Democracy in Abeyance

 

 A promise of representation is, once again, deferred—this time in the name of procedure.

Asis Mistry

 

Legislation sometimes fails in Parliament; more rarely, it reveals the limits of political imagination. The defeat of the Constitution (One Hundred and Thirty-first Amendment) Bill, 2026 in the Lok Sabha—298 for, 230 against, short of the two-thirds threshold—belongs to the latter category. It tells us less about parliamentary arithmetic than about the peculiar temporality that now governs democratic reform in India: a politics that promises immediacy while institutionalizing delay.

The Bill was presented as a necessary step to operationalize the Constitution (106th Amendment) Act, 2023—the much-celebrated measure that guarantees one-third reservation for women in the Lok Sabha and State Assemblies. Yet, as with the earlier amendment, the promise remains suspended. The operative condition is delimitation, itself contingent upon a future census, itself subject to political discretion. The right exists, but only as anticipation. This is not an accident. It is, rather, a distinctive technique of governance.

The Politics of Deferred Realization

In the classical language of constitutionalism, rights are to be secured through enforceable guarantees. In contemporary India, however, rights increasingly appear as policy intentions routed through administrative processes. The 131st Amendment Bill sought to rearrange the constitutional scaffolding—altering Articles 81, 82, and 170—to enable a fresh delimitation based on updated population data, thereby hastening the implementation of women’s reservation. But the haste is curious. It does not eliminate the delay; it reorganizes it.

One is reminded of the long freeze on parliamentary seat allocation based on the 1971 Census, justified in the name of federal balance. Temporary arrangements acquire permanence; procedural conditions become political instruments. The present Bill extends this logic. By tying representation to demographic recalibration, it embeds gender justice within a larger—and more contentious—project: the redistribution of political power across regions.

The Hidden Argument

The debate, predictably, has been cast in moral terms. The government, through figures such as Kiren Rijiju and Amit Shah, accused the opposition of denying women their rightful place in the polity. The opposition, led by Rahul Gandhi in the Lok Sabha, dismissed the Bill as a misnomer—arguing that it had little to do with immediate empowerment.

Both positions are politically expedient. Neither addresses the deeper question: why must women’s representation await the completion of an administrative exercise whose timeline is uncertain?

The answer lies in the broader ambitions of the ruling dispensation. Delimitation is not merely a technical adjustment; it is a moment of constitutional reordering. Population growth has been uneven across states. A fresh delimitation, especially after 2026, is likely to increase the representation of northern and central states relative to the south. For a party like the Bharatiya Janata Party, whose electoral strength is concentrated in these regions, this is not an incidental outcome.

Women’s reservation, then, becomes politically legible as part of a larger project: to align the moral claim of gender justice with the strategic recalibration of electoral geography. It is a deft move. It allows the government to occupy the high ground of progressive reform while advancing a structural shift in representation that serves its long-term interests.

Representation and Its Discontents

There is, however, a conceptual problem. Representation is not merely a matter of numbers; it is also a question of presence. To defer the entry of women into legislatures is to perpetuate an absence that cannot be justified by procedural necessity alone.

The insistence on delimitation as a precondition reveals a particular understanding of democracy—one that privileges systemic coherence over immediate inclusion. It assumes that the architecture must be perfected before participation can be expanded. But democracies rarely function in such orderly sequences. They are, instead, shaped by imperfect interventions that create new constituencies and, in doing so, transform the system itself.

The history of reservations in India bears this out. Whether for Scheduled Castes, Scheduled Tribes, or Other Backward Classes, political inclusion has often preceded administrative neatness. The demand for women’s reservation has followed a similar trajectory, marked by decades of mobilization and repeated legislative attempts. To now tether it to delimitation is to reinsert uncertainty into what had appeared, briefly, as a settled commitment.

The Theatre of Outrage

The events following the Bill’s defeat—the protest by women MPs of the ruling alliance, the sharp exchanges in public discourse—belong to the familiar theatre of contemporary politics. Outrage is performed, positions are hardened, and the substantive issues recede.

Yet, the failure to secure a two-thirds majority cannot be attributed solely to opposition intransigence. Constitutional amendments require consensus, or at least the semblance of it. That the government fell short suggests either a misreading of parliamentary numbers or a reluctance to engage meaningfully with dissenting concerns. In either case, the result is the same: a reform that remains unrealized.

An Unasked Question

What would it have meant to implement women’s reservation without waiting for delimitation? Transitional arrangements were conceivable. Seats could have been reserved within the existing framework, with adjustments to follow. Such a move would have prioritized the principle of inclusion over the perfection of design.

That this option was not seriously pursued indicates the limits of the current political imagination. Reform is conceived not as an intervention in the present, but as a promise deferred to a more convenient future.

A Democracy That Waits

The failure of the 131st Amendment Bill is, in this sense, instructive. It reveals a democracy that is willing to legislate aspiration but hesitant to enact it. It shows how rights can be acknowledged without being realized, how inclusion can be celebrated while being postponed.

The question, then, is not whether women will eventually find their place in India’s legislatures. They will. The question is when—and under what conditions. If the answer continues to be deferred to the next census, the next delimitation, the next political moment, then the promise risks losing its urgency.

Democracy, after all, is not only about the future it imagines. It is also about the present it inhabits. And a democracy that waits too long to include risks discovering that its delays have already reshaped the terms of participation.

For now, the Bill that was meant to hasten inclusion has itself become part of the delay.

