Introduction: The Campus as Double Stage

The University Grants Commission, on January 13, 2026, notified the Promotion of Equity in Higher Education Institutions Regulations, a broad set of rules intended to counter caste discrimination in Indian universities. Within two weeks, the Supreme Court stayed the regulations, observing that they showed “complete vagueness” and might have “dangerous impacts” to “divide society.” In the meantime, and in the weeks that followed, Indian universities, particularly Delhi University, witnessed protests and counter-protests, violence, allegations of assault, cross-FIRs and, subsequently, a month-long ban on all demonstrations. SabrangIndia’s detailed story on the nationwide protests may be read here and here.

This debate goes beyond a simple policy debate. It is a point at which the underlying contradictions of caste in contemporary India have come face-to-face with the national arena. In my previous work, I introduced the concept of “schizophrenic modernity”, a condition in which a public official theatre of constitutional equality coexists with a dynamic social obscenity, wherein the hierarchy of caste is reinscribed through intimate sociability, bodily practices and moments of violence. The UGC controversy makes this schizophrenia explicit.

To gain a full understanding of the stakes, it is imperative to consult two scholars whose work helps to illuminate the underlying structure of this dispute. Anand Teltumbde’s work on the “camouflaged” presence of caste provides a framework for understanding how caste functions within modern institutions as a hidden system of social capital and exclusion, rather than as a visible ritualized hierarchy. Gopal Guru’s work on the scene/obscene dialectic of knowledge production, along with his imperative to theorize from the location of the obscene, supplies the methodological key to centering the Dalit experience in this argument. Together, they enrich and expand my Foucauldian-Gramscian framework, locating it within the particular intellectual traditions of Dalit Studies.

The article uses the framework to provide a thorough argument about the controversy. Part I will evaluate the rules as a scene of extending the constitutional scene into the obscene. Part II will locates the upper-caste reaction as a manifestation of “camouflaged” caste, as well as Gopal Guru’s reading of hegemonic denial. Part III will discuss the role of the Supreme Court as a moment of definitional politics. Part IV will analyse campus violence as a manifestation of obscene eruption, according to Teltumbde’s framework. Part V will evaluate the schizophrenic stance of the state. Part VI will explore Dalit counter-mobilizations as a moment of forcing the obscene back into the scene, according to Guru’s imperative to theorise from the location of the obscene. The conclusion will consider what this controversy tells us about the underlying architecture of caste power.

I. The Regulations: Extending the Scene into the Obscene

The UGC Equity Regulations 2026 have their roots in a specific set of events: a petition to the Supreme Court jointly filed by the mothers of Rohith Vemula and Payal Tadvi, both of whom took their own lives in the aftermath of alleged caste-based harassment on their respective college campuses. Vemula, a Dalit PhD scholar at the University of Hyderabad, died in 2016; Tadvi, a tribal medical student in Mumbai, died in 2019. Their deaths have been seen as symptomatic of the failure of institutional mechanisms to protect marginalised students.

Statistics shown by the UGC to a parliamentary committee show a 118.4% increase in reported cases of caste-based harassment over five years, from 173 in 2019-20 to 378 in 2023-24. Journalist Anil Chamadia said that this increase “is not merely about numbers; it is directly linked to growing awareness among marginalised students and the protection given to dominant caste ideologies.” When first-generation Dalit students enter universities in greater numbers, the dominant castes may resent their presence, leading to increased harassment.

The regulations created a complex administrative machinery for equity. They mandated that every higher education institution set up an Equal Opportunity Centre (EOC) to monitor policies for the disadvantaged. Equity Committees, mandated to include representatives from Scheduled Castes (SC), Scheduled Tribes (ST), Other Backward Classes (OBC), women and persons with disabilities, were tasked with complaints. Institutions were mandated to set up “equity squads” for constant surveillance, establish 24/7 hotlines and ensure time-bound redressal of grievances, committees were to meet within 24 hours of a complaint and submit a report within 15 days. Failure to comply would invite severe punishment, including withdrawal of UGC funding, exclusion from schemes, or suspension of degree programs.

Notably, the regulations introduced protection for the first time for OBCs, besides SC/ST students, faculty and staff. The concept of “caste-based discrimination” in Clause 3(c) was articulated as discrimination “only on the basis of caste or tribe against the members of the Scheduled Castes (SC), Scheduled Tribes (ST) and Other Backwards Classes (OBC).”

Based on the current framework, the regulations can be understood as an effort to operationalize the constitutional ban on caste discrimination as a pervasive social order. While the Constitution bans caste discrimination at the level of abstract jurisprudence, the regulations aimed to create capillary structures—committees, squads, helplines—that would penetrate the intimate spaces of caste discrimination: the classroom, the hostel, the mentor-mentee relationship and social networks. They aimed to make visible the everyday humiliations, exclusions and violence against Dalit students, which the “obscene” had hitherto made invisible.

As a UGC functionary explained, “The regulations aimed to institutionalize anti-discrimination policies rather than have a piecemeal approach and thus provide ‘marginalised students with an official platform to raise their concerns, which was often lacking before.’” This is the role of the scene: to make grievances speakable, visible, and actionable. The obscene, on the other hand, is that which is unspeakable, the casteist remark that is reduced to “just a joke,” the exclusion that is reduced to “personal preference,” the hostility that is reduced to “academic rigor.”

II. The Upper-Caste Backlash: Camouflaged Caste and the Hegemony of Denial

The regulations didn’t just face criticism; they walked into a firestorm. Upper-caste students, faculty and a chorus of social media voices came out swinging almost immediately. Protests erupted at Delhi University, Lucknow University and right outside the UGC office. But if you listen closely to what the protesters are actually saying, something interesting emerges. Their words reveal how privilege dresses itself up as fairness when its back is against the wall. To really understand what’s happening here, we need two thinkers: Anand Teltumbde and his idea of “camouflaged” caste, and Gopal Guru with his insights about who gets to theorise and whose experience counts as real.

Teltumbde: When Caste Puts on a New Suit

In The Persistence of Caste (2010), Teltumbde makes a deceptively simple argument that cuts through a lot of confusion. Caste hasn’t disappeared in modern India; it’s just changed its clothes. It no longer marches around in religious robes, declaring Brahmins superior and Dalits polluted. Instead, it’s dressed itself in the respectable attire of modernity. It speaks the language of merit, efficiency and professionalism, all while quietly reproducing hierarchy through who knows whom, who gets recommended for jobs, who feels comfortable in academic spaces.

This is exactly what we’re seeing in the UGC controversy. The upper-caste protesters aren’t defending traditional caste ideology. You won’t hear them argue that Brahmins are naturally smarter or that untouchability was ordained by the gods. That would be too obvious, too easy to counter. Instead, they’ve wrapped themselves in the language of universalism, due process, and merit. They’re not defending privilege, they’re defending fairness. Or so they claim. This is caste in camouflage, operating through the very discourses that supposedly left it behind.

Teltumbde argues this camouflage isn’t accidental. It’s caste’s survival strategy, its “genius,” he calls it, though he means it darkly. Caste is plastic. It can take any form religious, secular, modern, global while never losing its core purpose: maintaining graded inequality. If you go looking for caste in its traditional avatar, you’ll declare it dead. You’ll miss its vibrant new incarnations entirely.

The protesters who warn of “complete chaos” and insist that “victim can be anyone on campus” aren’t defending old caste. They’re defending its new form as common sense, as the natural order of things, as what any reasonable person would think. They are, in Teltumbde’s framework, caste’s latest incarnation.

Guru: Why the Obscene Matters

Gopal Guru gives us the other lens we need. In The Cracked Mirror (2012), written with Sundar Sarukkai, Guru makes a provocative argument about how knowledge itself is structured by caste. Upper-caste “theorists,” he argues, have historically occupied what he calls the “scene”, the privileged space of abstraction, theory and universal claims. Dalit-Bahujan thinkers, meanwhile, have been confined to the “obscene”, the messy, particular, experiential realm that supposedly isn’t fit for theory. Guru calls for “epistemic humility”, a willingness to theorize from the site of the obscene, to take seriously the knowledge that comes from lived experience of caste.

The UGC controversy plays out this dynamic in real time. The upper-caste protesters occupy the scene. They speak the language of due process, safeguards against false accusations, and the danger of dividing society. Their discourse presents itself as neutral, rational, concerned with everyone’s good. And the Dalit experience that made these regulations necessary in the first place, the 115 suicides, the daily humiliations, the systematic exclusion gets pushed into the obscene. It becomes merely anecdotal, particular and insufficiently theoretical.

When protesters claim that “victim can be anyone,” they’re not just describing reality. They’re prescribing how reality should be seen. They’re demanding that the scene remain blind to the actual direction of caste violence. The universal category of “anyone” erases the particular vulnerability of Dalit students. The scene refuses to see what the obscene knows.

The Hegemony of Denial in Action

Listen to Alokit Tripathi, a DU PhD student who told PTI the rules would create “complete chaos.” His concern? The burden of proof would shift to the accused, with “no safeguards for those wrongly accused.” And then this: “The definition of victim is already predetermined. Victim can be anyone on campus.”

This is Teltumbde’s camouflaged caste, speaking in perfect accent. The historically privileged group positions itself as potential victim. The structural violence documented in the 2007 Thorat Committee report on AIIMS, where Dalit students faced “avoidance, non-cooperation and discouragement” from faculty and peers simply vanishes. The actual power relations on campus, where faculty and administration remain overwhelmingly upper-caste, where informal networks quietly reproduce privilege all of it erased from the frame.

And its Guru’s hegemonic denial too. The universal “anyone” neutralizes the particular. The scene refuses to see.

The Myth That Won’t Die

Then there’s the false complaint narrative. It came up everywhere. Petitioners told the Supreme Court that without a provision penalizing malicious complaints, grievance mechanisms would become weapons. One counsel painted a vivid hypothetical: imagine a fresher who resists ragging from a Scheduled Caste senior. The senior files a false caste discrimination complaint. The fresher, without anticipatory bail under the SC/ST Act, could be imprisoned, his career ending on his “first day, first month and first year.”

As a Feminism in India analysis pointed out, this script is borrowed straight from Men’s Rights Activists. When women get legal protection, men declare the laws will be misused for petty revenge. When Dalits get protection, savarnas shout exactly the same thing. These narratives do something specific: they drag remedial measures from the societal and historical to the personal. They diminish systemic violence by obsessing over hypothetical misuse.

Now, to be clear: no legal mechanism is immune to misuse. But the exclusive focus on this possibility, without a whisper of concern for the actual violence Dalit students face daily, reveals what the narrative is really doing. It positions the upper-caste subject as the true victim, the one most at risk from a system supposedly designed to protect the vulnerable. This is Gramsci’s “common sense” at work. The dominant group’s experience gets naturalized as universal. The subordinate group’s experience becomes questionable, particular and obscene.

The Battle over Naming

The fiercest fight was over words. Clause 3(c) defined caste-based discrimination specifically as discrimination against SC/ST/OBC communities. Petitioners called this “completely exclusive.” It created, they argued, a “hierarchy of protection.” They pointed to Clause 3(e), a broader provision prohibiting discrimination on grounds of “religion, race, caste, gender, place of birth, disability, or any of them.” Why have both? Why was 3(c) necessary if 3(e) already existed?

The answer cuts to the heart of the matter. Clause 3(e) gives you formal equality, discrimination is wrong, period, and whosoever does it to whomever. Clause 3(c) recognizes substantive equality, the understanding that caste violence in India has direction. It flows historically and structurally from dominant castes to oppressed castes. As the Supreme Court observed in the Sukanya Shantha case, the Constitution itself is “the greatest testament against historical injustices done against the marginalised castes.” Substantive equality requires that “the law must endeavour to correct historical injustices.”

To refuse this naming, to insist on a “neutral” definition that ignores historical directionality is to push the actual structure of caste violence into the obscene. It is to demand that the scene remain blind to what it doesn’t want to see. The petitioners’ call for an “inclusionary” definition is, from this perspective, a demand for comfort. A demand that the scene not be forced to confront the asymmetrical reality it obscures.

III. The Supreme Court: Definitional Politics on the Scene

The Supreme Court’s interim stay of the regulations on January 29, 2026, did more than halt a policy. It laid bare what’s really at stake in this battle over the scene and the obscene. The Court’s questions, its concerns, even its well-intentioned interventions, all of them reveal how difficult it is for institutions to see what they’ve trained themselves not to see.

What Troubled the Court

The bench, led by Chief Justice Surya Kant, was genuinely worried. They weren’t wrong to be, regulations with “very sweeping consequences” deserve scrutiny. After 75 years of trying to build a caste-less society, the Chief Justice observed, policy that appeared “regressive” and might “divide society” gave him pause. You can hear the sincere concern in his words: after all this time, after everything we’ve tried, are we moving backwards?

Justice Bagchi focused on Clause 3 (c). Wasn’t it redundant alongside Clause 3(e)? Shouldn’t we measure these definitions against the constitutional vision of Article 15, the promise that the state shall not discriminate against any citizen? There was also worry about ragging, which one counsel described as the most common form of discrimination on campus. Why didn’t the regulations address that?

Then came the question that revealed everything. The Chief Justice asked whether the regulations covered caste-based discrimination “by reserved categories that are better situated than other reserved groups.” When counsel confirmed there was no such protection, the Chief pressed further: “Has anybody examined this aspect?”

Why the Scene Can’t See

From where we’re sitting, with Teltumbde and Guru as our guides, this question is illuminating. Not because it’s wrong to ask, in the abstract, it’s perfectly reasonable. But because of what it reveals about how the scene sees the world?

The question assumes symmetry. It imagines a level playing field where power flows in multiple directions, where a student from a “better situated” reserved category might discriminate against someone from a “lesser situated” one. And yes, theoretically, this could happen. Caste is complicated. Graded inequality means there are hierarchies among oppressed castes too, some OBCs are better positioned than some SCs, some SCs than some STs.

