When America Falters, the World Pays: Trump's Economic Misadventures and India's Stakes

 

Dr. Asis Mistry

As Donald Trump continues to wreak havoc on the American economy, the silence of Republican leaders and Wall Street executives is deafening — and dangerous, not just for the United States, but for the entire global economy, India included.

Trump’s impulsive trade wars, his attack on independent institutions like the U.S. Federal Reserve, and his destabilising rhetoric on global alliances are not just domestic American matters. In today's interconnected world, America’s economic health is closely tied to India's aspirations for growth, stability, and global leadership. Yet those with the most to lose inside America — its corporate chiefs and political guardians — remain largely mum, hoping futilely that private persuasion will work where public accountability is urgently needed.

The pattern is clear: American businesses, despite seeing their stock prices tumble and their international competitiveness wane, are choosing silence. Republican lawmakers, even as Trump’s tariffs hurt their own rural and working-class voters, remain subservient. Trade groups, which never hesitated to criticise past administrations, now offer little more than polite platitudes.

This matters for India because we, too, are part of the intricate global supply chains Trump is disrupting. Our IT exports, pharmaceutical supplies, and manufacturing sectors are all deeply linked to U.S. markets. Rising protectionism and unpredictable tariffs not only rattle global investor confidence but also slow down India's exports and investment inflows. When American farmers lose international customers due to retaliatory tariffs, it impacts global food prices, a delicate issue for India’s inflation management. When American tech companies face uncertainty, India's IT and service sectors feel the tremors.

There’s a belief among American CEOs that they can whisper sense into Trump's ear behind closed doors. But reality shows otherwise. Temporary concessions — like exemptions for iPhones or vague promises about tariff reductions — are short-lived. The underlying trajectory remains dangerous: an America moving away from a rules-based order towards erratic, personalised decision-making.

This week, another "leak" suggested Trump might lower China tariffs from 145% to a still-draconian 50%. Markets briefly celebrated, hoping for a cooling-off. But hope, especially when based on anonymous sources and "fake news" accusations from Beijing, is not a strategy. A 50% tariff is hardly a victory — it is an economic noose, tightened slightly less.

Trump’s threats against the U.S. Federal Reserve are even more alarming. His pressure to slash interest rates to support short-term political gains risks undermining the Fed’s long-cherished independence — the same independence that has allowed America to maintain monetary stability for decades. India, striving to strengthen its institutional credibility with independent bodies like the RBI, watches with concern. When politicians control monetary policy, the results are often catastrophic — think Venezuela or Turkey.

Yet, public pushback from within America remains feeble. An occasional senator mumbles about the need for an "independent" Fed, only to quickly walk it back with jokes about "hot cocoa" and private hugs. It’s not the kind of principled leadership the world expects from a country that has long projected itself as the steward of democracy and free enterprise.

This abdication of leadership poses risks and lessons for India and the broader developing world. We cannot afford to rely on a volatile U.S. to underpin global economic stability. We must strengthen South-South trade linkages, diversify our export markets, invest in homegrown innovation, and advocate for a truly multipolar world order. At the same time, India must remain vocal about defending democratic norms and institutional independence — lessons we must internalise at home too.

American business and political elites may think they are buying time with their silence. They are not. They are gambling not just with their future, but with the future of countries like India that have, for long, considered America a partner in prosperity.

Silence is complicity. And in today’s world, complicity comes at a global cost.

 

@Author is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of Calcutta

Power Without Knowledge: The Pahalgam Massacre and Pakistan's Failing Proxy Doctrine

 

Dr. Asis Mistry

On July 8, 2024, terrorists ambushed a bus carrying Hindu pilgrims in the picturesque town of Pahalgam in Jammu and Kashmir, killing nine and injuring 33. The victims were en route to the revered Amarnath shrine, undertaking a journey that has long symbolised spiritual unity in a deeply divided region. While India mourns yet another tragedy in Pahalgam, which claimed 26 innocent lives—mostly Hindu tourists from across India—has reignited debates far beyond the tragic loss of life. The larger question must be asked: Why do such attacks keep happening, and what geopolitical logic—or lack thereof—sustains them?

Pakistan’s alleged involvement in sponsoring and sustaining militant networks across the Line of Control (LoC) is not new. What is striking, however, is the sheer persistence of this proxy doctrine, despite overwhelming evidence of its strategic failure. Suppose war is politics by other
means, as Clausewitz suggested. In that case, Pakistan’s use of asymmetric violence without long-term vision reflects a condition best described as power without knowledge—the exercise of influence divorced from wisdom, foresight, and legitimacy.

