Besides these killings, a staggering 1,143 documented complaints of physical and mental harm against Bengali speaking migrants have also been reported. The harassment includes illegal or irregular detentions by the police authorities and labourers threatened or brutalised. This Bengali newspaper has documented these here.

As far back as September 2025, Citizens for Justice and Peace, had submitted a comprehensive complaint to the National Commission for Minorities (NCM), highlighting what it described as an “alarming and coordinated escalation of hate speech” across India. The complaint documents how Bengali-origin Muslims, many of whom are lawful Indian citizens, are being systematically vilified as “Bangladeshis” and “ghuspaithiye” (infiltrators) in election rallies, public protests, and online campaigns. The details of CJP’s submissions to the NCM Chairperson may be read here.

In this complaint, the notorious chief minister of Assam, Himanta Biswa Sarma’s hate speeches, the speeches by Situ Barua of Jatiya Sangrami Sena and Milan Buragohain of All Tai Ahom Students’ Union, both accused of stopping buses and threatening Muslim labourers to “vacate Upper Assam,” that by Bir Lachit Sen, whose followers reportedly conducted door-to-door “document checks” and forced evictions were included.

Besides there were other such targeted speeches made in Bihar, Delhi and Maharashtra. Maharashtra that has seen four such murders happening has both in the state and local bodies now got the BJP firmly in the saddle of power. Only last week, the newly sworn in Mayor of Mumbai (sworn in close to a month after the election results) vowed “to crackdown on hawkers in the city and ordered birth certificate checks” as part of a “crackdown on illegal Bangladeshi nationals living in the city,” reported India Today.

Related:

Under Suspicion: Bengali Migrant workers face mass detentions, fear, and statelessness in Gurugram crackdown

Under Siege for Speaking Bengali: Detentions, deportations and a rising pushback against the targeting of Bengali migrant workers across India

Bengali Migrant Workers Detained in Odisha: Calcutta High Court demands answers, seeks coordination between states

The post 12 Bengali migrant workers murdered in 6 states, Maharashtra tops the crime list appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The notice did not specify the grounds for the ban but The Wire’s founding editor, Siddharth Varadarajan, who attended the meeting, was informed orally before he was invited to speak that the grounds for blocking the cartoon were that it spread rumours/unverified information that would affect the defence, security, reputation of the country and India’s relations with foreign countries.

The Wire then presented its views to the IDC – which includes senior officials from the ministries of defence, home, information and broadcasting, external affairs, IT and law, as well from the MOD/army.

The Wire has also handed over a written submission to the IDC, which is appended below.

§

The Wire received a notice by email at 6:55 pm on February 10, 2026, purporting to be an “opportunity to appear and submit its comments/ clarifications” before the Inter-Departmental Committee with regard to a ‘request’ for blocking of certain social media URLs where a 52 second animated cartoon was posted by us.

We have been directly informed by one of the social media platforms that the blocking order they received explicitly cites Section 69A of the Information Technology Act.

No ground on which the blocking is permissible or sought or to be considered has accompanied the notice to us or to the social media platforms. Though couched as a hearing on a ‘request’ to block, the fact is that the blocking of the URLs mentioned in the Annexure to the notice has already occurred more than 22 hours prior to the notification to the Wire of this “opportunity”. In other words, this is an ex post facto notice.

At the hearing on February 11 2026 at 3 pm I was told orally that the grounds were – spreading rumours/unverified information that would affect defence, security, reputation of the country and India’s relations with foreign countries. Since this was brought up for the first time, I am placing my written submissions on record.

I was not informed which part was rumour, and how it affected any interest. Can a critical perception of the Prime Minister by a section of the people of his country be inimical to national interest? When has a cartoon video caricaturing a leader or the government ever been viewed in that light? Only a paranoid administration can even suggest this.

The content blocked is a 52-second cartoon clip, containing a humorous depiction of the Prime Minister, whose decision to absent himself from a Parliament debate on account of a purported physical threat from women Opposition MPs (including that they may use their teeth to bite him!) has been widely reported and commented upon.

The Prime Minister is a political personality answerable to the people. The manner in which he deals with questions raised by the Opposition or other issues is eminently a matter for the media and people at large to criticise, discuss – and even mock. To suggest that the Prime Minister of the world’s largest democracy needs to be protected from a satirical 52-second video or that the nation needs to be protected from it is an insult to the Indian State.

The protection of an elected leader in a democracy from criticism or even mockery is not the function of law and indeed not contemplated by Section 69A of the Information Technology Act, under which the order to block access to our cartoon was purportedly made. The Supreme Court has repeatedly noted the importance of uninhibited public debate, even that expressed through “sarcastic and sometimes unpleasant sharp criticism of Government and public officials”. (D.C. Saxena v. Chief Justice of India, (1996) 5 SCC 216, para 30)

In any event, there is nothing in the video which can be said to affect even remotely the interests of sovereignty and integrity of India, defence of India, security of the State, friendly relations with foreign States or public order. Neither the executive nor the IDC can direct the blocking of content on grounds not recognised by Section 69-A. There is no legitimate power to block the URLs and the blockage you have ordered is an abuse of authority.

The only power available to the executive for blocking of content under the Intermediary Rules, 2021 comes from and is also limited by Section 69-A of the Information Technology Act (IT Act). Rule 16 of the IT Rules, 2021 merely operationalises the manner of exercise of the power and cannot go beyond the limits of the IT Act.

Section 69-A(1) reads:

“(1) Where the Central Government or any of its officers specially authorised by it in this behalf is satisfied that it is necessary or expedient so to do, in the interest of sovereignty and integrity of India, defence of India, security of the State, friendly relations with foreign States or public order or for preventing incitement to the commission of any cognizable offence relating to above, it may subject to the provisions of sub-section (2), for reasons to be recorded in writing, by order, direct any agency of the Government or intermediary to block for access by the public or cause to be blocked for access by the public any information generated, transmitted, received, stored or hosted in any computer resource.” (emphasis supplied)

It may be recalled that the Supreme Court in Shreya Singhal v. Union of India, (2015) 5 SCC 1 had upheld the constitutionality of Section 69-A upon the twin conditions that a block should be effected by a reasoned order relatable strictly to the limited grounds enumerated in Section 69-A, and a pre-decisional hearing given to the originator, where the originator is identified or identifiable. None of this has been done.

Your attention is also drawn to the fact that the cartoon only refers to issues already in the public domain and is a simple light-hearted presentation of the issues and use of words that the news media in India has been full of. Absence from Parliament of leaders of government has always been a matter of both comment and concern. Moreover, scores of news items, videos,TV debates and discussions in the social media have used the very words in the video in recent times and as such there is nothing in the cartoon clip that is not already in the public eye.

Since you are now saying that our cartoon has been banned for spreading rumours and unverified information that adversely affects national security, I have appended a list of several reports, including one going back to December 2023, which use words drawn from General Naravane’s book, which I imagine is the source of maximum concern/embarrassment for the prime minister. Not once have these words been denied, either by the government or the general, and scores of reports which reproduce these words – or rumours/unverified information as your IDC may call it – are currently in circulation. But it is The Wire’s 52-second cartoon which has been banned!

In the past, India’s leaders have welcomed and enjoyed satire at their own expense, and the mark of a confident leader is exactly that. This manner of blocking is as unfair to the ruling dispensation as it is to the media houses and to the very essence of freedom of expression.

You may recall that in the past when I have appeared before the IDC for post-facto hearings – first on the forced deletion of an extract from Caravan magazine and then on the blocking of The Wire’s website and the deletion of a story on CNN’s reporting about a downed Indian Rafale jet – neither the proceedings of the same nor the conclusions (reasoned or unreasoned) arrived at after the hearing, have ever been communicated to me, which again is a gross violation of the powers entrusted to the executive government by the IT Act and Rules.

While on the subject, I wish to bring to your notice that The Wire’s entire Instagram account was blocked for a period of time, and when I sought an explanation from the Joint Secretary, MIB, on February 9, I was told “We have not blocked your account.” Since the order to block content came from the MIB, triggering the blocking of the account itself for a while, a public official should surely have given a more transparent answer.

Since the point is a fairly obvious one, which is that the content blocked has no nexus with any of the stated objectives of Section 69-A IT Act, the blocking order must be rescinded with immediate effect. Also, it is only fair that the decision upon these proceedings should be communicated to The Wire, without delay, along with a copy of the order already issued under Section 69-A of the IT Act forming the basis for the blocking of the URLs mentioned in your notice.