But here’s the thing about forests and trees. To focus on this internal hierarchy while ignoring the fundamental asymmetry between oppressed castes as a whole and the dominant castes that have historically controlled every institution—that’s not nuance. That’s blindness. The question “what about discrimination by reserved categories” sounds sophisticated. It sounds like careful, balanced thinking. But its function is to distract, to make the scene appear complex while actually preserving its refusal to see the main structure of violence.

The Court’s concern about “dividing society” works similarly. It assumes a unity that the regulations would disrupt. But as the Feminism in India analysis put it, “Their remark that the regulations might ‘divide society’ are a stark reminder of how those in privilege view the world around them. The fractures already exist, they have been put in place to sustain those at the top of the food chain.” The regulations didn’t create division. They simply named it. And naming division, for those who benefit from not seeing it, always feels like violence.

Jaising’s Attempt

Senior Advocate Indira Jaising tried to bridge this gap. Appearing for the petitioners in the original Vemula-Tadvi case, the case that had made these regulations necessary in the first place, she argued that the Court couldn’t consider this matter in isolation. There were directions in the Abeda Salim Tadvi proceedings that had to be honoured. The regulations, she insisted, existed “to create an inclusive society.” She tried to show how Clause 3(c) and Clause 3(e) worked together, not against each other. But opposing counsel kept interrupting. The connections she tried to draw kept getting lost.

Jaising reminded the Bench that the 2012 Regulations had been repealed. If the Court stayed the new ones, there would be nothing. A vacuum. The Court heard her and used its powers under Article 142 to direct that the 2012 Regulations continue in force until further orders. A practical solution, perhaps. But also a telling one: better the old framework, however inadequate, than the new one that actually named names.

The Warning

The Chief Justice ended with a warning to the petitioners: don’t turn this “into a political issue.” The instruction itself is revealing. It positions the Court as a neutral arbiter standing above politics, while the petitioners’ mobilization, their insistence that caste violence is real and must be addressed is framed as potentially illegitimate, as dragging law into the muck of politics.

But here’s what this framing misses: the Court’s own observations were deeply political. The question about reverse discrimination. The concern for the general category. The worry about dividing society. These aren’t neutral positions. They’re the scene’s attempt to manage the boundary between what can be seen and what must remain invisible, what can be spoken and what must stay unspeakable. They’re the scene’s way of preserving existing power relations while sincerely believing it’s just being reasonable.

The scene doesn’t see itself as political. That’s its power. It experiences its own perspective as simply how any reasonable person would see things. The obscene, by contrast, is always marked, always particular, always suspect. The Court’s warning not to make it political is, from this perspective, the most political gesture of all. It’s the scene telling the obscene: stay in your place. Let us decide what counts as real.

IV. The Campus: Violence and Its Representation

The confrontation at Delhi University on February 13, 2026 and its aftermath, brought something into sharp focus that the legal arguments had kept at a distance. The campus became a stage where the obscene, the violence that usually stays in the shadows, whispered about in hostels, experienced in everyday humiliations erupted into plain sight. And then, just as quickly, the scene moved to push it back into invisibility.

What Happened at Arts Faculty

The day started as a demonstration in support of the UGC regulations, organized by the All India Forum for Equity and backed by AISA, the left-wing students’ association. But by the time it ended, the Arts Faculty had become a battleground. Members of the ABVP, the RSS-affiliated student organization, were there too. The two sides faced off, and things turned ugly.

A YouTuber who identifies as a Brahmin journalist came forward with a harrowing account. She claimed she was assaulted and subjected to rape threats by what she described as “a mob of nearly 500 people.” According to her, the crowd turned on her after asking about her caste. She recounted: “The girls around me whispered rape threats in my ears just because I am a Brahmin; ‘aaj tu chal, tera nanga parade niklega,’ is what they said.”

But that’s not the only version of events. AISA activists and another journalist on the scene offered a different picture. They said the woman had made casteist remarks, had shoved another woman to the ground, had provoked the crowd. The Delhi Police, as they often do in such situations, registered cross-FIRs at the Maurice Nagar police station. Both sides got to file complaints. Both sides got to be victims. Sections related to molestation, assault and criminal intimidation were invoked. The official record would show that something happened, but not what, or why, or who bore responsibility.

When the Obscene Surfaces

This is exactly the kind of moment Teltumbde writes about in The Persistence of Caste. In his analysis of the Khairlanji massacre, he argues that violence against Dalits in contemporary India isn’t some leftover from a premodern past. It’s a modern phenomenon, the obscene erupting into visibility when the established order faces a genuine challenge.

Think about what happened at the Arts Faculty. The rape threats, whether whispered or shouted. The casteist remarks, whoever initiated them. The physical confrontation. None of this looks like the old spectacles of sovereign power, where kings or landlords publicly punished those who transgressed. This is different. This is clandestine, community-sanctioned violence, emerging in the chaos of a protest, later revealed through competing media narratives and activist accounts. It’s an attempt to violently reassert a crumbling local hegemony to remind certain people of their place.

Teltumbde puts it plainly: “The violence against Dalits is not a relic of the past but a contemporary phenomenon, rooted in the challenge that Dalit assertion poses to the social order. When Dalits refuse to accept their subordinate position—when they own land, seek education, assert their rights—the dominant castes respond with violence to restore the ‘common sense’ of hierarchy.”

This is what the UGC regulations represented: a challenge to the campus’s caste order. And the violence at Arts Faculty regardless of which account you believe, regardless of who struck first was the obscene striking back. It was an attempt to restore common sense, to remind everyone that some things don’t change.

The Ban

Four days later, on February 17, Delhi University imposed a month-long ban on all public meetings, processions and demonstrations. The official reason cited “information received indicating that unrestricted public gatherings… may lead to obstruction of traffic, threats to human life, and disturbance of public peace.” The order prohibited assemblies of five or more people, the shouting of slogans and the carrying of hazardous materials.

The vice-chancellor made a public appeal. He urged teachers and students to “maintain trust in the judicial process.” He emphasised that “social harmony is the greatest thing.”

On the surface, this is reasonable. After violence, a cooling-off period. After confrontation, a return to order. The university administration performs its proper role: neutral arbiter, guardian of peace, defender of harmony.

But as Mithuraj Dhusiya, an associate professor at Hansraj College, pointed out, the ban may be using “traffic concerns as a pretext to curb mobilisations over issues such as appointments… and the recent suspensions of teachers.” In other words, the official scene of administrative order becomes a mechanism for silencing the obscene eruption into visibility. Don’t protest. Don’t gather. Don’t shout. Trust the process. Have faith in the institutions.

The Double Stage

What the campus revealed in these weeks was its nature as a double stage. On the visible scene, everything is proper. The university issues statements. The police file cross-complaints. The vice-chancellor appeals for harmony. The ban is justified by traffic concerns and public safety. The official discourse is one of neutrality, balance, procedural correctness.

But beneath this scene, operating in the shadows, is the obscene of caste violence and its contestation. The whispered rape threats. The casteist remarks shouted in the heat of confrontation. The student organizations mobilizing along caste lines. The informal networks through which ABVP coordinates its response. The everyday humiliations that never make it into police reports. All of this operates off-stage, invisible to the official record, yet determining everything that happens on it.

The university, like the state more broadly, manages the boundary between scene and obscene. It decides what becomes visible and what remains hidden. It frames some things as political and therefore suspect, other things as administrative and therefore neutral. It preserves existing power relations while sincerely believing it’s just keeping the peace.

The obscene erupted at Arts Faculty on February 13. For a moment, it was visible. Then the scene moved quickly to push it back into invisibility. The ban. The appeal for harmony. The trust in the judicial process. All the familiar mechanisms for managing the boundary, for ensuring that what must not be seen stays unseen.

V. The State: Schizophrenia Institutionalized

The ruling BJP’s response to the controversy reveals something deeper than political calculation, though calculation is certainly part of it. What we see is the Indian state caught in a contradiction it cannot resolve, speaking out of both sides of its mouth because it is itself split down the middle. Anand Teltumbde has spent years analysing this condition, and his framework helps us understand what’s really going on.

The State’s Caste Character

In Republic of Caste: Thinking Equality in the Time of Neoliberal Hindutva (2018), Teltumbde makes an argument that should be obvious but somehow still needs saying. The Indian state is not some neutral arbiter floating above society, untouched by caste. It is itself constituted by caste relations. Its institutions, its personnel, its everyday practices all are shaped by the caste order. This is why the state can simultaneously enact progressive laws and fail to implement them. This is why it can speak the language of equality while quietly reproducing hierarchy.

The UGC controversy is a perfect illustration. Through the University Grants Commission, the state produced genuinely progressive regulations aimed at protecting Dalit, Tribal, and OBC students from the violence they face on campus. This was the state acting in its constitutional identity, the identity that promises substantive equality, that acknowledges historical injustice, that tries to make things right.

But then the Supreme Court stayed those regulations and the political leadership welcomed the stay. The same state that created the protections now celebrated their suspension. Two voices, coming from the same body. This is not hypocrisy in the simple sense. This is a deeper split—between what the state formally commits to and what it actually is.

The Forward-Backward Dilemma

The Indian Express captured this dilemma well in its reporting. The BJP, over the last decade, has worked hard to expand its base beyond the upper castes that traditionally supported it. Since the 1990s, upper-caste communities in northern, western and central India have preferred the BJP, while OBCs, SCs, and STs tended toward Congress or regional parties. But under Narendra Modi, the party has made serious inroads into these communities, through higher representation in candidate lists and ministerial positions, through appointing Dalits and Tribals to top constitutional posts like President and Vice-President, through linking Hindutva issues to caste optics.

As Seshadri Chari, former editor of the RSS-linked magazine The Organiser, put it: “The BJP’s Ram Temple, Article 370 and other issues were basically an expression of cultural nationalism… However, the Opposition continued to come out with strategies to counter it. The Congress has recently decided to counter the BJP’s Hindutva cultural nationalism by playing on the caste fault line. The BJP has answered this by putting its core agendas within a caste framework.”

This is the context in which the UGC regulations landed. They put the government in a genuine quandary. An ABVP insider noted that even some pro-Hindutva influencers—like author Anand Ranganathan—have been critical of the BJP on this count. “The Congress’s criticism does not matter that much,” the insider said, “but such voices are taken seriously by common middle-class supporters of the BJP and the Sangh.”

The dilemma is real. If the government supports the regulations, it risks alienating the upper-caste base that still forms the core of its support. If it opposes them, it undermines its carefully cultivated image as a party that cares about OBC and Dalit interests. There is no clean solution, only management of the contradiction.

Two Voices, One State

Watch how the state speaks in this controversy. Union Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan offered what was described as a “blanket assurance”, the regulations would not be misused, and no one would face harassment. This is the constitutional voice, affirming protection, promising fairness, addressing the scene.

But simultaneously, the government welcomed the Supreme Court stay that suspended the regulations. The ABVP national organizing secretary, Ashish Chauhan, explained that the organization had welcomed the stay because “some words were unclear,” adding that “the groups to be protected need protection” while “other groups should not fear any misuse.”

This is the political voice, addressing the obscene. It acknowledges the anxieties simmering among the upper-caste base. It reassures them that their fears are heard. It frames the stay not as a defeat for equality but as a clarification, a fine-tuning, a protection against misuse.

Two voices, speaking from the same state, to different audiences, about the same regulations. They cannot be reconciled because the state itself cannot be reconciled, split between its constitutional identity and its actual embeddedness in caste society. This is what Teltumbde means when he says the state is not above caste but constituted by it. It cannot simply decide to be neutral. It speaks out of both sides of its mouth because it has two mouths.

The Ambedkar Parallel

Outlook India drew a parallel that’s worth sitting with. When B.R. Ambedkar proposed the Hindu Code Bill in parliament, he faced “aggressive resistance” that reflected, in the magazine’s words, “an attempt to preserve a conservative social order rather than uphold constitutional values.” When Jawaharlal Nehru eventually withdrew the bill, the mouthpiece of the Arya Mahila Hitkarini Mahaparishad celebrated it as the “victory of divine forces over demonic forces.”

Then as now, reforms aimed at addressing structural inequality were framed as attacks on tradition. Then as now, they were called divisive, threatening to social harmony. Then as now, the state retreated in the face of upper-caste mobilization.

The parallel is instructive because it shows how little has changed. The specific issues are different—the Hindu Code Bill addressed women’s rights within family law, the UGC regulations address caste discrimination in higher education. But the underlying dynamic is the same. The constitutional promise of equality collides with the social reality of hierarchy. And when that collision happens, the state, constituted as it is by that hierarchy finds ways to manage the collision without resolving it.

Nehru withdrew the bill. The Supreme Court stayed the regulations. Different times, different institutions, same outcome. The state speaks its two voices, and the obscene continues its work, mostly unseen.

VI. Dalit Counter-Mobilisation: Forcing the Obscene into Visibility

Against all of this, the Court’s blindness, the state’s split voice, the violence on campus, the ban on protest, Dalit students, activists and their allies keep organising. They keep forcing the obscene into visibility. This is not just activism. It is, in Guru’s terms, theorizing from below. In Teltumbde’s, it is counter-hegemonic assertion.

Guru: Knowledge from the Obscene

In The Cracked Mirror, Guru makes a claim that cuts deep. Dalit experience is not raw material waiting to be processed by upper-caste theorists into proper knowledge. It is itself a site of knowledge production. The people who have been pushed into the obscene see things that the people on the scene cannot. Not because they’re smarter, but because of where they stand.

“The experience of humiliation is not just an object of analysis but a source of critical insight,” Guru writes. “Those who have been pushed into the obscene have a perspective on the scene that those who occupy it cannot access. Theorizing from the obscene is not a supplement to mainstream theory but a challenge to its very foundations.”

Think about what this means. The mothers’ petition. The Dalit student protests. The work of scholars like Anil Chamadia. These are not just people demanding things. They are producing knowledge. They are refusing to let Dalit experience be dismissed as anecdotal, as merely personal, as insufficiently theoretical. They are insisting that the scene confront what it has worked so hard to exclude.