Strategic Illusions, Tactical Catastrophes

Since the 1990s, Pakistan’s military-intelligence apparatus has nurtured a range of non-state actors to achieve strategic depth against India, particularly in Kashmir. Groups like Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT) and Jaish-e-Mohammed (JeM) have received logistical, financial, and ideological support under the justification of ‘liberating’ Kashmir. This policy was rooted in a Cold War-era playbook, where the use of militant proxies seemed effective in bleeding adversaries while retaining plausible deniability.

Yet this doctrine has become increasingly untenable in the post-9/11 world, where the costs of harbouring transnational jihadist actors outweigh the tactical gains. Internationally, Pakistan is isolated, grey-listed by the Financial Action Task Force (FATF) for years, and diplomatically cornered by a growing India-U.S. strategic partnership. Domestically, blowback from militant violence has ravaged cities from Karachi to Peshawar, eroding public confidence in the state’s ability to ensure security.

The Pahalgam attack, allegedly orchestrated by The Resistance Front (TRF), a LeT-linked outfit, bears all the hallmarks of this failing doctrine. It targeted civilians, had no viable political objective, and immediately drew international condemnation. If the aim was to internationalise Kashmir or create political instability in India ahead of the Amarnath Yatra, it only reaffirmed New Delhi’s narrative of Pakistan-sponsored terror.

A Doctrine without Destination

The problem with Pakistan’s proxy doctrine is not just that it is morally reprehensible or strategically costly. It is that it lacks coherence. There is no clear endgame. If the goal was to ‘liberate’ Kashmir, the means—terror attacks on civilians—have only hardened Indian control, alienated Kashmiri civil society, and justified an expanded military presence. If the aim was to keep the Kashmir issue ‘alive’ on the world stage, the tactic has backfired: most global capitals now view Pakistan not as a defender of Kashmiri rights, but as a habitual exporter of jihadist violence.

This is what makes Pakistan’s behaviour a classic case of power without knowledge. The Pakistani deep state continues to wield considerable coercive capacity—internally through the army and externally through proxies—but shows little understanding of how power must be aligned with legitimacy, strategy, and diplomacy to produce lasting outcomes.

One might contrast this with India’s evolving approach in Kashmir. While far from perfect, New Delhi has managed to integrate the region more deeply into the national economy post-2019, significantly reduce local militancy through counterinsurgency operations, and win international patience through its legalistic framing of the conflict. Pakistan, in comparison, has been left peddling outdated rhetoric and enabling attacks that diminish its moral and strategic standing.

The Regional Fallout

Pakistan’s reliance on proxy actors does not merely destabilise Kashmir; it fuels a broader arc of insecurity across South Asia. The same jihadist networks once used to challenge Indian forces have been recycled in Afghanistan, with catastrophic consequences. The Taliban’s return to power in 2021 was initially seen as a strategic win for Islamabad, but it has quickly turned into a security liability, as groups like Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) now use Afghan territory to launch cross-border attacks.

The persistence of this doctrine has also weakened Pakistan’s relations with Iran, which has grown increasingly wary of Sunni extremist groups operating in Baluchistan. Even China, Pakistan’s "iron brother," has expressed concerns over the security of its nationals after repeated militant attacks on China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) projects. What began as a strategy to contain India has metastasised into a regional security nightmare, threatening the very alliances Pakistan depends on for survival.

The Epistemology of Failure

The intellectual bankruptcy of Pakistan’s strategic doctrine lies in its failure to adapt. Despite mounting evidence of its inefficacy, the Pakistani military continues to double down on proxy warfare, unable or unwilling to acknowledge that the world—and Kashmir—has changed. This stubbornness stems from institutional inertia, bureaucratic self-preservation, and an entrenched belief within Pakistan’s security establishment that conventional diplomacy is a sign of weakness.

Yet real power in international relations is not the ability to inflict harm, but the ability to shape outcomes. That requires knowledge of the enemy, of one’s own limitations, and of the evolving international order. Pakistan, tragically, has confused violence with strategy, and fear with influence.

