s statement in Bihar).

Blurring caste equations and weaponising Dalits

A key analytical dimension in Bihar and the Lok Sabha elections is the calculated effort to fracture social justice coalitions by pitting Dalits, Adivasis, and OBCs against Muslims. A critical function of communal hate speech is the calculated effort to blur Caste Equations/Realities and divert attention from governance failures.

• The reservation theft narrative: This is achieved by framing any potential minority benefit (like reservation for backward Muslims, as done in Karnataka) as a direct theft of resources earmarked for Dalits, Scheduled Castes (SCs), and Scheduled Tribes (STs). Senior leaders, including Home Minister Amit Shah, systematically framed any potential reservation for Muslims as a direct theft from Dalits, Adivasis, SCs, and OBCs. The explicit claim that Congress would take reservations “out from the Dalits… and give it to Muslims” is designed to create a zero-sum communal conflict, fracturing the socio-political alliance built on caste-based identity and social justice.
• Diverting from joblessness and poverty: By focusing campaign energy entirely on ‘Infiltrators,’ ‘Love Jihad,’ and ‘Reservation Theft,’ the political discourse successfully diverts attention from the real issues plaguing Bihar, such as poverty, unemployment, and lack of development.

Communalising shared public and festival spaces

The strategy of division extends to hijacking shared cultural symbols and spaces.

• Festival polarisation: Festivals traditionally celebrated by both communities are being communalised, such as Chhath Puja in Bihar, where the use of VHP stickers is a new tactic to stake exclusive claim over shared cultural rituals.
• Economic segregation: The use of festivals or local gatherings to enforce economic boycotts and social separation (e.g., the paneer vendor incident in Delhi).
• Infiltrating secular institutions: Even educational institutions are being targeted, with reports of Hindutva activities like Gaushalas and Shobha Yatras being brought into college campuses like IIT-B in Mumbai, symbolically mirroring the ‘Land Jihad’ narrative in cultural and academic domains.

Targeting religious and political spaces

• Religious sites: Speeches included promises to remove mosques from Kashi and Mathura if the BJP wins a supermajority in the 2024 Lok Sabha elections. The destruction of the Babri Mosque was openly glorified in Maharashtra.
• Parliamentary attacks: A Muslim MP, Kunwar Danish Ali, was called a “terrorist, pimp” by a BJP member, Ramesh Bidhuri, inside India’s parliament.
• Political rivalry: Assam CM Himanta Biswa Sarma made a deeply communal remark in Bihar, linking a local leader to Osama Bin Laden and his father to Shahabuddin

Instances from Bihar:

1. Gaya, Bihar

At a government event inaugurating development project, Prime Minister Narendra Modi targeted those he referred to as “ghuspaithiya” (infiltrators), alleging demographic changes in Bihar’s border districts. He asserted that infiltrators would not be allowed to steal livelihoods and resources from the youth of Bihar and Indian citizens, and announced the formation of a demography mission to deport each “ghuspaithiya” from the country.

2. Barauni, Begusarai, Bihar

Home Minister Amit Shah delivered a speech targeting those he referred to as “ghuspethiya” (infiltrators). He questioned whether they should receive voting rights, be included in voter lists, or be entitled to free food rations, employment, housing, or medical aid, claiming that Rahul Gandhi prioritises them over the people of Bihar. He further alleged that “ghuspethiyas” serve as vote banks for opposition leaders and vowed to remove each one of them.

3. Dehri, Rohtas, Bihar

Home Minister Amit Shah delivered a speech targeting those he referred to as “ghuspethiya” (infiltrators). He mocked Congress leader Rahul Gandhi’s campaign as a “Ghuspethiya Bachao Yatra” and asked attendees whether infiltrators should have voting rights, access to free rations, jobs, housing, or medical aid. He alleged that infiltrators are receiving these benefits instead of Indian youth, warning that if the opposition wins, “every house in Bihar will have only ghuspethiyas.”

4. Danapur, Patna, Bihar

Top themes from Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath’s campaign speech: “The INDI Alliance has started a new campaign– development vs ‘burqa’. When Bihar and its youth are talking about development, Congress and RJD are trying to expand their reach through ‘burqa’. Should they be allowed to conduct fake polling? Should ‘foreign ghuspaith’ (infiltrators) be given a free hand to rob the poor, Dalits, and citizens of Bihar? Anywhere in the world, one must show their identity and face, but they want to let anyone vote without revealing their faces.”

From Rhetoric to Rupture: How hate speech reorders everyday life

Across Maharashtra, Delhi, and Bihar, hate speech produces concrete, lived consequences. It reorganises public space. It transforms markets into segregated zones. It forces everyday interactions to become declarations of identity.

In Delhi, the pressure on Muslim vendors to display saffron flags is not simply symbolic. It is a form of coercion that destroys anonymity, exposes vulnerability, and renders economic life contingent on communal compliance. In Maharashtra, boycott campaigns led to assaults on shops, disruption of livelihoods, and humiliation of workers. In Bihar, rumours about “Bangladeshi vendors” have triggered spontaneous harassment of ordinary labourers. Panchayat resolutions in various states have attempted to exclude Muslim traders from local markets—a practice that mimics apartheid structures where economic participation becomes conditional on identity.

Violence follows predictably. Mob assaults, harassment of couples, vandalism of shops, threats to imams, surveillance of Muslim-majority localities—these are not “law and order incidents”. They are direct outcomes of a discursive environment engineered for hostility.

When hate speech saturates public space, violence becomes not a deviation but an expected response. A society trained to see neighbours as infiltrators is a society primed for confrontation.

The Systemic Enablers: Media and institutional inaction

The final, critical piece of the pattern is the widespread belief that the Model Code of Conduct (MCC) is a functionally dead instrument, a perception reinforced by consistent inaction on complaints against powerful figures. The piece must highlight that despite the existence of electoral laws and the MCC, enforcement remains critically weak, thus encouraging repeat offenses.).

1. The media multiplier and the digital battlefield

The media ecosystem acts as a critical force multiplier, ensuring maximum saturation of the divisive narratives.

• The role of media in propagation: The media acts as a critical force multiplier. The search results confirm that social media platforms (Facebook, YouTube, X) are key instruments for amplifying and mainstreaming hate speech, with top BJP leaders’ speeches often live-streamed across official accounts.
• AI-generated content and deepfakes: As anticipated, the Bihar election has become a test case for the use of AI Deepfakes, hate posters, and malicious Bhojpuri songs, “blurring the line between propaganda and parody”. The attempt to create an AI Deepfake targeting Colonel Sofia Qureshi and falsely linking Trishul drills to the Bihar polls is a clear example of using sophisticated technology to manufacture a crisis narrative.
• “Paid” hardliners: A crucial pattern is noted: the existence of “paid” Muslim hardliners whose provocative clips are used by the political machinery to validate the “existential threat” narrative. This creates a false equivalence, framing the majority community’s rhetoric as a justified defensive reaction. 

2. The MCC Paradox: A functional impunity

One of the most troubling revelations across states is the consistent institutional inaction. MCC complaints filed by civil society groups in Maharashtra resulted in little to no prosecution. Delhi administrators took no meaningful action against blatant hate speech. Even where the Election Commission issued notices, follow-up was weak.

The paralysis is not bureaucratic inefficiency—it is political choice. District Magistrates, legally empowered to act suo-moto, routinely fail to intervene. Police forces often behave not as neutral protectors but as silent spectators or selective enforcers. Voting-day advertisements—clearly illegal—continue year after year with complete impunity.

The absence of enforcement does not merely fail to stop hate speech. It incentivises it. (Read: From Welfare to Expulsion: Bihar’s MCC period rhetoric turns citizenship into a campaign weapon)

• Lack of consequence for star campaigners: The most damning evidence comes from the 2019 Lok Sabha elections, where the Congress party explicitly petitioned the Supreme Court, stating that the Election Commission’s (ECI) “continued silence” on complaints of hate speech and MCC violation against the Prime Minister and Home Minister amounted to a “tacit endorsement” of their statements and was a form of “invidious discrimination”. The Supreme Court was eventually forced to direct the EC to decide on these complaints.
• The DM’s suo-moto power failure: District Magistrates (DMs) possess the suo moto power to initiate action against violations of law and order, including hate speech, without waiting for the ECI’s directive. The consistent failure of DMs to utilise this power effectively creates a security vacuum and raises a fundamental question: What is the purpose of the MCC if its own local enforcement arms refuse to exercise their legal authority?
• The silence period violation: A consistent tactical violation is the use of full-page newspaper advertisements on the day of voting—a direct breach of the legally mandated “silence period”. Complaints are filed every year, yet nothing ever happens, turning a legal restraint into a predictable, unpunished final campaign flourish. Complaints were explicitly filed against the BJP, MNS, and the Shiv Sena (Shinde faction) in Maharashtra for silence period violations, specifically citing political ads in major newspapers. (Read: How BJP is accused of violating 48 Hours-Silence Period even on Poll Day?)

How MCC violations become a license for electoral hate: One of the most disturbing features of India’s contemporary electoral landscape is not merely the explosion of hate speech, but the near-total collapse of institutional response to it. The Model Code of Conduct—once regarded as a moral compass and a boundary-marker—is now little more than a symbolic pamphlet. Across Maharashtra, Delhi, Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, and during the 2024 Lok Sabha cycle, repeated, documented, and widely circulated instances of explicit hate speech, communal incitement, and even direct calls for violence were flagged to the Election Commission of India with urgency and precision. Yet the ECI’s response oscillated between silence, non-committal notices, or bureaucratic platitudes. This selective inertia has effectively rewritten the MCC: instead of a code meant to regulate elections, it has become a code that politicians can violate with impunity once they understand that consequences are unlikely, uneven, or easily deflected. The absence of deterrence becomes a form of permission.

The judicial system’s response—especially from constitutional courts—has only deepened this institutional void. High Courts routinely dismiss or defer petitions concerning hate speech at election time, often on procedural grounds, or by sending complainants back to the very authorities that have already refused to act. Even more worrying is the Supreme Court’s posture, which has increasingly adopted a stance of non-intervention, repeatedly expressing “helplessness,” “constraint,” or “reluctance” to issue proactive directions. This judicial passivity is not neutral. By refusing to treat communal hate as an urgent constitutional injury, the courts inadvertently normalise its presence in electoral politics. When the highest court of a democracy signals that it cannot act unless someone else acts first, hate becomes embedded as an acceptable mode of political communication.

This institutional abdication has profound consequences for the democratic process. It creates a political marketplace in which the loudest, most inflammatory actors gain the greatest advantage. It rewards radicalisation, emboldens repeat offenders, and silences vulnerable communities who lose faith in the very institutions meant to protect them. The MCC becomes a decorative façade, the ECI a passive spectator, and the judiciary an absentee guardian. What remains is a hollowed-out electoral field where hate speech does not merely occur—it thrives under the protective cover of institutional silence. When the state signals that hate is politically useful and legally inconsequential, it corrodes not only public discourse but the constitutional foundation of elections themselves. In such a climate, communal propaganda is not an aberration; it becomes the new grammar of democratic participation.

Some of the MCC complaints sent by CJP during these four election cycles may be read here, here, here and here.

Bihar: The strategic communalisation of caste politics

Bihar stands out for a deeper, more consequential transformation. Unlike Maharashtra or Delhi, where communal polarisation has been cultivated for years, Bihar has historically been governed by caste equations. Political coalitions were built on OBC solidarity, Dalit assertion, and the arithmetic of caste-based identities. Muslims, though electorally significant, were integrated into caste-based alliances rather than positioned as central antagonists.

In the recent Bihar cycle, hate speech has been weaponised to redraw this landscape. The infiltrator narrative is used to redirect OBC and EBC economic frustrations toward Muslims. Hate speech in Bihar functions not merely as communal rhetoric but as caste engineering. By portraying Muslims as beneficiaries of welfare schemes, as land-grabbers, as demographic threats, hate speech fractures long-standing solidarities between marginalised castes and Muslim communities. The constructed rhetoric also blurs or diminishes issues of caste deprivation and discrimination of the most marginalised where the systemic exploiters are from the dominant ‘Hindu’ fold.

This transformation is visible in the communalisation of Chhath Puja, one of Bihar’s most syncretic cultural spaces. It is visible in the circulation of AI-generated videos designed to provoke OBC anger. It is visible in the increasing recruitment of Dalit and OBC youth by Hindutva groups seeking to expand their caste footprint.

In Bihar, like elsewhere, hate speech is not simply dividing communities. It is restructuring them.