The Mothers who wouldn’t disappear

The UGC regulations exist because of this struggle. They exist because Radhika Vemula and Abeda Tadvi, mothers of Rohith Vemula and Payal Tadvi, filed a joint petition in the Supreme Court. They didn’t have to do that. They could have grieved privately, quietly, the way the scene prefers. Instead, they dragged the reality of campus discrimination into the national eyes cape.

Their lawyers submitted a number: 115 students took their own lives between 2004 and 2024. Many of them Dalit. The UGC itself filed an affidavit in October 2023 admitting that caste discrimination against Dalit students was not some “unfounded presumption” but an actual, documented reality.

The mothers’ petition made visible what the obscene had rendered invisible. The suicides. The daily humiliations. The institutional failures that everyone knew about but no one named. The regulations were the state’s response, inadequate, contested, and now stayed, but a response nonetheless. Forced visibility produces results, even if those results are then rolled back.

Refusing to Disappear Again

The Supreme Court stayed the regulations. DU banned protests. The scene did what it always does: tried to push the obscene back into invisibility. But organizations like AISA keep mobilizing. Students keep protesting. They refuse to let the obscene return to comfortable darkness.

Feminism in India put it plainly: “The decision to halt the regulations is just another attempt at denying basic dignity to Dalits and keeping the caste system in place.” The counter-protests are an answer to this. They say: we saw what you tried to hide. We’re not going to un-see it just because you’re uncomfortable.

Teltumbde: Why Mobilisation Matters

Teltumbde, writing about the protests after the Khairlanji massacre, captures what’s at stake in this kind of mobilization. He says the protests weren’t really about getting justice for one family, though that mattered too. They were about something bigger: forcing the state and society to confront the reality of caste violence that the official scene works so hard to deny. They were an attempt to shatter the hegemony of denial, to make the obscene visible.

The same is true here. The mobilizations around the UGC regulations are not just about supporting a particular policy. They’re about the fundamental question of whether caste will be permitted to continue its hidden work, or whether it will be forced into visibility and thereby into contestation.

What the Numbers Mean

Anil Chamadia pointed to something striking: reported discrimination cases went up by 118.4%. The scene might look at this and see a problem, too many complaints, too much disruption. But Chamadia sees it differently. The increase, he says, is “directly linked to growing awareness among marginalised students.”

When Dalit students enter universities in larger numbers. When they refuse to accept humiliation silently. When they organise and protest and demand accountability. The obscene gets forced into visibility. The numbers go up. And then the backlash comes, the violence, the protests bans, and the Supreme Court stays. This is the dynamic Teltumbde describes. Dalit assertion provokes upper-caste violence, which provokes further Dalit mobilization. The boundary between scene and obscene becomes a site of continuous struggle.

The Intellectual Work

None of this happens in a vacuum. The “growing awareness” Chamadia talks about is produced, in part, by the intellectual work of scholars like Guru and Teltumbde themselves. They have given language to experiences that were previously suffered in silence. They have provided theoretical frameworks, like the scene/obscene dialectic that help people understand their situation and act upon it.

This is what Guru means by theorising from the obscene. Not just describing oppression. Producing the conceptual tools for overcoming it. Dalit students now have a vocabulary for naming what they experience. They have legal categories, “caste discrimination,” “hostile environment,” “institutional failure” that were forged through decades of struggle. They have frameworks that help them see that their individual humiliation is not just personal bad luck but structural violence.

The UGC controversy is, in part, a testament to the success of this intellectual project. The backlash is real, the violence is real, the stay is real. But so is the visibility. So is the mobilisation. So is the refusal to disappear.

The obscene keeps erupting. The scene keeps trying to push it back. That struggle—unequal, ongoing, with no guaranteed outcome—is where we are.

VII. Theoretical Synthesis: The Controversy as Exemplar of Caste’s Schizophrenic Modernity

The UGC controversy illustrates every dimension of our theoretical framework, now enriched by the insights of Teltumbde and Guru:

The controversy reveals that caste’s modernity is not defined by its disappearance but by its strategic disaggregation. Power flows by maintaining the split between a disavowing public scene and a vibrant private obscene. The UGC regulations attempted to extend the scene’s reach into the obscene, to make the state’s power felt in the intimate spaces where caste actually lives. The backlash was the obscene defending itself, refusing to be illuminated.

The Supreme Court’s intervention, staying the regulations, questioning their definitional logic suspended the outcome. But the dialectic continues. Every protest, every counter-protest, every legal argument, every editorial, is a skirmish on the boundary between scene and obscene. And as our framework teaches us, that boundary is where power does its most important work.

Conclusion: The Dialectic’s Latest Act

The UGC controversy is not an isolated policy dispute. It never was. It is the latest act in the long drama of caste’s schizophrenic modernity—the permanent, unresolved tension between a constitutional scene that promises equality and a social obscene that quietly, persistently reproduces hierarchy.

The regulations did not emerge from nowhere. They came from a specific genealogy of struggle. The mothers of Rohith Vemula and Payal Tadvi, who could have grieved in private and instead filed a joint petition in the Supreme Court. The 115 student suicides between 2004 and 2024, many of them Dalit, each one a story the scene preferred not to see. The 118 percent increase in reported discrimination, which the scene reads as disruption but which really measures growing awareness, growing refusal to suffer in silence. The regulations were an attempt to create mechanisms that would penetrate the obscene, that would make visible what the scene had rendered invisible. They were an attempt—flawed, contested, but genuine—to fulfil the constitutional promise of substantive equality.

The backlash revealed the power of the obscene. It was not organized in any formal sense, not announced in advance, not easy to document. That is precisely its strength. Upper-caste students mobilized through informal networks, through what Teltumbde calls “social capital”, the connections that operate off-stage, invisible to the official record. They framed themselves as victims, as the truly vulnerable ones. And they succeeded. They convinced the Supreme Court that regulations designed to protect Dalit students actually threatened “social harmony.” The narrative of false complaints, of reverse discrimination, of the general category as the real victim—this is the hegemony of denial operating at full capacity. This is what Teltumbde means by “camouflaged” caste, what Guru analyses as the scene’s epistemic violence. It does not need to defend hierarchy openly. It only needs to make hierarchy invisible, to make the structures that produce vulnerability disappear, to make the vulnerable look like the powerful.

The state, caught between its constitutional obligations and its political base, did what it always does in such moments. It spoke with two voices. One voice assured the constitutional audience that protections would remain, that no one would be harassed. The other voice, quieter but more decisive, welcomed the judicial stay that rescued the government from its dilemma. Two voices, same state. The schizophrenia is not a bug; it is the feature.

The campus revealed itself as a double stage. On the visible scene, the university administration performed neutrality, issuing statements, filing cross-FIRs, appealing for harmony, banning protests in the name of traffic. Beneath this scene, the obscene did its work: the confrontation at Arts Faculty, the whispered rape threats, the casteist remarks, the informal mobilization along caste lines. And when the obscene erupted into visibility on February 13, the scene moved quickly to push it back. The protest ban was not about traffic. It was about management. It was about re-establishing the boundary.

And throughout, Dalit students, activists, and intellectuals continued the work of forcing the obscene into visibility. They organized, protested, theorised and refused to let the moment pass. This is what Guru calls “theorizing from the obscene”, not supplementing mainstream theory but challenging its foundations. This is what Teltumbde analyses as counter-hegemonic assertion and not just demanding inclusion but shattering the terms of exclusion. It is the work of breaking the double stage.

The Supreme Court will hear the matter again in March 2026. Whatever it decides, the controversy has already revealed something fundamental about the architecture of caste power in contemporary India. It has shown that the boundary between “scene” and “obscene” is not natural. It is political. It is constantly contested, constantly renegotiated. It has shown that the struggle for caste equality is, at its heart, a struggle over visibility. Over what can be seen, what can be spoken, what can be named. Over who gets to define reality.

As long as the schism persists, as long as the official scene disavows what the social obscene reproduces, caste will endure in its schizophrenic modern form. It will adapt, mutate, camouflage itself. It will learn new languages, wear new clothes, inhabit new institutions. But its very adaptability is also its vulnerability. Each time it is forced into visibility, each time the obscene is dragged into the scene, the possibility of transformation opens. Each eruption is also an opportunity.

The project of annihilation, as Ambedkar envisioned it, requires nothing less than the demolition of the double stage. Not just reforming the scene. Not just documenting the obscene. But destroying the architecture that keeps them separate. The UGC controversy is one battle in that long war. Not the first, not the last. But a battle nonetheless.

Teltumbde writes that “caste’s genius lies in its plasticity.” He is right. But plasticity cuts both ways. What can adapt can also be broken. What can mutate can also be killed. Each moment of forced visibility is a wound. The question is whether enough wounds can be inflicted, enough times, in enough places, to bring the whole structure down?

Guru teaches us that this struggle must be waged not only on the streets and in the courts but in the realm of theory itself. Theorising from the obscene, centering Dalit experience, refusing the scene’s abstractions, insisting on the specificity of caste violence is not a supplement to political work. It is political work. It is the work of producing the conceptual tools that make visible what the scene works so hard to hide. This article has attempted to contribute to that project, using the tools of Foucault and Gramsci while remaining grounded in the intellectual traditions of Dalit Studies. The scene/obscene dialectic, enriched by Teltumbde’s analysis of camouflage and Guru’s insistence on theorizing from below, offers a framework for understanding not only this controversy but the broader condition of caste in contemporary India.

The double stage still stands. Its foundations hold, for now. But they are cracking. Every protest, every petition, every act of theorising from below is another crack. The question is not whether the structure will fall—all structures fall, eventually. The question is whether we will be the ones to bring it down, and what we will build in its place.

(The author teaches history at Shivaji College, University of Delhi. He can be reached at skandpriya@shivaji.du.ac.in)

References

Chamadia, Anil. Interview with University World News, 2026.

Feminism in India. “What The 2026 UGC Regulations Revealed About Caste, Merit and Savarna Victimhood.” February 9, 2026.

Guru, Gopal, and Sundar Sarukkai. The Cracked Mirror: An Indian Debate on Experience and Theory. Oxford University Press, 2012.

The Hindu. “As SC stays UGC equity rules, protection to marginalised castes came from a Constitutional promise to end ‘historical oppression’.” January 30, 2026.

Hindustan Times. “Protests, counter-FIRs, now a ban at DU: Campus on the boil over UGC rules against caste discrimination | Explained.” February 16, 2026.

India Today. “Travesty of UGC Campus Rules 2026: They turn a protective shield into a deadly sword.” January 29, 2026.

The Indian Express. “As UGC row simmers, why BJP dilemma over ‘forward vs backward’ has deepened.” February 18, 2026.

Outlook India. “The Socio-Cultural Debate Over the UGC’s Equity Regulations.” February 16, 2026.

Supreme Court Observer. “Supreme Court stays 2026 UGC equity regulations.” January 29, 2026.

Teltumbde, Anand. The Persistence of Caste: The Khairlanji Murders and India’s Hidden Apartheid. Zed Books, 2010.

Teltumbde, Anand. Dalits: Past, Present and Future. Routledge, 2016.

Teltumbde, Anand. Republic of Caste: Thinking Equality in the Time of Neoliberal Hindutva. Navayana, 2018.

Thorat Committee Report on AIIMS Discrimination, 2007.

University World News. “New rules aim to tackle campus-based caste discrimination.” January 20, 2026.

University Grants Commission (Promotion of Equity in Higher Education Institutions) Regulations, 2026. The Gazette of India.

Zee News. “Delhi University enforces 30-day curbs on protests after UGC unrest.” February 17, 2026.

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The post The Double Stage on Campus: Caste, crisis & UGC equity regulations (2026) controversy appeared first on SabrangIndia.

At first glance, the dispute appeared narrow. The petitioner objected to the proposed film title “Ghooskhor Pandat”, arguing that it equated a caste identity with corruption and thereby stereotyped and denigrated an identifiable community. The relief sought included restraint on the release and exhibition of the film and a direction to the certification authority to re-examine it.

However, before the matter could proceed into a contested adjudication, the producer unequivocally withdrew the impugned title and undertook before the Court that any future title would neither resemble nor evoke the earlier one. On that basis, the writ petition was formally disposed of.

Yet the constitutional significance of the case did not end there.

Justice Ujjal Bhuyan, concurring in the disposal, authored a separate opinion — not because a judicial determination on facts was required, but because the constitutional issues implicated were too important to leave unarticulated. In doing so, the Court seized the opportunity to restate foundational principles governing the limits of community vilification and the scope of free expression in a constitutional democracy that is now more than seventy-five years old.

The opinion is remarkable not for dramatic judicial intervention, but for its clarity of constitutional vision. It situates the controversy within the Preamble’s promise of fraternity, the fundamental duties under Article 51A, and the long line of precedents safeguarding freedom of expression. It addresses a contemporary reality where speech — whether delivered from political platforms, circulated as memes, expressed through satire, or embodied in cinema — can both challenge and wound.

Importantly, the Court did not allow the language of fraternity to become a tool for censorship. Nor did it allow the language of free speech to become a shield for collective denigration. Instead, it reaffirmed that constitutional democracy demands maturity: the maturity to tolerate critique, and the discipline to refrain from vilification.

What emerges from the judgment is not merely guidance on film titles. It is a reaffirmation of constitutional character — that India’s constitutional order protects dignity without suffocating dissent, and safeguards expression without permitting hate.

The restatement of principles in this case therefore assumes a resonance that extends well beyond cinema. It speaks to public discourse more broadly — to political rhetoric, social media expression, and artistic experimentation — reminding all actors, State and non-State alike, that constitutional freedoms and constitutional responsibilities are inseparable.

Detailed analysis of the judgment is below.

Fraternity: The republic’s moral spine

The judgment begins where the Constitution itself begins — with the Preamble.