This condition is not unique to Pakistan. States across the world, from Russia to Iran, have at times fallen into the trap of using force without wisdom. But in Pakistan’s case, the danger is compounded by its fragile democratic institutions, its nuclear arsenal, and its economic vulnerability. A doctrine that produces neither deterrence nor dialogue is not just failing—it is unravelling.

A Way Forward?

Any sustainable resolution to South Asia’s enduring conflicts must begin with the recognition that terrorism is not a legitimate tool of foreign policy. Pakistan must dismantle its infrastructure of proxy warfare—not because India demands it, but because its national interest requires it. A stable, economically integrated Pakistan with a credible foreign policy would gain far more in global standing than one that trades in martyrdom and mayhem.

For this to happen, the Pakistani military must cede space to civilian leadership, allowing for a foreign policy rooted in diplomacy rather than deception. Regional cooperation on climate change, trade, and counter-terrorism is impossible so long as Pakistan sees its neighbourhood through the prism of zero-sum conflict.

The tragedy of Pahalgam is not just the loss of innocent lives. It is a reminder that Pakistan’s current trajectory is unsustainable. Power without knowledge is not only self-defeating—it is dangerous. If Pakistan seeks relevance in the 21st century, it must abandon the ghosts of 20th-century warfare and embrace a future rooted in peace, partnership, and political maturity.

 

@Author is Faculty, Department of Political Science, University of Calcutta

Democracy on the Edge: A Nation in the Fog of Its Own Making

 Dr. Asis Mistry

Donald Trump’s political resurgence mirrors historical fascist movements and poses a grave threat to the foundations of American democracy.

History, it is often said, does not repeat itself, but it does rhyme. This adage rings with unsettling clarity when we examine the present trajectory of American politics under the shadow of Donald Trump. With his return to power, the United States finds itself in a moment of democratic vulnerability that carries echoes of early 20th-century Europe, particularly the rise of fascism in Italy and Germany. Though the context and contours differ, the essential tactics—undermining institutions, fostering ultra-nationalist fervour, scapegoating minorities, and attacking liberal thought—remain hauntingly familiar.

In 1922, Benito Mussolini came to power in Italy not by storming the gates of parliament but by being invited in. King Victor Emmanuel III, amid political paralysis, appointed him prime minister, despite the Fascist Party holding only a handful of seats. Similarly, Adolf Hitler, though leading a minority party, was invited to form a coalition government in 1933 by conservatives who believed they could contain and use him to neutralise the left. In both cases, democratic institutions were used as ladders to power—and then kicked away.

Trump’s rise did not initially mirror this trajectory in method, but over time, his politics have begun to reflect its essence. In 2016, he was elected on a wave of populist discontent, promising to "drain the swamp" and restore America's "greatness" against the backdrop of economic uncertainty, racial anxieties, and anti-immigrant sentiment. His supporters were not marginal extremists alone but included mainstream conservatives, business elites, and religious traditionalists, many of whom believed they could ride his charisma to advance their agendas.

During his first term, Trump’s politics flirted with authoritarianism—questioning the judiciary, demonising the press, and stoking white nationalist rhetoric—but remained within certain democratic bounds. It was after his 2020 electoral defeat, however, that the darker undercurrents surfaced with full force. His baseless claims of electoral fraud culminated in the January 6, 2021, attack on the U.S. Capitol, an act of insurrection not seen since the Civil War. The goal was to halt the certification of Joe Biden’s electoral victory, a direct assault on the peaceful transfer of power.

What unfolded that day should have ended a political career. Instead, it hardened a movement. Trump's refusal to accept electoral defeat, his tacit encouragement of violence, and his ongoing campaign of grievance and revenge have only deepened his grip on the Republican base. His latest administration is staffed entirely by loyalists, purging anyone with independent thought or institutional allegiance. Traditional Republican leaders, who once criticised him, now either support him unconditionally or remain complicit in silence.

Trump’s agenda today reveals an unambiguous pattern. He has accelerated mass deportations of undocumented immigrants, sometimes without court authorisation, reviving cruel tactics like shackling migrants and sending them to prisons in foreign countries. His justification is national security, but the message is unmistakable: dissent and difference are unwelcome in Trump’s America.

The comparison with fascist regimes becomes more troubling when we examine Trump’s hostility toward academia and liberal institutions. Under his directives, federal funding has been cut from universities accused of harbouring “anti-Israel” sentiments—often conflated with broader critiques of American foreign policy or human rights. This suppression of intellectual dissent, particularly targeting research on race, gender, and colonialism, mirrors the fascist obsession with ideological purity. In fascist Europe, universities were among the first institutions to be silenced or co-opted, as critical inquiry was seen as a threat to state control.