 

Asis Mistry is faculty in the Department of Political Science, University of Calcutta.

The People Who Made India’s Constitution

 

Rohit De and Ornit Shani’s new history of constitution-making reminds us that the Constitution was never merely written in Delhi’s halls of power. It was forged in letters, petitions, and struggles across the country — a living document authored by the people themselves.

 

By Asis Mistry

When India’s Constitution was adopted in 1950, Dr. B.R. Ambedkar warned that political democracy must rest on the foundation of social and economic democracy. Yet what Rohit De and Ornit Shani remind us in their powerful new book, Assembling India’s Constitution: A New Democratic History (Penguin Random House, 2025), is that democracy in India had already begun long before 1950 — not in the Constituent Assembly alone, but in the countless letters, petitions, and protests through which ordinary Indians claimed their place in the new republic.

Their intervention challenges the familiar narrative that the Constitution was the gift of a few enlightened leaders. Instead, they recover a forgotten history of public constitutionalism — a history in which peasants, tribals, workers, and women’s associations wrote to the Assembly, debated draft provisions in local meetings, and imagined justice, equality, and freedom in their own idioms. The Constitution, they argue, was not only written for the people but with them — and often by them.

From Founding Fathers to Founding Publics

For decades, scholars like Granville Austin and Madhav Khosla have portrayed constitution-making as a top-down process, guided by visionary elites. De and Shani turn this on its head. Drawing on petitions and letters sent between 1946 and 1949, they show that democracy preceded constitution-making — that India’s people were already practising citizenship before universal suffrage was granted.

The Moshalchi community’s 1947 petition from Bengal, for instance, pleaded for recognition as citizens — a small act that captures a larger truth: the people were not passive recipients but active participants in shaping the republic. De and Shani’s “Ornit–Rohit Constitutional Archive” uncovers thousands of such moments when the subaltern spoke the language of constitutional rights.

A Living, Assembled Constitution

The authors use the term “assembling” to signal that India’s Constitution was never a finished monument but an evolving structure built through contestation. Unlike the static “cornerstone” metaphor of old, the “assembly” metaphor suggests an ongoing democratic practice — one that continues each time citizens invoke constitutional ideals to challenge injustice.

That living energy has been vividly visible in India’s recent history. When protestors across the country held public readings of the Preamble during the Citizenship (Amendment) Act protests of 2019–20, they were not merely performing dissent — they were reassembling the republic. When women in Shaheen Bagh sat through winter nights holding copies of the Constitution, they echoed those earlier citizens who, in the 1940s, petitioned the Assembly for equality and recognition. The Constitution became, once again, a shared repertoire of struggle — a living text rather than a sacred relic.

Becoming Constitutional Citizens

One of De and Shani’s most striking insights is that Indians learned to speak the language of the Constitution before independence. Even before the first general election, the public engaged in what the authors call “vernacular constitutional translation.” Letters written in English — the “language of the court” — were translated into Hindi, Bengali, Tamil, and Urdu newspapers, allowing local communities to debate the meaning of rights and justice.

This historical process has striking echoes in the digital age. Today, social media has become a new arena of constitutional pedagogy. During the 2024 general elections, the Preamble to the Constitution trended across platforms as young voters invoked its words — “justice, liberty, equality, fraternity” — to critique political excesses and call for pluralism. Memes, videos, and digital campaigns reimagined constitutional ideals in contemporary idioms, from gender equality to environmental justice. In many ways, this was a continuation of the participatory constitutionalism De and Shani document — democracy as a practice of learning, speaking, and claiming.

The Republic as an Open Archive

This history of constitutional participation has renewed relevance in a time when democratic backsliding looms large. The past few years have seen sharp tensions between constitutional values and executive power — from the dilution of Article 370 and restrictions on free speech to growing anxieties over minority rights. Yet, even in this moment of strain, the Constitution continues to be publicly invoked as a countervailing moral force.

The Supreme Court’s recent verdict striking down the opaque electoral bonds scheme was one such moment of reclamation. It reaffirmed the citizen’s right to know and revived faith in constitutional accountability. Similarly, when citizens and civil society groups protested the curbs on dissent and media freedom, they did so in the idiom of the Constitution — reading, performing, and reclaiming it as their own. These acts reaffirm De and Shani’s claim that India’s constitutionalism is not a frozen inheritance but a living, contested tradition.

The Risks of Forgetting

At the same time, the book’s celebration of participatory constitution-making invites reflection on those who remain unheard even today. De and Shani acknowledge that many petitions from the 1940s went unanswered, mirroring the exclusions that persist in the republic. The struggles of manual workers seeking fair wages, of Dalit and Adivasi communities fighting displacement, or of women demanding safety and representation — all testify to the unfinished nature of constitutional democracy.

To remember the Constitution’s popular origins is not to romanticise the past, but to recognise that its vitality depends on constant renewal. Every generation must learn, and sometimes fight, to keep the Constitution alive. As Ambedkar warned, constitutional morality is not a natural sentiment — it must be cultivated.

Reassembling the Republic

In today’s climate of polarised politics and majoritarian rhetoric, Assembling India’s Constitution offers both a historical correction and a civic reminder. It tells us that India’s republic was not founded in consensus but in contestation — in the argumentative, plural practices of a people learning to live democratically.