LK Advani kept a diary during the Emergency which he published later under the title, A Prisoner’s Scrapbook. There is an entry from August 31, 1975, lamenting the closing down of Shankar’s Weekly, India’s premier satirical publication, that I wish to share with you.

The last issue, dated August 31, carries an editorial captioned ‘Farewell’, in which writes Advani: “Even the word emergency does not find a place in the editorial. But there can scarcely be a more devastating indictment of the emergency than this piece. Shankar writes, inter alia… ‘Dictatorships cannot afford laughter because people may laugh at the dictator, and that wouldn’t do’.”

In the end, I wish to say this. Democracies do not fall in a single dramatic moment. They erode slowly and quietly when those entrusted with power fear laughter and start taking action against it. Before you sign your names on to whatever decision you take, I ask only that you consider whether the Constitution you took an oath to serve was designed to protect authority from satire — or to protect citizens from the abuse of authority.

Thank you.

Annexure

Recent news items on the controversy in parliament

1. Lallantop
2. ⁠Jansatta 
3. ⁠National Herald 
4. ⁠Hindustan Times 
5. ⁠Deccan Herald 
6. ⁠The Federal
7. ⁠NDTV
8. ⁠Outlook 
9. ⁠The Leaflet 
10. The Organiser 
11. India Today (December 2023 report quoting the same words which were referred to in Parliament)

Courtesy: The Wire

The post ‘Democracies Erode When Those Entrusted With Power Fear Laughter and Start Taking Action Against It’ appeared first on SabrangIndia.

On 8 February 2026 following the Thai general election, there was a paradigm shift ushering in a new era of Southeast Asian politics as the ultra-right Bumjaithai Party took control of every organ of Thai state power, democratically or otherwise. The party are relatively new comers to Thai politics but are the clear successor of a long line of monachal-military-capitalist-ultra-nationalists who have long served as a vanguardist nexus of deep state power. They had already allegedly rigged senate elections in the upper-house in 2024 winning a super majority in the supposedly party neutral chamber- an investigation into these charges of vote rigging are now certain to go nowhere. The judiciary, which have long been in the pocket of the aforementioned monachal-military-ultra-nationalists, are also firmly on team Bhumjaithai (BJT), and due to the kingdom’s centralised government structure little to no opposition remains in any state institutional form.

For the past two decades, and even going back to the 1960s, Thailand has had a relatively well organised peasant and workers movement, particularly given the highly reactionary nature of the state, which has been a US vassal ever since their war on Vietnam. Up until the 2000s this movement was largely extra-parliamentary, with the poor organising around the Farmers Federation (1970s), the insurgent Communist Party (1960s-80s) and subsequently a web of trade unions and localised peasant groups. In 2001, however, the left-agrarian-populist Thai-Rak-Thai party (today Phue Thai) emerged as the parliamentary representative of the poor, winning landslide elections, countless policy victories and experiencing mass state repression in the form of military and judiciary coups, extrajudicial killings, arrests and disappearances. Despite Phue Thai’s successes, over the past two decades, the reactionary state has developed a complex system of weaponised lawfare, as documented by researcher Tyrell Haberkorn in her book Dictatorship on Trial. In short, the reactionary elite learnt how to bar the poor from parliament, and at the time of writing, appear to have successfully neutralised the threat for the indefinite future.

In the aftermath of the 8 February election, many of those on the left are nervously looking to a future that resembles Hun Sen’s Cambodia (CPP) or Modi’s India (BJP). While these examples operate in vastly different political landscapes, they share striking tactical similarities in neutralising opposition through legal, administrative, patronage network, and state institutional means. A new reactionary playbook is rapidly being developed and exported across the region. One by which the ultra-right are able to capture state institutions, weaponize ultra-nationalist grievances outwards, and crush opposition. The much touted “rule of law” is stripped of its liberal pretences to serve as a naked instrument of class rule and state capital. Which brings us to the question of what the opposition—what the poor—can do to recognise and challenge this.

The repeated playbook in all of these cases rely on three basic pillars, judicial neutralisation, opposition absorption & ethno-nationalist redirection:

Judicial Neutralisation
In these cases, the state was built on Western ideas of liberal democracy. The judiciary, once framed in liberal theory as an independent check on power, has been effectively hollowed out and repurposed. It functions as an open and concentrated administrative force dedicated to safeguarding the interests of the dominant economic class, operating as a tactical instrument for enforcement of economic and political monopolies, ensuring that the legal system actively facilitates the accumulation of wealth and power for the ruling elite rather than providing a check on state power.

The Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), India: Have repeatedly used law enforcement agencies (Enforcement Directorate, Central Bureau of Investigation) to file corruption or money laundering cases against the opposition, often leading to pre-trial detentions that paralyses opposition leadership during elections, bogging them down in judicial procedure.

The Bhumjaithai Party (BJT), Thailand: Benefits from a “Judicial Coup” model where the courts protect the interests of the aforementioned reactionary vanguardist nexus. They benefit from a judiciary that dissolves major rivals and removes opposition leaders, like the judicial coups against Phue Thai Prime ministers and the dissolution of the Move Forward Party, on constitutional grounds. BJT itself rarely initiates these cases but relies on their dependable ultra-nationalist allies to press the charges.

The Cambodian People’s Party (CPP), Cambodia: Perhaps the most ‘advanced’ form, where the distinction between the party and the state has completely withered away. This is the closest we have to Caesarism, in that the judiciary is simply a department of the CPP used to liquidate the political competition, ensuring that the means of production (land, timber, and factories) remain in the hands of the elite class loyal to the CPP project.

Absorbing Opposition
In India, the “BJP Washing Machine” is a mechanism for the centralisation of political rent. Localised political/landowning elites with their existing patronage networks join the BJP to protect their accumulated capital from state seizure and further cement their position locally, while strengthening party hegemony nationally. Former opposition figures become allies and any investigations into their past wrongdoing are washed away by the power of the BJP “Washing Machine”.

In Thailand, the BJT’s absorption of existing “Baan Ya” (local elites) into the party allows for the consolidation of provincial capital and votes. When the judiciary threatens to investigate non-BJT elites, they simply move their assets (votes and influence) to join BJT, moving from a position of weakness to strength and allowing them greater access to state contracts, legal protections and a seat at the table in Bangkok.

In Cambodia, the CPP’s “Golden Handcuffs” are a form of patronage-based feudalism. For opposition figures, or those who wish to challenge CPP hegemony, instead of challenging the party, joining the CPP is the only way to access markets, votes, state contracts, etc., and avoid liquidation. Once tied or ‘handcuffed’ to the CPP they are richly rewarded and protected, providing they adhere to the party’s hegemony.

Ethno-nationalist Redirection
So as to most effectively legitimise their regimes and justify their extraordinary use of heavy handed judiciary, all three cases have relied on stoking ethno-nationalist grievances against outside forces. Ironically, Thailand and Cambodia are mutually dependent on this, given the recent border war, which was instigated by both sides, so as to create this very outcome. As we wrote at the outbreak of the fighting, it was a war of elite consensus on both sides of the border, which served only to strengthen the elites on either side, to justify their militaristic policies, which ultimately are vested in domestic interests, using the military as an internal repressive state apparatus rather than an external—as is the case with the US and Great Britain for example. The same is also true of the BJP, who have used the longstanding conflict with Pakistan to justify crackdowns on domestic opposition who fail to show sufficient fealty towards India’s army in its conflict with Pakistan. In Thailand too, this tactic was used against the left opposition as a means of discipline and control, forcing them to back the reactionary consensus of the ultra-nationalists like BJT or face charges of treason, as was the case with the aforementioned left populist PM Paetongtarn Shinawatra who was evicted from office for this very reason.

The Way Out
The election of Bhumjaithai this month is the most recent country in the region to fall to an ultra-right government using the very same playbook mentioned above. Reactionary forces across Asia are watching closely, taking notes, learning and adapting. It is at this moment that those of us on the left, the poor, must do the same, take time to analyse how reactionary powers operate and where their weaknesses are.