Fraternity, assuring the dignity of the individual and the unity and integrity of the nation, is not decorative prose. It is, as the Court emphasized, part of the Constitution’s guiding philosophy. Article 51A(e) further imposes a fundamental duty on every citizen to promote harmony and the spirit of common brotherhood transcending religious, linguistic, regional, and sectional diversities.

“One of the solemn objectives of our Constitution which finds mention in the Preamble is to promote amongst all the citizens of India fraternity, assuring the dignity of the individual and the unity and integrity of the nation. This is the guiding philosophy of our Constitution. Article 51A reminds every citizen of India that it shall be their duty to abide by the Constitution and respect its ideals and institutions. More specifically, Article 51A(e) says that it shall be the duty of every citizen of India to promote harmony and the spirit of common brotherhood amongst all the people of India transcending religious, linguistic and regional or sectional diversities.” (Para 11)

Justice Bhuyan invoked Dr. B.R. Ambedkar’s constitutional vision, reminding that liberty, equality, and fraternity were conceived as an inseparable trinity. Fraternity, he noted, is essentially an attitude of respect and reverence toward fellow human beings.

“Dr. Ambedkar highlighted the concept of fraternity and bracketed it with liberty and equality. According to him, these three fundamental concepts together form the bedrock of democracy. It is essentially an attitude of respect and reverence towards fellow human beings. Thus, cultivating a sense of brotherhood and respecting fellow citizens irrespective of caste, religion or language is a constitutional dharma each one of us must follow.” (Para 12)

“Dr. Ambedkar’s introduction of the term ‘fraternity’ into the constitutional Preamble reflects his persistent efforts towards eradicating caste discrimination, his advocacy for unity and brotherhood which mirrors his commitment to inclusivity. Unlike the West, in India, fraternity is distinctly perceived as a vital instrument for realising equality and harmonizing the diverse segments of society. It serves as a conduit for transcending societal disparities and working towards collective well-being. Therefore, in the Indian constitutional context, fraternity assumes a dynamic and inclusive role, aligning with the broader goals of social justice, equality and upliftment.” (Para 13)

The Court drew doctrinal support from the Constitution Bench decision in in Re: Section 6A of the Citizenship Act, 1955, where fraternity was described as a collective bond meant to cultivate brotherhood across all segments of society — not confined to any one group.

From this foundation, the Court articulated a categorical constitutional position:

“It is therefore constitutionally impermissible for anybody, be it the State or non-state actors, through any medium, such as, speeches, memes, cartoons, visual arts etc. to vilify and denigrate any community. It will be violative of the Constitution to target any particular community on the basis of religion, language, caste or region by whosoever he or she may be. This is particularly true for public figures occupying high constitutional o4ce who have taken the solemn oath to uphold the Constitution.” (Para 14)

This was not framed as a matter of statutory interpretation, but as a constitutional command.

The Court underscored that targeting any community on the basis of religion, caste, language, or region violates the Constitution’s ethos. The warning was especially sharp for those holding high constitutional office. Public figures who have taken an oath to uphold the Constitution bear heightened responsibility; when they engage in divisive or denigrating speech, the breach is not merely rhetorical — it is constitutional.

Free Speech: The republic’s lifeblood

Yet the judgment does not tilt toward suppression. On the contrary, Justice Bhuyan turns with equal force to the constitutional guarantee under Article 19 (1) (a).

Freedom of speech and expression, the Court reiterated, is a foundational democratic right. It enables dissent, critique, satire, artistic creation, and social reform. It cannot be stifled merely because some groups find expression uncomfortable or offensive.

The Court methodically reaffirmed established precedent:

• In S. Rangarajan v. P. Jagjivan Ram, it was declared that freedom of expression cannot be suppressed due to threats of demonstration or violence. Yielding to such pressure would amount to surrendering the rule of law.
• In Shreya Singhal v. Union of India, liberty of thought and expression was described as a cardinal constitutional value.
• In Imran Pratapgadhi v. State of Gujarat, the Court cautioned that a mature Republic cannot be seen as so fragile that it feels threatened by artistic or poetic expression. (A detailed report on the judgment may be read here.)
• In Bobby Art International v. Om Pal Singh Hoon, the Court emphasised that depiction of social evil in art cannot be prohibited merely because it portrays disturbing realities.
• In Viacom 18 Media Pvt. Ltd. v. Union of India, it was reaffirmed that once a film is certified by the statutory authority, States cannot prohibit exhibition on speculative law-and-order grounds.

The doctrinal thread is clear: Expression must be judged from the standpoint of a reasonable, strong-minded, and prudent viewer, not hypersensitive individuals predisposed to perceive insult.

The Cinematograph Act entrusts certification to an expert body. Once certification is granted, courts must be slow to interfere. Restrictions must fall squarely within Article 19(2), justified by necessity — not public discomfort.

Justice Bhuyan cautioned that if creative freedom is stifled beyond permissible limits, the casualty is not merely artistic autonomy, but democratic vitality itself.

The constitutional equilibrium

What makes this judgment remarkable is not that it chooses one value over the other — but that it refuses to. It does not permit the language of fraternity to become a pretext for censorship. It does not allow the language of free speech to become a shield for communal vilification. Instead, it restores balance.

Fraternity demands that communities are not collectively degraded. Freedom demands that art, satire, and dissent are not smothered by intolerance. The Constitution, the Court reminds us, protects both.

Justice Bhuyan concluded by noting that though no adjudication was strictly required, it was necessary to restate these first principles “lest there remain any lingering misconception.” The message is unmistakable: constitutional democracy requires both mutual respect and intellectual courage.

A republic neither fragile nor permissive of hate

Seventy-five years into constitutional governance, India cannot be so brittle that it fears artistic expression. Nor can it be indifferent to attacks on community dignity.

This decision stands as a doctrinal reaffirmation that:

• Vilification of communities is constitutionally impermissible.
• Creative expression enjoys robust constitutional protection.
• Courts must guard against both communal denigration and populist censorship.
• Fraternity and freedom are not adversaries — they are co-equal pillars of the constitutional order.

In closing the controversy over a film title, the Supreme Court has opened a larger constitutional conversation — reminding that the Republic’s strength lies in its ability to protect dignity without suffocating dissent.

It is, in essence, a judgment about the character of constitutional democracy itself.

The complete judgment may be read here.

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The post A Republic Must Tolerate Art — But Not Denigration: Supreme Court reasserts fraternity as a constitutional boundary appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Rather than emerging organically from local and lived religious practice, it sought to recast a historically plural, socially embedded river into a singular sacred geography, flattening its layered cultural, ecological and political meanings into a uniform religious spectacle.

The analogy with the Kumbh Mela is particularly revealing. In North India, the Kumbh is anchored in centuries-old institutional frameworks involving akharas, monastic orders, ritual calendars and cosmological cycles that have evolved through long-standing social consent. Bharatapuzha, by contrast, has never functioned as a Pan-Hindu pilgrimage centre. It has no historical association with mass ritual bathing, no priestly networks that regulate sacred time, and no inherited mythological mandate that binds the river to cyclical purification rites. The invocation of “Magha” rituals, the language of sin, cleansing and rebirth, and the visual grammar of saffron spectacle are recent insertions, introduced through publicity materials, digital campaigns and political speeches rather than through inherited community practice. What is being staged is not continuity but construction.

The presence of constitutional authority at the inauguration was therefore not incidental. It conferred institutional legitimacy on an invented ritual format, transforming a curated spectacle into an authorised public act, much as Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s inauguration of the newly constructed Ram Mandir in Ayodhya did. In Kerala, where religious expression has historically coexisted with strong secular institutions, such gestures alter the delicate balance between faith and governance. State endorsement converts cultural experimentation into an assertion of civilisational authenticity. The river becomes not merely a site of gathering but a stage on which new claims to cultural ownership are rehearsed and normalised.

Attempts to anchor the Mahotsavam in history frequently invoke Mamankam, the medieval assembly held periodically near the Bharatapuzha. Yet this historical analogy collapses under scrutiny. Mamankam bore little resemblance to the religious spectacle being staged today. It was neither a Hindu religious congregation nor a ritualised conflict between faiths. It was a political assembly centred on sovereignty, territorial control and the public contestation of kingship. Held once every twelve years, Mamankam was the site where the Zamorin of Calicut asserted his authority even as it was violently challenged by the Valluvanad rulers through the Chaver warriors. These warriors, drawn from specific lineages, attempted ritualised assassinations of the Zamorin, transforming the assembly into a theatre of political resistance. The purpose was not spiritual sacrifice but the destabilisation of power.

Equally central to Mamankam was its plural social composition. Muslim traders, soldiers and administrators were integral to the Zamorin’s political and economic base. Calicut’s emergence as a maritime hub depended on sustained alliances with Arab merchants, and these relationships were embedded in the very structure of power that Mamankam symbolised. To retrospectively frame Mamankam as a Hindu cultural ritual is to erase these realities and impose a communal lens that did not exist in the historical moment. Mamankam was not organised around ritual bathing, mantra recitation or priestly hierarchies. Its rituals were inseparable from warfare, trade negotiations, artistic performances and displays of military prowess.

Thus, translating Mamankam into the idiom of the Kumbh Mela strips away its political and plural character, replacing it with a homogenised religious narrative that is easier to mobilise but historically indefensible.

What distinguishes the Maha Magha Mahotsavam from earlier cultural events in Kerala is the scale and sophistication of its digital mobilisation. Social media platforms have been used not merely to publicise the festival but to frame it as a corrective to an alleged cultural suppression of Hindus in the state. This rhetoric borrows heavily from the national Hindutva lexicon, where visibility is equated with revival and dissent is recast as hostility to faith. Online narratives repeatedly position Malappuram district as a site of cultural imbalance, invoking its Muslim-majority demography to suggest that Hindu traditions require assertive reclamation. This portrayal is not new. Malappuram has long been marked in political discourse as an exception within Kerala, often detached from its historical contributions to trade, education and anti-colonial resistance. By situating a major “Hindu” event at the district’s symbolic edge, the festival implicitly marks territory.

On the ground, this rhetoric has tangible consequences. Local accounts point to heightened communal sensitivity, with Muslim residents expressing discomfort at the language used in promotional material and commentary. Pluralism is not attacked directly; it is simply bypassed. The idea of a “Hindu awakening” advanced here does not celebrate Kerala’s syncretic traditions but seeks to replace them with a uniform cultural script. In doing so, it narrows the definition of belonging and reimagines public space as an arena of assertion rather than coexistence.

Beyond ideology, the Mahotsavam raises pressing questions about environmental stewardship and public safety. Bharatapuzha is among Kerala’s most endangered rivers, its flow depleted by dams, sand mining and encroachment. Large-scale gatherings on its banks inevitably place additional stress on an already fragile ecosystem. The controversy surrounding the proposed temporary bridge illustrates the tension between spectacle and regulation. The stop memo was issued on procedural and safety grounds, including the absence of clearances and concerns over construction in a sensitive river zone. Yet sections of social media discourse reframed this administrative action as a cultural or communal slight, despite no such intent or basis in official orders. This episode highlights a deeper challenge for Kerala: how routine governance decisions are increasingly vulnerable to politicisation when wrapped in the language of faith.

Further, stampedes at religious events have demonstrated how inadequate crowd management, infrastructural shortcuts and political pressure to maximise attendance can result in tragedy. Kerala’s administrative machinery has limited experience managing events of this scale, particularly in ecologically sensitive zones. There is also the question of precedent.

Once a river is reimagined as a ritual bathing site, pressure mounts to repeat and expand such events. Environmental damage then becomes cumulative, justified in the name of a tradition that did not previously exist.

Organisers describe the Maha Magha Mahotsavam not as a culmination but as a beginning, frequently invoking 2028 as the moment when the initiative will reach its full symbolic and participatory scale. This long-term vision underscores the political nature of the project. Cultural transformation is not achieved through singular events but through repetition and institutional backing that generate familiarity; familiarity hardens into memory, and memory eventually masquerades as antiquity. This is how invented traditions become heritage.

Kerala’s historical strength has been its resistance to such flattening. Its public culture has accommodated religious expression without allowing any single narrative to monopolise history or space. The remaking of Bharatapuzha challenges this equilibrium by privileging one interpretation of the past while marginalising others. What is at stake is not merely the character of a festival but the future grammar of Kerala’s public life. Whether history is engaged as a complex inheritance or reduced to a tool of mobilisation depends on how society responds now.

Supporters present the Mahotsavam as spiritual renewal and a gateway to religious tourism, promising economic visibility and regional development. These claims cannot be dismissed outright. Kerala has long benefited from cultural tourism, and pilgrimage economies can generate livelihoods. Yet spiritual tourism is never purely economic. It reorganises space, privileges certain narratives and fixes meaning in ways that are difficult to reverse. When rituals are newly assembled rather than inherited, tourism risks converting memory into spectacle and communities into bystanders to a story told about them rather than with them.

What is unfolding along the Bharatapuzha is not a disagreement over faith but a struggle over authority: who defines culture, how memory is institutionalised, and which identities are permitted to feel native in shared spaces.

The Maha Magha Mahotsavam marks a shift from lived tradition to curated symbolism, where culture becomes less an expression of social life and more a claim to power. In this transformation, history is not engaged as complexity but recruited as an instrument.

The costs are cumulative. Socially, curated spirituality narrows belonging and renders dissent suspect. Environmentally, rivers turned into ritual stages are subjected to pressures that sanctity cannot mitigate. Historically, selective storytelling flattens the past, replacing layered inheritance with simplified images designed for mobilisation. What is lost is not only accuracy but the ethical discipline of living with contradiction.

Kerala’s pluralism was never ornamental. It was forged through negotiation, overlap and unresolved differences. The remaking of Bharatapuzha tests whether that inheritance will endure or yield to a politics that prefers clarity over truth. Culture can evolve, and tourism can coexist with tradition, but only when history remains a conversation rather than a commodity, and public space remains a site of coexistence rather than conquest.