If the 2024 elections demonstrated anything, it was that constitutional language still resonates deeply with the electorate. From debates over reservation and citizenship to discussions about press freedom and institutional integrity, the Constitution remains a living framework through which Indians articulate hope and grievance.

The lesson De and Shani leave us with is clear: reclaiming the republic begins not in Parliament but in public life — in classrooms and courtrooms, in social movements and village councils, in every space where citizens demand that the Constitution’s promises be kept.

If Granville Austin once gave us the Constitution as the “cornerstone of a nation,” De and Shani give us the Constitution as the conversation of a people. It is a reminder that the republic survives not through ritual celebration but through continuous assembly — through the courage of those who keep showing up to speak its language, again and again.

 

The author is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of Calcutta, West Bengal, India. Email- asismistry.cu@gmail.com

South Asia’s Protest Wave and the Indian Paradox

 

By Asis Mistry

While mass protests are reshaping South Asia’s political landscape, India’s paradox lies in its multiple democratic safety valves that defuse discontent before it topples regimes.

 

Governments in South Asia are increasingly being overturned not at the ballot box but in the streets. In 2011, the Arab Spring set the template for a new grammar of political change, where digitally mediated protests displaced conventional opposition parties as the decisive agents of regime crisis. Sri Lanka’s Aragalaya in 2022 was emblematic: what began as a revolt over fuel and food shortages turned into a mass occupation of Colombo, ending in the resignation of President Gotabaya Rajapaksa. Pakistan’s urban middle classes and youth rallied in 2022–23 around Imran Khan, paralysing the state machinery and fracturing the political order. Bangladesh, after months of campus-centred protests converging with social unrest, saw the unprecedented ouster of Sheikh Hasina’s Awami League in 2025. Just weeks ago, Nepal’s abrupt social media ban triggered the deadliest street movement since the Madhes uprisings.

The pattern is striking. Across the region, the locus of democratic contestation is shifting from parliaments to pavements. Where elections are perceived as compromised, manipulated, or inadequate to channel popular anger, the street has become the court of last resort. And yet India, paradoxically, stands apart.

Over the last decade, India has witnessed some of the largest mass protests anywhere in the world. The anti-corruption movement in 2011 drew millions and shifted the national discourse. The Citizenship Amendment Act protests in 2019–20, largely led by students and women, created the first digitally networked opposition to the government. The farmers’ agitation of 2020–21, sustained for over a year, represented one of the most organised rural movements in decades. Each had disruptive potential, each shook the government of the day, and yet none culminated in regime change. Unlike Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, or Nepal, India’s protests have stopped short of overthrow. Thus, the question is: why does India remain an exception to South Asia’s protest wave?

The first answer lies in the resilience of India’s electoral institutions. For all their flaws, elections are regular, fiercely contested, and genuinely consequential. Anti-incumbency has not vanished; it is simply displaced onto state-level regimes or absorbed in periodic national verdicts. Discontent that in other countries explodes in the streets is here refracted through the prism of electoral politics.

Federalism also matters. India’s state governments and regional parties act as safety valves, absorbing protest energies before they coalesce into a single, nationwide anti-regime movement. In Tamil Nadu, Kerala, or West Bengal, voters can punish ruling parties without destabilising the system as a whole. Where unitary states like Sri Lanka and Nepal funnel dissent directly against central authority, India’s multiple arenas of contestation diffuse it.

More importantly, India possesses what may be called multi-level shock absorbers — institutional, social, and political mechanisms that prevent dissent from escalating into overthrow. Despite evident pressures, both remain forums where grievances are aired and occasionally redressed. Their very existence reduces the need to seek insurrectionary outlets. Trade unions, caste organisations, religious networks, and NGOs mediate between citizens and the state. They channel anger into negotiations rather than regime collapse. Expansive welfare schemes — free foodgrain to 800 million people, rural employment guarantees, subsidised healthcare, and cash transfers — blunt the radical edge of discontent. They stabilise the social base of the state even amid rising inequality. By articulating linguistic, caste, and regional grievances, subnational actors fragment opposition to the central government into multiple currents, preventing a singular anti-incumbent wave. This architecture, therefore, does not eliminate protest, but it transforms its function. It ensures that the Indian state bends but rarely breaks.

India’s cultural grammar of protest is also distinctive. Historically, protest here has functioned less as an instrument of insurrection than as a form of pressure politics. The independence movement, the anti-Emergency protests of the 1970s, the Mandal and anti-Mandal agitations of the 1990s — all exerted enormous force but did so within the legitimacy of the constitutional framework. The expectation is not that protests will unseat governments but that they will pressurise them into concessions or adjustments.

Contrast this with Sri Lanka, Nepal or Bangladesh, where mobilisations rapidly assume maximalist demands for regime change. In India, even movements as large as the farmers’ protests or CAA sit-ins remained calibrated: governments could wait them out, negotiate, or partially concede, secure in the knowledge that the final judgment would be delivered in elections.

The Indian state’s sheer size and capacity reinforce this dynamic. With vast policing powers, intelligence networks, and bureaucratic reach, it is difficult for protesters to seize control of symbolic state institutions as easily as in Colombo or Kathmandu. At the same time, Indian politics is adept at co-optation: protest leaders are absorbed into party systems, welfare is expanded to mollify discontent, and symbolic gestures are made to blunt confrontation. This dual strategy of repression and accommodation prevents movements from breaching the threshold of overthrow.