The answer, is of course, not the liberal politics that have been sold by the Western funded NGO’s and think tanks that for decades have portrayed themselves as the vanguards of democracy against fascism. Indeed, they are, in the best case, completely ineffective, as is the case with the Cambodia National Rescue Party, and in the worst case actively harmful, as is the case with The Peoples Party Thailand.

As bleak as the situation may feel in Thailand today in the aftermath of this defeat, there are lessons and examples we can look to as means of resistance, as well as recent moments of such reactionary consensuses breaking—the case of Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, albeit currently in a state of flux. Even within the reactionary consensus, liberatory spaces can be created like the incredible achievements of the left coalition in Kerala.

For the poor of Thailand, we are in the first days of a new paradigm, a new reactionary consensus, where parliamentary political organizing may need to be abandoned for several years. While this particular paradigm is fresh, it is one that the poor have faced many times before. We have seen our comrades dead in the street, we still live with their empty bedrooms in our homes. We heard these stories from our grandparents, who in turn heard them from theirs.We have bounced back before and we inevitably bounce back again, as will the poor of India and Cambodia, such is the nature of class struggle.

This article was produced by Globetrotter. Kay Young is a writer and editor at DinDeng journal (Thailand). He has a forthcoming book on Thai revolutionary history with LeftWord Books (India)

Courtesy: CounterView

The post Asia’s ultra-right consensus: ‘Liberal politics, sold by western funded NGOs, isn’t the answer’ appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Predictably, on February 11, the Centre issued a nationwide protocol prescribing how the national song, written by Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, should be sung. At one level, the move may appear innocuous—after all, what harm can there be in honouring a patriotic hymn? Yet, when placed in the larger political context, it raises troubling questions about the direction in which the Narendra Modi government is steering the republic.

The protocol makes it clear that Vande Mataram is to be given precedence over Jana Gana Mana, written and composed by Rabindranath Tagore and adopted as the national anthem. If both are sung, the national song must come first. It also mandates that everyone present must stand in respectful attention when it is sung, with an exception only when the song forms part of a film or documentary. Symbolism, in politics, is never accidental.

This development must be viewed alongside a broader pattern. When the Prime Minister “consecrated” the Ram temple at Ayodhya—on the very site where the Babri Masjid once stood—he blurred the constitutional line separating state and religion. Today, he appears more occupied with temple visits and meetings with religious figures than with addressing the anxieties of citizens grappling with unemployment, inflation and social discord.

There was a time when visiting dignitaries were taken to Bengaluru’s Infosys campus to showcase India’s strides in information technology—a confident, forward-looking nation presenting its modern achievements. Today, they are escorted to Varanasi, the Prime Minister’s constituency, to witness the Ganga aarti. Civilisational heritage has its place, but when spectacle substitutes substance, the message to the world changes.

I have heard Vande Mataram sung at functions organised by RSS veterans such as R. Balashankar. I was once invited to a function hosted by the builders of the Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi, where the chief guest was RSS chief Mohan Bhagwat. On such occasions, only the first two stanzas were rendered—the very portions historically accepted as inclusive.

The February 11 circular, however, insists on singing the entire poem, including portions that were consciously set aside to accommodate the sensitivities of religious minorities. During the parliamentary debate, the Prime Minister asserted that Vande Mataram was the one song that united Indians during the freedom struggle. This is simply not true.

The freedom movement resonated with a chorus of slogans and songs, each reflecting diverse ideological streams and regional energies: Jai Hind, popularised by Subhas Chandra Bose; Inquilab Zindabad, immortalised by Bhagat Singh and his comrades; Quit India; Bharat Mata ki Jai; Jai Bharat; and yes, Vande Mataram. To claim that a single chant alone stirred the nationalist soul is to rewrite history through the lens of contemporary politics.

Modi had accused the Congress of “mutilating” Vande Mataram by adopting only its first two stanzas. The charge is historically untenable. Tagore’s Bharoto Bhagyo Bidhata, originally comprising five stanzas, was similarly abridged when the Constituent Assembly adopted only the first stanza as the national anthem on January 24, 1950. It was chosen for its brevity, inclusiveness and suitability for formal occasions. No one accused the Assembly of disrespecting Tagore.

Likewise, the Indian National Congress adopted only the first two stanzas of Vande Mataram in 1937 because later verses contain explicit references to Durga, Lakshmi and other Hindu deities. Leaders of the freedom movement—deeply conscious of India’s plural character—feared that adopting the entire song might alienate non-Hindus. Tagore himself recommended these two stanzas for their “unobjectionable evocation of the beauty of the motherland.”

Nor was this the decision of Jawaharlal Nehru alone, as is often alleged. It emerged from a unanimous Congress Working Committee resolution passed on October 30, 1937, in Calcutta. Among those present were Nehru, Sardar Patel, Dr Rajendra Prasad, Maulana Azad, Bhulabhai Desai, Jamnalal Bajaj, J.B. Kripalani, Pattabhi Sitaramayya, Rajaji, Acharya Narendra Dev, Jayaprakash Narayan and Subhas Chandra Bose. Mahatma Gandhi, though not a formal member, was a special invitee and assisted in drafting the resolution. Moved by Rajendra Prasad and seconded by Patel, it represented consensus—not mutilation.

It is also worth recalling that the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, founded in 1925—half a century after Vande Mataram was written—did not adopt it as its anthem. Instead, it chose Namaste Sada Vatsale Matrubhume, composed by Narhar Narayan Bhide. Now, the RSS does sing Vande Mataram, but it does not sing Jana Gana Mana. Those curious may consult old issues of its mouthpiece, Organiser.

In its early years, the RSS and allied publications derided Jana Gana Mana as a supposed paean to the British monarch, misreading Tagore’s lyrics as loyalty to empire. This claim, long debunked by historians, ignored Tagore’s own clarification that the song hailed the divine guide of India’s destiny, not any earthly ruler.

I recently watched an RSS shakha meeting in Delhi. It began with the RSS anthem and concluded with Vande Mataram, followed by boisterous slogan-shouting. I am not sure whether they sang the full version or the historically accepted two stanzas.

This raises an interesting question. If the government now insists that Vande Mataram take precedence over all else, will the RSS accord it precedence over its own Namaste Sada Vatsale? Or will protocol, like history, prove to be selectively applied?

The deeper unease surrounding the present directive is not confined to Jana Gana Mana alone. The RSS had, for decades, objected even to the national flag, arguing that the Tricolour did not reflect India’s “civilisational ethos.” For years, it declined to hoist the flag at its shakhas. Only after the Modi government launched a hyper-enthusiastic flag-waving campaign did the saffron brotherhood warm up to the Tricolour.

Returning to Vande Mataram, it is important to recall that objections to it were not solely Muslim. The charge of idolatry—of venerating the nation as a goddess—troubled other reformist traditions as well.

I was reminded of this during the funeral of my former colleague at The Hindustan Times, Harish Bhanot, in Chandigarh. His daughter, Neerja Bhanot, remains etched in national memory. On September 5, 1986, during the hijacking of Pan Am Flight 73, the 22-year-old flight attendant laid down her life saving hundreds. She became the first woman and the youngest recipient of the Ashok Chakra.

Bhanot was a follower of the Arya Samaj, and through him I had my first glimpse into that reformist tradition. It was the first time I entered an Arya Samaj temple. The walls bore inscriptions—Vedic verses rendered in bold script—but there was no idol, no sculpted deity, no ritual paraphernalia of worship. The austerity was striking, almost disarming. Swami Agnivesh, who belonged to this movement, was a friend. He later spoke at the Maramon Convention. We know who brutally attacked him for his views.

The point bears emphasis: opposition to idolatry is not confined to Islam. Arya Samajists, too, consider it a deviation from true monotheism. When the state elevates a song that personifies the nation as a goddess, it inadvertently places such citizens—Muslim and Hindu alike—in a moral quandary.

The Centre’s directive mandating the full six-stanza, three-minute-and-ten-second rendition of Vande Mataram at official occasions—during flag unfurling, the President’s arrival, and before and after her addresses—effectively pushes Jana Gana Mana to the margins. For all practical purposes, the national anthem risks being reduced to a ceremonial afterthought. It bears recalling that Sri Aurobindo, who rendered the song into English, viewed it as an anthem of a united Bengal in its struggle against colonial rule, not as a national song for the whole of India.