(The author is an Indian author, political analyst and columnist. His debut book, The Essential (2023), was launched by Dr. Shashi Tharoor and features a foreword by former External Affairs Minister Salman Khurshid. His research and commentary have appeared in IJPA, Global Policy Journal, South Asian Voices, ORF, The Unpopulist, SAGE, among others, and leading dailies.He posts on ‘X’ at @ens_socialis)

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Dhananjay, one of the complainants is a former president of the JNU Students’ Union (JNUSU) and the first Dalit student to be elected to the post in nearly two decades in 2024 has filed a detailed complaint with the National Commission for Scheduled Castes (NCSC) on the issue. The second complaint was filed by Suraj Kumar Baudh, founder of Mission Ambedkar, a forum working on spreading B R Ambedkar’s teachings.

This casteist statement by the Vice Chancellor of JNU—even otherwise a controversial person—has led to widespread protests by all students of this iconic university but especially Dalit Bahujan students. Slogans like “Ambedkarwaali Azaadi” have echoed all over the campus.

JNU की VC ने दलितों और Blacks के “victimhood” जैसे नीचे स्तर की बात की, साथ ही साथ UGC रेगुलेशन के ख़िलाफ़ माहौल बनाया।

“अंबेडकर वाली आज़ादी” के नारों के साथ अब पूरा कैंपस VC के इस्तीफ़े की माँग कर रहा है।

ऐसे VC के रहते कैसे कोई बहुजन छात्र विश्विद्यालय में सुरक्षित महसूस… pic.twitter.com/m1iCEwrRjw

— Priyanka Bharti (@priyanka2bharti) February 23, 2026

Thousands marching in JNU chanting Ambedkar’s name against a VC who dismisses lived caste oppression as “Drug addiction”
This is not leadership — this is Manu-smriti in VC robes.
Remove her!
#Sack_Castiest_JNU_VC
pic.twitter.com/TTR7tcHoG4

— Ravi Ratan (@scribe_it) February 23, 2026

The current union of students, JNUSU has also protested the remarks.

In the detailed complaint, while seeking Pandit’s removal as the V-C in his complaint submitted to the NCSC chairperson on Tuesday, Dhananjay – a PhD scholar at JNU – accused the V-C of making statements that “prima facie promote feelings of hatred and ill-will against the people belonging to the Dalit and other marginalised communities,” and sought action under Section 3(1)(u) of the Scheduled Castes and the Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989.

Dhananjay has argued that the comments – coming from the head of a Central university – had created a “serious detrimental impact” on Dalit students and had “clearly given rise to feelings of hatred and ill-will against students belonging from Dalit and other marginalised communities”.

“The conduct of Santishree D Pandit, being a person holding a responsible academic office, is criminal and reprehensible,” the complaint said, adding that educational institutions “ought to be sanctuaries of inclusivity, enlightenment, and constitutional morality”. Instead, it alleged, her statements had “sown division and inflicted emotional distress upon students and members of the Dalit and marginalised community”.

The detailed complaint may be read here. Dhananjay, in his complaint has also pointed out to the deleterious impact of such statements by the V-C PAndit. The complaint states that, “there have been incidents of harassment on students belonging from the Dalit and marginalised communities. Furthermore, the general atmosphere against the students and people belonging from the Dalit and marginalised communities has become hostile.”

Dhananjay the former President of JNUSU in 2023-24 and a PHD scholar in Arts & Aesthetics has also argued in his complaint that, “the Courts of our country have repeatedly emphasised, that Public Authorities should exercise caution in their speeches and public statement. Needless to mention, Ms. Santishree D. Pandit, has failed to adhere to such directives of the Hon’ble Court. Moreover, as the Vice Chancellor of an university, it was the duty of Ms. Santishree D.Pandit, to ensure a safe and peaceful environment for the students of her university. However, by making the said statement, she has clearly failed to discharge the said duties. It bears mention, that as a result of her statement, students are apprehending threat to their safety and security and are living under an atmosphere of mental agony.”

Besides, the complaint states that the said statement also amounts to hate speech, as they humiliate, incite prejudice and social hostility against a historically marginalised community. The statement promotes feeling of enmity, hatred and ill-will on the basis of caste. Such speech insults the historical struggles faced by the said marginalised community, undermines social harmony and perpetuates systemic discrimination, which the Constitution of India and special legislations such as the SC/ST (Prevention of Atrocities) Act seek to eradicate.

Reliance was placed in Dhananjay’s complaint upon the judgement of the Supreme Court in the matter titled as Vishal Tiwari vs. Union of India & Ors. [W.P. (Crl.) No.466 of 2025]. Relevant portion of the said order is being given here under:-

“While we are not entertaining the present writ petition, we make it clear that any attempt to spread communal hatred or indulge in hate speech must be dealt with an iron hand. Hate speech cannot be tolerated as it leads to loss of dignity and self-worth of the targeted group members, contributes to disharmony amongst groups, 5 and erodes tolerance and open-mindedness, which is a must for a multi-cultural society committed to the idea of equality. Any attempt to cause alienation or humiliation of the targeted group is a criminal offence and must be dealt with accordingly.”

In conclusion the young student leader states that “the conduct of Ms.Santishree D. Pandit, being a person holding a responsible academic office, is criminal and reprehensible. Educational institutions ought to be sanctuaries of inclusivity, enlightenment, and constitutional morality. Instead, her statements have sown division and inflicted emotional distress upon students and members of the Dalit and marginalised communities. It also bears mention, that till date Vice Chancelor has not issued any statement of apology. This simply bolsters the fact, that the statement given by the Vice Chancellor was a well thought statement, which has been given to create discrimination and to promote feeling of hatred and ill will against the people belonging from Dalit and other marginalised community.”

The complaint invokes sections 196 and 197 of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, 2023, that are sections related to words and actions that promote feeling of enmity, hatred and ill-will on the basis of caste.”

It is under Article 338 of the Constitution that prescribes that it shall be the duty of the National Commission for Scheduled Castes to investigate and monitor all matters relating to the safeguards provided for the Scheduled Castes under this Constitution, or under any other law for the time being in force, or under any order of the Government, and to evaluate the working of such safeguards that the complaint has been filed.

Investigation and further action against the Vice Chancellor in accordance with the law and Constitution has been sought. The complaint also urges that “appropriate authorities to register a case under the relevant provisions of the Scheduled Castes and the Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989, including Section 3(1)(u) and recommend stern disciplinary and legal action, including the immediate removal of the said Vice Chancellor from her position, so as to uphold justice and deter such conduct in future.

The second complaint filed by Baudh also raised similar concerns, accusing Pandit of making “demeaning and dismissive” remarks. That complaint said Pandit’s statements suggested that efforts to address caste inequities were merely claims of “victimhood” rather than “legitimate claims for equality, dignity, and constitutional safeguards”.

Baudh has requested NCSC to “take cognizance of the matter and examine whether the remarks promote prejudice, incite hostility or constitute contempt or disrespect towards scheduled caste communities” and “issue a notice seeking detailed explanation from the V-C”.

Earlier, responding to the controversy earlier, Pandit had told PTI that her remarks had been taken out of context. “I am a Bahujan myself, I come from an OBC background,” she had said, adding that she was referring to what she described as “woke” interpretations of history and the creation of “imaginary worlds” around permanent victimhood.

On UGC’s equity regulations, which were stayed by the Supreme Court last month, Pandit had said during the podcast interview that they had been introduced without adequate consultation. “It was done secretly. Many of us who are part of the system didn’t even know what was in it,” she said, calling the regulations unnecessary and constitutionally flawed.

She had also defended the JNU administration’s decision to rusticate five student leaders for allegedly vandalising surveillance equipment at the Ambedkar Library. “They destroyed this property, literally broke it down, sat on top of it, took pictures and they themselves put it on social media as though they have done something great,” she said, adding that the students had been charged under what she described as a “very strong Act,” apparently referring to the Prevention of Damage to Public Property Act, 1984.

The administration, she had said, had shown restraint by debarring the students for two semesters and imposing a fine of Rs 20,000. “It is taxpayers’ money. I am answerable as a Vice-Chancellor to the government, to Parliament, and to the people of India,” she had added.

On Monday, JNUSU leaders were booked on charges, including rioting and criminal conspiracy, after the university filed a complaint with the police in connection to the student protests on Sunday night against Pandit.

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UGC Guidelines 2026: AISA Protest at Delhi University followed by sexual abuse allegations amid police presence

The post JNU: Former JNUSU President complains against Vice Chancellor’s casteist & racist remarks appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Between 1983 and 2012, over 3,03,000 Sri Lankan Tamils entered India in four distinct waves, as documented in the 2023 report After 40 Years, Sri Lankan Tamil Refugees in India Need Durable Solutions. Today, according to the Ministry of Home Affairs’ Annual Report (2023–24), more than 57,000 remain in refugee camps in Tamil Nadu and Odisha, while nearly 33,000 reside outside camps in Tamil Nadu.

These figures represent not a transient population but a settled community spanning generations. Many arrived as children in the 1980s. Many more were born in India. Among them are nearly 29,500 Indian-origin Tamils — descendants of plantation workers taken to Ceylon under British rule — whose citizenship questions were supposedly addressed under the 1964 Sirimavo-Shastri Pact. Yet decades later, many remain effectively stateless.

The humanitarian emergency of 1983 has become a structural condition of rightlessness.

From solidarity to suspicion

In the early years, Sri Lankan Tamil refugees were received with empathy in Tamil Nadu. Shared language, culture, and ethnicity fostered a sense of kinship. Refuge was extended not merely as policy but as solidarity.

That political climate shifted dramatically after the assassination of former Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi in 1991 by LTTE operatives. Public sentiment hardened. Administrative vigilance intensified.

Non-camp refugees were moved into camps. Surveillance mechanisms were strengthened. Identity checks became routine. Refugees report periodic inspections requiring them to be physically present in camps for verification. The implicit message is clear: their presence remains conditional.

Although the Tamil Nadu government provides monthly financial assistance, the support is subsistence-level. Refugees are permitted to work outside camps, yet their formal classification as “foreigners” bars them from property ownership, government employment, political participation, and long-term financial security. Many educated refugees are confined to informal or precarious labour.

The camps are not detention centres — but neither are they spaces of dignity. They are administrative enclosures sustained by indefinite temporariness.

Repatriation as a hollow promise

The end of Sri Lanka’s civil war in 2009 theoretically opened the door to voluntary repatriation. In practice, it has not functioned as a meaningful solution.

The 2023 refugee report notes that despite the Sri Lankan government forming a committee in 2022 to facilitate returns, only a negligible number of refugees had repatriated by early 2023. UNHCR data similarly reflect extremely low return rates.

The reasons are layered. Economic instability in Sri Lanka persists. Many refugees lost land, documentation, and livelihoods. War trauma remains unresolved. For second-generation refugees born in India, Sri Lanka is not a lived homeland but a distant inheritance.

Media interviews in The Hindu and other national outlets consistently indicate that an overwhelming majority prefer integration in India over repatriation. After forty years, return is no longer a practical aspiration for most. It is a formal option detached from social reality.

Legal Limbo: Protection without belonging

For decades, Sri Lankan Tamil refugees were technically classified as “illegal migrants” under India’s foreigner laws because they entered without valid passports or visas. This label carried the theoretical risk of detention or deportation.

The Immigration & Foreigners (Exemption) Order, 2025, issued under the Immigration and Foreigners Act, 2025, removed penal liability for registered Sri Lankan Tamils who entered on or before January 9, 2015. This administrative step eliminated criminal exposure and softened the “illegal migrant” stigma.

However, the Order did not recognize them as refugees. It did not confer residency rights. It did not open a pathway to citizenship. They remain legally classified as foreigners — without nationality, without passports, without full civil identity.

The relief is procedural, not transformative.

The CAA and the politics of exclusion

The 2019 Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA) fast-tracked Indian citizenship for persecuted non-Muslim minorities from Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Bangladesh. Sri Lankan Tamils were excluded from its scope.

This exclusion has drawn sustained criticism. The Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK), in an affidavit before the Supreme Court, argued that the CAA is discriminatory in limiting its protection to three countries and six religions while excluding Tamil refugees who fled ethnic persecution. Reporting by The Hindu has highlighted these constitutional objections.

The Union Government has defended the CAA as a narrowly tailored law addressing specific historical circumstances. Yet the omission of Sri Lankan Tamils raises uncomfortable questions. If the moral justification of the CAA is protection of persecuted minorities, why exclude those who fled one of the longest ethnic conflicts in South Asia?

The selective humanitarianism embedded in the CAA exposes a deeper inconsistency in India’s refugee governance.

Naturalization blocked in practice

In theory, the Citizenship Act, 1955 allows naturalization after eleven years of residence. In practice, Sri Lankan Tamil refugees have faced administrative barriers.

A 1986 Ministry of Home Affairs communication reportedly instructed state authorities not to process naturalization applications of Sri Lankan refugees who arrived after July 1983. Though rarely debated publicly, this directive has effectively frozen citizenship claims for decades.

Thus, while the statute appears neutral, policy implementation has been exclusionary. Refugees who have lived in India for thirty or forty years remain without a viable path to citizenship.

Judicial Interventions: Islands of relief

The Madras High Court has periodically disrupted this inertia. In February 2023, Justice G. R. Swaminathan delivered a notable judgment directing the issuance of passports to individuals born in India under Section 3 of the Citizenship Act, which grants citizenship by birth for those born between 1950 and 1987 irrespective of parental nationality.

In other case, in October 2022, the High Court bench of Justice G. R. Swaminathan recommended that principles underlying the CAA could logically extend to Sri Lankan Hindu Tamils, describing them as victims of racism.

These interventions offer relief to individual petitioners and expose bureaucratic rigidity. Yet they remain case-specific. They cannot substitute for systemic reform.

Security concerns and collective suspicion

Authorities often cite concerns about residual LTTE ideology among sections of the refugee population. Over the years, some arrests have been made in connection with alleged smuggling or revivalist activity.

Security considerations are legitimate. However, collective exclusion based on historic militancy is disproportionate. Democratic governance requires distinguishing between individual criminal conduct and community identity.