But to recognise India’s distinctiveness is not to assume its permanence. The paradox rests on fragile foundations. Three vulnerabilities stand out. First, youth unemployment is now at crisis levels: nearly 45% of graduates under 25 remain jobless, a figure that corrodes faith in the future. Second, economic inequality has sharpened, with the top 1% of Indians controlling over 40% of wealth, even as welfare schemes provide subsistence without mobility. Third, democratic backsliding is eroding the very shock absorbers that stabilise the polity: a pliant media, weakened judiciary, and shrinking civil society space reduce the outlets through which anger can be expressed.

If electoral credibility diminishes, if state governments lose the capacity to channel dissent, or if welfare buffers collapse under fiscal stress, India could begin to look more like its neighbours. The paradox is not that India is immune, but that its institutions have so far postponed the logic of regime overthrow that grips South Asia.

India’s distinctiveness in the regional protest wave is therefore double-edged. It reveals the resilience of a democracy that remains capable of absorbing dissent without collapsing. But it also highlights the fragility of that resilience, dependent as it is on safety valves that are themselves under strain.

The lesson of South Asia is that when the ballot loses credibility, the street becomes the arbiter of legitimacy. India, for now, has kept the two in balance: noisy streets but electoral stability, mass protests but regular alternation of power. Whether this paradox endures will depend on whether India’s institutions remain credible, whether welfare sustains hope, and whether the young can see in democracy not just survival but a future.

For now, the ballot still outweighs the street. But if India’s shock absorbers weaken, the paradox that distinguishes it may dissolve, and the Indian exception may become just another South Asian case of democracy’s fragility.

 

Asis Mistry is Assistant Professor, Department of Political Science, University of Calcutta

Why Bengal’s Vernacular Populism Matters?

 

By Asis Mistry 

As Hindutva seeks to recast India in a singular image, Bengal pushes back with its vernacular populism—blending pride, religion, and politics into a volatile new sub-nationalism.

 

When Mamata Banerjee’s Trinamool Congress (TMC) decisively defeated the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) in the 2021 West Bengal assembly elections, it was more than a regional political victory. It marked the return of sub-nationalism in Indian politics—not in the form of secessionist rhetoric, but as a cultural and affective resistance to the centralising thrust of Hindutva. At the heart of this new assertion is not just the defence of federal rights or administrative autonomy, but a symbolic re-articulation of Bengali identity as distinct, plural, and electorally mobilisable.

Unlike the linguistic regionalism of the 1960s or the ideological sub-nationalism of the Left era, the current wave is rooted in a populist vernacular grammar. It speaks through symbols—Durga, Jagannath, matri-bhasha (mother tongue), “Banglar meye” (Bengal’s daughter)—that turn cultural pride into political loyalty. But does this counter-populism offer a real alternative to Hindutva’s majoritarianism, or merely replicate its affective logics under a different banner?

Cultural Belonging vs Political Uniformity

The BJP’s expansion into Bengal was never simply an electoral project. It was—and remains—a cultural offensive. By advancing a Ram-centric Hindu nationalism, the party sought to discipline Bengal’s historically plural religiosity and vernacular spiritual traditions. Public chanting of “Jai Shri Ram,” the promotion of Hindi over Bengali, and the stigmatisation of Bengali-speaking Muslims as “infiltrators” formed part of a broader attempt to recast Bengal as a frontier to be ideologically aligned with the Hindi-Hindu-Hindustan triad.

In response, the TMC developed an emotionally charged symbolic repertoire rooted in Bengali tradition. Durga became not just a goddess, but the maternal guardian of Bengali civilisation. Jagannath—a deity with deep roots in Eastern India—was invoked as a regional counter-icon to Ram. Campaign slogans like “Bangla nijer meyekei chay” reframed Banerjee herself as the embodiment of Bengali resistance—a leader who is not only local, but familial.

This is not a mere cultural performance. It is a form of political belonging that seeks to retain Hindu voters without surrendering to Hindutva. It affirms that one can be Hindu, Bengali, plural, and Indian—all at once.

A Double-Edged Sword

Yet, the TMC’s resistance is fraught with contradictions. On one hand, it reclaims Bengali cultural pride from nationalist homogenisation. On the other hand, it risks re-inscribing exclusionary binaries: Bengali vs outsider, matri-bhasha vs Hindi imposition, daughter vs invader. Much like the BJP’s populism, it constructs a moral majority by emotionally charging identity and drawing boundaries around cultural authenticity.

This mirroring is not incidental—it is structural. Both Hindutva and Bengal’s vernacular populism operate through affect, symbolism, and the construction of internal enemies. The key difference lies in the scale: one is national, the other regional. But both rely on emotional majorities rather than institutional pluralism.

This is where sub-nationalism becomes slippery. It can either push India toward a more plural federalism or collapse into a regional variant of majoritarianism.

The Migration Blind Spot

Nowhere are these contradictions more visible than in the TMC’s treatment of Bengali migrant labour. While the party celebrates Bengali culture within the state, it has been largely silent about the rising harassment and profiling of Bengali-speaking workers in other parts of India—particularly in Gujarat, Karnataka, and Maharashtra. For many of these migrants, “Bengali” becomes a stand-in for “Bangladeshi,” turning Indian citizens into internal foreigners.

These workers—mostly from economically distressed districts like Malda, Murshidabad, and North 24 Parganas—labour in precarious jobs across India’s informal economy. Their disposability is not cultural alone, but economic. Yet, even as the TMC invokes their symbolic value during elections, it offers little in terms of concrete protection or interstate advocacy. Subnational pride, in this sense, becomes bound by territory, blind to the classed geographies of Indian federalism.