The text itself is rooted in a specific historical moment: its landscape is regional, its imagery sectarian to many, and even its demographic references belong to an era when India, as we know it today, did not exist. Protocol, once a matter of dignified brevity, now threatens to become an endurance test. Elderly citizens, people with arthritis, and those unable to stand for prolonged periods may find patriotism measured not by feeling but by stamina.

A word about the poet, Bankim was among the earliest architects of the Bengal Renaissance—scholar, novelist, satirist, administrator. His prose reshaped Bengali literature and stirred cultural self-awareness among Hindu Bengalis. Yet his nationalism was not the inclusive vision later articulated by Mahatma Gandhi or Jawaharlal Nehru.

His 1882 novel Anandmath forms the backdrop of Vande Mataram. It depicts ascetic warriors—the Sannyasis—fighting Muslim rule. Muslims are portrayed as foreign invaders and oppressors; the narrative closes not with reconciliation but with ascendancy.

Historians S. M. Burke and Salim Al-Din Quraishi, in The British Raj in India: An Historical Review, note that even colonial authorities viewed the song with suspicion. Sir Henry Craik objected that it originated as a hymn of hate against Muslims and had become a war cry of militants in Bengal. In one exchange from Anandamath, a character declares that Hinduism cannot survive unless “the bearded drunkards are expelled”—and, when asked how, replies: “By killing.”

Given such a history, the Congress leadership’s decision to adopt only the nonsectarian stanzas was not cowardice but statesmanship.

Bankim himself was not always a nationalist in the modern sense. In his early writings, he admired Europe’s scientific method, governance, and culture, describing it as a “more perfect type of civilisation,” while lamenting India’s “arrested development.” He praised Europe’s inductive method—systematic observation, experiment, and application of knowledge into power. By the time he wrote Anandamath, he had transformed into a cultural revivalist.

That transformation mirrors our own national journey: from self-doubt to assertion, from reform to revival, from pluralism to a more brittle uniformity.

My grandson Nehemiah once had an unusual hobby. In Class 2 or 3, he delighted in listening to national anthems of different countries. He could identify them by tune and lyric. Among his favourites was the Russian anthem; he admired its martial music.

He informed me—authoritatively, as only children could—that Greece had the longest anthem but uses a shortened version; the Netherlands had the oldest; the American anthem was the most difficult to sing; and Japan’s could be rendered in under 45 seconds. The only anthem he could sing flawlessly, he said, was that of Bahrain. Why? Because it had no words—only sound.

His innocent observations carry a profound lesson: an anthem’s power lies in its brevity, clarity, and inclusiveness. Over three minutes is an eternity when symbolism overshadows sentiment.

Vande Mataram proclaims:
Mother, I praise thee!
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
Bright with thy orchard gleams…

One cannot help asking: Is today’s India—where rivers like the Yamuna in Delhi run dark with sewage and foam—the landscape Bankim praised? Should not the government focus first on making the country worthy of such hymns? Clean rivers, breathable air, and dignified living conditions would inspire spontaneous patriotism far more effectively than mandated recitations.

Instead, we risk compelling citizens—particularly Muslims and Christians—to sing praises that resemble devotion to a Hindu goddess. Patriotism, when coerced, curdles into compliance; when inclusive, it blossoms into belonging.

Nations are not sustained by songs alone. They endure through shared values: justice, dignity, equality, and mutual respect. Symbols matter, but they must unite rather than divide. The framers of the Republic understood this when they chose Jana Gana Mana—brief, inclusive, geographically expansive—as the anthem, while according Vande Mataram an honoured but limited place.

To elevate one by diminishing the other is to reopen settled questions and unsettle fragile harmonies. The real test of nationalism is not how loudly we sing, how long we stand, or how many flags we wave. It lies in whether every citizen—Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian, believer, reformist, or atheist—feels equally at home in the Republic.

If a song must be sung, let it be one that all can sing without hesitation. If a flag must be waved, let it be one that all embrace without qualification. And if a nation must be worshipped, let it be through service—clean rivers, just laws, and compassionate governance—rather than through enforced hymns. Only then will patriotism cease to be performance and become, once again, a shared and silent pride.

Courtesy: Indian Currents

The post Vande Mataram Requiem for Jana Gana Mana appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Video of the General Strike

From the paddy fields of Punjab to industrial belts in Tamil Nadu, from tea gardens in West Bengal to transport hubs in Uttar Pradesh, and across the National Capital Region in New Delhi, workers and peasants converged in a rare display of coordinated dissent. Coal miners downed tools. Electricity employees joined demonstrations. Banking and insurance services reported disruptions. In ports, transport depots and manufacturing clusters, protest meetings and road blockades signaled a shared disquiet.

The Samyukt Kisan Morcha (SKM) described the strike as “one of the largest ever General Strikes in the history of Independent India,” arguing that it cemented worker-peasant unity as the backbone of resistance to what it termed corporate-driven policies. Congratulating the Joint Platform of Central Trade Unions, the SKM said the action had instilled confidence among working people to resist “exploitative, corporate-oriented measures” and warned that if the Union government persisted with its trajectory, “more intensified, continuous, united pan-India struggles” would follow.

At the heart of the mobilisation was opposition to the four labour codes. But the anger spilled far beyond them. The SKM pointed to resentment against Free Trade Agreements, the proposed Electricity Bill, and the Seed Bill. Rural participation, it noted, was not symbolic but structural. “There was much more effective and widespread coordination than ever before,” the statement said, highlighting the large-scale involvement of women and rural workers. The issue of scheme workers — denied worker status and statutory minimum wages — figured prominently in protest speeches across states.

For the All India Kisan Sabha (AIKS), the strike was a “historic success,” with demonstrations reported at more than 2,000 locations nationwide. The organisation characterised the mobilisation as a warning to the ruling dispensation: withdraw what it called anti-people laws or face prolonged resistance. Participation, it emphasised, cut across organised and unorganised sectors, underlining the breadth of social discontent.

AIKS leader Vijoo Krishnan framed the moment as one of political clarity rather than episodic protest. “This unity of workers and peasants is not accidental,” he said. “It reflects deep anger against policies that privatise profits and socialise losses. The government must withdraw the anti-worker labour codes and anti-farmer measures. If it fails to listen, today’s strike will only be the beginning of a longer and stronger struggle.”

Significantly, the mobilisation was not confined to physical spaces. Social media became an extension of the protest ground. Hashtags trended across platforms, live videos from picket lines travelled instantly between states, and infographics explaining the labour codes and farm-related legislations were widely circulated in multiple languages. Leaders used digital tools not merely for publicity but for political education — simplifying complex policy questions into accessible, shareable content.

Farmers gather at Freedom Park in Bangalore on February 10 to launch an indefinite strike. Photo: Vijoo Krishnan/FB

Vijoo Krishnan and other SKM leaders conducted regular live briefings  in real time and amplified ground reports from district-level actions. Short video messages from protest sites in Punjab, Tamil Nadu and West Bengal created a sense of simultaneity — of a nation rising together rather than isolated pockets of unrest. In an era where narratives are shaped as much online as on the streets, the strike demonstrated that digital platforms can be harnessed to deepen organisational coordination and expand the moral reach of collective action.

Video of strike from Tamil Nadu

In Haryana’s Kurukshetra, where the SKM is scheduled to hold its National Council meeting on February 24, the emphasis is already shifting from assessment to escalation. The coming phase, leaders indicate, will be shaped both independently and in coordination with trade unions and agricultural workers’ platforms.

If the Modi led BJP – NDA government reads February 12 as a routine disruption, it may be misreading the mood. What unfolded across India was less a stoppage of work than a consolidation of resistance — an assertion that the grammar of economic reform cannot be written without the consent of those who labour in fields, factories and public services.

Courtesy: The AIDEM

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Roughly handmade diyas—uneven, cracked, some leaning like a quiet congregation of forms waiting to be acknowledged—sit upon a mat. Beside them lies a dense, unmoving hump of raw clay, holding within its silence the memory of the ground from which it was taken. At the far end stands the chak, the potter’s wheel. It does not announce itself; it simply exists, anchored and patient, flanked by a bowl of water catching the light and a thin cutting thread coiled like a secret.

This is the sanctuary of Dr. Sangeeta Jawla, a researcher, potter, and storyteller who has spent the last seven years excavating the stories trapped within India’s soil. To attend her session is not to watch a demonstration; it is to enter a rhythm that has pulsed through the subcontinent for millennia. At a young age, she has evolved into a storyteller who serves as a bridge between the academic study of folklore and the tactile world of ceramic art. Her journey began with a childhood curiosity in her ancestral village in Haryana and evolved into a rigorous seven-year research project documenting the oral traditions of India’s potter communities.