Democracy in Decline: The erosion of rights, citizenship, and public reason

The cumulative effect of election hate speech is the erosion of India’s constitutional framework. Hate speech violates Articles 14, 15, and 21 by producing inequality, discrimination, and insecurity. It corrodes the idea of citizenship by creating a two-tier system: those who belong fully and those who must constantly prove their belonging.

The damage is not simply legal. It is epistemic. Hate speech erodes the ability of citizens to think democratically. The utter failure of constitutional institutions, conceived as safeguards –be it the constitutional courts or the infamous Election Commission of India (ECI) to act decisively and punitively ensures further impunity and normalisation. Result: hate speech and its impact, crowds out substantive debate, reduces governance to identity warfare, and delegitimises political disagreement. In such an environment, elections cease to be democratic practices and become theatres of domination.

Conclusion: Reclaiming democratic integrity

The analysis demonstrates that the current surge in electoral hate speech is neither random nor reactive; it is the product of a highly organised, multi-layered, and financially supported political architecture designed to achieve communal mobilization.

India’s contemporary elections reveal a political landscape where hate speech is not an aberration but an organising principle. It structures campaigns, mobilises voters, reorganises identities, and shapes governance. It transforms neighbours into enemies and turns public space into a battlefield. It reorders caste politics in places like Bihar. It destroys livelihoods in places like Delhi. In addition, it legitimises violence in places like Maharashtra.

Most dangerously, it normalises a new political order in which fear is the principal currency of power.

India now stands at a critical juncture. If hate remains the central grammar of elections, then elections themselves cease to be instruments of democratic renewal. They become mechanisms of social control. The future of India’s democracy depends not merely on recognising this transformation but on confronting it with legal, political, and moral urgency.

Hate is not a speech act.

It is a system.

Moreover, systems do not collapse on their own—they must be dismantled.

The pre-election hate machinery that turned Maharashtra into a communal battleground:

Capital city became a laboratory for pre-election communal polarisation:

2024’s election rhetoric and weaponisation of hate across India:

References:

https://www.outlookindia.com/elections/hate-speech-surges-in-bihar-polls-the-return-of-communal-and-caste-divides-in-campaign-rhetoric

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/tamil-nadu/cpim-slams-pm-modi-for-remarks-against-tamil-nadu-during-bihar-poll-campaign/article70224918.ece

https://www.indiatoday.in/india/story/ahead-of-bihar-polls-union-minister-and-begusarai-mp-giriraj-singh-sparks-controversy-2805440-2025-10-19?utm_source=chatgpt.com

https://news.abplive.com/elections/pm-modi-speech-purnea-congress-rjd-yatra-infiltrators-bihar-election-2025-bihar-sir-1800488?utm_source=chatgpt.com

https://www.newindianexpress.com/nation/2025/Oct/22/political-islam-undermined-hindu-faith-largely-overlooked-in-history-cm-yogi

https://www.newslaundry.com/2025/09/24/indian-muslims-not-equal-abp-show-allows-hate-speech-slurs-as-ragi-vs-pathan

https://www.freepressjournal.in/mumbai/mumbai-hindu-groups-call-for-restricting-non-hindus-from-garba-venues-citing-love-jihad-concerns-during-navratri

https://cjp.org.in/mtra-elections-on-cjps-complaint-on-an-mcc-violation-fir-has-been-registered-against-kajal-hindustani-for-hate-speech

https://cjp.org.in/cjp-stands-against-hate-seeks-preventive-action-against-hate-driven-events-in-maharashtra

https://cjp.org.in/cjp-complaints-to-the-maharashtra-election-commission-over-communal-posters-featuring-up-cm-yogi-adityanath

https://cjp.org.in/cjp-highlights-mcc-violation-urges-maharashtra-election-commission-to-act-on-hate-speech

https://cjp.org.in/cjp-files-complaint-against-bjp-mns-and-ss-shinde-faction-silence-period-violations-in-maharashtra-elections

https://cjp.org.in/cjp-files-5-hate-speech-complaints-before-ceo-maharashtra-as-violated-mcc

https://sabrangindia.in/hindutva-enters-mumbai-college-campuses-gaushala-shobha-yatra-in-iit-b-restriction-to-freedom-of-speech-at-tiss

https://sabrangindia.in/chhattisgarh-maharashtra-sc-directs-police-to-ensure-no-hate-speech-by-bjp-mla-raja-singh-hindu-jan-jagruti-samiti-rallies

https://cjp.org.in/bjp-mla-t-raja-singh-at-mira-road-hurls-anti-muslim-slurs-incites-violence-at-rally-permitted-by-bombay-high-court

https://cjp.org.in/hindu-jan-akrosh-rally-in-mumbai-sees-conspiracy-theories-being-peddled-against-muslims

https://sabrangindia.in/is-mumbai-becoming-a-hotbed-of-hate

https://sabrangindia.in/bjp-mla-nitesh-rane-leads-hindutva-rally-in-govandi-demands-demolition-of-illegal-masjids-and-madrasa

https://sabrangindia.in/environmental-interest-converted-into-communal-tension-madras-high-court-refuses-to-quash-criminal-case-against-bjp-state-head-annamalai

https://cjp.org.in/hindu-jan-akrosh-rally-in-mumbai-sees-conspiracy-theories-being-peddled-against-muslims

https://sabrangindia.in/ground-report-protests-erupt-in-assam-after-portrayal-of-muslims-as-criminals-in-rally-by-bodoland-university

https://cjp.org.in/cjp-files-complaint-against-bjp-leader-nazia-elahi-khan-over-hate-speech-in-delhi/

https://sabrangindia.in/cjp-calls-for-electoral-action-against-bjp-leaders-hate-speech-at-rohini-chetna-event/

https://www.newslaundry.com/2025/01/21/denial-and-deflection-how-the-bjps-bidhuri-walked-off-when-asked-about-crude-remarks

https://www.indiatvnews.com/delhi/delhi-assembly-elections-2025-police-registers-over-1100-cases-of-mcc-violations-model-code-of-conduct-detained-35516-people-latest-updates-2025-02-07-975130

The post The Orchestrated Extremism: An analysis of communal hate speech in India’s election cycle (2024–2025) appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The Blast: A scene of carnage and social shock

The factual background of the case is harrowing. On April 27, 1996, a UP Roadways bus from the Roorkee depot departed from Delhi ISBT at 3:55 PM with more than fifty passengers. It halted at Mohan Nagar Check Post, where fourteen more boarded. As the bus crossed the Modinagar Police Station in Ghaziabad around 5 PM, a violent explosion tore through its front portion. The driver died on the spot, along with nine passengers. Nearly everyone on board suffered injuries ranging from severe to critical. Post-mortem reports described multiple metal fragments embedded in the victims’ bodies; doctors confirmed that death was caused by “shock and haemorrhage due to excessive bleeding.” Forensic examination established that RDX mixed with carbon had been placed beneath the driver’s seat and detonated using a remote trigger. The blast was quickly categorised as an act of terrorism, and investigative agencies rushed to construct a narrative of conspiracy. Public anger and panic were immediate. The community demanded answers, accountability, and closure. Yet, as the High Court judgment reveals, those demands were never truly met—not for the families, not for the injured, and not for the accused.

The Prosecution’s Theory: Conspiracy, foreign links and a confession

In its case before the trial court, the prosecution framed the blast as part of a larger conspiracy orchestrated by Harkat-ul-Ansar. The State alleged that Abdul Mateen @ Iqbal, a Pakistani national, served as a “District Commander” of the organisation and had collaborated with Ilyas, who, according to prosecution claims, was indoctrinated during his travels to Jammu & Kashmir. It was further alleged that the appellant facilitated travel for operatives, participated in planning meetings, and assisted in procuring or planting the explosive. However, this theory rested heavily on a single fragile pillar: a confession allegedly made by Ilyas before a Senior Police Officer of the CB-CID, recorded on an audio cassette in the presence of his father and brother. This confession became the backbone of the prosecution’s case. Without it, the surrounding circumstantial links—two railway tickets, a diary, and speculative associations—were plainly inadequate. Yet the prosecution attempted to stretch these tenuous threads into a conspiracy narrative, despite the fact that one co-accused, Tasleem, had been acquitted by the trial court itself for complete lack of evidence. The State did not appeal Tasleem’s acquittal, nor was there any record suggesting that Mateen ever filed a challenge. As such, by the time the matter reached the High Court, only Ilyas was left defending himself against the weight of the allegations—while confined in prison.

The High Court’s Evaluation of Evidence: A prosecution in disarray

The Allahabad High Court’s decision in Criminal Appeal No. 2063 of 2013 is one of the starkest examples of the justice system confronting the collapse of a terror-investigation while simultaneously acknowledging the moral burden of acquitting an accused in a case involving mass casualties. The Bench’s analysis is structured around three pillars: (1) the complete absence of legally admissible evidence against Ilyas; (2) the statutory bar on using police-recorded confessions; and (3) the total failure of the prosecution to produce any independent incriminating material.

The Court’s reasoning is unusually candid. It acknowledges the horrific nature of the 1996 Modinagar bus blast—describing it as “diabolic”, “dastardly”, and a “terrorist act”—yet still concludes that there is no legal basis to uphold the conviction. The Bench ultimately declares: “We are recording acquittal in this case with heavy heart as the case is of such propensity that it shock the conscience of the society as 18 innocent persons lost their life in the terrorist plot”.

Below is a structured analysis of what the Court actually held, how it evaluated each category of evidence, and how it applied statutory and doctrinal principles.

I. The court’s construction of the factual matrix

The judgment begins by firmly establishing the factual horror of the blast. Relying on eyewitnesses, inquest officers, and medical professionals, the Bench holds that the explosion was undoubtedly caused by a planted high-intensity device. Post-mortem reports and FSL findings were decisive. Ten people died on the spot; more died during treatment; and 48 were injured.

The Court notes in the judgment that:

“In the postmortem report of the deceased persons, pieces of metal were found, and the cause of death was shock and haemorrhage due to excessive bleeding.” (Para 18)

“In report of FSL dated 30.04.1996, it is concluded that in the bus registration No. UP15A6693, mixture of RDX and carbon was kept, which resulted in explosion. It was kept in the front portion of the bus, above bonut or its left side.” (Para 7)

The device was placed before the bus left Delhi; therefore, no onboard passenger could have seen the planting. By laying this foundation, the Court underscores that the factum of the terrorist act is unquestionably proved—thus shifting the entire analytical burden to whether the prosecution proved who executed it.

II. Collapse of Witness Testimony: No Direct Evidence Linking Ilyas

Hostile witnesses and the rejection of the alleged extra-judicial confessions: The prosecution relied heavily on two witnesses—PW-6 Subrati and PW-9 Ahsan—as recipients of an alleged extra-judicial confession by Ilyas and co-accused Mateen and Tasleem.

But both turned hostile, they merely admitted they knew Ilyas socially. The Court notes:

“None of the witnesses of fact produced by the prosecution to establish complicity of the appellant in the offence have supported the prosecution version. The witnesses PW 6-Subrati, PW 9-Ahsan are key witnesses of prosecution who were produced to prove alleged extra-judicial confession made by the appellant and co-accused regarding their complicity in the offence but they have outrightly disowned their statements recorded by Investigating Officer under Section 161 CrPC and have given exculpatory evidence against the appellant with regard to the present offence.” (Para 77)

Regarding rejection of PW-6 statement:

“Subrati, a witness of extra-judicial confession made by the accused, has also not supported prosecution version. His evidence is also not of significance for the purpose of present case. Even if his examination-in-chief during separate trial of acquitted accused Tasleem is taken on its face value, the same cannot be read against present appellant as the appellant was not present at the time of recording of this evidence. In the Session Trial No. 1663 of 2000 the same witness i.e., Subrati has not given any statement against the appellant or any co-accused. Thus, the witness has given two statements in respect of the same offence regarding the role played by the accused persons and legally no credence can be given on his testimony in respect of present appellant.” (Para 74)

The Court stresses that even in Tasleem’s earlier trial, the same witnesses had not supported the prosecution. The Bench treats this as a fatal flaw: there is simply no living testimony pointing to Ilyas.

No eyewitness saw any accused place the bomb: The blast occurred under the driver’s seat. Passengers boarded a bus that was already primed. The Court affirms that no witness was capable of identifying the planter, making the State’s evidentiary burden even heavier.

III. The Confessional Statement: Completely Inadmissible Under Sections 24–26 Evidence Act

The prosecution’s case ultimately hinged on a single piece of evidence: a police-recorded confession of Ilyas, supposedly captured on an audio-cassette by PW-11, a Sector Officer, CB-CID.

The Court annihilates this evidence.