This raises a fundamental question: can a politics that claims to defend Bengali identity ignore the vulnerabilities of Bengali bodies on the move?

Towards a Pluralist Federalism

The rise of sub-nationalism in Bengal must not be dismissed as parochialism or cultural chauvinism. In a centralising republic, it speaks to a legitimate need for recognition, parity, and dignity within the Indian Union. It challenges the idea that cultural uniformity is a prerequisite for national belonging. But this challenge must be deepened, not just dramatised.

If subnational assertions are to play a constructive role in India’s federal future, they must move beyond symbolic binaries. They must stand not only for cultural memory but for mobility rights, linguistic justice, and economic dignity. This requires extending solidarity to migrants, resisting caste invisibilisation, and acknowledging the internal hierarchies within Bengal itself—including between urban and rural, upper caste and Dalit, Hindu and Muslim.

Populist counter-narratives alone will not suffice. What is needed is a robust rethinking of federalism—one that is not imposed from above, but imagined from below through everyday struggles for recognition, shelter, and voice.

The Stakes of Belonging

At stake is not merely the electoral future of Bengal or the cultural integrity of Bengali identity. What is at stake is the very grammar of citizenship in India. Will it be defined by a
centralised authority and homogenising nationalism? Or can it be shaped by a genuinely plural imagination—where regions speak not from the margins, but as equal participants in a shared democratic experiment?

The return of sub-nationalism offers a moment of opportunity—but only if it can transcend its populist form and speak to the deeper crises of belonging in today’s India.

 

@ The author is Assistant Professor of Political Science, University of Calcutta

Nepali GenZ: The OG Rizzer

 

By Angela Mahapatra 

The term Gen Z captures a dynamic group of young individuals who are tech-savvy, entrepreneurial, and committed to genuine values. While often labelled as lazy, entitled, or overly sensitive, Nepal’s youth are breaking those stereotypes. They are stepping up as responsible citizens—politically aware, thought-provoking, and fearless in holding leaders accountable. This generation is not just scrolling through life; they’re actively engaging with the world and demanding change!

Stressy depressy

The drama kicked off on September 4, 2025, when the government decided to pull the plug on 26 major social media platforms, including heavy-hitters like Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, YouTube, and Twitter/X. Their reason? They claimed it was all about making sure these platforms registered with the Ministry of Communication and Information Technology for some supposed regulatory compliance and to shield us from the menace of fake accounts spreading misleading info. But honestly, this feels like a major ‘delulu’ moment for Gen Z in Nepal.

 

The real story behind this social media ban isn’t about protecting the mass; it’s a smokescreen for the rampant corruption, nepotism, and political frustrations simmering beneath the surface due to the lack of accountability. Lately, the “Nepo kid” trend has been lighting up TikTok, showcasing the lavish lifestyles of the children of powerful political figures. It raises the question: how are they living so large on government salaries? This spotlight on deep-rooted corruption resonates with the masses, especially when they’re juggling unemployment, poor governance, and a stagnant system. It's a wake-up call that can't be ignored!

Democracy isn’t democracying

Democracy is often celebrated as a governance system where power lies with the people, enabling them to engage in political matters directly or through chosen representatives. This model champions transparency and encourages public involvement, ensuring that the government reflects the will and interests of its citizens.

The post-World War era marked a significant victory for democracy, particularly after the defeat of Nazism and Fascism. The establishment of the United Nations helped solidify democratic principles globally. Following the collapse of the USSR in 1991, liberal democracy gained traction around the world. As we moved into the 21st century, democracy emerged as the dominant ideology, embraced by many established powers, with notable exceptions being Russia and China.

In South Asia, countries like Sri Lanka and Bangladesh (2022 & 2024) have grappled with the decline of democratic governance, plagued by civil liberties issues and rampant human rights violations, often exacerbated by military and bureaucratic influence, particularly in Pakistan. Deep-seated corruption and cronyism continue to undermine government transparency, along with challenges such as population pressures and majoritarianism.

Post-2008, democracy played a crucial role in shaping Nepal, but by 2015, authoritarian tendencies began to emerge, leading to the politicisation of institutions, a fragile rule of law, and parliamentary dissolutions that hindered press freedom. This erosion of trust in political entities sparked public discontent and civil unrest, culminating in the dissolution of parliament amid frustrations over corruption and unemployment.

India, the world’s largest democracy, now finds itself amidst neighbouring nations experiencing democratic declines, raising concerns for border security. The potential shift towards authoritarianism in Nepal, particularly if it leans towards Chinese influence, could disrupt diplomatic relations and create regional instability. This shift poses risks to India’s projects in Nepal, especially those focused on infrastructure, threatening bilateral agreements and trade.

The shared historical, religious, and cultural ties between India and Nepal are at risk, as the decline of democracy in Nepal could portray India as an intrusive neighbour. This narrative may empower Hindu nationalist sentiments within Nepal, complicating their relationship with India, despite their common heritage. Furthermore, regional collaborations through initiatives like SAARC and BBIN might falter in the face of this civic instability, hindering cooperation on critical issues such as climate, trade, and security. Hence, the trajectory of democracy in South Asia, especially in Nepal, holds significant implications not only for the countries involved but also for regional dynamics on a broader scale.