Through her practice, Sangeeta seeks to fill the “gaps in the archive,” exploring how Hindu, Muslim, and Tribal narratives differ in their spiritual and physical relationship with the earth. Her work is a rare blend of artistic reclamation and sociological inquiry, specifically challenging the gendered norms of the craft. By placing herself at the wheel and performing the arduous labour of clay preparation, she brings visibility to the millions of unnamed women whose hands have sustained the rhythm of Indian pottery for centuries.

A central theme in Sangeeta’s work is the etymology of the name Prajapati, a title used by potters across India. While the word translates to “Lord of Procreation” or “Creator,” the communities bearing the name often live at the margins of the social hierarchy. Sangeeta uses her performances to highlight this “indispensability without status,” asking the audience to reconcile the divine origins of the craft with the difficult socio-economic realities of the craftsmen.

In her mesmerising presentation this evening, which the writer attended, Sangeeta entered without ceremony. There are no heavy credentials offered, no academic posture. What she carries instead are journeys—across regions, communities, and lives shaped by earth. Her storytelling begins not with a greeting, but with the tactile reality of labour.

Her hands reach for the clay. It meets the mat with a soft, damp thud. Fingers press, release, and hesitate before finding trust in the material. As the chak begins to turn, it produces a low, continuous hum. To the untrained ear, it is ambient noise; to the potter, it is the “rhyme of everyday survival.” It is a cadence that women across rural India recognise because it mirrors their own lives—constant, patient, and largely unnoticed. It is the music of the unseen.

Sangeeta’s narratives are not the romanticised, picturesque tales of “craft” often found in coffee-table books. Her stories are gathered from years of visiting potter communities—initially Hindu, and increasingly Tribal and Muslim potters—to understand the vast, differing frameworks of their existence.

She explores a fascinating paradox: the potter is indispensable to Indian social and cultural life, shaping the vessels for births, rituals, and deaths, yet remains pushed to the lowest strata of society. “Clay carries a paradox,” she notes. “Indispensability without status, skill without recognition.”

In Hindu traditions, tools are often described as divine gifts from Shiva or Vishnu. In contrast, tribal tales can be “graphic,” detailing a more visceral, raw acquisition of tools from the natural world. By engraving these stories onto her pottery, Sangeeta ensures that the clay itself becomes an archive, recording not just folklore, but the politics of identity and survival.

To look at Sangeeta’s finished work is to see a visual tapestry of these oral histories. Her process is one of deep patience and technical care. Unlike contemporary potters who might reach for commercial glazes or vibrant synthetic paints, Sangeeta stays true to the rustic roots of the craft. She emulates rural artisans by applying a layer of khadiya mitti, a white chalk clay, over the damp terracotta. This ivory-hued slip acts as a canvas of depth. Using fine tools, she cuts through the white layer to reveal the rich, burnt-orange earth beneath.

“I heard the stories; I didn’t see them,” she explains. “The visualisation is purely imaginative.” Each line she etches represents a character from a potter’s folktale or a movement of a woman’s hand. She describes the process as “nurturing a child,” often staying up all night to monitor the drying process, ensuring the tension in the clay does not crack the narrative she has so carefully carved. The result is a striking contrast: a dark, earthy line singing against a bone-white surface, making the stories of the community “pop” with visual urgency.

At the heart of Sangeeta’s practice is a sharp, necessary gender lens. In the world of pottery, labour is strictly—and often unfairly—divided. Women perform the most arduous and foundational tasks: they trek to collect the clay, they sieve the soil for impurities, they fetch the water, and they spend hours kneading the earth into a workable state. Without their labour, the wheel cannot turn.

Yet, a traditional boundary exists: women are often kept away from the chak itself. The wheel—the visible symbol of creation and mastery—remains a male domain. Sangeeta’s performance is an act of reclamation. As she moves through the space, her hands and feet immersed in soil, she performs this “invisible” labour. She kneads the clay with her legs, grounding herself fully, allowing her body to become part of the material. She uses tools as metaphors: the sieve speaks of filtration and control; the act of kneading speaks of endurance; the wheel speaks of authority and access.

As the audience is drawn in—no longer spectators, but participants touching and shaping the soil—the atmosphere thickens. Time stretches and folds. In the midst of the labour, Sangeeta recites a couplet from the mystic poet Kabir, allowing the words to rise naturally from the movement of her body. She recites, “Maati kahe kumhar se, tu kya ronde mohe, Ek din aisa aayega, main rondungi tohe.” The meaning: the clay says to the potter, “Why do you trample me now? A day will come when I shall be the one to trample you.”’

The lines arrive not as literature, but as a prophecy. It is a moment where labour confronts power and mortality answers control. The room grows still; the only sound is the whisper of water and the breath of the participants. For Sangeeta, who also carries this “embodied approach” into the classroom as a teacher, pottery is a way of knowing that bypasses the intellect and speaks directly to the nerves. In a world obsessed with speed and digital detachment, her work insists on the “slow answer.”

When the workshop ends, there is often a profound silence. People forget to clap, their hands still stained with the grey-brown dust of the earth. They remain bound not by the spectacle they have seen, but by the realisation of what the clay has revealed.

About Author: Anu Jain is a Doctoral Scholar at Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. Her research examines the intersection of Gandhian philosophy and Gender with a particular focus on the crucial role of Elected Women Representatives (EWRs).

Courtesy: The AIDEM

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After partition Muslim communalism asserted itself in Pakistan, eroding the possibility of the country becoming a thriving democracy. Social and economic progress was the biggest victim here diminishing the possibility of its transition into a modern state with progress, peace and Amity. India had a very secular leadership under Jawaharlal Nehru and he, with others, laid the foundations of a nation which –until a few decades ago –was held up as a unique experiment with core syncretic values. However, communal forces that have risen over the last couple of decades are undoing the achievements of the first four-five decades of peace and amity. Hate against Muslims has been their core method; to increase their power and hold over society.

During this march towards converting an aspiring democracy into a sectarian nationalist state, those brandishing this majoritarian politics have devised newer and newer languages and slogans against Muslims in particular and also against Christians.

The situation is pathetic now. Social common sense is full of Hate against Muslims and this is increasing by the day. We saw Hindu communalism developing a mechanism to spread far and wide to the extent that Muslim ghettos are the order of the day, vegetarianism being asserted, love jihad, land jihad, Corona jihad have been commonplace words. Starting from the top leadership the foot soldiers implement this hate into practical violence leading to polarisation of society.

The top leadership throws up slogans like ‘Batenge to Katenge’, ‘Ek hain to safe hain’, they can be identified from their clothes, they proliferate like rabbits, Hindus will become a minority, Hindus are in danger; to name just the few.  On the top of this pyramid, the Assam Chief Minister, who was earlier in Congress and is now in BJP from last few years, has made statements against Miyas, (Bengalis speaking Muslims), which exceed all the earlier hate speeches against Muslims. On January 27, 2026, he stated ‘four to five lakh Miyas will be removed from the electoral rolls through SIR’. He went on to state “Vote chori means we are trying to steal some Miya votes. They should ideally not be allowed to vote in Assam, but in Bangladesh.” According to media reports, Sarma also openly instigated the public by saying, “Whoever can give trouble in any way should give, including you. In a rickshaw, if the fare is Rs 5, give them Rs 4. Only if they face troubles will they leave Assam.” Reported the Deccan Herald.

To cap it all he has recently released a video on social media showing him shooting through rifle and bullet going and hitting the skull capped man and the boy standing close to him. This tweet has been deleted now. Seeing all this the renowned Human Rights activist and eminent author, Harsh Mander filed a petition against him for Hate speech to “Promote hatred, harassment and discrimination against Bengali-speaking Muslims in Assam.” He said he had sought prompt action and the registration of an FIR under relevant provisions of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, 2023.To this Sarma responded that he will file multiple FIRs against Mander for helping the Muslims during NRC process, and ensure that he is sent to jail. (Latest news reports suggest that after two petitions moved in the Supreme Court of India, Sarma has made a scapegoat of the BJP’s social media chief and sacked him, disclaiming all responsibility for the controversial, hate-filled, video—Editors).