Absolute bar under Section 25 Evidence Act: The heart of the High Court’s judgment lies in its extensive treatment of the confession recorded by the police. Section 25 of the Evidence Act is absolute: “no confession made to a police officer shall be proved against an accused.” This statutory prohibition is a foundational safeguard against coercion, torture, or manipulation—protections that cannot be diluted even in cases of terrorism. The prosecution attempted an extraordinary argument: that the confession should be admissible under Section 15 of the Terrorist and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act (TADA), which permits confessions to be recorded by senior police officers. But the Bench dismissed this submission outright, noting that TADA had lapsed in 1995 and the blast occurred in April 1996. As the Court put it, “the special exception provided under Section 15 of TADA, which allowed police confessions to be used as evidence, was not applicable to this case.” More damningly, the prosecution did not even produce the tape recorder as a material exhibit. The judges emphasised this flaw repeatedly, stating that “the device by which the alleged confessional statement was recorded… was not produced before the court,” making the recording unreliable and legally worthless. Once the confession was excluded—a mandatory consequence of Section 25—the entire structure of the prosecution’s case collapsed instantly, leaving behind no evidence capable of sustaining guilt.

The Bench quotes Section 25’s mandatory language and concludes:

“Section 24 of the Indian Evidence Act, 1872 bars any confession obtained by any inducement, threat or promise. Section 25 of the Indian Evidence Act, 1872 creates an absolute bar on confessions made to a police officer.” (Para 81)

Regarding the tape recorder not being produced, the Court notes:

“It is noteworthy that the device by which alleged confessional statement of appellant Muhammad Ilyas was recorded in an audio cassette i.e. tape recorder was not produced before the court as a material exhibit. Therefore, even otherwise, it may be held that the confessional statement of Muhammad Ilyas recorded by and before the police is not duly proved and could not be proved in view of legal bar created by Section 25 of Evidence Act.” (Para 78)

Even the cassette itself, though produced, is useless in the absence of the device, certification, or proof of integrity.

The Statement Was Not Reproduced in Testimony: PW-11, the very officer who allegedly recorded the confession, did not reproduce the confession in his sworn deposition.

The Court remarks:

“Inasmuch as confessional statement of the accused-appellant Muhammad Ilyas are not reproduced during sworn testimony of PW11 who is main Investigating Officer, who recorded the statement of accused-appellant.” (Para 79)

Thus, even if Section 25 did not exist, the confession is legally unproved.

IV. No recovery, no discovery, no circumstantial evidence

Items recovered from Ilyas (diary + railway tickets) are dismissed as legally irrelevant:

• Travel from Muzaffarnagar to Jammu Tawi or Ludhiana “cannot form the basis that he was involved in the present offence.”
• The diary entry naming Salim Kari is “hardly sufficient to connect the appellant.”

The Court then underscores that there is no discovery under Section 27 Evidence Act:

“No discovery has been made in terms of Section 27 of the Indian Evidence Act, 1872 on pointing information divulged by the appellant-Mohammad Ilyas. Thus, Section 27 of the Indian Evidence Act, 1872 which creates an exception to Section 25 of the Indian Evidence Act, 1872, is not applicable.” (Para 81)

Importantly, the Court stresses that nothing incriminating was recovered even when Ilyas was in police custody under remand:

“Consequently, after excluding the confessional statement of the appellant recorded by PW11-Sector Officer, CBCID who is the main investigating officer of the case due to the embargo created by Section 25 of the Indian Evidence Act, 1872, no incriminating material appears against the appellant which could prove his complicity in the offence. Therefore, the trial court’s findings against the appellant for the charges under Sections 302/34, 307/34, 427/34, 120-B 121-A, 124-A IPC and Sections 4/5 of Explosive Substances Act are not found to be sustainable and prosecution has failed to prove the guilt of the appellant beyond resonable doubt due to want of legally admissible evidence against him. Thus, no chain of circumstances survives.” (Para 83)

V. The court’s assessment of conspiracy doctrine

The Bench reproduces extensive Supreme Court jurisprudence on conspiracies—including Kehar Singh, Som Nath Thapa, Paramhans Yadav—acknowledging that conspiracies are usually proved through circumstantial evidence. After excluding the barred confession, the judgment observes that no incriminating material appears, therefore prosecution has failed to prove the guilt beyond reasonable doubt. Thus, this case is distinguishable from TADA-era judgments because there is nothing left to constitute even a circumstantial chain.

“…after excluding the confessional statement of the appellant recorded by PW11-Sector Officer, CBCID who is the main investigating officer of the case due to the embargo created by Section 25 of the Indian Evidence Act, 1872, no incriminating material appears against the appellant which could prove his complicity in the offence. Therefore, the trial court’s findings against the appellant for the charges under Sections 302/34, 307/34, 427/34, 120-B 121-A, 124-A IPC and Sections 4/5 of Explosive Substances Act are not found to be sustainable and prosecution has failed to prove the guilt of the appellant beyond reasonable doubt due to want of legally admissible evidence against him” (Para 83)

VI. The application of the “benefit of doubt” doctrine

The Court cites Gurbachan Singh, Ashok Kumar Srivastava, Inder Singh, and even Viscount Simon’s classic admonition—but only to underscore that this is not a case of fanciful doubt.

The Court is explicit: it is not indulging technicalities; rather, there exists no admissible evidence at all.

The Court states unequivocally:

“The prosecution has miserably failed to prove the charges that the appellant conspired to plant a bomb along with co-accused to create a bomb explosion in the bus which resulted in large number of loss of lives and injuries to the passengers and damage to public property i.e., this bus. The findings of conviction recorded by the trial court and the sentence awarded to the appellant are accordingly liable to be set aside”. (Para 85)

VII. The Final Outcome: Acquittal WITH HEAVY HEART

The Bench ends with one of the most emotionally direct conclusions in recent criminal jurisprudence:

“We are recording acquittal in this case with heavy heart as the case is of such propensity that it shocks the conscience of the society as 18 innocent persons lost their life in the terrorist plot”. (Para 84)

It orders:

• Immediate release of Ilyas after nearly three decades in custody.
• Cancellation of the trial court’s conviction under Sections 302/34, 307/34, 427/34, 120-B, 121-A, 124-A IPC and Sections 4/5 Explosive Substances Act.
• Compliance reports from the trial court.

The Court is painfully aware that acquittal is the only legally permissible outcome.

28 Years in Prison: A human tragedy the court could not ignore

One of the most striking aspects of the judgment is its recognition of the human cost of prolonged incarceration. Mohammad Ilyas had been in prison continuously throughout the pendency of his appeal. Nearly thirty years passed between the blast and the High Court’s verdict—years in which the world changed technologically, socially, and politically, while Ilyas remained confined within the walls of a prison on the basis of evidence now held legally inadmissible. The judgment does not dwell sentimentally on this suffering, but it does not hide from it either. The Bench notes, almost with quiet sorrow, that “the appellant has remained in custody throughout,” an observation that resonates with the fundamental principle that justice delayed is justice denied. The tragedy is twofold: an accused lost the prime decades of his life to a prosecution that could not prove its case; and the families of the victims, who lost loved ones in the blast, were denied justice because the investigation and prosecution failed to meet the minimal standards required for a terrorism trial. Both sides—accused and victims—stand abandoned by a system that neither punished the guilty nor protected the innocent.

“The appellant is acquitted of aforesaid charges. He has been in jail custody during pendency of the appeal, therefore, a release order will be issued by the trial Court in pursuance of the present judgment immediately, to secure his release from jail custody, if he is not wanted in any other case.” (Para 87)

The Court’s Final Word: A heavy-hearted acquittal

The judgment culminates in a conclusion that is both legally inevitable and emotionally fraught. The Court states plainly that “no incriminating evidence remains on the record,” and therefore the conviction “is accordingly liable to be set aside.” At the same time, the judges acknowledge the moral weight of letting an accused walk free in a case involving eighteen deaths. With these words, the Bench affirmed the constitutional duty of courts to uphold due process, even when the consequences emotionally burden the institution itself. The Court ordered Ilyas’s immediate release, subject only to his execution of a personal bond and sureties under Section 437-A CrPC.

Conclusion: A case that demands national reflection

The acquittal of Mohammad Ilyas forces India to confront a painful truth: that in the pursuit of justice for terror victims, the criminal justice system must not commit injustices of its own. When investigations are shoddy, when evidence is not collected properly, when confessions are relied upon instead of hard proof, the guilty escape and the innocent are condemned. In this case, the victims’ families have been left without closure, and an accused man has spent nearly thirty years in prison without legally admissible evidence against him. The Modinagar–Ghaziabad blast remains one of the region’s darkest moments—but the judicial aftermath has become a second tragedy, one marked by investigative failure, prosecutorial negligence, and systemic decay. The High Court’s decision restores legality, but cannot restore time. It upholds the law, but cannot undo the suffering. It acquits with heavy heart—and it leaves behind questions India must answer.

The complete judgment may be read here.

Related:

The Architecture of Polarisation: A structural analysis of communal hate speech as a core electoral strategy in India (2024–2025)

Court Acts on Misinformation: FIR against channels for wrongly branding teacher a terrorist

Is targeting Muslims, calling them terrorists a common norm in colleges now?

State’s use of Anti-terror Laws against Dissenters also a form of Terrorism

The post A Terror Case Without Evidence: Allahabad High Court’s ‘heavy heart’ acquittal After 28 Years appeared first on SabrangIndia.

At the heart of the Reference were 14 questions touching upon the options available to Governors when presented with Bills, the limits of executive discretion, the permissibility of judicial timelines, the concept of “deemed assent,” and the extent of judicial review over the President and Governor when acting under Articles 200 and 201.

The Court insisted that the issues raised by the President “strike at the root of the continuation of our republican and democratic way, and the Constitution’s federal character.” This reference, the Court said, concerns a “functional” constitutional problem, namely: persistent deadlock between elected State governments and Governors over legislative assent.

I.  Re-Reading Article 200: No power of indefinite withholding

The Court unequivocally held that Article 200 does not permit a Governor to withhold assent simpliciter. Withholding, the Court emphasised, is inextricably linked with the obligation to return the Bill to the Legislature with comments. Treating “withhold assent” as a standalone power would allow the Governor to effectively veto legislation by inaction — a result the Court described as antithetical to federalism.

The bench foregrounded the text of the first proviso to Article 200, observing that it explicitly curtails only one of the three options available to the Governor — the option to withhold assent — once a Bill is repassed by the House:

“The text of the first proviso to Article 200 through its phrasing “shall not withhold assent therefrom” clearly indicates that what was sought to be curtailed among the three options, was only the option to ‘withhold’. We have already held that the first proviso conditions the verb ‘withhold’, to mean withhold and return to the Legislature. The first proviso cannot be read in a manner so as to condition the option of the Governor to reserve the Bill for President’s consideration as well.” (Para 99)

This reading is transformative. It anchors the proviso as a constitutional safeguard ensuring meaningful legislative–executive dialogue, not an additional, fourth option. The Court rejected the Union Government’s contention that returning the Bill is an independent option, insisting instead that withholding and returning are a composite act.

Money bills and constitutional logic

A particularly incisive part of the reasoning is the Court’s rejection of the Union’s argument on the Governor’s independent power to withhold. The Court explained that if a “simpliciter” power to withhold existed, it would extend even to Money Bills, which the Governor is constitutionally prohibited from returning. This, the bench held, would “defy constitutional logic.”

The opinion stressed that the choice must favour a “dialogic process,” which encourages institutional comity and deliberation, rather than an interpretation that enables “obstructionism” by the Governor.

II. The Governor’s Discretion: Limited but real

While affirming that the Governor normally acts on the aid and advice of the Council of Ministers, the Court held that Article 200 constitutes an exception. The presence of the phrase “in his opinion” in the second proviso creates a narrow zone of discretion for returning or reserving Bills.

Yet, the Court sharply differentiated this discretion from unreviewable political authority. The discretion must operate within constitutional boundaries, guided by the structure of cooperative federalism.

III.  Reservation After Re-Passage: Governor retains the option

Rejecting the contrary position taken in the Tamil Nadu Governor case, the 5-judge bench held that a Governor may reserve a Bill even after it has been re-passed by the Legislature following its initial return. This becomes critical where the Legislature modifies the Bill in ways that implicate federal or inter-State concerns.

The Court articulated this function as one of constitutional vigilance:

“Since it is the Governor who considers the Bill in its amended form, and is able to compare it to the earlier version passed by the Legislature, it is his constitutional function to decide whether the Bill ought to be assented to, or if its amended form affects such inter-state, or federal aspect of the country, requiring the attention of the President.” (Para 100)

This reasoning defends cooperative federalism against strategic legislative manoeuvres while preventing governor obstruction of ordinary legislative processes.