Trump’s collaboration with billionaire allies like Elon Musk to audit and downsize federal departments further erodes institutional independence. Without any official designation, Musk has been given sweeping authority to identify “waste” and streamline government—a euphemism for ideological cleansing. Thousands of civil servants have been fired, particularly from education and foreign aid departments, which conservatives label as liberal bastions. Again, the comparison is apt: fascist regimes often employed industrialists and media magnates to restructure the state in service of the regime.

Meanwhile, conservative attacks on affirmative action, gender equity, and social welfare have escalated. The Trump administration’s explicit denial of institutional racism and its ban on social diversity programs reinforce a vision of America that is exclusionary, patriarchal, and monolithic. This is not governance—it is a cultural crusade.

Even Trump’s economic policies serve ideological rather than practical ends. His reintroduction of steep tariffs, particularly against China, has rattled global markets and triggered fears of trade wars. The financial logic is dubious, as history and economics warn that trade wars rarely benefit anyone. But for Trump, these moves serve a nationalist narrative: they paint America as a victim of global exploitation and himself as its saviour.

The consequences are immediate. Prices rise. Investments falter. Pensions shrink. Yet Trump persists, because the politics of spectacle and resentment outweigh economic rationality. This is not about fixing America—it is about controlling it.

The most alarming element, however, is the erosion of democratic norms. Trump’s open musing about bypassing constitutional term limits, combined with his threat to weaponise institutions against political opponents, raises serious concerns about the future of American democracy. Fascists, once in power, rarely surrender it voluntarily. They change the rules, suppress dissent, and manufacture consent.

And while Trump may not wear a uniform or lead a paramilitary force, he enjoys the unwavering support of groups like the Proud Boys and other far-right militias. Many of those who stormed the Capitol now hold positions of influence in his party. Their rise is not an accident—it is part of a strategy. Fear, misinformation, and intimidation are tools as potent today as they were in the 1930s.

What is perhaps most disheartening is the passivity of the establishment. Conservative judges, corporate donors, and Republican lawmakers who once claimed to defend the Constitution now look the other way. Their complicity recalls the appeasement of fascism by European elites who thought they could manage the radicals, only to be consumed by them.

America today stands at an inflexion point. The institutions of democracy—courts, elections, press, academia—are under assault not from external enemies but from within. The battle is not only about Trump but about what kind of country the United States wants to be. Will it remain a pluralist democracy, messy and diverse but committed to liberty and law? Or will it slide further into authoritarianism cloaked in the language of patriotism?

The answer will depend on the courage of its citizens and leaders. History teaches us that fascism often wins not because of overwhelming strength but because of the weakness of opposition—because people assume “it can’t happen here” until it already has.

Democracy is not self-sustaining. It must be defended, not only in times of crisis but every day, by those who value freedom, equality, and justice. Donald Trump’s politics may not yet be fascism in its full form, but the shadows are lengthening. And shadows, left unchallenged, eventually turn to night.

 

Note: This essay is inspired by Partha Chatterjee’s insightful article published in Anandabazar Patrika on the political parallels between Donald Trump’s rise and historical 

Who Owns the Narrative? Rethinking the Pahalgam Attack through a Civilisational Lens

 

Dr. Asis Mistry

The recent terror attack in Pahalgam, Kashmir, which claimed 26 innocent lives—mostly Hindu tourists from across India—has reignited debates far beyond the tragic loss of life. The attack has fractured public discourse, not just along communal lines but across ideological divides, offering a potent case study of Samuel Huntington’s Clash of Civilizations thesis. Huntington argued that the post-Cold War world would be shaped less by ideological struggle and more by cultural and civilizational fault lines. In India today, this conflict is no longer hypothetical—it is playing out in blood, rhetoric, and narrative warfare.

Civilizational Identity and the Clash with Islam

In his influential work, Huntington described Islam as a civilisation with "bloody borders," involved in a disproportionate number of global conflicts. The Pahalgam attack, allegedly carried out by Pakistan-backed Islamic terrorists, is emblematic of this pattern. The victims were primarily Hindu pilgrims, tourists, professionals, from Maharashtra, Gujarat, West Bengal, Karnataka, and even a Navy lieutenant from Haryana. Their murder was not random; it was a deliberate act designed to provoke fear among a particular civilisational group: Hindus.