Other countries with large Sri Lankan Tamil diasporas — including Canada and the United Kingdom — have managed security screening while still granting citizenship. Security vetting and integration are not mutually exclusive.

To indefinitely withhold rights from an entire refugee population due to past insurgency risks converting precaution into discrimination.

The stateless generation

Perhaps the most compelling dimension of this crisis is generational. Thousands of Sri Lankan Tamils in Tamil Nadu were born in India. They studied in Indian schools, speak with local accents, and participate in local economies.

Yet they cannot vote. They cannot hold secure title to property. They cannot access the full range of civil and political rights guaranteed to citizens.

They are not transient outsiders. They are socially embedded but legally excluded. Their condition is neither classic refugeehood nor voluntary migration. It is structural statelessness.

Matua identity cards, CAA camps and the politics of assurance in Bengal

In Thakurnagar in North 24 Parganas — the spiritual headquarters of the Matua community — the year of 2025 witnessed scenes that resemble a political mobilisation drive as much as a religious gathering. Loudspeakers make repeated announcements, volunteers sit behind rows of wooden desks scrutinising Aadhaar cards and voter IDs, and long queues of men and women wait under plastic sheets clutching old refugee papers. What is being distributed is not merely a card, but a promise — or at least the suggestion — of protection.

Ground reports, including detailed coverage by The Wire, describe how camps run by factions of the All India Matua Mahasangha are issuing “Matua eligibility cards” and “Hindu identity cards.” Applicants pay ₹50 or ₹100, submit photographs and identification documents, and are told that possession of these cards will make it easier to apply under the Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA).

The camps are associated with leaders aligned with the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), including Union Minister of State for Ports, Shipping and Waterways Shantanu Thakur and his brother Subrata Thakur — descendants of the Matua founding family tracing back to reformer Harichand Thakur. As reported by The Wire, differently coloured cards (pink and yellow) are being issued by rival factions, each presented as proof of Matua and Hindu identity.

Legally, these cards are not citizenship documents. They do not confer nationality, voting rights, or statutory recognition under the Citizenship Act. Yet thousands are lining up to obtain them.

Electoral anxiety and the promise of protection

The surge in applications is unfolding against the backdrop of the Election Commission’s Special Intensive Revision (SIR) of electoral rolls in West Bengal. The revision exercise has triggered widespread anxiety among refugee-origin communities who lack older documentation or whose names were missing in previous electoral revisions.

In this climate of uncertainty, the BJP has framed the CAA as a shield. In December 2025, Union Home Minister Amit Shah, speaking in Kolkata, publicly assured the Matua community that individuals who have applied for citizenship under the CAA would retain their voting rights and need not fear disenfranchisement. Media reports quoted him as reiterating that refugees from religious persecution would be protected and treated as citizens.

These assurances carry considerable political weight. The Matuas — largely Namasudra Hindus who migrated from East Pakistan and Bangladesh — constitute one of Bengal’s most influential Scheduled Caste communities. Concentrated in districts such as Nadia and North 24 Parganas, they play a decisive role in dozens of assembly constituencies. The BJP’s gains in the 2019 Lok Sabha elections in Matua-dominated belts were widely attributed to its citizenship plank. However, subsequent state and panchayat elections indicated shifting loyalties, making continued consolidation electorally significant as fresh polls approach.

The visible intensity of the certificate drives — the public messaging, digitisation desks, and symbolic use of religious space — suggests that citizenship outreach is not occurring in a vacuum. It is unfolding in synchrony with electoral timing.

Symbolism, documentation and political strategy

For many Matua families, citizenship documentation has remained incomplete for decades. Some possess Aadhaar cards but lack legacy electoral roll entries. Others lost birth certificates long ago. The New Indian Express report highlighted cases such as that of Laturam Sikdar and Padma Sikdar in Nadia district, who reportedly received citizenship certificates after applying under the CAA framework following anxiety triggered by electoral roll revision announcements.

Such cases are cited by BJP leaders as proof that the CAA delivers security. At the same time, leaders of the Trinamool Congress (TMC) have questioned the legality of issuing religious certificates through private camps. As reported by The Wire, TMC MP Mamata Bala Thakur has argued that the Citizenship Act does not require any religious certificate issued by a socio-religious body and accused the BJP of collecting documents from vulnerable communities under misleading assurances.

The fees collected, the absence of statutory backing for the cards, and the overlap between religious identity and electoral messaging have intensified scrutiny. Yet for many in the queues, legal nuance is secondary. In an environment where documentation determines belonging, even unofficial paper can feel like insurance.

Selective urgency and the Sri Lankan Tamil contrast

The developments in Thakurnagar acquire deeper significance when viewed alongside another long-standing refugee question in India — that of Sri Lankan Tamils in Tamil Nadu.

For over four decades, Sri Lankan Tamil refugees — many of whom fled ethnic persecution during the civil war involving the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam — have lived in camps in Tamil Nadu. As discussed earlier, over 57,000 remain in camps and tens of thousands more reside outside camps. Despite decades of residence, generations born in India, and repeated appeals by Tamil Nadu’s political leadership, they remain without a clear pathway to citizenship.

Notably, the 2019 Citizenship Amendment Act excluded Sri Lankan Tamils from its fast-track naturalisation framework, even while extending protection to Hindu, Sikh, Buddhist, Jain, Parsi and Christian migrants from Bangladesh, Pakistan and Afghanistan. The contrast is stark: while Matua Hindus from Bangladesh are being publicly assured that citizenship applications will safeguard their voting rights, Sri Lankan Tamil refugees — who have lived in India for up to forty years — continue to exist in legal limbo.

In West Bengal, citizenship drives are visible, vocal, and politically foregrounded as elections approach. In Tamil Nadu, long-settled refugee communities await structural reform without comparable urgency from the Union government.

This divergence raises uncomfortable questions about selective prioritisation. When citizenship becomes electorally salient, administrative energy appears to intensify. When communities lack equivalent electoral leverage at the national level, reform stagnates.

Citizenship as electoral currency

The Matua certificate camps in Thakurnagar reveal how citizenship, documentation, religion, and electoral politics intersect in contemporary India. For the community, the card represents reassurance against bureaucratic erasure. For the ruling party at the Centre, it consolidates a key voter base before polls. For opposition parties, it exemplifies the politicisation of identity and documentation.

But when placed alongside the unresolved plight of Sri Lankan Tamil refugees in Tamil Nadu, the contrast exposes a broader pattern: citizenship policy is not merely a humanitarian instrument — it is also an electoral strategy.

In one state, camps distribute identity cards amid public assurances of voting rights.
In another, refugees of forty years remain without statutory belonging.

Between these two realities lies a central question: Is India’s citizenship policy guided by uniform principles of protection and integration — or by political calculus shaped by the electoral map?

As state elections draw closer in Bengal, the queues in Thakurnagar are not just about paperwork. They are about power, protection, and the politics of belonging — a politics that appears far more urgent in some regions than in others.

A question of constitutional integrity

After forty years, the issue is no longer about temporary asylum. It is about justice, equality, and constitutional coherence.

The Immigration & Foreigners (Exemption) Order, 2025 removed criminal liability but not exclusion. The CAA fast-tracks citizenship — selectively. Naturalization exists in theory but is obstructed in practice. Political resolutions by Tamil Nadu’s government, led by M. K. Stalin, remain subject to Union discretion.

Protection without integration becomes containment. Containment without timeline becomes neglect.

Sri Lankan Tamils in India are no longer merely refugees seeking safety. They are a community woven into the social fabric of Tamil Nadu, awaiting formal recognition of what has long been a lived reality.

Forty years is not temporary protection. It is a generation denied belonging.

Related:

MHA says data on CAA citizenship applicants not maintained, cites lack of record -keeping provisions to RTI

First set of citizenship certificates issued to over 300 under CAA: MHA

Kolkata man commits suicide, family claims CAA rules led him to it

CAA: An attempt to legitimise expansionist nationalism

CAA discriminatory against Tamil refugees from Sri Lanka: DMK

The post From Permanent Refuge to Perpetual Limbo: Why Sri Lankan Tamil refugees remain without citizenship even as electoral assurances reshape belonging in Bengal appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Uttarakhand has been, since 2022, the seat of such acts of vigilantism unchecked. Deepak did not allow his city to be overcome by the act of hate-filled bullies. He spoke up, intervened even at the risk of FIRs being filed against him and the membership of his gym (charmingly named The Hulk Zym) plummeting to 15 from 150. Eager peace loving netizens and citizens chipped in with support (including some Supreme Court lawyers), purchasing memberships so Kumar could offer free access to others. They all enrolled for the annual membership of Rs 10,000 cocking a snook at the hate-filled motivators in Kotdwar.

Now he is set to do more. Over the last weekend, the Kotdwar-based gym owner Deepak Kumar, or “Mohammad Deepak”, as he has come to be known, and his friend Vijay Rawat have announced that they will –very soon–jointly undertake an ‘Insaniyat Jodo Yatra‘ (Unite Humanity March) to spread the message of love and brotherhood against what they describe as rising hatred in the country.  “Instead of talking about important issues like development, education and unemployment, people are increasingly indulging in communal matters, which are destroying harmony and brotherhood in the country. During our yatra, we will travel across the country, meet people, and urge them to stay united and fight hatred,” Kumar told the media including The Times of India.

Deepak clarified that the yatra would have no political affiliation. “However, we will welcome anyone who wants to join us, irrespective of religion, caste, creed or political allegiance. It will be about coming together for the betterment of the country,” he added. Both Deepak and Rawat have also said that they had begun preparations and were inviting public suggestions. “We uploaded a video on social media on Friday and have received encouraging responses so far. We will soon finalise the route and funding details, and will most likely begin the yatra after the ongoing board exams and Ramadan,” Rawat said.

The duo also said they were aware of the risks involved. Rawat said they had earlier received threats from various organisations after supporting the shopkeeper but remained undeterred. “We were never afraid because we knew we had done nothing wrong. This initiative is for humanity and to promote brotherhood among all,” he said. Both he and his friend are facing charges under BNS sections 115(2) (voluntarily causing hurt), 351(2) (criminal intimidation), 352 (intentional insult likely to provoke breach of peace), and 191(1) (unlawful assembly), after Bajrang Dal member Kamal Pal filed a complaint alleging they assaulted members of the group during what he described as a public outreach event.

SabrangIndia, had on February 26, had reported how everyday defiance was –periodically at least–reshaping public discourse, hitherto driven by hate, in India. This may be read here.

Related:

Against the Script of Hate: How ordinary citizens are reclaiming public space

Mohammad Deepak: Upholding fraternity amidst a sea of hate

How defending a 70-year-old Muslim shopkeeper triggered FIRs, highway blockades, and a law-and-order crisis in Uttarakhand

The post Making Waves: After inspiring swathes of peacemakers all over India, ‘Mohammed’ Deepak and his friend will launch a nationwide ‘Insaniyat Jodo Yatra’ to fight hatred appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The paper has been published by the by the non-profit National Bureau of Economic Research based in Massachusetts. The authors of the paper – Sam Asher, Kritarth Jha, Anjali Adukia, Paul Novosad and Brandon Tan – have observed that while the data analysed in the study dates back to 2011-13, the “neighbourhood patterns described in the paper are likely to be persistent and have emerged over decades of migration and policy.”

According to the observations and findings in this paper, 26% of India’s Muslims live in neighbourhoods that are more than 80% Muslim, while 17% of SCs live in neighbourhoods that are more than 80% SC. Scheduled Caste segregation in cities is just as high as it is in rural areas, and it is even higher for Muslims, the data shows.

The paper also found that government services – like secondary schools, clinics and hospitals, electricity, water, and sewerage – were all “systematically worse” in marginalised neighbourhoods as compared to other localities in the same cities. The paper said that such differences in service access were “statistically significant and substantial”.

Besides, the study has found that children from such segregated neighbourhoods are likely to fare worse than those from non-marginalised localities. “A child growing up in a 100% Muslim neighbourhood can expect to obtain two fewer years of education than a child growing up in a 0% Muslim neighbourhood. Kids living in SC neighbourhoods face a penalty only slightly smaller. The neighbourhood effect explains about half of the urban educational disadvantage of SC and Muslim children,” the paper said.

Related:

Gujarat’s Disturbed Areas Act: Largest Muslim Ghetto Glaring Contrast to Hindu Settlement

The ‘Harijans’ of Bangladesh: Victims of constitutional neglect and social isolation

Gujarat Polls: Juhapura, The Largest Muslim Ghetto In Gujarat, Is A Picture Of Deliberate Neglect

The post SCs, Muslims both live in highly segregated neighbourhoods with poorer public services: International Study appeared first on SabrangIndia.

In an open communication to Mritunjay Kumar Narayan, Registrar General and Census Commissioner of India, New Delhi the collective has recorded its objections to “why the Census could not have been carried out by 2023, as was done in 143 other countries. The reasons for delaying the Census by six years instead of two to three years have not been made public. This lack of transparency gives rise to unnecessary apprehensions in the public mind that the Census is being conducted at this juncture to enable the completion of the exercise of delimitation of constituencies in 2027-28, in time for the 2029 Lok Sabha elections.” The collective has expressed the hope that no such extraneous considerations have influenced the timing of the 2027 Census.

Besides, the open communication has stated that “We sincerely expect that the Census exercise will be unexceptionable and in conformity with the United Nations guidelines laid down in the Principles and Recommendations for Population and Housing Censuses (Revision 4 March 2025), to which India is a signatory. We understand that the main reasons for the delay in the processing and release of the data of past Censuses were: (a) the need for coding of descriptive answers to several questions; and (b) the lack of sufficient expertise within the Census Commissioner’s office to check the quality of data. Providing mobile phones to code everything at field level, where the enumerator is required to select the correct option from a dropdown menu, does not allow for correction of errors in the recorded code. Past experience, especially in the 2001 and 2011 Censuses, has shown that mere technological advance in computing facilities does not necessarily speed up release of data. There is need to be open to the possibilities of errors, with effective measures being put in place to ensure data quality.”