IV.  Judicial review, inaction, and the limits of Article 361

The Court provided a nuanced delineation of the scope of judicial review over the Governor’s actions.

The bar on merit review vs. exception for inaction

The general rule is that the discharge of the Governor’s functions under Article 200 is not justiciable; the Court cannot enter into a “merit-review” of the decision itself (e.g., why the Bill was returned).

However, the Court carved out a limited exception for cases of “glaring circumstance of inaction that is prolonged, unexplained and indefinite.” In such instances, the Court can exercise judicial review to issue a limited mandamus directing the Governor to discharge his functions within a reasonable time, without commenting on the outcome (assent or reservation).

Article 361 and the office of the governor

Addressing the scope of Article 361 (Protection of President and Governors), the Court clarified that while the Article provides an absolute bar against judicial proceedings concerning the Governor’s personal acts; it cannot entirely immunize the office of the Governor from constitutional oversight.

“Article 361 of the Constitution is an absolute bar on judicial review in relation to personally subjecting the Governor to judicial proceedings. However, it cannot be relied upon to negate the limited scope of judicial review that this Court is empowered to exercise in situations of prolonged inaction by the Governor under Article 200. It is clarified that while the Governor continues to enjoy personal immunity, the constitutional office of the Governor is subject to the jurisdiction of this court.” (Para 165.4)

Non-justiciability of bills

The Court reiterated the established principle that the decisions of the Governor and the President under Articles 200 and 201 are not justiciable at a stage anterior (before) the law comes into force. The contents of a Bill cannot be adjudicated by the courts until the legislative process is complete and the Bill becomes an Act.

V.  No judicial timelines, no “deemed assent”

The Opinion delivered a firm constitutional check on the Judiciary’s power to intrude into the executive and legislative domains by rejecting the idea of prescribing time limits.

Upholding constitutional elasticity

The bench held that the absence of a time limit in Articles 200 and 201 is a feature of the Constitution, not a bug. It provides a necessary “sense of elasticity” for constitutional authorities to navigate complex legislative matters in a diverse federal country.

“The imposition of timelines would be strictly contrary to this elasticity that the Constitution so carefully preserves.” (Para 115)

For this reason, the Court held that it is inappropriate to judicially prescribe a timeline for the Governor or the President, thereby protecting the operational space of the executive branch.

The unconstitutionality of ‘deemed assent’

The most potent argument against judicial overreach was the definitive rejection of the doctrine of ‘deemed assent,’ which was a major point of confusion post-the Tamil Nadu Governor case. The Court explicitly stated that declaring a Bill law simply because a timeline was breached is a violation of the Separation of Powers and an abuse of Article 142.

“We have no hesitation in concluding that deemed consent of the Governor, or President, under Article 200 or 201 at the expiry of a judicially set timeline, is virtually a takeover, and substitution, of the executive functions by the Judiciary, through judicial pronouncement, which is impermissible within the contours of our written Constitution.” (Para 128)

The Court confirmed that a State law cannot be in force without the Governor’s assent, and the Governor’s legislative role “cannot be supplanted by another Constitutional authority.”

VI.  Article 201: Presidential discretion mirrors governor discretion

Applying similar reasoning to Article 201, the Court held:

• Presidential discretion under Article 201 is non-justiciable.
• No timelines may be imposed on the President.
• The President is not required to seek judicial opinion each time a Bill is reserved.
• The President may, in cases of uncertainty, invoke Article 143 — but this is not mandatory.

The Court thus restored symmetry in the constitutional design of executive assent.

VII.  Maintainability of the reference and the Tamil Nadu judgment

The States argued that the Reference was an “appeal in disguise” against the Tamil Nadu Governor case. The Court rejected this argument. It underscored:

1. Article 143 is a constitutional safety valve, allowing the President to seek clarity where judicial decisions create systemic uncertainty.
2. Some conclusions in the Tamil Nadu judgment were in “variance with earlier decisions,” creating a state of doubt about foundational constitutional processes.
3. The reference concerns day-to-day functioning of constitutional authorities, unlike previous references.

Invoking In re Special Courts Bill and the 2G Reference, the Court reiterated that responding to a reference may include clarifying, explaining, or even overruling precedent if necessary for constitutional coherence.

VIII.  Dialogic constitutionalism as a structural principle

Perhaps the most significant part of the opinion is the Court’s articulation of dialogic constitutionalism as the governing principle under Articles 200 and 201. The Court rejected a mechanical “checks-and-balances” model in favour of an iterative, conversational relationship between the Legislature, Governor, and Union.

In its opinion, the Court observed:

“A dialogic process, which has the potential to understand and reflect on conflicting or opposing perspectives, to reconcile and to move forward in a constructive manner, is an equally potent check-and-balance system that the Constitution has prescribed. Once this perspective is grasped, the persons who occupy various constitutional offices or institutions will also do well to ingrain in themselves that dialogue, reconciliation and balance, and not obstructionism is the essence of constitutionalism that we practice in this Republic.” (Para 64)

This articulation transforms how we conceptualise federal dynamics. The emphasis is not on vetoes but on structured interaction, mutual accountability, and constitutional good faith.

Summary of answers to presidential queries

The 14 queries posed by the President under Article 143 were addressed as follows:

Where the opinion falls short

While the Supreme Court’s opinion undeniably brings clarity to the constitutional scheme of assent, it is not immune from critique. In fact, several aspects of the opinion raise serious concerns about practical enforceability, institutional realism, and the Court’s own conception of constitutional federalism.

1.  The court’s rejection of timelines leaves a real vacuum

The Court’s insistence that timelines cannot be judicially prescribed because Articles 200 and 201 contemplate “elasticity” may be doctrinally defensible, but it leaves a pressing institutional problem unresolved.

In recent years, several Governors have delayed Bills for 12–18 months, creating deliberate legislative paralysis. The Court recognises this reality — it even describes such conduct as capable of “frustrating the legislative process” — but then offers only a limited mandamus, a remedy whose effectiveness depends on judicial willingness to intervene case by case.

This raises the question: Is elastic constitutional design being used to justify an increasingly inflexible political obstruction?

The Court’s refusal to articulate even outer constitutional boundaries (e.g., “reasonable time” standards, structured guidelines, presumptive limits) risks normalising governor delay as a political weapon.

2. The decision overestimates the governor’s neutrality

The opinion rests heavily on the idea that the Governor engages in a “constitutional conversation” with the Legislature. This idealised model presumes constitutional good faith — an assumption that does not align with contemporary political realities.

Governors today often act:

• as agents of the Union Government,
• as political veto points,
• with partisan motivations rather than deliberative ones.

By retaining wide discretion after re-passage (including the power to reserve), the Court may have inadvertently reinforced avenues of political interference rather than constrained them.

3.  The court rejects deemed assent but offers no functional alternative

The Court is doctrinally correct that deemed assent couldn’t be judicially manufactured.
But rejecting deemed assent without creating:

• temporal guardrails,
• presumptive timelines,
• structured standards for delay, or
• constitutional consequences for non-action means the status quo of indefinite executive stalling may remain substantially unchanged.

The Court’s solution — a “limited mandamus” in cases of “prolonged and unexplained inaction” — is conceptually elegant but practically weak. Governors can simply supply some explanation for delay to forestall judicial review.

4.  The Opinion Avoids Confronting the Hard Question: What happens if the governor still does not act?

Even after a mandamus directing the Governor to “decide within a reasonable period,” the Court does not address:

• What if the Governor still does not act?
• Can the Court enforce compliance?
• Can non-compliance itself trigger constitutional consequences?

By stopping short of answering these questions, the Court leaves open the possibility that constitutional commands may remain judicially unenforceable.

5.  The court’s “dialogic federalism” is normatively attractive, but descriptively unrealistic

The opinion’s philosophical turn toward “dialogue, reconciliation and balance” is attractive and intellectually sophisticated. However, Indian federalism today is marked by:

• partisan conflict,
• aggressive centralisation,
• Governors acting as political brakes on opposition-ruled States,
• selective obstruction of specific policy agendas.

In such an environment, dialogic federalism risks becoming constitutional romanticism, a theoretical model with limited grounding in empirical governance.

6.  The decision leaves the legislature ultimately dependent on executive grace

Even after clarifying the options, the Court affirms that:

• the Governor has discretion to reserve Bills (even after repassage),
• the President’s discretion under Article 201 is non-justiciable,
• and no timelines apply at either level.

This means a State law may still be caught in executive limbo between Raj Bhavan and Rashtrapati Bhavan for months or years, with no remedy except discretionary judicial nudges.

The structure therefore remains executive-heavy and legislature-vulnerable.

Conclusion

The Court’s opinion is doctrinally coherent, textually grounded, and institutionally respectful of separation of powers. It restores structural clarity and corrects errors in the Tamil Nadu Governor decision. Its articulation of dialogic federalism is aspirational and constitutionally rich.

However, the opinion also reflects a profound judicial reluctance to discipline constitutional actors who act in bad faith. By declining to set timelines, refusing to articulate enforceable standards, and preserving a broad zone of discretion for Governors and the President, the Court leaves significant room for political misuse of constitutional offices.

In effect, the opinion clarifies the law but does not fully address the practical crisis of governor obstruction that sparked the reference itself. It upholds constitutional ideals but leaves unresolved the very dysfunction that compelled the President to invoke Article 143.

The opinion thus represents a structural clarification without structural correction — a doctrinal victory, but an incomplete solution to a deepening constitutional tension between democratic mandates and executive gatekeeping.

The complete opinion may be read below.

Related:

Tamil Nadu Governor delivers another googly, refers the ten re-adopted bills to the President, state calls it a “Hit on the Constitution”

Supreme Court questions Kerala Governor: “Why was the governor sitting on bills for 2 years?”

By holding up bills, are Governors undermining democracy? 

Governor, a bridge between centre & state, overstep is overreach: review of judicial decisions

The post Clarity Without Cure: The Supreme Court’s reinterpretation of Articles 200 and 201 and the future of federal governance appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Delivering judgment in Muhammad Shareef C & Anr. v. State of Kerala & Anr., decided on October 30, 2025, Justice P.V. Kunhikrishnan declared that while Islamic personal law may permit a man to marry more than once, the law of the land and the Constitution must prevail when such a marriage is to be formally registered.

“A Muslim first wife cannot be a silent spectator to the registration of the second marriage of her husband, even though the Muslim Personal Law allow a second marriage to a man in certain situations. The 1st petitioner can marry again if his Personal Law permits him to do so. However, if the first petitioner wishes to register his second marriage with the second petitioner, the law of the land will prevail, and in such a situation, an opportunity of hearing for the first wife is necessary. In such situations, religion is secondary and constitutional rights are supreme. In other words, this is essentially the fundamental principle of natural justice. This Court cannot ignore the feelings, if any, of the first wife when her husband registers his second marriage in accordance with the law of the land. I am sure that 99.99% of Muslim women will be against their husband’s second marriage when their relationship with him is in existence. They may not disclose the same to society. However, their feelings cannot be ignored by a court, at least when their husbands attempt to register the second marriage in accordance with the Rules 2008.” the Court held. (Para 10)

Background of the case

The first petitioner, Muhammad Shareef, a 44-year-old man from Kannur, was already in a subsisting marriage with two children when he claimed to have solemnised a second marriage in 2017 with Abida T.C., the second petitioner, as per Muslim custom. The couple, who have two children together, approached the Registrar to register their marriage under the 2008 Rules, asserting that it was essential to secure property and inheritance rights for the second wife and their children.

When the Registrar declined to register the marriage, the petitioners approached the High Court contending that Muslim personal law allows up to four wives and that, therefore, the registration authority had no right to refuse.

The legal questions before the court

Justice Kunhikrishnan framed two fundamental questions:

1. Whether notice to the first wife is necessary for registering a Muslim man’s second marriage under the Kerala Registration of Marriages (Common) Rules, 2008; and
2. What remedy exists if the first wife objects to such registration on grounds of invalidity.

“Polygamy is an exception, not the rule” — The Qur’anic context

The judgment is remarkable not only for its constitutional vision but also for its interpretive depth in reading Islamic law through the lens of justice and equality. Referring to Jubairiya v. Saidalavi N. [2025 (6) KHC 224], Justice Kunhikrishnan extracted passages from the Qur’an to dispel the misconception that a Muslim man may marry multiple times at will.