This attack follows a disturbing trend. Whether it's the 2008 Mumbai attacks, the 2001 Indian Parliament attack, or the 2016 Uri and Pathankot incidents, Islamic extremism has consistently targeted India’s symbolic and civilian core. The pattern is unmistakable. Islamic radical groups like Jaish-e-Mohammed and Lashkar-e-Taiba, which operate with impunity from Pakistan, routinely justify their violence in religious terms. They aim to disrupt India's pluralist ethos and challenge its growing assertion of a Hindu cultural identity under the BJP regime.

While it is politically sensitive to admit, Huntington’s framing compels us to view these acts not merely as terrorist incidents but as eruptions in a broader civilizational fault line between Islam and Hinduism.

Hindu Civilisation and Its Unique Fault Lines

Yet, unlike most civilisations in Huntington’s model, Hindu civilisation is uniquely fragmented. It is internally fissured by caste, region, language, and competing ideologies. These internal cleavages have created a fertile ground for what can be described as a “pseudo-secular” counter-narrative—a narrative that deflects from civilizational realities and instead projects the violence inward, often blaming the state, the army, or the government.

This was visible in the immediate aftermath of the Pahalgam massacre. Social media posts circulated widely, suggesting that the attack was a failure of intelligence, a political ploy by the BJP, or a pre-election stunt. Instead of mourning the victims or condemning the ideology behind the attack, many commentators chose to accuse the state of complicity or incompetence. They questioned the timing (with elections near), the absence of security forces, and even implied a Hindutva conspiracy.

What explains such reactions? The answer lies in Hindu civilizational identity. Unlike Islam or Christianity, Hinduism lacks a centralised clerical authority or universalist doctrine. Its pluralism is both its strength and its vulnerability. It allows for multiple narratives, but also enables the proliferation of self-negating ideologies. The Hindu Left, liberal intelligentsia, and pseudo-secular elements have internalised an aversion to civilizational self-assertion, often equating it with fascism or majoritarianism.

Narrative Wars: Three Competing Frames

In the context of the Pahalgam attack, three dominant narratives have emerged:

1. Islamist Apologia: This narrative, often echoed by certain Muslim voices and sympathetic left-liberals, deflects blame from the terrorists to the policies of the Indian state. It argues that the rise of Hindutva provokes such attacks, thereby rationalising jihadist violence as political resistance.
2. Hindu Majoritarianism: In contrast, another narrative paints all Muslims as complicit. It feeds into a siege mentality among Hindus and demands collective punishment. While this narrative recognises the civilizational conflict, it risks alienating innocent Muslims and oversimplifying the problem.
3. Pseudo-Secular Deflection: This is perhaps the most intellectually dishonest narrative. It insists that "terrorism has no religion" and blames intelligence failure, not ideological motives. This narrative obscures the religious identity of the attackers and their victims to maintain a secular veneer.

These narratives aren’t just discursive. They shape public policy, electoral outcomes, and social cohesion. In this narrative battleground, Huntington’s insight proves prescient: civilisations define themselves by what they are not, and conflict arises when these identities clash.

The Economic Fallout: A Civilizational Undercurrent

The Pahalgam attack also had immediate economic repercussions. Tourism—the backbone of Kashmir's economy—took a direct hit. Flight fares to Srinagar dropped by as much as 63%, and nearly 85% of travel bookings were cancelled within 48 hours. Such economic disruptions are not collateral damage; they are central to the terrorists’ goals. By targeting Hindu tourists, they aim to sever the civilizational ties between the Indian mainland and Kashmir, reinforcing the Islamist claim that Hindus are outsiders.

The loss of income for Kashmiri traders, hoteliers, and guides—many of whom are Muslim—illustrates another layer of tragedy. Islamic terrorism not only deepens the Hindu-Muslim civilizational divide but also destabilises intra-Islamic economic cooperation. This again aligns with Huntington’s idea of fault lines, but with the added complexity of intra-civilizational contradictions.

Reimagining the Civilizational Frame

The Pahalgam attack is a painful reminder of the enduring power of civilizational narratives. Huntington's thesis offers a useful lens to understand the macro patterns of identity-based conflict, but it should not be the sole prism through which we respond. While it helps diagnose the fault lines, it does not provide a blueprint for healing.