Rebel kids

Social movements have evolved significantly over time, adapting to the context and technology of their eras. In the pre and mid-20th century, movements like the abolition, suffrage, labour, and anti-colonial movements were often spearheaded by charismatic leaders, relying on traditional methods such as petitions, marches, strikes, and boycotts. Communication was primarily through radio, newspapers, and pamphlets, which served to promote their causes, albeit in a more understated manner.

Today’s movements, such as #BlackLivesMatter, the #MeToo movement, Climate Strikes (Fridays for Future), and the Arab Spring, take on a different nature. They often lack a central leadership, feature decentralised structures, and employ horizontal decision-making processes. This allows such movements to emerge spontaneously, spreading rapidly across networks.

A striking example is the Gen Z uprising in Nepal, characterised by its digital activism and youthful mobilisation. This generation, often labelled as “reel addicts,” not only scrolls through social media but also critically analyses content, calling out issues like nepotism. During protests, Gen Z members voiced their concerns over the stark disparities among the youth within their nation, driven by corruption, negligence, and a lack of accountability in their government. This reluctance to accept the status quo transformed them from feeling “saddie” to becoming “baddies” who fight for change.

The movement is notably documented on social media, which fuels its momentum and spreads awareness of the underlying truths. Unlike earlier protests that relied on traditional media—which sometimes distorted information—today’s activism benefits from an opportunity to reveal authentic narratives directly to the masses. The fearless spirit of Gen Z is so potent that it compelled the resignation of the prime minister and led the finance minister to flee. Even in the wake of tragic events, such as the military's killing of 19 protesters, their determination remains unshaken as they stand resolutely for their beliefs.

Vibe Check

The Nepali Gen Z is stepping up as a powerful force, making waves not just in Nepal but resonating with youth around the globe. They're blending their rich Nepali cultural values with global ideals like equality, justice, innovation, and freedom. This generation's heightened social awareness is captivating attention worldwide, as movements like #enoughisenough and other digital protests across South Asia highlight that issues such as gender equality, mental health stigma, corruption, and poor governance resonate universally.

People are eager for leaders who reflect diverse backgrounds. Sushila Karki, the former chief justice of Nepal's Supreme Court, could potentially become the first female prime minister. Then there's Balendra “Balen” Shah, the young mayor of Kathmandu, who transitioned from being an engineer and rapper to a politician. His rise signifies a refreshing move away from traditional political elites, advocating for principles and visibility in local governance. Kulman Ghising, the former managing director of the Nepal Electricity Authority, is well-known for his role in ending long power outages and is celebrated as a popular technocrat.

The diverse leadership emerging in Nepal emphasises a shift away from monarchical or elite dominance. Thus, Nepal stands out as a democratic hero among South Asian nations, except for India, already recognised as the world's largest democracy.

@ The author is an independent scholar.

 

From Ban to Bloodshed: Nepal’s Gen Z and the Unfinished Republic

 The Gen Z uprising in Nepal reveals not confusion but clarity: democracy without delivery is no democracy at all.

Asis Mistry

In the past few days, Nepal has witnessed the most intense civil unrest in years. The death toll has climbed to thirty, with over a thousand injured — figures that far exceed earlier counts. The streets of Kathmandu and other cities bore witness to torched government offices, burning hotels, and smoke rising beside landmarks of power. In response to mounting pressure, the military and Gen Z protesters have entered into negotiations for an interim government. The youth movement has nominated former Chief Justice Sushila Karki, who has accepted, as the interim prime minister. Though curfews remain, the reopening of Kathmandu’s international airport and easing of some restrictions signal a fragile, uneasy return to order. Yet beneath the calm, the demand is louder: this is not about restoring social media access alone — it is about dignity, accountability, and transformation.

Yet to read this as a dispute over social media would be to mistake the symptom for the cause. The protests were not simply about access to platforms but about the structural failures of Nepal’s post-monarchy democracy. They expose the profound disillusionment of a generation—Nepal’s so-called Gen Z—who have come of age amid insurgency, corruption, and the hollowness of political promises. Four arguments illustrate why this revolt matters, not just for Nepal, but as part of a global crisis of democratic legitimacy.

In Nepal, as in many parts of the world, governments today are being overthrown less through electoral contests than through mass protests. The Arab Spring in 2011, Sri Lanka’s Aragalaya in 2022, and Pakistan’s youth-driven rallies in support of Imran Khan, the overthrow of the Awami League government in Bangladesh—all highlight this pattern: elected regimes lose legitimacy not at the ballot box but in the streets.

Nepal’s September uprising fits this mould. The Oli government, facing no immediate electoral challenge, suddenly confronted a legitimacy crisis it could not manage. Hashtags became battle cries, online discontent spilt onto the streets, and the state’s reflex was repression. In the end, the ballot mattered less than the body—youth occupying squares, clashing with police, and refusing to be silenced.

The deeper crisis lies in Nepal’s post-monarchy state-building. The 2015 Constitution was meant to consolidate the republic after a decade of insurgency and transition. Yet it has failed to secure the loyalty or trust of citizens. Formally, Nepal has all the trappings of a federal democratic republic. Substantively, the “nerve system” of politics—institutions that connect citizens with the state—remains weak.

This is partly because political elites are embedded in networks of patronage, corruption, and party cartelisation. Instead of investing in responsive governance, they have treated the Constitution as an end in itself. The state exists on paper but struggles to mediate conflicts, deliver services, or generate affective attachment. The result is a hollow democracy: legal structures without legitimacy, institutions without credibility.