Citing the verses, the Court underscored that justice, fairness, and transparency lie at the heart of Muslim marriage law — principles that align with constitutional values. Providing the same, the Court highlighted the facts of the case and held “

“In this case, admittedly, the 1st petitioner married another woman and in that relationship, he has two children. When the relationship with that woman was in existence, the first petitioner submitted to this Court that he fell in love with the second petitioner and married her. I don’t think that the Holy Qur’an or the Muslim Law permits an extramarital relationship with another lady when his first wife is alive and his first marriage with her is in existence, and that also, without the knowledge of his first wife. The principles derived from the Holy Qur’an and Hadith collectively enjoin principles of justice, fairness, and transparency in all marital dealings. However, the petitioner is relying on Muslim Personal Law to justify his marriage to the second petitioner.” (Para 6)

The Law of the Land: Rule 11 of the 2008 Rules

The Court examined Rule 11 of the Kerala Registration of Marriages (Common) Rules, 2008, which obligates the Local Registrar to verify the details furnished in the memorandum of marriage, including previous marital status (Columns 3(f) and (g) of Form I). Justice Kunhikrishnan observed that this requirement gives the registrar clear knowledge of whether a spouse is already married — and therefore, whether due notice must be given to the first wife before proceeding with registration.

While citing Hussain v. State of Kerala [2025 (4) KHC 314], the Court clarified that the Registrar has no power to adjudicate on the validity of the marriage, but cannot ignore procedural fairness:

“…the Registrar is not vested with the power to decide the validity of the marriage. The question is, when a muslim man marries again, when his first wife is alive and the marital relationship with her is in existence, the second marriage can be registered as per the Rules 2008 behind the back of the first wife. The Holy Qur’an is silent about the consent of the first wife for the second marriage to a muslim man when the earlier marriage is in existence. However, it does not prohibit the option of obtaining consent from the first wife, or at least informing her before he marries again. Equality in gender is a constitutional right of every citizen. Men are not superior to women. Gender equality is not a women’s issue, but it is a human issue. As I mentioned earlier, the principles derived from the Holy Qur’an and Hadith collectively enjoin principles of justice, fairness, and transparency in all marital dealings. Therefore, I am of the considered opinion that, if a Muslim man wants to register his second marriage in accordance with the Rules 2008, when his first marriage is in existence and the first wife is alive, an opportunity of hearing should be given to the first wife for the registration.” (Para 10)

Justice Kunhikrishnan: “A Muslim first wife cannot be a silent spectator”

In one of the most stirring portions of the judgment, Justice Kunhikrishnan emphasized that registration of a second marriage behind the back of the first wife would violate principles of natural justice and human dignity:

“A Muslim first wife cannot be a silent spectator to the registration of the second marriage of her husband, even though the Muslim Personal Law allow a second marriage to a man in certain situations.” (Para 10)

The Court observed that even though personal law permits polygamy, it is conditioned upon fairness and capacity — both moral and financial — to treat each wife equally. Ignoring the first wife’s perspective would amount to legalising injustice.

Gender equality as a constitutional mandate

Justice Kunhikrishnan firmly anchored his reasoning in Articles 14 and 15 of the Constitution, holding that the procedural fairness demanded by the 2008 Rules flows directly from the constitutional right to equality:

“Equality in gender is a constitutional right of every citizen. Men are not superior to women. Gender equality is not a women’s issue, but it is a human issue.” (Para 10)

The judgment went beyond mere procedural compliance and addressed the emotional dimension of injustice suffered by first wives:

“I am sure that 99.99% of Muslim women will be against their husband’s second marriage when their relationship with him is in existence. They may not disclose the same to society. However, their feelings cannot be ignored by a court, at least when their husbands attempt to register the second marriage in accordance with the Rules 2008. Article 14 of the Constitution says that the state shall not deny to any person equality before the law or equal protection of the laws within the territory of India.” (Para 10)

This humane acknowledgment of emotional agency — rare in judicial discourse — underlines the Court’s empathetic understanding of women’s lived realities within personal law frameworks.

What Happens if the First Wife Objects?

The Court provided clear procedural guidance for registrars and litigants. If the first wife objects to the registration of a second marriage, the Registrar must not proceed with registration and must refer the matter to a competent civil court:

“If the first wife objects to the registration of the second marriage of her husband, alleging that the second marriage is invalid, the registrar shall not register the second marriage, and the parties should be referred to the competent court to establish the validity of the second marriage as per their religious customary law. As I mentioned earlier, there is nothing in the holy Qur’an which mandates a man to get permission from his first wife for his second marriage. However, Customary Law is not applicable when the question of registering a second marriage arises. I am not saying that the second marriage cannot be registered, but an opportunity of hearing should be given to the first wife by the statutory authorities, while a second marriage of a Muslim man is to be registered.” (Para 10)

Balancing Faith and Law: The Constitutional Synthesis

Perhaps the most profound aspect of Justice Kunhikrishnan’s judgment is the synthesis it achieves between faith and fundamental rights. While reaffirming that Islam does not mandate consent from the first wife for a second marriage, the Court held that when registration under a secular statute is sought, constitutional guarantees must take precedence:

“Customary Law is not applicable when the question of registering a second marriage arises. I am not saying that the second marriage cannot be registered, but an opportunity of hearing should be given to the first wife by the statutory authorities, while a second marriage of a Muslim man is to be registered. Muslim Personal Law states that a man can have more than one wife, provided that he has the capacity to maintain more than one wife and can give justice to his first wife. If the husband is neglecting the first wife or not maintaining the first wife, or inflicting cruelty on the first wife and thereafter contracting a second marriage, making use of his Personal Law, an opportunity of hearing to the first wife will be beneficial to her at least when the second marriage is registered in accordance with the Rules 2008. marriage registration officer can hear the first wife, and if she objects to her husband’s second marriage, stating that it is invalid, the parties can be referred to a competent civil court to establish the validity of the second marriage.” (Para 10)

Outcome and broader implications

The writ petition was dismissed as the first wife had not been made a party. Nonetheless, the Court issued a transformative directive:

“Let the Muslim women also get an opportunity of hearing when their husbands remarry, at least at the stage of registering the second marriage.” (Para 10)

The ruling thus extends procedural protection to Muslim women within a statutory framework that transcends personal law — ensuring that no woman is blindsided by a state-sanctioned act of erasure.

Why this judgment matters

1. Reasserts constitutional supremacy: Personal law cannot override statutory procedure or fundamental rights when interfacing with state authorities.
2. Advances gender justice: By recognizing the first wife’s right to be heard, the Court has extended procedural dignity to Muslim women.
3. Bridges faith and constitution: It integrates Islamic principles of justice and fairness with the Constitution’s egalitarian ethos.
4. Sets a model for inclusive procedure: The decision creates a precedent for harmonizing personal law practices with secular regulatory frameworks.

Conclusion

Justice Kunhikrishnan’s ruling is a landmark in both family law and constitutional jurisprudence. It acknowledges the validity of personal law while firmly situating all state-recognised acts within the boundaries of constitutional morality, equality, and natural justice.

In essence, the judgment transforms a narrow question of registration into a broader affirmation of women’s rights and human dignity. It is a model of judicial craftsmanship that blends empathy with principle — reaffirming that in India’s constitutional democracy, faith may guide conduct, but fairness must govern the law.

The complete judgment may be read here.

Related:

Shah Bano Begum (1916-1992): A Socio-Political Historical Timeline

Misogyny & Faith: Extreme narratives curtailing the autonomy of women

Shubha case: Reformative Justice meets Gendered Realities

Andhra Pradesh High Court rules Trans woman is a ‘woman’

A Question of Rights: Supreme Court backs teacher in maternity leave dispute

The post Kerala High Court: First wife must be heard before registering Muslim man’s second marriage appeared first on SabrangIndia.

While the speech originated as a local executive response to the Bareilly protest, its propagation and amplification were largely mediated through national and regional media, especially Hindi television channels like Times Now Navbharat, Zee News Hindi, and News18 Hindi, which paired the CM’s words with dramatic visuals of protests, police action, and property demolitions. Short-form clips circulated widely on social media, creating a feedback loop that magnified both the rhetoric and the state response.

This media-driven amplification transformed a local law-and-order issue into a nationally visible spectacle of punitive governance, normalising coercive enforcement and targeting of a religious community. The timing and scale of dissemination may also have significant political resonance, particularly with the upcoming Bihar elections, as the Hindi-language media networks ensured that the CM’s rhetoric reached a broad, politically significant audience.

Within days the state response in Bareilly intensified: large-scale arrests, property-sealing and demolition actions, 48-hour internet suspensions, criminal FIRs (running into hundreds or thousands in some counts), and administrative notices against aides of the cleric who called the Bareilly protest. That sequence of ‘protest → CM rhetoric → heavy-handed enforcement’ raises three connected questions the rest of this piece examines in depth:

• Did the CM’s speech cross legal lines such as incitement or unlawful discrimination?
• Did the state response follow due process and the Supreme Court’s own safeguards (including the duty to investigate hate speech suo moto)?
• What are the measurable social, legal and media consequences of that political rhetoric?

What happened — a timeline

The trigger (September 4–9, 2025): The flashpoint began on September 4 when an illuminated board/banners reading “I Love Muhammad” appeared during an Eid-e-Milad-un-Nabi procession in parts of Kanpur (Syed Nagar/Rawatpur). Local objections, framed by some Hindu groups as a “deviation from tradition”, led the police to register an FIR on September 9 against 24 persons (9 named, 15 unknown) for allegedly disturbing communal harmony. The complaint, according to the report of India Today, centred on shifting tents/banners into a location on a public road near a gate used by Ram Navami processions. That apparently small ritual alteration escalated as news and social media spread the story to other districts.

Escalation and the Bareilly protest (September 26–27, 2025): On September 26, a public gathering in Bareilly — called in sympathy with the “I Love Muhammad” campaign and associated with cleric Tauqeer Raza Khan — clashed with police after Friday prayers; police used lathi-charge and reported stone-pelting and injuries to officers. According to a report of Times of India, authorities say the protest had been called without permission; police also said the gathering showed signs of pre-planning through social media groups. Multiple FIRs and detentions followed. Local reporting states dozens detained with FIRs filed against hundreds — and some outlets report FIR counts running into the thousands across multiple stations. Shortly after the clashes, the cleric and several aides were arrested.

The Chief Minister’s response (September 28, 2025): Speaking at a public ‘Viksit UP’ event, CM Yogi Adityanath warned that those who “vandalise in the name of faith… attack the police… we won’t let you go… chedhoge to chodenge nahi aur chodenge nahi toh fir chootoge bhi nahi.” He used phrases such as “denting and painting must be done” and framed the response as necessary to protect festivals and public safety. These comments were widely reported and repeated across national news outlets the same day and the day after.

The contentious speeches delivered by CM Adityanath are:

अगर बेटी की सुरक्षा पर हाथ डालने का प्रयास किया,
व्यापारी के प्रतिष्ठान में आग लगाने का प्रयास किया,
उत्सव में अराजकता पैदा करने प्रयास किया तो,

यह रास्ता सीधे नर्क में जाने का होगा… pic.twitter.com/gUV9vkYnRX

— Yogi Adityanath (@myogiadityanath) September 28, 2025

‘गजवा-ए-हिंद’ हिन्दुस्तान की धरती पर नहीं होगा,

अगर किसी को जहन्नुम में जाना हो तो ‘गजवा-ए-हिंद’ के नाम पर अराजकता पैदा करने का कुत्सित प्रयास करे…

देर-सबेर ‘छांगुर’ जैसे हाल तो उनके भी होने ही हैं… pic.twitter.com/8V6MXvZbgm

— Yogi Adityanath (@myogiadityanath) September 28, 2025

छोटे-छोटे बच्चों को जिनके हाथों में कलम होनी चाहिए, जिनके हाथों में नोटबुक होनी चाहिए, विज्ञान और गणित की पुस्तकें होनी चाहिए, उनके हाथों में I Love Muhammad का पोस्टर…

…इनको यह भी नहीं मालूम कि उनकी जिंदगी तो बर्बाद है ही लेकिन इन बच्चों की भी जिंदगी ये लोग बर्बाद करने पर… pic.twitter.com/rhCBIxoh71

— Yogi Adityanath (@myogiadityanath) September 28, 2025

याद रखना!