So, what has happened to the syncretic culture which has been part of our land for centuries, where Azan Peer and Shankar Dev of Assam preached harmony and lived in Assam itself? So, what happened to the Hindu Muslim interaction in all areas of life, food, literature, architecture and religious festivals? One starts feeling hopeless in this scenario and feels despondent.

And then came the incident from Kotdwar in Uttarakhand. Here an old Muslim man was running a shop called ‘Baba school dress’ for the last 30 years. Bajrang Dal activists pounced upon him questioning how he can name his shop Baba, which for them means a Hindu figure. Seeing this Deepak intervened. As he was confronting the Bajrang Dal attackers the police was a mute spectator and police filed FIRs against Deepak Kumar and his friend. In another FIR against the Bajrang Dal activists the FIR is against unknown persons.

Details of Deepak Kumar’s stand and the backlash he faced may be read here.

So much hope was generated after this incident. The hope that humanism is not totally wiped in the flood of hate created by the followers of Hindu nationalism. Deepak is a living example of the thick Hindu Muslim relations which prevailed here but have become an exception by now. This exception shows the prevalence of earlier amity. Indian Currents reported, Deepak Kumar’s act of Humanism is worth 100 salutes. Rahul Gandhi, the leader of opposition, complimented Deepak Kumar and stated, “”Deepak is fighting for the Constitution and humanity—for that Constitution which the BJP and the Sangh Parivar conspire every day to trample underfoot. He is a living symbol of a shop of love in the marketplace of hate, and that is what stings those in power the most. The Sangh Parivar is deliberately poisoning the country’s economy and society so that India remains divided and a few continue to rule on the crutches of fear.” Reported the Hindustan Times.

Deepak Kumar himself had a very sweet answer as to why he called himself Mohammad. It was an act of solidarity and he said, ““Saraswati was sitting on my tongue, and that’s why, at that moment, the name ‘Mohammad Deepak’ came out of my mouth. I thought they would understand that I am Hindu, and that the situation, which was getting heated, would calm down. But instead, an FIR has now been filed against me.” Reported the Quint.

One only hopes and wishes we see more of people like Deepak Kumar who represent the true idea of India.

(This piece has been edited in part for language and style)

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The order delivered by Hon’ble Justice Pankaj Bhatia on 9 February 2026 in Application under Section 528 BNSS No. 1980 of 2025, Kamalesh Agnihotri @ Kamal & Ors. v. State of Uttar Pradesh is one such intervention. What begins as a seemingly mundane disagreement over parking regulations and penalties within a residential society unfolds into a judicial inquiry into the ethics of investigation, the limits of criminal process, and the constitutional dangers inherent in its misuse.

The Court’s judgment is not confined to resolving a private dispute. It undertakes a careful and methodical examination of whether allegations of extortion and harassment levelled against the Resident Welfare Association (RWA) could, in law, attract offences under Sections 308(2), 351(2) and 352 of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita. In doing so, the Court situates the controversy within a larger constitutional framework, reaffirming that criminal law must remain an instrument of justice—not a device for coercion, intimidation, or personal score-settling.

What lends the judgment its distinctive moral force is the Court’s concluding observation: “With great powers come great responsibility.” This is not a rhetorical flourish. It is directed squarely at Opposite Party No. 2, who sought to invoke his association with the RSS, a highly disciplined cultural organisation, to browbeat elected members of the RWA. The Court censures this conduct, noting that the misuse of institutional affiliation not only corrodes democratic functioning at the grassroots but also brings disrepute to the organisation itself. While the Court consciously refrains from entering into questions of the RSS’s internal discipline, its message is unequivocal-no institutional or social association can confer license to misuse the criminal process. In this sense, the judgment transcends technical adjudication and enters the realm of ethical responsibility in public life.

The decision is further strengthened by its engagement with a formidable body of Supreme Court jurisprudence, making it a veritable treatise for students and practitioners of criminal law—each authority cited deserving close reading, particularly by younger members of the Bar.

Drawing from State of Bihar v. P.P. Sharma (1992 Supp (1) SCC 222), the Court reiterates that investigation is a search for truth, not a quest for convictions. Babubhai v. State of Gujarat (2010) 12 SCC 254 is relied upon to emphasize impartiality and to caution against investigative harassment. In Vinay Tyagi v. Irshad Ali (2013) 5 SCC 762, fair investigation is defined as one that is unbiased and truth-oriented, while Amitbhai Anilchandra Shah v. CBI (2013) 6 SCC 348 underscores the need to balance the rights of the accused with those of the victim.

The Court invokes Manohar Lal Sharma v. Principal Secretary (2014) 2 SCC 532 to reaffirm that an investigation is fundamentally a quest for truth, and uses Dinubhai Boghabhai Solanki v. State of Gujarat (2014) 4 SCC 626 to stress that the criminal justice system must ensure that no innocent person suffers. The constitutional imperative of police impartiality, articulated in Rajiv Singh v. State of Bihar (2015) 16 SCC 369, and is reinforced alongside the warning issued in Suresh Chandra Jana v. State of West Bengal (2017) 16 SCC 466 against perfunctory and mechanical investigations. The judgment also draws upon Nirmal Singh Kahlon v. State of Punjab (2009) 1 SCC 441 to affirm fair investigation as a fundamental right, and Azija Begum v. State of Maharashtra (2012) 3 SCC 126 to link it directly with the guarantee of equality under Article 14.

Ultimately, the judgment stands as a cautionary marker in a time when the boundary between grievance and vendetta is increasingly blurred. It reiterates that criminal law is neither an instrument of intimidation nor a shortcut to settle civil or social disputes, and certainly not a weapon to be sanctified by invoking proximity to power or institutional affiliation. For investigating agencies, it is a reminder that fairness is not a procedural luxury but a constitutional obligation. For individuals, it is a warning that stature—real or claimed—cannot legitimize abuse of process. And for advocates, students of law, academics, and judges alike, this decision endures as a moral and constitutional compass, demonstrating how procedural fairness, judicial restraint, and ethical responsibility must together anchor the criminal justice system.

About Author

Advocate Syed Mohammad Haider Rizvi

Advocate Syed Mohammad Haider Rizvi is an alumnus of Jamia Millia Islamia (1998) and a Gold Medallist in LL.M. from Lucknow University. An advocate with extensive experience working with government departments, PSUs, and corporate organisations, he is widely known for his public-interest litigation, including a landmark case protecting Lucknow’s cultural heritage. He played a key role in introducing online RTI processes in Uttar Pradesh and in amending the Allahabad High Court’s 10-day bail rule. He is currently pursuing doctoral research on Right to Life and Personal Liberty under RTI.

Courtesy: The AIDEM

The post When Criminal Law Becomes a Weapon: Justice Bhatia’s Reminder on Power, Process and Fairness appeared first on SabrangIndia.

What followed has only deepened that concern. Across campuses, students protesting the Supreme Court stay on UGC (Promotion of Equity in Higher Education Institutions) Regulations, 2026 have faced intimidation, surveillance, violence, and criminal process. Instead of debate, there has been policing. Instead of institutional introspection, securitisation. And instead of engagement with the substance of caste discrimination, there has been an aggressive narrowing of what may even be spoken.

Together, these developments mark a dangerous convergence: the criminalisation of speech, the judicial suspension of equity safeguards, and the shrinking of democratic space within institutions meant to nurture critical thought.

देशभर में यूजीसी एक्ट के समर्थन में बहुजन छात्रों के प्रदर्शन हो रहे हैं, लेकिन मुख्यधारा का मीडिया चुप है। pic.twitter.com/Nqdq8CpJhd

— Hansraj Meena (@HansrajMeena) February 4, 2026

A judicial stay that did not calm campuses—but exposed a fault line

The immediate trigger for nationwide student mobilisation was the Supreme Court’s decision to stay the UGC Equity Regulations 2026, observing that the framework appeared “too sweeping” and required closer scrutiny. The stay was framed as a neutral act of caution. On campuses, it was experienced as something else entirely: a sudden withdrawal of long-awaited recognition.

As reported by India Today, students argued that the regulations were halted before they could even be tested. No implementation, no data, no demonstrated misuse—only a speculative fear that accountability mechanisms might be abused. The contrast was striking. In a legal system where far-reaching executive actions are often allowed to operate while constitutional challenges remain pending for years, a framework designed to protect marginalised students was frozen at inception.