If the Constitution has been hollow, so too have Nepal’s political parties. Once vibrant with ideological struggle, they have, over the past two decades, withered into clientelist machines. The Maoists, who once fought for radical transformation, now resemble a managerial party concerned with office-sharing. The communists have diluted their ideological commitments, while centrist parties trade in promises they cannot keep.

This erosion of ideology has profound consequences. Political parties no longer provide citizens with a grammar of meaning; they no longer connect everyday life to broader visions of justice, equality, or sovereignty. Instead, citizens encounter only the cynicism of power-brokers. The alienation is not just political but existential: ordinary people no longer see themselves reflected in the symbolic order of politics.

For Gen Z, this vacuum has been particularly stark. Growing up amid the disintegration of ideological politics, they have been left with a sense of betrayal—promised democracy, they encounter only dysfunction.

Perhaps the most striking feature of Nepal’s Gen Z is their emergence as what might be called “organic radicals.” Unlike earlier generations, their childhood was marked not by stability but by insurgency (1996–2006). Violence, displacement, and uncertainty were part of the texture of their formative years. As they matured, they faced unemployment, mass migration, and shrinking opportunities.

At the same time, they have lived under a state characterised by too much government and too little governance: rules, restrictions, and bureaucratic control, but little delivery of justice, employment, or services. In this context, protest becomes not simply an option but the default mode of political expression. For a generation disenchanted with electoral promises, the streets are the only space where voice feels possible.

The September uprising is thus not an accident. It is the logical outcome of a generation raised amid insurgency, betrayed by elites, and abandoned by institutions.

The state’s response to this youth mobilisation reveals its own anxieties. Prime Minister Oli described the unrest as a result of “ambiguity in thinking” among young people—a telling phrase that casts dissent as immaturity. In effect, the state views youth as unruly children: familiar yet alien, its own citizens yet strangers to its order. Psychoanalytically, this is a displacement of the state’s own failure onto the figure of the disorderly youth.

But repression does not resolve the crisis. It repeats it. Nepal’s resort to curfews, bullets, and bans echoes a long pattern—from the monarchy’s suppression of the Jana Andolan to the state’s violent handling of the Madhes uprisings. Violence becomes a compulsion, a symptom of a state unable to generate legitimacy through inclusion.

Nepal’s Gen Z protest is not only a national crisis. It speaks to global anxieties about the future of democracy. Across contexts, youth who are digitally networked, borderless in aspiration, and impatient with institutional decay are challenging the state in unprecedented ways. For states, their presence is uncanny: simultaneously intimate and alien, both the children of the nation and its most disruptive challengers.

What Nepal reveals is that censorship, repression, and moralising rhetoric cannot contain this generational force. Even after the ban was lifted, protests continued, signalling that the wound runs deeper than social media. It is about corruption, legitimacy, and the demand for dignity.

The Gen Z protests should, therefore, be read as more than an episodic outburst. They are a warning: Nepal’s democracy cannot survive on empty constitutionalism, hollow party politics, and elite patronage networks. Unless it can address corruption, deliver governance, and restore ideological meaning to politics, it will continue to face eruptions from below.

Gen Z’s revolt is the return of the repressed future: the demand of a generation that refuses to be silenced, infantilised, or excluded. Nepal’s challenge is not simply to lift bans or reshuffle ministers but to confront this generational discontent head-on. Otherwise, the cycle of repression and revolt will persist, with ever greater costs for a fragile democracy still searching for its nerve system.

The author is Faculty of Political Science, University of Calcutta.

Between Pride and Prejudice: The Dilemmas of Bengal’s Cultural Populism

 

Bengal’s resistance to Hindutva has taken the shape of a proud cultural revival. But can a politics based on symbols, affect, and regional identity offer a real alternative—or does it risk becoming a mirror of the populism it opposes?

 

Asis Mistry

When Mamata Banerjee launched the ‘Bhasha Andolan’ from Bolpur, she signalled more than just solidarity with Bengali-speaking migrant workers allegedly harassed in BJP-ruled states. Her words—“Bengali is our pride, our asset, the backbone of our identity”—framed language as a rallying cry, elevating cultural belonging into a political imperative. This was not merely a reaction to isolated incidents, but the intensification of a broader narrative: that Bengali identity is under siege in an increasingly centralised and culturally homogenised republic. Yet beneath this fervent defence lies an unresolved dilemma: Can a populism anchored in regional pride and affective symbolism meaningfully respond to the everyday vulnerabilities of those very Bengalis—migrant workers, linguistic minorities, economically precarious citizens—whose struggles remain largely outside the spotlight of symbolic politics?

In the politically charged aftermath of the 2021 West Bengal Assembly elections, this narrative had already begun to take shape. The Trinamool Congress (TMC), under Banerjee’s leadership, triumphed not just electorally but symbolically—projecting itself as the custodian of Bengal’s cultural soul against what it portrayed as the homogenising thrust of the Bharatiya Janata Party’s (BJP) Hindutva. Three years on, the cultural idioms of that resistance—Durga, matri-bhasha, Biswa Bangla, and the image of “Banglar Meye”—continue to resonate. But so too does a central question: is this a genuine expression of pluralist regionalism, or merely a regionalised variant of affective populism?