जब भी दुस्साहस करोगे, ऐसे ही पिटोगे जैसे बरेली के अंदर पीटे गए हो… pic.twitter.com/AZWOU4m495

— Yogi Adityanath (@myogiadityanath) September 28, 2025

लव-जिहाद, धर्मांतरण और गो-तस्करी जैसी राष्ट्र विरोधी गतिविधियों के प्रति हमें सतर्क रहना होगा,

अगर कहीं कोई भूल से भी इस प्रकार की गतिविधियों में लिप्त है, उसकी सूचना ससमय पुलिस और प्रशासन को उपलब्ध करवाइए,

उपचार की व्यवस्था हम स्वयं कर लेंगे… pic.twitter.com/wLTyTcChgD

— Yogi Adityanath (@myogiadityanath) September 28, 2025

2025): After the violence and speeches, the district administration moved decisively: large-scale arrests and FIRs were filed, properties linked to accused persons were sealed or demolished by the local authority demolished including a banquet hall and other structures allegedly used by those arrested, administrative notices, for example, power-theft notices, were issued against associates of the cleric, and internet and SMS services in Bareilly district were suspended for 48 hours citing maintenance of public order, as per The Economic Times. Several human-rights and legal activists have already filed petitions and complaints alleging lack of prior notice for demolition and possible collective punishment. Political parties and civil-society delegations have begun to visit the city; opposition leaders are demanding investigations.

The problem with the speech itself

1. Targeting + personal reference. The CM specifically attacked a cleric’s actions, namely Tauqeer Raza Khan, and conduct in public, saying that the “Maulana forgot who is in power” and promising retribution that would be remembered by “future generations.” Targeting an identifiable leader and associating him and his followers with violence elevates the rhetoric beyond abstract law-and-order language.
2. Punitive metaphors taken literally. The repeated use of “denting and painting” and explicit references to the “bulldozer” rhetorical universe, and actual demolitions in other recent UP campaigns, is not merely figurative; in the current UP context it has an institutional history as a public performance of punishment — a state spectacle with material consequences. The phrase therefore reads as both a policy cue and a public warning.
3. Promise of force / deterrence directed at a community act. Even if the immediate trigger was violence, the CM’s formula — “If you trouble us, we will not spare you” — was framed to deter a specific form of expressive action, such as displaying I Love Muhammad posters, that political actors and some civil-society figures had defended as speech. The combination of delegitimisation, portraying the slogan as manipulation of children or anarchy, plus promise of collective discipline is consequential.

Those three features — naming, punitive metaphor, and generalised deterrence — are the elements that make legal and normative analysis urgent.

Media: Who amplified, and how amplification changed the story

The media ecosystem played a decisive role in transforming Yogi Adityanath’s remarks from a local political reaction into a nationally mediated performance of power. Within hours of his speech, both television and print outlets had front-paged his most aggressive lines — “chedhoge to chodenge nahi” and “denting and painting must be done” — turning threats of retribution into viral catchphrases.

National and regional broadcasters, including Times Now Navbharat, Zee News Hindi, and News18 Hindi, ran segments that paired these quotes with dramatic visuals of protests, lathicharges, and property demolitions. The YouTube thumbnails and on-screen tickers themselves became an extension of the state’s messaging — text overlays like “Maulana bhool gaya kaun sarkar mein hai” or “Bareilly mein danga, sarkar ki kathor karwai” visually encoded the CM’s warning as spectacle and slogan.

This media choreography had a dual effect. First, it nationalised the CM’s rhetoric, ensuring that what began as a local communal disturbance was recast as a state-wide law-and-order triumph. Second, the widespread replaying of his lines — often stripped of context and accompanied by enforcement footage — normalised the language of punishment and deterrence. Even platforms that did not editorially endorse the speech contributed to its amplification through repetition and aestheticisation.

Some outlets, such as The Wire and The Indian Express, offered a countervailing frame: detailed timelines, verification of police claims about “online toolkits,” and critical analysis of the administration’s disproportionate use of force. But these were exceptions within an overwhelming current of performative law-and-order coverage. The split in framing — between law-and-order narratives and civil-liberties scrutiny — reveals how editorial positioning directly shapes the moral valence of communal incidents.

Short-form videos from these channels, extracted as YouTube shorts and Twitter/X reels, circulated widely on social media. These clips — the CM’s warning juxtaposed with scenes of violence and police deployment — fed a feedback loop: the more viral the visual, the stronger the administrative justification for subsequent measures like internet suspension and mass arrests. In effect, the media ecology and the state’s coercive apparatus became mutually reinforcing.

This convergence also raises a constitutional question about mediated governance. When executive speech, journalistic amplification, and administrative coercion operate in sync, the boundary between state messaging and independent reportage collapses. The outcome is not merely the spread of information, but the construction of a “performance of control”, where the appearance of decisive governance substitutes for adherence to due process.

Attached is a collection of YouTube thumbnails from Times Now Navbharat, Zee News Hindi, and News18 Hindi demonstrates this vividly — a montage of headlines that blur the line between news coverage and narrative reinforcement, framing punitive action as political virtue.

Legal frame: what the law says and where courts have drawn the line

Three interlocking legal rules matter here:

• The statutory toolbox for “hate” / public-order speech: India’s criminal law criminalises speech that promotes enmity or hatred between groups (e.g., IPC Section 153A/Section 198 BNS), imputations prejudicial to national integration (IPC Section 153B/Section 197 BNS), deliberate and malicious acts intended to outrage religious feelings (IPC Section 295A/Section 298 BNS), and statements likely to create terror or public alarm (IPC Section 505/Section 356 BNS). These are the provisions courts and police typically invoke in communal-speech cases. The Supreme Court has emphasised that lawful restrictions must be precisely applied and proportionate
• The Supreme Court’s duty-to-act on hate speech: Shaheen Abdulla and follow-up orders: In Shaheen Abdulla v. Union of India (2022), the Supreme Court highlighted the “growing climate of hate” and directed police chiefs to take suo motu action in hate-speech incidents — specifically instructing registration and investigation under IPC sections such as 153A, 295A and 505 without waiting for a private complaint. These directions were later extended to all States/UTs; the court took the view that proactive policing is essential to preserve the secular fabric envisaged by the Preamble. That jurisprudence puts an onus on state police: if a public utterance plausibly constitutes hate speech, police must investigate it on their own motion.
• The constitutional limit: incitement and proximity to violence: Indian courts have insisted on a context-sensitive test. The classic guide is Kedar Nath Singh v. State of Bihar (1962), where the Supreme Court upheld sedition law only for words that have the “tendency or intention of creating public disorder” or inciting violence; mere abusive or critical expression cannot be criminalised. Modern caselaw returns to the same principle: to punish speech the state must show an intention or proximate tendency to produce imminent lawless action — not merely dislikeable or provocative words. This high threshold matters because it keeps robust political speech protected while allowing punishment where speech is truly dangerous.

Apply the law to the facts: Did the UP CM cross the line?

This is the crucial, uncomfortable question. Courts usually apply a two-part analysis to political speech by powerful actors:

• Does the speech itself contain elements of the statutory offences?

The Chief Minister’s speech went beyond mere governance rhetoric. It singled out a specific cleric and his supporters, implicitly ascribing collective culpability to a religious community. The language of punishment and humiliation—phrases such as “denting and painting” or “beaten as in Bareilly”—was not random metaphor; it invoked a visual and historical grammar of state-sanctioned coercion. These expressions are deeply loaded in Uttar Pradesh’s recent political lexicon, symbolising demolition drives, police beatings, and targeted action that disproportionately affect Muslim localities.

Further, the assertion that “future generations” would be taught a lesson carries the unmistakable tone of collective retribution, extending the threat from present offenders to an entire community across time. Such language constructs Muslims not as citizens subject to law, but as an enduring adversarial category — a perpetual “other” against whom exemplary force is justified.

Under Sections 153A (now Section 196 of BNS) and 295A (now Section 298 of BNS)  of the Indian Penal Code, the test for criminality hinges not merely on overt incitement but also on whether the speech promotes enmity, targets a community, or is likely to disturb public tranquillity. Read against the backdrop of recent police actions in UP—demolition of Muslim-owned properties, custodial violence, and selective FIRs—the Chief Minister’s words may reasonably be understood as an endorsement and encouragement of discriminatory state practices.

Moreover, the Supreme Court’s jurisprudence in cases such as Amish Devgan v. Union of India (2020) clarifies that when influential figures make statements capable of mobilising real-world hostility, the likelihood of incitement must be assessed contextually, not in isolation. From that perspective, Yogi Adityanath’s remarks arguably cross the boundary from administrative assertion into speech that legitimises and incites discrimination.

In sum, while the speech may not contain an explicit call to violence, it performs a dog-whistle function: normalising state-backed hostility and signalling permissibility for coercive action against a targeted religious group. In legal terms, that makes it a fit case for prima facie examination under Sections 153A, 295A, and 505(2) IPC, especially given the speaker’s constitutional position and the demonstrable pattern of violence that followed.

• What changed after the speech? (state action and proportionality)

The true constitutional stakes emerge not merely from what was said, but from what followed. When a Chief Minister’s public rhetoric is swiftly mirrored by administrative action—bulldozers rolling in, FIRs multiplying overnight, and digital blackouts silencing affected districts—the question is no longer one of abstract speech, but of state power animated by speech.

In the immediate aftermath of Yogi Adityanath’s address, municipal and police authorities in multiple UP districts launched coordinated operations: mass detentions of Muslim youth, property demolitions framed as “encroachments,” and sweeping suspension of internet services. These were not isolated law-and-order responses but a choreographed display of retribution, executed without adequate notice, hearing, or judicial oversight.

Courts have repeatedly emphasised that executive spectacle cannot substitute due process. In its observations concerning “bulldozer justice,” the Supreme Court has held that demolitions carried out as instantaneous punishment for alleged offences are unconstitutional unless preceded by notice, opportunity to respond, and adherence to municipal laws (Jamiat Ulama-i-Hind v. North Delhi Municipal Corporation, 2022). The law draws a bright line: urban planning cannot be weaponised as penal theatre. Yet, in Uttar Pradesh, the chain of events—fiery speech followed by visible coercive measures—suggests a punitive motive masquerading as law enforcement.

Equally significant is the Shaheen Abdulla v. Union of India (2022) principle, which imposes a positive duty on the police: they must initiate suo-moto FIRs against hate speech, irrespective of the speaker’s political stature. The judgment underscored that inaction is complicity, and selective enforcement deepens discrimination. In this case, law enforcement pursued alleged protestors with urgency but failed to act on the Chief Minister’s inflammatory remarks, despite clear statutory grounds under Sections 153A, 295A, and 505(2) IPC.

The constitutional doctrine of proportionality also comes into play. Administrative actions must bear a rational nexus to legitimate aims, employ the least restrictive means, and avoid discriminatory impact. Yet the scale and selectivity of post-speech measures—demolitions confined largely to Muslim-majority neighbourhoods, police raids on specific youth groups, and the near-complete absence of accountability for vigilante actors—suggest a pattern of collective punishment rather than targeted, proportionate law enforcement.

As many have noted, when executive speech operates as a signal and the bureaucratic apparatus responds with coercive overreach, the boundary between political rhetoric and state sanction collapses. The state ceases to act as a neutral arbiter and instead becomes a performer in its own moral spectacle, projecting deterrence through fear.

In sum, while Yogi Adityanath’s speech might be defensible as political expression if viewed in isolation, the temporal and causal sequence of events—immediate arrests, sweeping FIRs, and punitive demolitions—creates a compelling case that state power was deployed not for justice but for signalling. Such a pattern raises grave constitutional concerns under Articles 14, 19, and 21, even if establishing direct criminal culpability for the speech remains legally complex.

The ground reality: Evidence of disproportionate enforcement and social fallout

The aftermath of the Bareilly clashes reveals a pattern that extends far beyond a conventional law-and-order response. It reflects a multi-tiered exercise of coercive state power, activated in the wake of the Chief Minister’s speech and sustained through both formal and informal mechanisms of punishment.