If we are to move forward, we must not harden these civilizational lines but learn to cross them. Recognising a clash does not mean we must be resigned to perpetual division. Instead, it calls for a deeper reckoning with how historical grievances, political opportunism, and ideological blind spots contribute to conflict.

Rather than polarising ourselves into binaries—Hindu vs. Muslim, secular vs. communal—we must see the whole: the complex, entangled reality of contemporary India, where multiple identities coexist, overlap, and often contradict. True civilisational strength lies in the ability to bridge differences, not merely defend borders.

This moment demands empathy without naivety, strength without aggression, and above all, a narrative that aspires to integration rather than exclusion. Only then can we move from clash to conversation, from suspicion to solidarity, and from fear to a shared future.

 

@ The author is Faculty, Department of Political Science, University of Calcutta

Why the Right to Rights Movement Matters in an Age of Shrinking Civic Space

Dr. Asis Mistry

In the age of rising authoritarianism, censorship, and social exclusion, one question continues to resonate across the margins of Indian society: Do we truly have the right to rights? At a time when civic space is being systematically constrained — from the silencing of dissent to the criminalisation of protest — the Right to Rights Movement emerges not merely as a campaign, but as a foundational reminder of what it means to belong in a democracy.

A Crisis of Citizenship and Belonging

The crisis we face today is not just political or economic; it is existential. Millions in India live in what can only be described as a “zone of abandonment” — denied access to healthcare, education, housing, legal recourse, and dignity. Whether it is the daily wage worker in a metropolitan slum, the manual scavenger in rural Bihar, or the tribal family evicted from their forestland, the experience is the same: the state is either absent or predatory.

It is in this context that the Right to Rights Movement becomes crucial. Emerging from the grassroots, especially in states like Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, and Chhattisgarh, this movement is not a demand for charity or welfare. It is a demand for recognition — a call to be seen, heard, and respected as rights-bearing citizens.

What Is the Right to Rights Movement?

Conceptually rooted in Ambedkarite and Gandhian traditions of social justice, the Right to Rights Movement brings together marginalised communities, social workers, legal activists, and public intellectuals in a sustained effort to transform the relationship between the citizen and the state. It seeks to reclaim the idea that rights are not favours bestowed by the government, but entitlements guaranteed by the Constitution.

This movement insists that the poor are not “beneficiaries” but claimants. It moves beyond the language of benevolence and charity, often deployed in government schemes, to one of accountability and justice. It is not enough for the state to provide subsidies or relief; it must ensure justice, equity, and dignity in structural terms.

Shrinking Civic Space: A Global and National Trend

The idea of shrinking civic space refers to the increasing restrictions placed on civil society organisations, grassroots mobilisations, independent media, and ordinary citizens’ rights to organise, protest, and speak freely. Globally, watchdogs like CIVICUS and Freedom House have reported alarming trends — India has, in recent years, been downgraded from a "free" to a "partly free" democracy.

The recent amendments to the Foreign Contribution (Regulation) Act (FCRA), which have choked funding for NGOs; the arrest and harassment of activists under draconian laws like the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA); and the vilification of student and farmer protests in mainstream media — all signal a deepening erosion of civic freedoms.

In such a climate, movements like Right to Rights do more than articulate demands; they hold space for participatory democracy to survive.

From Protest to Praxis

What distinguishes the Right to Rights Movement from other forms of resistance is its insistence on praxis — the translation of ideals into actionable, everyday strategies of engagement. It has made significant interventions in areas such as:

• Right to Work: Strengthening implementation and access to MGNREGA, ensuring proper wage payments, and demanding transparency in employment data.

• Right to Food: Organising social audits, monitoring PDS delivery, and combating exclusions in Aadhaar-based systems.

• Right to Health and Shelter: Demanding accountability for underfunded primary health care centres and working toward urban housing rights for informal workers.

By creating Jan Sunwais (public hearings), community rights clinics, and social accountability platforms, the movement has generated a culture of democratic assertion that thrives in the everyday, not just in elections.

Democracy Is a Verb, Not a Noun

One of the most radical insights of the Right to Rights Movement is that democracy is not an event but a practice. Voting once every five years does not guarantee justice. Rights must be lived, claimed, and defended every day — especially by those for whom the law remains out of reach.