The context matters. The 2026 regulations did not emerge in a vacuum. They were the product of years of litigation, including the long-pending petition filed by the mothers of Rohith Vemula and Payal Tadvi, both of whom died by suicide after alleged caste-based harassment. Over time, the Supreme Court itself sought reports, monitored compliance, and pressed for reform. A Parliamentary Standing Committee reviewed the draft regulations in late 2025, recommending substantive changes—many of which were incorporated.

Yet, at the very first hearing after notification, the framework was stayed.

For students already navigating hostile campuses, the implication was stark: caste discrimination may be acknowledged rhetorically, but meaningful institutional safeguards remain deeply contested.

Campuses Respond: Different languages, the same demand for justice

The response to the stay has varied across universities, shaped by institutional histories and student politics. But taken together, protests at JNU, BHU, and Delhi University reveal a shared insistence that equity cannot remain a matter of administrative goodwill.

JNU: The defence of ideological space

At Jawaharlal Nehru University, students organised torchlight processions demanding immediate implementation of the regulations and renewed calls for a statutory Rohith Act—a central anti-discrimination law for higher education.

Placards and slogans opposing Brahmanism and Manusmriti dominated the march. Defending the language used, JNUSU representatives told PTI that the slogans were ideological critiques, not attacks on any caste group—an important distinction grounded in established free-speech jurisprudence. Political critique, even when sharp or unsettling, lies at the heart of constitutional democracy.

Student leaders also raised a pointed question: why was extraordinary urgency shown in staying these regulations when countless cases involving civil liberties remain pending for years? The warning from the campus was clear—if justice is indefinitely deferred within universities, it will not remain confined there.

UGC गाइडलाइन के समर्थन में जेएनयू स्टूडेंट्स का मार्च#JNU #UGCRegulations2026 pic.twitter.com/S9tlsULus0

— Dalit Dastak | दलित दस्तक (@DalitDastak) February 4, 2026

BHU: Evidence, reports, and institutional failure

At Banaras Hindu University, the protest took a different form. Hundreds of SC, ST, and OBC students marched carrying letters, official reports, and citations, demanding Equal Opportunity Centres, Equity Committees, transparency in grievance redressal, and public disclosure of compliance.

As reported by India Today, students cited the Thorat Committee Report (2007) and the IIT Delhi study (2019), both of which document systemic discrimination and its links to mental health crises, dropouts, and suicides. The emphasis here was not symbolic resistance but institutional accountability.

A heavy police presence and alert proctorial boards accompanied the march—an unsettling reminder of how quickly claims of discrimination are met with securitisation rather than reform.

Delhi University: From regulation to law

At Delhi University, Left-backed student groups led an “Equity March” through North Campus, framing the issue as a legislative and constitutional question. According to The Times of India, speakers argued that without statutory backing, grievance mechanisms remain fragile, easily diluted, and subject to withdrawal.

The demand for the Rohith Act surfaced repeatedly—reflecting a growing consensus that enforceable rights, not discretionary guidelines, are essential to address structural caste discrimination.

Violence, policing, and the price of naming caste

Even as students mobilised, reports of violence and intimidation surfaced from multiple campuses. As per reports, a BHU student allegedly being beaten by upper-caste peers for sharing a poster supporting the UGC protests in a WhatsApp group. At Allahabad University, students discussing equity regulations were reportedly attacked, with allegations pointing to ABVP-linked groups.

Most chilling was the Allahabad University episode itself: students allegedly assaulted, and one student arrested or warned for speech alone. If the use of the word “Brahminism”—a staple of academic critique—can invite police action, the boundary between maintaining order and enforcing ideological conformity has all but vanished.

For many protesters, these incidents crystallised the argument for equity regulations: without enforceable safeguards, marginalised students are left vulnerable not just to bureaucratic neglect, but to physical and legal harm.

चप्पा चप्पा गूंज उठेगा , जय भीम के नारों से pic.twitter.com/5eb3H59nXr

— Dr. Om Sudha (@dromsudhaa) February 4, 2026

This is shocking and absolutely unacceptable in university campuses. Students who were peacefully discussing equity regulations in University of Allahabad were reportedly beaten up by Brahmanical forces of ABVP. This is exactly why we need equity regulations. The safety of… pic.twitter.com/beFHX0xoSh

— Rehna Raveendran (@Rehna_AntiCaste) February 4, 2026

A BHU student was brutally beaten by upper-caste students simply for sharing a poster about the UGC protest in a WhatsApp group.

To stop this kind of hooliganism and violence on campuses, strong and enforceable UGC regulations are absolutely necessary.
pic.twitter.com/vUKPXjAjm1

— Harshita Narayani (@DearAspirant) February 4, 2026

Faculty Unease and the Limits of the Framework

Faculty responses have complicated the picture rather than resolved it. The JNUTA noted that the regulations fail to address the deep-rooted and systemic nature of discrimination. At protest gatherings, faculty speakers acknowledged these limitations—pointing to the absence of punitive provisions, excessive power vested in principals, and the exclusion of elite institutions like IITs and IIMs.

Yet the consensus among many educators was striking: even an imperfect framework represented a rare institutional acknowledgment that caste discrimination exists on campuses. To halt it before implementation was not correction—it was erasure.

Media silence, political quiet, and democratic erosion

A recurring concern across protests has been the muted response of large sections of the mainstream media and the conspicuous absence of sustained parliamentary debate. Students questioned how a nationwide mobilisation demanding discrimination-free campuses could unfold without political engagement at the highest levels.

When speech is criminalised, safeguards are stayed, and violence is normalised or ignored, trust in democratic institutions begins to fracture—not through apathy, but through lived experience.

देशभर में यूजीसी एक्ट के समर्थन में बहुजन छात्रों के प्रदर्शन हो रहे हैं, लेकिन मुख्यधारा का मीडिया चुप है। pic.twitter.com/Nqdq8CpJhd

— Hansraj Meena (@HansrajMeena) February 4, 2026

More Than a Regulation: A test of university democracy

As highlighted by the incidents above, the battle over the UGC Equity Regulations has outgrown the regulations themselves. It has become a test of whether universities will remain spaces of critique or instruments of control; whether caste can be named without punishment; and whether equality will be treated as a constitutional obligation or an administrative inconvenience.

When students are arrested for words, protections are suspended before they are tried, and dissent is met with force rather than reason, the crisis is no longer confined to campuses. It speaks to the health of the republic itself.

The question now confronting India’s universities is no longer about guidelines or committees. It is about whether democracy—messy, uncomfortable, and argumentative—still has a place in the classroom.

.Related:

Hate Speech Before the Supreme Court: From judicial activism to institutional closure

When Protest becomes a “Threat”: Inside the Supreme Court hearing on Sonam Wangchuk’s NSA detention

Another Campus, Another Death: Student suicides continue unabated across India

My birth is my fatal accident, remembering Rohith Vemula’s last letter

‘Diluted Existing Rules’: Rohith Vemula, Payal Tadvi’s Mothers Slam UGC’s Draft Equity Regulations

The stay of UGC Equity Regulations, 2026: The interim order, the proceedings, and the constitutional questions raised

The post Campuses in Revolt: How the UGC Equity Stay and Criminalised Dissent Have Ignited Student Protests Across India appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The Mumbai Police have registered an accidental death report (ADR) and initiated an inquiry, stating that it is too early to draw conclusions. As reported by Deccan Herald, Agarwal was officially residing in Hostel No. 3, but fell from the terrace of Hostel No. 4, raising questions about his movements in the hours leading up to his death. Police officials told the newspaper that his roommate and other students are being questioned, a panchnama of his room has been conducted, and the body has been sent for post-mortem examination. His family in Pilani, Rajasthan, has been informed.

A police officer quoted by The Indian Express said authorities were “conducting inquiries from all possible angles” and would not rule out any possibility at this stage. If evidence of abetment or coercion emerges, officials said further legal action would follow.

Student organisation APPSC (Ambedkar Periyar Phule Study Circle) described Agarwal’s death as the second suicide at IIT Bombay in the last six months. The group explicitly linked the incident to a pattern of institutional failure, recalling earlier student deaths on the campus.