• Mass arrests and sweeping FIRs: In the immediate aftermath, police operations intensified across Bareilly and adjoining districts. Reports cited dozens of detentions within hours, and FIRs naming hundreds—sometimes even thousands—of individuals. According to The Times of India, nearly 2,000 people were named across multiple police stations, though the exact number varied by outlet. The breadth of these FIRs—often containing generalised allegations—raises serious questions about collective culpability and the use of preventive detention as a form of intimidation rather than targeted investigation.
• Property sealing and demolitions: Municipal and development authorities undertook swift demolition and sealing drives against properties allegedly linked to the accused—among them a banquet hall and other commercial structures. Families reported that no prior notice or opportunity to be heard was provided, prompting complaints to the Uttar Pradesh Human Rights Commission. As The Times of India noted, these measures echo the state’s recent pattern of bulldozer-led punitive actions, widely criticised by rights groups as performative retribution designed to convey dominance rather than ensure compliance with planning laws. The recurrence of such demolitions immediately after communal incidents suggests a deliberate conflation of criminal liability with property ownership and community identity.
• Administrative and regulatory reprisals: Alongside police action, the administration issued a series of “ancillary punishments”—including power-theft notices, income recovery claims, and regulatory sanctions against persons associated with the cleric at the centre of the protests. These quasi-civil penalties compounded the economic and psychological burden on affected families. The simultaneity of these measures—each lawful in isolation but collectively disproportionate—points to a pattern of cumulative punishment through bureaucratic instruments.
• Communications blackouts: Authorities imposed a 48-hour suspension of mobile internet, broadband, and SMS services across Bareilly district, citing the need to curb rumours and prevent mobilisation. The Economic Times reported that this was one of several recent instances where internet shutdowns have become the default administrative reflex during communal tensions. Such measures, while framed as precautionary, raise acute proportionality and necessity concerns under the Anuradha Bhasin v. Union of Indiav (2020) standard, which requires narrowly tailored, time-bound restrictions and periodic review.
• Societal reverberations and exclusionary practices: The social aftershocks were equally significant. Civil-society observers and media, such as LiveMint documented a perceptible tightening of social boundaries in the weeks following the incident. Muslims reportedly faced pressure to abstain from participating in garba celebrations and other public festivities, and instances were noted where Hindutva groups sought to monitor or exclude Muslim presence at cultural events. Though less quantifiable, these developments illustrate how executive rhetoric and coercive enforcement combine to legitimise exclusion at the community level, embedding state-endorsed bias within everyday social interactions.

Taken together, these events depict not an isolated breakdown of order but a coordinated sequence: rhetoric, repression, and social sanction. The cycle of speech, enforcement, spectacle, and exclusion forms a distinctive template of governance—where administrative action doubles as political performance, and punishment itself becomes a form of public messaging.

The Political Economy of Hard-line Rhetoric: How speech translates into power

Whether by deliberate strategy or downstream effect, hard-line public rhetoric by state leaders like Yogi Adityanath yields three tangible advantages for majoritarian or vigilante actors operating at the political margins. It converts language into action, rhetoric into legitimacy, and coercion into spectacle.

1. Implicit legitimisation of vigilante policing: When a head of government publicly vows “uncompromising action” and uses metaphors of retribution—such as “denting and painting” or “we will not spare you”—the message travels well beyond the bureaucracy. It functions as a symbolic green light for local affiliates, vigilante groups, and ideological sympathisers. These actors interpret the rhetoric as moral endorsement for “citizen policing” or social intimidation campaigns under the guise of defending faith or nationalism. Civil-society reports document a consistent pattern: Hindutva outfits intensify surveillance of Muslim participation in cultural events—such as garba celebrations or processions—soon after high-profile communal statements. In practice, this rhetoric lowers the cost of vigilantism, creating a permissive environment where harassment appears state-sanctioned.
2. Narrative control and inversion: Strongman rhetoric also reshapes the moral sequence of events. By branding expressive or devotional acts—such as the “I Love Muhammad” posters—as “provocations,” the state repositions itself as the neutral guarantor of order, while protestors are recast as disruptors. This narrative inversion turns a community’s assertion of faith into a law-and-order problem, allowing the administration to deploy coercion with minimal public pushback.
   As The Wire and other critical outlets observed, media framing plays a decisive role: channels that foreground “riots” and “discipline” amplify the executive’s preferred storyline, while those that question due process or disproportionality are marginalised as “soft on disorder.” The result is a feedback loop where political rhetoric and editorial selection co-produce legitimacy.
3. Electoral signalling and mobilisation gains: Beyond its immediate administrative use, hard-line speech operates as a performative display of strength aimed at a political constituency. The imagery of bulldozers, swift arrests, and collective punishment serves as a spectacle of decisive governance, projecting control and dominance. Scholars of South Asian populism have noted that such performances of punishment—what The Loop terms “punitive populism”—transform the machinery of justice into an instrument of emotional reassurance for the majority. Each demolition or crackdown becomes not just an act of enforcement but a ritual reaffirmation of political identity, blurring the lines between public order and electoral theatre.

Taken together, these three dynamics show how rhetoric, media, and enforcement converge into a single ecosystem of majoritarian power. In this model, punishment is not merely administered—it is performed, televised, and voted upon.

Accountability gaps and legal remedies

The aftermath of the Bareilly episode demands more than commentary — it demands accountability. When executive speech, administrative action, and media amplification intersect to produce coercive outcomes, the constitutional order must provide correctives. The following lines of legal and institutional response arise directly from existing Supreme Court jurisprudence and human-rights practice:

1. Suo moto inquiry into the Chief Minister’s speech under the Shaheen Abdulla directions: The Supreme Court has made it unequivocally clear that police are under a continuing duty to register suo moto FIRs in cases of hate speech, regardless of the speaker’s political position. Inaction in the face of potentially inflammatory statements by high public officials amounts to contempt of the Court’s directions. A representation to the High Court or Supreme Court seeking compliance would therefore be legally tenable if no inquiry has yet been initiated.
2. Judicial review of demolitions and sealing drives for arbitrariness and disproportionality: The Supreme Court’s November 2024 observations on “bulldozer justice” caution that demolitions used as instant punishment violate due process. Every affected person is entitled to prior notice, an opportunity to be heard, and independent adjudication before property action. Where municipal or development authorities acted immediately after communal incidents, those demolitions merit judicial scrutiny as punitive theatre rather than lawful urban regulation.
3. Human-rights complaints and public-interest petitions documenting the full sequence: The timeline itself — from the Kanpur FIRs to the Bareilly clashes, the CM’s speeches, and the administrative crackdown — forms crucial evidence of state overreach and selective enforcement. Complaints to the NHRC, the State Human Rights Commission, or the jurisdictional High Court can seek independent inquiry, victim compensation, and publication of findings. Precedents show that such petitions have successfully compelled state responses and stayed coercive action.
4. Media accountability and transparency demands: Given the central role of television and digital platforms in magnifying punitive rhetoric, transparency measures are essential. Broadcasters and social media intermediaries should be required to preserve all footage, thumbnails, and metadata for future scrutiny. Outlets that used sensational promos can be asked to issue contextual clarifications or corrections through the NBDSA process. Simultaneously, police and civic authorities must disclose the legal basis for mass FIRs, demolition orders, and internet suspensions. Public disclosure often becomes the first step toward halting unchecked executive excess.

Conclusions — legal risk, democratic cost

The Bareilly “I Love Muhammad” row and its aftermath sit at a critical intersection of power and speech in contemporary India. What began as an expressive act — a slogan, a banner, a theological or identity affirmation — was transformed rapidly under political and administrative force into a narrative of provocation, then into a sequence of punitive state interventions.

Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath’s rhetoric did more than warn: it arguably furnished the legal and moral scaffolding for escalated state action — actions that, according to credible reportage, stretched procedural norms, threatened minority rights, chilled speech, and disrupted daily life for many. Legal redress is challenging but not impossible: the constitutional framework, statutory provisions, and Supreme Court precedents exist to push back against such overreach.

Bareilly is therefore not just a local incident. It’s a test case. If the judicial system, civil society, and media fail to rigorously examine speech + enforcement, the precedent is troubling: political speech that combines identity, faith, punitive promise and spectacle becomes a license to marginalise. For democracy to survive in such moments, the invisible boundary between “law-and-order” and state overreach must be policed with the same seriousness with which we monitor overt dissent.

References:

https://www.livelaw.in/top-stories/take-suo-motu-action-against-hate-speech-crimes-without-waiting-for-complaint-supreme-court-212282

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The post From Words to Bulldozers: How a Chief Minister’s rhetoric triggered and normalised punitive policing in Bareilly appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Delivering judgment in Bhodu Sekh v. Union of India & Ors. and Amir Khan v. Union of India & Ors., the Division Bench directed the Government of India to take all necessary steps through the Ministry of Home Affairs and the Indian High Commission in Dhaka to bring back Sunali Khatun, her husband Danish Sekh, their minor son Sabir, and in the companion case, Sweety Bibi and her two minor sons Kurban and Imam.

The Bench did not mince words, warning that executive arbitrariness cloaked as “deportation” cannot be permitted to override constitutional protections of liberty and dignity.

Case I – The Bodu Sekh Case (Sunali Khatun, Danish Sekh & Sabir)

The writ petition was filed by Bhodu Sekh, a resident of Birbhum, West Bengal, seeking a writ of habeas corpus for his daughter Sunali, her husband Danish, and their child Sabir.

• On June 24, 2025, Delhi Police, during an “identity verification drive,” picked up the family.
• Within 48 hours, without any proper inquiry, they were deported to Bangladesh on June 26, 2025, escorted by Delhi Police via Guwahati.
• The deportation was carried out under orders of the FRRO, Delhi, citing the Foreigners Act, 1946.

The petitioner contended that the detainees were Indian citizens by birth, permanent residents of West Bengal with family, land, and identity documents in Birbhum. Sunali was also in an advanced stage of pregnancy at the time of deportation.

Arguments raised by both sides

Government’s defence: Representing the Union of India and Delhi Police, the Additional Solicitor General (ASG) argued:

• The detainees admitted during interrogation that they were Bangladeshi nationals who had entered India illegally in 1998 through an unauthorised route.
• They failed to produce Aadhaar, Voter ID, PAN, or ration cards proving Indian citizenship.
• Under Section 9 of the Foreigners Act, 1946, the burden of proof lies on the person concerned to establish that they are not foreigners.
• The deportation was therefore valid and within jurisdiction.

Petitioner’s case: Counsel for the petitioner rebutted that:

• The family has deep roots in West Bengal, with land records and relatives in Birbhum.
• Identity documents (Aadhaar, PAN, Voter ID) were submitted to local police after their disappearance.
• Sunali’s Aadhaar and PAN show her date of birth as 2000, making it impossible for her to have entered India “illegally” in 1998 as claimed in the interrogation report.
• No due process or inquiry was conducted as mandated by the Ministry of Home Affairs’ Memo dated May 2, 2025, which required a 30-day verification from the detainee’s home State before deportation.
• The principle of non-refoulement, implicit in Article 21, bars forcible expulsion without fair procedure.

Case II – The Amir Khan Case (Sweety Bibi, Kurban & Imam)

Case background

In WPA (H) 51 of 2025, petitioner Amir Khan, a resident of Murarai, Birbhum, approached the Court seeking a writ of habeas corpus for his paternal cousin sister Sweety Bibi and her two minor sons Kurban and Imam.

• On June 24, 2025, Delhi Police detained Sweety and her children in the same “identity verification drive” that led to Sunali’s detention.
• They were deported to Bangladesh on June 26, 2025 under orders of the FRRO, Delhi.
• The deportation was carried out within 48 hours, without reference to West Bengal authorities, and without the mandatory 30-day verification.

Arguments raised by both sides

Government’s defence:

• The ASG argued that Sweety and her children admitted to being Bangladeshi nationals during interrogation.
• They failed to produce valid documents proving Indian citizenship.
• Under Section 9 of the Foreigners Act, 1946, the burden of proof lies on the person to establish that they are not foreigners.
• Maintainability was challenged: since the deportation order was passed in Delhi, the Calcutta High Court had no jurisdiction, especially as a petition had already been filed in Delhi High Court and withdrawn.

Petitioner’s case:

• Amir Khan submitted that Sweety’s family are permanent residents of West Bengal, with land, relatives, and documentary proof in Birbhum.
• He produced Imam’s birth certificate, proving Indian origin, which was ignored by authorities.
• He argued that the principle of non-refoulement, implicit in Article 21, bars forcible expulsion without fair process.
• The deportation was conducted in breach of the MHA memo of 02.05.2025, which required the case to be referred to the State of West Bengal for verification.

The Court’s observations in both the cases

On maintainability: Rejecting objections that the case should have been filed in Delhi, the Court held that:

• The cause of action was integrally linked to West Bengal, since the detainees hailed from Birbhum, where the petitioner lodged his complaint.
• West Bengal Police had verified their documents and written to Delhi Police, but received no response.