“Dropping questions on data items that are not required cannot be collected or where alternate sources of data are available would help in streamlining the data collection process, reducing respondent fatigue and resulting in better quality data. For example, the questions on children born/surviving are better collected in the National Family Health Surveys.

“Other Backward Classes (OBC) have not been specifically classified in the Census. The methodology for caste enumeration is yet to be announced. While one option could be to compile a list of castes for people to select from (as was done in the Bihar caste survey), we feel the better option is to leave the field open in the Census form, as was done in the 2011 Socio Economic and Caste Census (SECC). The methodology of surveying and enumerating languages could be used for condensing the Census data. However, this would require the government to keep the data open for scrutiny by scholars and involve institutions like the Anthropological Survey of India. The process can begin with collecting information on the 1369 mother tongue languages listed in the 2011 Census. An institution like the ASI could then certify the caste based on markers of common language, ancestry, lifestyle, relatives, marriages and kinship bonds.

“Data on tribes were being collected in past Censuses only from the Scheduled Tribe (ST) population. If all tribes, other than those in the ST list, are classified and recorded, a long existing injustice to the Denotified Tribe communities, which account for more than 100 million people, would be rectified.

“The issue of religion is, and has been in the past, a sensitive area for the Census. At a time when political leaders openly express their opposition to the inclusion of so-called “Bangladeshi Muslims” in the electoral rolls, care must be taken to ensure that the Census fully records the population of various minority groups in the country, covering religion, caste and tribe.

“As former civil servants, many of us have been, during our careers, involved in the Census exercises at district, state and national levels. We are sure that you will exercise the highest level of professional competence in ensuring that the upcoming Census meets the threefold goals of accuracy, transparency and accessibility.

The entire letter may be read here:

CCG LETTER TO THE REGISTRAR GENERAL AND CENSUS COMMISSIONER OF INDIA

23 February 2026

To

Shri Mritunjay Kumar Narayan

Registrar General and Census Commissioner of India

New Delhi

Dear Shri Narayan,

We are members of the Constitutional Conduct Group, a collective of former civil servants belonging to the All-India Services and the Central Services. Our group, which has no political affiliation, is committed to the promotion of the foundational values of our Republic and the observance of norms of Constitutional conduct.

We wish to bring to your attention some aspects of the 2027 Census currently under way.  The Decennial Census exercise was carried out in independent India every ten years from 1951 to 2011. While we can understand that the Census could not be carried out in 2021 because of the COVID pandemic, we fail to comprehend why the Census could not have been carried out by 2023, as was done in 143 other countries. The reasons for delaying the Census by six years instead of two to three years have not been made public. This lack of transparency gives rise to unnecessary apprehensions in the public mind that the Census is being conducted at this juncture to enable the completion of the exercise of delimitation of constituencies in 2027-28, in time for the 2029 Lok Sabha elections. We would certainly hope that no such extraneous considerations have influenced the timing of the 2027 Census.

We sincerely expect that the Census exercise will be unexceptionable and in conformity with the United Nations guidelines laid down in the Principles and Recommendations for Population and Housing Censuses (Revision 4 March 2025), to which India is a signatory. We understand that the main reasons for the delay in the processing and release of the data of past Censuses were: (a) the need for coding of descriptive answers to several questions; and (b) the lack of sufficient expertise within the Census Commissioner’s office to check the quality of data. Providing mobile phones to code everything at field level, where the enumerator is required to select the correct option from a dropdown menu, does not allow for correction of errors in the recorded code. Past experience, especially in the 2001 and 2011 Censuses, has shown that mere technological advance in computing facilities does not necessarily speed up release of data. There is need to be open to the possibilities of errors, with effective measures being put in place to ensure data quality.

Dropping questions on data items that are not required cannot be collected or where alternate sources of data are available would help in streamlining the data collection process, reducing respondent fatigue and resulting in better quality data. For example, the questions on children born/surviving are better collected in the National Family Health Surveys.

Other Backward Classes (OBC) have not been specifically classified in the Census. The methodology for caste enumeration is yet to be announced. While one option could be to compile a list of castes for people to select from (as was done in the Bihar caste survey), we feel the better option is to leave the field open in the Census form, as was done in the 2011 Socio Economic and Caste Census (SECC). The methodology of surveying and enumerating languages could be used for condensing the Census data. However, this would require the government to keep the data open for scrutiny by scholars and involve institutions like the Anthropological Survey of India. The process can begin with collecting information on the 1369 mother tongue languages listed in the 2011 Census. An institution like the ASI could then certify the caste based on markers of common language, ancestry, lifestyle, relatives, marriages and kinship bonds.

Data on tribes were being collected in past Censuses only from the Scheduled Tribe (ST) population. If all tribes, other than those in the ST list, are classified and recorded, a long existing injustice to the Denotified Tribe communities, which account for more than 100 million people, would be rectified.

The issue of religion is, and has been in the past, a sensitive area for the Census. At a time when political leaders openly express their opposition to the inclusion of so-called “Bangladeshi Muslims” in the electoral rolls, care must be taken to ensure that the Census fully records the population of various minority groups in the country, covering religion, caste and tribe.

As former civil servants, many of us have been, during our careers, involved in the Census exercises at district, state and national levels. We are sure that you will exercise the highest level of professional competence in ensuring that the upcoming Census meets the threefold goals of accuracy, transparency and accessibility.

We wish the Census exercise all success.

SATYAMEVA JAYATE

Yours sincerely,

Constitutional Conduct Group (90 signatories, as at pages 3-6 below)

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Through a series of strategic legal interventions, CJP has challenged the normalisation of “state-sponsored demonisation” and the blatant misuse of administrative authority. By filing rigorous complaints with the Election Commission of India and State authorities, CJP has sought to remind those in power that welfare is a right, not a partisan incentive, and that the pulpit of a campaign rally is subject to the rule of law. Our 2025 interventions highlight a commitment to ensuring that the focus of Indian democracy remains on governance, equality, and the dignity of every citizen, regardless of their faith or political affiliation. This 2025 report details our key actions against hate offenders and the corruptive influence of communal propaganda in the democratic process.

1. Combating communal polarisation in the Delhi Assembly Elections, 2025

Complaint against Habitual Hate Offender Nazia Elahi Khan

On January 20, 2025, CJP filed a formal complaint with Delhi’s Chief Electoral Officer, R. Alice Vaz, against BJP leader and hate offender Nazia Elahi Khan for an inflammatory speech delivered in Rohini, Delih. The complaint detailed how she targeted the Muslim community with dehumanising stereotypes, falsely associating and targeting the community with inherent violence, terrorism, and “love jihad.” CJP argued that these baseless generalisations, including derogatory remarks about the Koran, were a calculated attempt to polarise voters along religious lines and disrupt communal harmony during the critical pre-election period.

The speech was flagged as a severe violation of the Model Code of Conduct (MCC) and the Representation of the People Act, 1951, specifically Sections 123(2), 123(3), and 123(3A), which prohibit using religious appeals to influence voters. CJP emphasised that such rhetoric shifts the focus from governance and policy to divisive identity politics, creating an atmosphere of fear and mistrust. By calling for a public censure and a ban on Khan’s future campaigning, CJP sought to protect the integrity of the democratic process and ensure that the Delhi elections remained focused on developmental issues rather than communal anxieties.

CJP seeks action against BJP Councillor for communal campaigning

Similarly, on January 10, 2025, CJP also filed a complaint with the Chief Electoral Officer of Delhi against BJP Councillor Ravinder Singh Negi for an inflammatory speech delivered during a January 6 election event in Patparganj. The complaint outlines that Negi utilised divisive communal narrative for electoral gain, referring to Muslims as “descendants of the Mughals” and asserting that only “Jai Shree Ram” would dominate India. CJP argued that these remarks were a deliberate attempt to communalise the election process, painting the Hindu community as victims in need of protection from an alleged Muslim threat.

The complaint highlights that Negi’s speech stigmatises Muslims by linking them to past rulers and spreads fear regarding population growth, specifically citing West Bengal. By invoking the Kashmiri Pandit exodus and events in Bangladesh, the speech exploited communal sentiments to stoke fear rather than addressing policy issues.

CJP emphasised that such language violates Sections 123(2), 123(3), and 123(3A) of the Representation of the People Act, 1951, which prohibit undue influence and religious appeals. Furthermore, CJP noted that this discourse aggravates communal tensions and breaches the Model Code of Conduct, challenging the democratic integrity of the Delhi elections.

2. Intervening in the Bihar Assembly Elections 2025: combatting “Hate, Fear, and Violence”

• Complaint against Ashok Kumar Yadav: ridicule and coercive loyalty

CJP on October 30, 2025, approached the CEO Bihar against hate speech in Darbhanga on October 16, 2025, where Madhubani MP Ashok Kumar Yadav addressed “Muslim brothers,” instructing them to say “tauba tauba” and renounce government benefits like free grain and gas cylinders. CJP’s complaint describes the speech as “mocking religious practice and publicly demanding a ritual renunciation of entitlements,” amounting to psychological coercion. By equating welfare use with political loyalty and faith with betrayal, Yadav’s speech redefined citizenship as conditional, fusing spiritual vocabulary with partisan mobilisation.

CJP argues that mocking religious language and demanding a ritual renunciation of state-built roads and bridges constitutes “undue influence.” This bombast moves from ridicule to coercion, framing welfare schemes not as rights but as favours to be repaid through political allegiance. Those who refuse are branded as “ungrateful,” turning a phrase of repentance into a performative punishment. The legal core remains clear: these are prima facie offences that weaken the constitutional promise of free and fair elections, where what begins as a jest ends as an exclusionary policy.

• Complaint against Giriraj Singh: public loyalty tests and humiliation

CJP on October 29, 2025, approached the CEO Bihar regarding Union Minister Giriraj Singh’s speeches in Arwal and Begusarai on October 18 and 19, 2025, transformed gratitude for welfare into a religious oath of political loyalty. In Arwal, he asked a “Maulvi” to swear “on Khuda” to acknowledge benefits received under the government, declaring, “I don’t need votes from namakharam people.”

In Begusarai, Giriraj Singh manipulated the word “haram” into a slur, questioning the faith and morality of Muslims who did not vote for the BJP. The complaint describes these statements as “coercive and communal,” violating the Model Code of Conduct’s (MCC) ban on religious appeals. CJP sought immediate action, including FIR registration under the BNS for promoting enmity, framing the language as “a public loyalty test administered through humiliation.”

CJP stated in its complaint that these speeches fall within the definition of “corrupt practice” under Section 123(2) of the RPA. By identifying an internal enemy and demanding a religious oath for political support. The strategy reinforces a hierarchy where welfare schemes—rations, gas cylinders, and Ayushman cards—are presented as debts owed to the ruling party. This sequence demonstrates how easily populist politics collapses faith into allegiance and citizenship into a privilege contingent on identity.

• Complaint against Nityanand Rai: xenophobia and state-sanctioned exclusion

CJP also filed a complaint the local authorities of the Election Commission of India (ECI) on October 30, 2025, that stated that on October 22, 2025, in Hayaghat, Union Minister Nityanand Rai pivoted from religious invocations to overt nationalism and xenophobia, targeting those wearing “reshmi salwar and topi (mode of dress and skull cap).” He claimed that “Bangladeshi and Rohingya infiltrators” were taking away the livelihoods of Bihar’s youth and insisted they must be excluded from voter lists.

The complaint noted the gravity of a Home Ministry official using xenophobic tropes, arguing such speech carries “the force of state policy” when uttered by a minister responsible for internal security. Rai’s rhetoric blends three distinct offences: an appeal to religion, the vilification of a religious group, and the use of ministerial office to threaten administrative exclusion. This prepared the ground for Union Home Minister Amit Shah’s speech in Siwan, which explicitly promised to “identify and expel each and every individual ghuspaithiya (infiltrator).”

Together, these speeches identify a community as outsiders usurping entitlements and anti-national threats. This progression reveals a tested campaign grammar where the trope of the “infiltrator” shifts the narrative from faith to belonging. When senior ministers use the language of exclusion, the threat carries bureaucratic plausibility, replacing the right to participate as an equal citizen with a test of loyalty and threat of removal.

Complaint against Assam CM Himanta Biswa Sarma and AIMIM’s Tausif Alam

In two formal complaints submitted on November 10, 2025, CJP moved the Bihar Chief Electoral Officer and DGP against Assam CM Himanta Biswa Sarma and AIMIM’s Tausif Alam. The complaints highlight a dangerous shift where hate and threats have replaced democratic debate during the Bihar election campaign. CJP called for urgent action, highlighting how “hate, fear, and violence” have been weaponised to replace civic discourse.

• Assam CM Himanta Biswa Sarma (Siwan Rally)

At an election rally on November 4, 2025, in Raghunathpur, Siwan, Assam CM Himanta Biswa Sarma delivered a speech that CJP described as “state-sponsored demonisation.” Sarma compared RJD candidate Osama Shahab to the global terrorist Osama bin Laden, urging the audience to “eliminate all Osama Bin Ladens” from Bihar.

The complaint notes that he framed the election as a Hindu versus Muslim battle, invoking figures like Babur and Aurangzeb and declaring that a victory for the opposition would be a “defeat for Hindus.” He further boasted about stopping salaries for “mullahs” and characterised Muslims as “infiltrators” threatening the safety of women. CJP argues this statements constitutes an “incitement to exterminatory politics” and a direct breach of the Ministerial Code of Conduct, as a sitting CM holds a heightened responsibility for neutrality.

• Tausif Alam (Kishanganj Rally)

Within 24 hours of the Siwan speech, AIMIM’s Tausif Alam delivered a retaliatory address at Laucha Naya Haat, Kishanganj. In response to RJD’s Tejashwi Yadav calling Asaduddin Owaisi an “extremist,” Alam issued a direct threat of grievous bodily harm. He told the crowd that “I will cut his eyes, fingers, and tongue if he dares insult Owaisi Sahab again.”