Naman Aggarwal died of suicide last night after jumping from Hostel-4. He was a second year Civil Engineering student and convenor of Style Up club in IIT-B. This is second death by suicide in IIT-B in six months. #IITkills pic.twitter.com/lqZp8fvVwu

— APPSC IIT Bombay (@AppscIITb) February 4, 2026

A spate of campus deaths in a matter of days

What makes Agarwal’s death especially alarming is that it occurred amid a cluster of student suicides reported across India within days, cutting across states, disciplines, and institutional hierarchies.

On January 31, Ronak Raj, a 19-year-old first-year engineering student at SVKM NMIMS Hyderabad’s Jadcherla campus, died by suicide in his hostel room. According to reports carried by India Today, the student had allegedly been accused by college authorities of cheating during semester examinations. Multiple reports stated that he appeared deeply distressed and humiliated following the accusation. The incident sparked student protests on campus, with student unions demanding accountability and transparency in disciplinary processes.

On February 4, a 19-year-old second-year nursing student, Bheeshmanjali, was found dead in her hostel room at a private college in Tirupati, according to information released by the Tirupati East Police and reported by DT Next. Police stated that she had remained alone in the hostel while her roommates attended classes. A case has been registered on the basis of a complaint filed by her parents, and an investigation is underway.

Only days earlier, a 20-year-old third-year engineering student, Vishnavi Jitesh, was found hanging in her hostel room at the BITS Pilani Goa campus, as reported by The Indian Express. Police confirmed that this was the sixth suicide reported on the campus in the past two years. The growing number of deaths at the Goa campus was raised in the Goa Legislative Assembly during the winter session, where Chief Minister Pramod Sawant, as reported by The Indian Express, stated that academic pressure had emerged as a common factor in several cases. The Goa government subsequently constituted a district-level monitoring committee to examine the deaths. The committee’s preliminary findings referred to the possibility of “copy-cat suicides”, where one suicide triggers imitative behaviour within a closed institutional environment—a phenomenon well documented in suicide-prevention research.

National data confirms a worsening crisis

The recurrence of such deaths is supported by national data. As per the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) 2023, student suicides in India rose by 64% between 2013 and 2022, with 103,961 student suicides recorded over that decade. 

A report by the IC3 Institute, titled Student Suicides: An Epidemic Sweeping India, estimates that over 13,000 students die by suicide every year. The report warns that the actual numbers are likely underreported, due to stigma, institutional reluctance to report deaths accurately, and misclassification of suicides as accidental deaths.

State-wise NCRB data shows that Maharashtra reported the highest number of student suicides. In 2023, India reported 13,044 student suicides, or about 36 a day, with Maharashtra (2,578) and Tamil Nadu (1,982) having the highest number, followed by Madhya Pradesh (1,668). These states have the largest educational ecosystems, or competition for schools, outside of state-controlled educational ecosystems.  

Gender-disaggregated data presents another troubling trend. While male student suicides declined by 6% between 2021 and 2022, female student suicides increased by 7% in the same period, with women accounting for nearly 47% of all student suicides in 2022, according to NCRB figures.

Detailed report may be read here.

Policies on paper, protection absent on campus

India is not short of policy frameworks. The Mental Healthcare Act, 2017 decriminalised suicide. The National Education Policy (NEP), 2020 explicitly recognises suicide as a product of intersecting personal, academic, and social pressures, including humiliation, academic competition, transitions, and insensitive institutional cultures.

Yet the central problem lies in implementation. Many institutions may formally appoint counsellors, but the quality, accessibility, confidentiality, and suicide-prevention expertise of such services remain deeply uneven. Poorly trained or inadequately resourced counselling mechanisms, experts warn, can aggravate distress rather than mitigate it.

Supreme Court intervention—and institutional resistance

In a recent judgment of January 16, 2026, the Supreme Court of India had held higher educational institutions directly accountable for student mental well-being. Acting on the recommendations of a National Task Force chaired by former Justice Ravindra S. Bhat, the Court mandated:

• Mandatory reporting of all student suicides and unnatural deaths, irrespective of where they occur
• 24×7 access to medical care on or near residential campuses
• Protection of students from punitive measures due to scholarship delays
• Time-bound filling of vacant faculty positions, especially reserved posts
• Strengthening of Equal Opportunity Centres and Internal Complaints Committees

The Court was unequivocal in its assessment, observing that existing UGC and institutional guidelines remain “largely prescriptive and on paper”, with little enforcement or accountability.

Where is UMMEED when students die?

Despite the existence of a dedicated national framework on suicide prevention in educational spaces, the spate of recent student deaths raises serious questions about whether such measures exist anywhere beyond official documents. The UMMEED Guidelines— issued by the Union Government in 2023 as a comprehensive framework for mental health promotion and suicide prevention in educational institutions—were meant to institutionalise early identification, peer support, emergency response, and accountability mechanisms within campuses. Yet, the deaths at IIT Bombay, NMIMS Hyderabad, BITS Pilani Goa, Tirupati, and elsewhere demonstrate a stark disconnect between the guidelines’ stated objectives and campus realities.

UMMEED mandates the constitution of School or Institutional Wellness Teams, headed by the principal or head of the institution, tasked with identifying students at risk, coordinating responses, ensuring counselling access, and conducting periodic reviews. It also stresses the importance of safe campus design, supervision of vulnerable spaces, sensitivity training for staff, and the creation of non-punitive, non-stigmatising environments. However, in case after case, students continue to die in hostel rooms, terraces, and unsupervised spaces, suggesting that even the most basic preventive measures envisaged under UMMEED—such as surveillance of high-risk areas and timely intervention—are either absent or treated as mere formalities.

Crucially, UMMEED emphasises early identification of distress and immediate response, distinguishing between students showing warning signs and those actively at risk. Yet, recent incidents indicate that distress is often noticed only in hindsight—after allegations of cheating, academic humiliation, isolation, or prolonged silence have already taken a severe toll. The deaths of students who were reportedly distressed following disciplinary action or academic pressure directly undermine the claim that institutions are effectively identifying or responding to warning signs, as UMMEED requires.

The guidelines also stress sensitivity, confidentiality, and non-judgemental engagement, cautioning against actions that could shame or alienate students. This stands in sharp contrast to incidents where students were allegedly humiliated following accusations or subjected to rigid, unsympathetic administrative processes. The persistence of such practices highlights how disciplinary regimes often operate in direct contradiction to suicide-prevention frameworks, exposing students to precisely the kinds of stressors UMMEED warns against.

Perhaps most telling is UMMEED’s insistence on shared responsibility—placing obligations not just on counsellors, but on administrators, teachers, staff, and even peers. Yet, when deaths occur, responsibility is routinely diffused: police inquiries are initiated, institutions express regret, and investigations are framed as premature to conclude. What is conspicuously missing is any public accounting of whether UMMEED-mandated structures existed, whether they functioned, and if they failed, who is answerable.

In this sense, UMMEED mirrors a broader pattern in India’s mental-health governance: robust language without enforceability, ambition without accountability. Like UGC advisories and NEP mandates, it lacks clear statutory backing, monitoring mechanisms, or penalties for non-compliance. The result is a framework that allows institutions to claim compliance on paper while students continue to fall through the cracks—sometimes, quite literally.

Beyond condolences

Despite judicial directions, national policies, and repeated institutional assurances, students continue to die—often following episodes of humiliation, isolation, academic pressure, or silent distress.

The deaths of Naman Agarwal, Ronak Raj, Vishnavi Jitesh, Bheeshmanjali, and thousands of unnamed students across the country are not failures of individual resilience. They are failures of institutions that continue to privilege discipline over dignity, reputation over responsibility, and procedure over care.

As police inquiries continue and administrations issue carefully worded statements of regret, the most pressing question remains unanswered: how many more deaths will it take before existing safeguards are enforced—not merely cited—after another student is gone?

Related:

Lives in the Margins: Reading India’s suicide data beyond the numbers

KIIT Suicide Case: Nepalese student’s harassment complaint ignored for 11 months before tragic suicide

Raman Garase’s suicide on May Day, 2024 is a sombre reminder of how badly IITs treat their labour

Another student lost to suicide at IIT-Delhi

Another Dalit student dies by suicide after being attacked in Tamil Nadu, activists demand urgent action

Another student, belonging to the Scheduled Caste community, dies by suicide in IIT

The post Another Campus, Another Death: Student suicides continue unabated across India appeared first on SabrangIndia.