“If such enquiry is an event of substance i.e. an event which is a material, essential or integral part of the lis connected with the action that is impugned in a writ petition, there is no plausible reason as to why the same should not be construed as constituting a material, essential or integral part of the cause of action. The facts required to form the basis of presumption of law would emanate only upon an enquiry to be conducted, routed through the detainees’ place of residence in the State of West Bengal.” (Para 24)

On suspicion and proof: The Court shredded the reliance on police interrogation reports, calling them unreliable and contradictory:

“A close perusal of the interrogation forms as annexed would reveal that after noting the educational qualification, the name of the institute has been omitted. In the column ‘details of family members and where they are residing’, the names of family members have been mentioned without mentioning the place where they are residing. Suspicion, howsoever high, cannot be a substitute of actual proof. There is no appellate authority. In the affidavit filed by the respondent nos. 1 to 4, it is stated that no enquiry was required but in the memo date 23.06.2025 it was stated that an enquiry was conducted. There is also no ‘adverse security report’ against the detainees.” (Para 30)

It also pointed out the glaring absurdity:

“That the proceeding for deportation was conducted in hot haste is furthered by the fact that in the interrogation report, it was stated that Sunali had crossed over and illegally entered into India sometime in the year 1998. Sunali’s Aadhaar card and PAN card reflect her date of birth as 26 years, indicating she was born in the year 2000. Hence, Sunali could not have entered into India in 1998.” (Para 31)

On police “confessions”: The Court strongly disbelieved the so-called admissions:

“The law presumes that a statement to a police officer may have been obtained through pressure or force and is therefore not voluntary. A confessional statement made before a police officer and without any safeguards, would be a direct infringement of the constitutional guarantees contained in Articles 14, 20(3) and 21 of the Constitution of India.” (Para 30)

The interrogation report was riddled with contradictions and omissions—no mention of educational institutes, vague details of relatives, and an absurd claim of Sunali’s illegal entry in 1998 despite her year of birth being 2000.

On liberty over technicalities: When faced with objections on jurisdiction, suppression of earlier petitions, or non-impleadment of FRRO, the Bench invoked constitutional principle:

“Moreover, the storied jurisprudence on the anvil of protection of constitutional rights in this country, has repeatedly held that when substantial justice is pitted against technical considerations, the cause of the former demands preference over the other especially when the writ court can visualise that deference to such technical considerations would have the consequence of throwing out an otherwise meritorious claim right at the threshold.” (Para 32)

On violation of due process: The Court exposed blatant non-compliance with the MHA’s Memo of May 2, 2025, which prescribed:

• A mandatory 30-day inquiry routed through the home State if a detainee claimed Indian citizenship.
• Communication between States before deportation.
• Deportation only after completion of inquiry and biometric verification.

Instead, Delhi Police deported the family within two days, without informing West Bengal authorities. In its order, the Court stressed that this “hot haste” was unconstitutional.

“Having said this it cannot be denied that the memo of 02.05.2025 applies only to Bangladeshi and Rohingya Muslims from Myanmar; thus, if we take the worst-case scenario of the detainees, that they were not Indian citizens, the steps and procedures laid down in the memo ought to have been followed by the concerned authorities. Not following such procedure and acting in hot haste to deport them is a clear violation which renders the deportation order bad in law and liable to be set aside. The process and procedure adopted in the deportation raise a suspicion that the concerned authorities, while acting in hot haste, have clearly violated the provisions of the memo dated 02.05.2025.” (Para 33)

Before issuing directions, the Bench addressed the central flaw in the deportation: the failure to comply with the Ministry of Home Affairs’ Memo dated 02.05.2025.

“From such sequence of facts it is explicit that the respondents admittedly did not follow the provisions of the memo dated 02.05.2025 inasmuch as the details of the said persons were not forwarded to the State of West Bengal of which they are the residents. It is only after such documents are forwarded, the concerned State Government has to ensure that appropriate report is sent to the deporting State Government/UT after proper verification within a period of 30 days. Admittedly no such enquiry was conducted and the Delhi Administration did not even wait for a week before issuance the order of deportation.” (Para 32)

On executive arbitrariness: The Court powerfully reminded the State:

“The life style of the people shapes the profile of the law and not vice versa. Law cannot be disjuncted from context. The fundamental rights cannot be read as dull lifeless words. If an uncontrolled or unguided power is conferred without any reasonable and proper standards or limits being laid down in the enactment for guidance and control of exercise of such power, the act cannot by the furthest of imagination be construed to be a ‘procedure established by law’.” (Para 35)

And further:

“The executive cannot be vested with any non-fettered discretion. If officials exercise their public authority in an arbitral whimsical manner, the same would bring such act within the scope of prohibition of the equity clause.” (Para 35)

Final Directions

Having built this foundation, the Bench issued its emphatic direction:

“For and on the strength of the totality of reasons afore-indicated, the order of detention dated 24.06.2025 and the order of deportation dated 26.06.2025, so far as Sunali, Danish and Sabir are concerned, are set aside and the respondent nos. 1 to 6, are mandatorily directed to take all steps to bring back Sunali, Danish and Sabir to India within a period of 4 weeks from the date of communication of the order. The said respondents, for such purpose, shall make necessary correspondence and interact with the authorities at High Commission of India, Dhaka, Bangladesh.” (Para 36)

• The detention order of June 24, 2025, and deportation order of June 26, 2025 were set aside.
• The Union of India, Ministry of Home Affairs, FRRO Delhi, and Delhi Police were mandatorily directed to repatriate Sunali, Danish, and Sabir within four weeks, by liaising with the Indian High Commission in Dhaka.
• A plea by the Union’s counsel to stay the judgment was rejected outright.

In the epilogue, the Court showed zero tolerance for delay:

“Mr. Tiwari, learned senior advocate appearing for the respondent nos. 1 to 4 prays for stay of operation of the order. Such prayer is considered and rejected.”

Common Threads in Both Cases

1. Procedural illegality: In both cases, the MHA memo of 2 May 2025 was disregarded, and deportation was carried out in “hot haste” within 48 hours.
2. Confessional statements rejected: The Bench refused to treat statements made before police as voluntary or binding.
3. Suspicion ≠ Proof: Reliance on vague interrogation forms was dismissed as constitutionally inadequate.
4. Article 21 as a shield: The principle of non-refoulement and the guarantee of fairness were read into the right to life and liberty.
5. Restorative remedy: Both judgments not only set aside the illegal orders but directed active repatriation within a fixed timeframe.
6. Stay refused: In both matters, the Court showed urgency, refusing to stay its own orders.

Key significance of both the judgments

The Calcutta High Court converted both the habeas corpus petitions from a procedural safeguard into a restorative mandate, compelling the State not only to stop violating liberty but to actively restore it within four weeks. By rejecting technical objections, demolishing coerced “confessions,” and refusing to stay its own orders, the Bench has made it clear: executive zeal cannot displace constitutional guarantees.

This judgment will stand as a landmark against arbitrary deportations, a reminder that suspicion is not proof, and an assertion that liberty lost must be liberty restored.

• Due process restored: Deportation, even of alleged foreigners, must follow strict statutory and constitutional safeguards.
• Suspicion is not citizenship proof: Courts will not permit arbitrary determinations based on police reports or coerced confessions.
• Article 21 expanded: Fairness, reasonableness, and dignity apply equally to citizens and non-citizens.
• Executive overreach checked: The Bench warned against “overenthusiasm” by officials and reaffirmed that arbitrary discretion is unconstitutional.
• Restorative habeas corpus: The Court moved beyond quashing illegal orders to actively commanding repatriation within four weeks.

The Calcutta High Court has not only ordered the return of a wrongfully deported families but also delivered a landmark reminder that the Constitution forbids arbitrary expulsions, and that suspicion, coercion, or bureaucratic zeal cannot strip individuals of their right to liberty and due process. Together, the Bodu Sekh and Amir Khan rulings stand as a landmark reminder that the Constitution forbids arbitrary expulsions, and that liberty curtailed unlawfully must be affirmatively restored.

Judgment of both the cases may be read below.

Bhodu Sheikh case is below:

Amir Khan case judgment is below:

Related:

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Targeted as ‘Bangladeshis’: The hate speech fuelling deportations

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The post Calcutta High Court quashes arbitrary deportation, orders return of West Bengal families from Bangladesh appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The narrative did not stop there. Congress leaders Gaurav Gogoi and Rahul Gandhi were shown alongside images of Pakistan’s flag, insinuating an unholy alliance between opposition politics and anti-national elements. In one stroke, the video attempted to reduce the state’s complex history of migration, identity, and politics to a simplistic binary: BJP means safety; Congress means Muslim domination and cultural erasure.

The intent was clear: to construct fear, vilify the Muslim community, and paint the Congress party—particularly Rahul Gandhi and state president Gaurav Gogoi—as collaborators in this imagined downfall.

Congress strikes back

Outraged by the communal overtones, the Assam Congress lodged a formal complaint at the Dispur Police Station. The FIR, filed by Assam Pradesh Congress Committee (APCC) Media Department chairman Bedabrata Bora, named:

• Assam BJP president Dilip Saikia
• State social media convener Shaktidhar Deka
• Other unnamed functionaries of the BJP’s digital wing

The charges pressed include:

• Criminal conspiracy
• Incitement to communal disturbances
• Promoting enmity between groups
• Violation of the Model Code of Conduct (MCC) under the Election Commission

The Congress also wrote to the State Election Commission, demanding that the videos be taken down, devices seized from BJP’s IT cell, and a forensic investigation conducted under the IT Act, 2000.

Congress leaders, including Gaurav Gogoi, condemned the videos as cheap propaganda: “The words, actions, and images produced by the BJP IT cell do not have the strength to scratch the surface of Assamese society. Assam deserves politics that uplifts people to new heights.”

Other opposition voices joined in. The AIUDF described the video as a dangerous attempt to communalise Assam’s electoral space. According to the report of The Telegraph, AIMIM President Asaduddin Owaisi called it “disgusting,” remarking that it treated the very presence of Muslims in India as a problem for the ruling party. Civil society commentators warned that such imagery could deepen long-standing tensions in a state scarred by the Assam Accord, the NRC exercise, and decades of migration-related conflicts.

BJP’s Defence: “illegal immigrants” vs. communal targeting

The BJP defended the videos, with State Information Minister Pijush Hazarika arguing that the campaign only sought to highlight the “threat of illegal immigrants changing Assam’s demography.” According to The Print, he accused Congress of crying “Islamophobia” to shield its vote bank.

But the content of the videos betrays this defence. If the concern was only about illegal migration, why were the visuals overwhelmingly directed at portraying Muslims—men in skullcaps, women in hijabs, Islamic motifs—while ignoring the complex demographic reality of Assam’s migration issue?

The numbers don’t lie

At the heart of the video’s message was the claim of a “90% Muslim population.” Yet this crumbles under scrutiny.

The gap between claim and reality underscores how the video weaponised misinformation. It was not simply political rhetoric but an attempt to rewrite demographic reality through AI imagery.

The deeper risks

The use of AI in political propaganda opens a troubling new chapter. Unlike crude photoshopping, AI-generated images are hyper-realistic and immersive. When they depict crowded mosques in airports or skull-capped men at cultural monuments, they can be mistaken for actual documentary evidence rather than fabricated visuals. This blurring of truth and fiction is especially dangerous in Assam, a state where migration anxieties and identity politics already run deep.

Legally, the video raises serious red flags. Indian criminal law prohibits content that incites hatred or promotes enmity between groups. The Election Commission explicitly bars communal appeals during elections. If laws and codes are enforced, those responsible could face consequences ranging from takedowns to prosecution. Yet beyond legality lies a more urgent ethical question: should ruling parties normalise the use of communal fear as an electoral strategy, especially through manipulative new technologies?

Assam’s Fragile Social Fabric

Assam’s history makes this controversy particularly volatile. For decades, the state has wrestled with the question of undocumented migration from Bangladesh, culminating in the 1985 Assam Accord, the NRC process, and ongoing litigation in Foreigners Tribunals. These issues already create fault lines between communities, often leading to suspicion, exclusion, and even violence.

Injecting an AI-amplified narrative of Muslim domination into this landscape risks tipping the balance further. It reduces diverse communities to stereotypes and ignores the reality that both Hindus and Muslims have been implicated in migration patterns. More dangerously, it frames coexistence itself as impossible — projecting one community’s presence as another’s loss.

A Warning for the Future

The Assam BJP’s AI video is not just a campaign gimmick; it is a warning of how easily technology can be harnessed to inflame divisions. It shows how quickly artificial intelligence can shift from innovation to manipulation, and how communal anxieties can be magnified into existential threats.

At one level, the video may energise segments of the electorate receptive to such messages. At another, it risks further alienating communities already made vulnerable by citizenship processes and constant suspicion. In the long run, it is Assam’s fragile social fabric — not merely electoral arithmetic — that stands to pay the heaviest price.

If unchecked, such content could set a precedent for future campaigns across India, where AI is used not to inform or persuade but to distort and divide. The responsibility lies not just with the police or the Election Commission but also with political actors, civil society, and media platforms to resist this descent into fear-mongering.

In the end, the question goes beyond one video or one state. It is about the kind of politics India is willing to tolerate: one that thrives on communal fear, or one that confronts real challenges without reducing entire communities to threats. Assam, with its complex history and fragile peace, deserves the latter.

Related:

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