This is a moment that demands reflection more than celebration. The renewed articulation of Bengali identity may offer a language of resistance, but it also raises uncomfortable questions about its limits. Can symbolic sub-nationalism address the structural realities of migration, marginalisation, and inequality? Or is it destined to remain a politics of performance—emotionally potent but materially inadequate?

Culture as Resistance

The TMC’s campaign in 2021 was striking in its strategic repurposing of Bengali culture. Facing a BJP that sought to export its Hindi-Hindu-Ram template to Bengal, the TMC countered with a rich tapestry of local idioms—celebrating Durga over Ram, invoking Jagannath as an eastern deity, and grounding its appeal in mother-tongue politics. This was not a rejection of Hindu identity but a reconfiguration—positioning Bengal’s spiritual traditions as plural, feminised, and distinct.

In doing so, the TMC engaged in what political theorists call “vernacular populism”—a mobilisation strategy that connects deeply with local emotion, memory, and identity. From slogans like “Bangla nijer meyekei chay” (Bengal wants her own daughter) to campaign posters evoking goddess Durga, it created a moral geography where Bengal was framed as under threat, and its salvation lay in defending its cultural soul.

To its credit, this symbolic resistance created a powerful electoral shield against Hindutva’s centralising appeal. It reaffirmed that Indian federalism is not just about administrative devolution, but also about cultural sovereignty.

Populism’s Pitfalls

And yet, the reliance on cultural symbolism has its dangers. Populism, by its nature, draws boundaries—between “us” and “them,” “authentic” and “foreign,” “insiders” and “outsiders.” In Bengal’s case, this logic has often turned inward: defining non-Bengali speakers, Hindi-speaking migrants, or even political dissenters as culturally alien.

The BJP’s weaponisation of the “infiltrator” trope, particularly targeting Bengali-speaking Muslims from border districts, is well documented. But what receives less attention is how the TMC’s regional populism can sometimes echo this logic—defining belonging through language, emotion, and nativist pride. The politics of “Bangaliana” (Bengaliness), if unexamined, can become a vehicle not for inclusion but for soft exclusion.

Moreover, when identity becomes the primary terrain of politics, questions of inequality, mobility, and justice often take a backseat. The emotional charge of culture masks the material contradictions of everyday life.

The Silence Around Migrant Labour

Nowhere is this contradiction more visible than in the plight of Bengali migrant workers. Every year, lakhs of workers from districts like Malda, Murshidabad, and Cooch Behar travel to Gujarat, Maharashtra, Karnataka, and Delhi for informal, low-wage work. They are the invisible engine of India’s economy—yet their Bengali identity, far from being a shield, often becomes a source of profiling and vulnerability.

In states ruled by the BJP, these migrants are routinely harassed, labelled as illegal, or subject to sudden evictions. The lines between “Bengali” and “Bangladeshi” are deliberately blurred, turning internal migrants into internal outsiders.

And what of the TMC? While it celebrates Bengali pride within the state, it remains conspicuously silent about the challenges Bengali workers face beyond its borders. There is little interstate advocacy, no robust legal assistance, and virtually no pan-Indian coalition-building around migrant rights.

This reveals a fundamental limit of symbolic sub-nationalism: it rarely travels. Rooted in territory and election cycles, it often fails to protect those who move—economically, socially, and physically.

Towards a Politics Beyond Symbols

Bengal’s current cultural mobilisation stands at a crossroads. It can either deepen into a genuinely pluralist regionalism—one that embraces linguistic diversity, safeguards migrant rights, and links subnational pride with social justice—or it can remain a decorative populism, rich in aesthetics but thin in substance.

To move forward, we must ask: what kind of federalism does Bengal really need? One that is merely defensive, drawing tight boundaries of identity and pride? Or one that is expansive—asserting cultural dignity while also building solidarity across class, caste, and linguistic lines?

There is precedent. The Left Front era in Bengal, for all its flaws, grounded Bengali identity in questions of redistribution, land rights, and anti-centrist governance. It fused regional pride with structural critique. Today’s politics could learn from that balance—replacing affective binaries with relational belonging.

The Role of the Centre

Of course, the burden does not lie with Bengal alone. The Centre’s current trajectory—marked by linguistic imposition, religious homogenisation, and a narrowing of democratic space—has compelled many regions to assert themselves. In this sense, Bengal’s cultural pushback is not exceptional but symptomatic of a deeper federal unease across India.

From Tamil Nadu’s resistance to NEET and Hindi, to Punjab’s reassertion of Sikh identity, or even Maharashtra’s Marathi pride campaigns, regional assertion has become a language of federal survival. But for this language to flourish democratically, it must remain open, plural, and inclusive—not fall into the trap of majoritarian mimicry.

Between Resistance and Renewal

Bengal’s cultural populism reflects both strength and anxiety. It is a refusal to be culturally colonised—but also a struggle to define itself in the shadow of an assertive national project. The danger lies in confusing resistance with reversal—in thinking that Hindutva’s grammar can be countered merely by inverting its symbols.

The real task ahead is not just symbolic but structural: to link the pride of identity with the politics of dignity. To make sure that Bengali workers in Bengaluru, Ahmedabad, or Surat feel as politically protected as voters in Murshidabad or Bankura. And to ensure that Bengal’s cultural soul is not narrowed into an aesthetic performance but expanded into a democratic promise.

The future of Indian federalism may, therefore, well depend on whether its regions can speak not just for themselves, but also for each other.

@ Author is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of Calcutta, email- asismistry.cu@gmail.com.