The complaint flags this as a “direct threat of physical mutilation” and a calculated attempt to intimidate political rivals. By replacing civic discourse with “open intimidation and violent abuse,” Alam’s speech is cited as a violation of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita and the Representation of the People Act.

3. Targeted demographic hate speech in Pirpainti, Bhagalpur

On November 13, 2025, CJP filed a complaint with the Chief Electoral Officer of Bihar and the DGP against BJP MP Ashwini Kumar Choubey for inflammatory remarks made during a campaign in Pirpainti, Bhagalpur on November 9.

The complaint asserts that Choubey utilised his platform to deliver deeply communal and derogatory statements that directly target the Muslim population under the guise of national security. By appealing to the community to “reduce their population” and explicitly linking them to “ghuspaithiye” (infiltrators) allegedly crossing the border, the speech is described as hate propaganda that seeks to delegitimise the citizenship of Indian Muslims.

Remarks that constitute a “direct communal appeal” and “demographic vilification”

The complaint highlights specific statements where Choubey invoked demographic myths to create fear, stating that while the government provides infrastructure to all, the rising population of a specific community and the influx of infiltrators represent a threat of “vote theft.”

CJP argues that these remarks constitute a “direct communal appeal” and “demographic vilification,” violating Section 123 of the Representation of the People Act, 1951, which prohibits religious appeals and the promotion of enmity. Furthermore, the speech is flagged under Sections 196 and 356 of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, 2023, for outraging group dignity and promoting mischief.

Consequently, CJP in its complaint demanded the registration of an FIR, a ban on his further campaigning, and a public censure from the Election Commission.

4. Complaint against Ojing Tasing for electoral misconduct in Arunachal Pradesh

On December 9, 2025, CJP submitted an urgent complaint to Election Commission of India Arunachal Pradesh, regarding coercive and unlawful threats made during a campaign rally in Lower Dibang Valley on December 3, 2025. During the election period, the Minister unequivocally declared that panchayat segments where the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) loses will be denied government development schemes. He was recorded stating:

“Government schemes will not go to those panchayat segments where the BJP is defeated… I do what I say. As the panchayati raj minister, I mean what I say.”

CJP stated that these remarks constitute a direct abuse of state power and a misuse of official authority to influence voter behavior. By conditioning taxpayer-funded welfare on partisan victory, the Minister has transformed essential governance into a tool of political extortion. Such actions represent a textbook case of undue influence and intimidation, weaponising public resources to coerce the electorate.

CJP asserts that these statements violate Sections 123(1), 123(2), and 123(7) of the Representation of the People Act, 1951, which prohibit bribery, undue influence, and the abuse of official positions. Furthermore, they breach the Model Code of Conduct (MCC), which forbids linking development schemes to voting patterns. Constitutionally, the Minister’s threats violate Article 14 (Equality) and Article 15 (Prohibition of discrimination), as government benefits must be distributed without political prejudice.

Consequently, CJP seek immediate action, including the issuance of a show-cause notice, a ban on further campaigning, the registration of an FIR for criminal intimidation, and a recommendation for the Minister’s removal from office to preserve the integrity of the democratic process.

CJP’s intervention in the Jubilee Hills by-election roadshow in Hyderabad against communal and derogatory appeals

CJP on November 11, 2025, approached the CEO Telangana regarding a complaint against BJP leader Bandi Sanjay Kumar for making communal and derogatory appeals during the Jubilee Hills by-election roadshow in Hyderabad. Kumar allegedly mocked Muslim religious practices, specifically the skull cap and namaz, while invoking his Hindu identity as a mark of “authenticity.” He reportedly stated, “If a day comes when I must wear a skull cap for votes, I’d rather cut off my head,” and asserted he would not “insult other faiths by faking a namaz.”

CJP’s complaint argues that these remarks, aimed at polarising voters and deriding opponents like Chief Minister Revanth Reddy, constitute a trifold offence against the Model Code of Conduct (MCC), the Representation of the People Act, 1951 (RPA), and the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, 2023 (BNS). By framing religious inclusivity as deceit and “vote-seeking hypocrisy,” the speech is characterised as hate speech intended to incite communal contempt.

5. CJP’s intervention against communal dog-whistles

CJP moved the Election Commission of India and the State Election Commission, Maharashtra, on December 19, 2025, seeking urgent action against BJP Mumbai President Ameet Satam for making inflammatory and hate-based remarks during a political event in Malad West. The complaint details how Satam, while the Model Code of Conduct was in force, delivered a speech alleging that “jihadis” had infiltrated the Goregaon Sports Club and accused Muslims of facilitating Rohingya and Bangladeshi migrants in illegally acquiring land and identity documents.

The complaint asserted that by propagating conspiracy narratives such as “vote jihad” and “land jihad,” Satam is accused of criminalising an entire religious community and using demographic fear to polarise the electorate.

CJP’s argues that such dehumanising tactics, which portrays Muslim citizens as conspirators and threats to governance, erodes the constitutional principles of equality and secularism. Consequently, CJP has sought immediate sanctions, including a show-cause notice and restrictions on Satam’s campaigning, to preserve the integrity of the electoral process and prevent the normalisation of communal targeting.

6. Constitutional and legal breaches: CJP’s multi-pronged legal strategy

Across all interventions in 2025, CJP has observed a recurring pattern of violations that threaten the very core of India’s democratic machinery. The complaints filed by CJP emphasise the following legal and constitutional anchors:

• Representation of the People Act (RPA), 1951: Section 123(2) (Undue Influence): Whether it is Ojing Tasing threatening to cut off funds in Arunachal Pradesh or Tausif Alam threatening physical violence in Bihar, both constitute a direct interference with the free exercise of electoral rights through coercion.
• Section 123(3) & (3A): The interventions against Bandi Sanjay Kumar’s religious mockery and the inflammatory speeches of Nazia Elahi Khan and Ravinder Negi exemplify the prohibited use of religious symbols and the promotion of enmity between different classes of citizens for electoral gain.
• The Model Code of Conduct (MCC): The MCC is designed to ensure a level playing field. CJP’s rigorous complaints against Himanta Biswa Sarma and Ashwini Kumar Choubey highlight how the misuse of government machinery and the making of communal appeals—under the guise of “national security”—violate the spirit of “free and fair elections.”
• Constitutional Mandates: Articles 14 & 15: These articles mandate that the State cannot discriminate against citizens. Using welfare schemes as a “reward” or a “threat” for voting patterns is a direct subversion of the right to equality.
• Article 21: The right to live with dignity is compromised when voters are intimidated into submission through the threat of economic deprivation, physical harm, or state-sanctioned demonisation.

Conclusion

The interventions of 2025 demonstrate that the battle for India’s democracy is increasingly being fought in the arena of public discourse. When elected representatives and political leaders feel emboldened to use “exterminatory politics,” “political extortion,” or “hate propaganda” as campaign tools, the role of civil society as a constitutional vanguard becomes more critical than ever. CJP’s year-long campaign has consistently unmasked how communal dog-whistles and the weaponization of welfare are used to replace democratic choice with coercion.

CJP remains dedicated to the principle that public welfare schemes—funded by taxpayers—belong to the people, not to a political party. We believe that the secular foundation of our Constitution is not a mere suggestion but a mandatory framework for all political participation. Our documented cases from Bihar to Arunachal Pradesh, and from Delhi to Telangana, serve as a reminder that the pulpit of a campaign rally is subject to the rule of law.

As we move into 2026, CJP will continue to monitor, document, and intervene, even legally challenge every attempt to substitute constitutional justice with communal revenge, ensuring that the integrity of the Indian electoral mandate remains protected from the corruptive influence of hate.

Related:

Law as Resistance: A year of CJP’s interventions against a rising tide of hate

Fighting Hate in 2024: How CJP Held Power to Account

2024: CJP’s battle against communal rallies before and after they unfold

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During a high-profile technology expo meant to showcase India’s AI talent, a faculty member from Galgotias University introduced a robotic dog dubbed “Orion,” describing it as a product of the university’s Centre of Excellence.

Almost immediately, keen observers and technology enthusiasts identified the robot as a Unitree Go2 — a commercially available quadruped robot manufactured by a Chinese company, not an original research output of the university.

Videos from the summit circulated widely on social media, and within hours the episode had sparked ridicule, criticism, and questions about transparency and authenticity in India’s tech showcases.

Reports claimed that organisers asked the university to vacate its stall and even had the power at the pavilion switched off in response to the controversy — though the university later contested whether an official expulsion order was issued.

In short: what was meant to signal India’s AI capabilities became a cautionary tale about careless representation, inadequate academic ethics, and short-term showmanship.

Why it matters: Beyond a single mistake 

This episode is not just a PR (public relations) embarrassment — it also opens up deeper questions about the culture of higher education in India, the politics of innovation, and the gap between rhetoric and reality in national technological ambition.

1. Education ethics and quality control 

Universities — especially those with public visibility — are expected to uphold standards of transparency and academic integrity. Presenting an imported product as original research, even unintentionally, reflects a failure in basic accountability and clarity — a breakdown not just of communication, but of institutional rigor.

For students and faculty, hands-on interaction with advanced devices is legitimate. But conflating exposure to technology with actual development — and doing so in a high-stakes international forum — shows a worrying inferiority complex towards genuine innovation.

A Galgotias “research scholar,” Dharmendra Kumar, published a paper claiming that Covid-19 could be destroyed by sound vibrations from clapping or bells in the Journal of Molecular Pharmaceutical and Regulatory Affairs (Vol. 2, Issue 2, 2020). The claim echoed the March 22, 2020 Janata Curfew clapping exercise promoted by Prime Minister Narendra Modi—an idea later rejected by the scientific community as pseudoscience.

2. Government priorities in practice: Scientific progress vs the religion industry

A comparison of public spending on science, education, and AI with allocations—direct and indirect—towards religion-centric infrastructure reveals more than budgetary arithmetic; it exposes the political priorities shaping India’s future.

The Union government often cites education spending as evidence of commitment to knowledge-building. The Ministry of Education was allocated ₹128,650 crore in 2025–26, with ₹78,572 crore for school education and around ₹47,000–48,000 crore for higher education in recent years. While these figures appear substantial, they must sustain one of the world’s largest student populations, thousands of colleges and universities, and a chronically underfunded research ecosystem. Much of this money merely keeps institutions running rather than creating globally competitive laboratories, doctoral programmes or long-term research capacity.

Technology and AI funding shows a similar contradiction. The Ministry of Electronics and Information Technology received about ₹26,000 crore in 2025–26. Initiatives such as the IndiaAI Mission (around ₹10,300 crore over multiple years) and a ₹500-crore Centre of Excellence in AI for Education suggest ambition. Yet this funding is scattered across missions and pilots, favouring visibility and announcements over sustained investment in universities, basic science, and large PhD pipelines—the foundations of genuine innovation.

In contrast, the religion industry—pilgrimage infrastructure, temple-linked tourism, and heritage projects—commands political attention far exceeding its formal budget share. However, two factors amplify its impact. First is political signalling: religious projects are paired with high-profile inaugurations and constant symbolism. Second are off-budget flows—large temple trusts such as Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanams handle multi-thousand-crore revenues, shaping infrastructure and public priorities without appearing in Union Budget comparison (s) .

The result is an imbalance where science receives headline funds but limited depth, while religion-centred projects enjoy visibility, legitimacy and multiple funding streams.

3. Spectacle Over Substance

The controversy also highlights a broader phenomenon in modern institutional and political culture: preference for spectacle over substance.

Political rhetoric around AI and technological leadership in India has grown aggressively in recent years, with grand claims about digital prowess, global tech leadership, and indigenous innovation. But when those claims are measured against reality, episodes like this reveal a gap between promotional narratives and actual research output.

Rather than noble ambition, this can resemble marketing masquerading as innovation — a dynamic that critics have long pointed to in sectors beyond education.

4. The BJP-RSS Context: Aspirations, perceptions, and overselling

The Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) and the ideological ecosystem around it, often associated with the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), have frequently championed narratives of technological self-reliance, cultural renaissance, and national resurgence. These themes have strong resonances in public discourse.

But when such grand narratives are paired with weak empirical substance, they risk becoming vacant rhetorics rather than effective policy frameworks.

The AI Expo controversy — wherein an institution aligns itself with big claims (Rs. 350 crore AI investment, “in-house innovation” at a global summit) only to be unmasked over a misrepresented robot — can be seen as a symptom of larger systemic issues: an overreliance on image management, lack of emphasis on foundational science and research, and the temptation to equate presence with excellence.

These are not problems unique to any one institution, but they are exacerbated when political discourse prioritises bravado over authentic capacity building.

Conclusion: A moment of reckoning — or repetition?

The Galgotias AI Expo debacle is uncomfortable because it holds up a mirror: it reflects not only the pitfalls of one university’s presentation, but also the gap between aspiration and achievement in India’s drive toward global tech leadership.

If the goal is genuinely to build an AI-savvy workforce and world-class research ecosystem, then substance must matter more than spectacle, and integrity must undergird promotion. This requires honest assessment, a political leadership that promotes scientific progress over religious industry, rigorous academic culture, and an intellectual climate that values long-term capacity over short-term optics.

Only then can institutions — and the nation — move beyond tall claims and hollow applause toward genuine innovation, learning, and progress.

(The author is a mechanical engineer and an independent commentator on history and politics, with a particular focus on Rajasthan. His work explores the syncretic exchanges of India’s borderlands as well as contemporary debates on memory, identity and historiography; he can be contacted on adityakrishnadeora@gmail.com)

Disclaimer: The views expressed here are the author’s personal views, and do not necessarily represent the views of Sabrangindia.

Related:

Public Education is Not a Priority in Union Budget 2025-26

Higher Education: How Centre is Undermining State Autonomy & Politicising UGC

Public Vs Private Education – A New Experiment By Y.S.Jagan Mohan Reddy

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