In this way, the movement reclaims the spirit of India’s Constitution. It puts Ambedkar’s warning front and centre: that political democracy must rest on a foundation of social and economic democracy. Without equality and dignity in everyday life, the right to vote becomes hollow.

Towards a New Democratic Ethic

We must understand that the shrinking of civic space is not just about fewer protests or less media freedom. It is about a moral contraction — the narrowing of who counts as a citizen, whose pain matters, whose voice is legitimate.

The Right to Rights Movement pushes back against this contraction. It offers a radically inclusive vision of citizenship, one that is not based on class, caste, religion, or location, but on the shared dignity of human beings.

This is not easy. The movement faces harassment, fatigue, and the immense challenge of sustaining hope in deeply unequal and hostile environments. Yet it endures — precisely because it is not just a movement, but a moral argument for the republic itself.

A Call to Action

If we are to reverse the democratic decline we are witnessing, we need to do more than vote. We must listen, accompany, and amplify those on the frontlines of rights-based struggles. We must question policies that criminalise protest and demonise dissent. We must reclaim the language of rights — not just as legal tools, but as ethical imperatives.

Supporting the Right to Rights Movement is not just solidarity; it is self-interest. A society that denies rights to some ultimately endangers rights for all.

Let us remember: democracies don’t die in one day. They die slowly, through everyday silences, erasures, and exclusions. The Right to Rights Movement — with all its limitations and imperfections — refuses that silence. And for that reason alone, it matters more now than ever before.

@ The Author is Assistant Professor, Department of Political Science, University of Calcutta

The Rise of Judicial Politics in Pakistan: Arbiter or Actor?

Dr. Asis Mistry 

In a country where politics rarely follows a predictable script, one institution has emerged as a referee and a participant in the drama—the judiciary. Once seen as a passive arm of the state, beholden to executive whims, Pakistan’s judiciary has reinvented itself as a formidable political force over the past two decades. But this reinvention begs a fundamental question: is the judiciary acting as a constitutional arbiter, or has it become an autonomous actor in the country’s high-stakes power game?

From Doctrine of Necessity to Judicial Activism

Historically, the judiciary in Pakistan has been remembered less for defending democracy than for facilitating its derailment. The infamous "Doctrine of Necessity", first invoked in 1954 to validate the dissolution of the Constituent Assembly, became the judiciary’s go-to justification for military takeovers. In case after case—from Ayub Khan to Pervez Musharraf—the courts sided with strongmen, often under the pretence of national stability.

But something shifted in the early 2000s. The Lawyers’ Movement of 2007–2009, sparked by the sacking of Chief Justice Iftikhar Muhammad Chaudhry, marked a turning point. It mobilised civil society in unprecedented ways and reintroduced the judiciary as a site of resistance rather than submission. The courts regained public trust, and judicial independence became a rallying cry. But with independence came power, and power, as always, tends to seek more of itself.

Enter the Era of Judicial Politics

In the post-Musharraf democratic period, Pakistan's courts became increasingly interventionist. From disqualifying elected prime ministers to blocking laws and summoning bureaucrats on live television, the judiciary blurred the line between legal oversight and executive control.

The 2017 disqualification of Nawaz Sharif—based on Article 62(1)(f) of the Constitution, requiring lawmakers to be "honest and righteous"—was a watershed moment. The ruling was not just judicial; it was deeply political, effectively reshaping the electoral landscape ahead of the 2018 general elections. Critics argued that the judiciary had overstepped its mandate and acted in concert with powerful unelected institutions to engineer political outcomes.

Since then, Pakistan has entered a new phase of judicial politics, one where courts are not merely interpreting laws but actively influencing the course of political events.

The Supreme Court in the Eye of the Storm

The 2024 elections once again placed the judiciary at the centre of controversy. As candidates from the Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) faced disqualifications, and electoral rules appeared to be selectively applied, opposition voices accused the judiciary of partisan leanings. Legal decisions about constituency delimitations, election timelines, and party symbols were seen by many as shaping—not just regulating, the electoral playing field.

Moreover, suo motu powers—the ability of the Supreme Court to initiate proceedings on its own—have been exercised with great frequency, often without consistent standards. In matters ranging from sugar prices to political alliances, the courts have intervened in ways that some see as necessary for governance, but others view as judicial overreach.

Even within the judiciary, fault lines have emerged. Split decisions, dissenting opinions, and public statements by judges reveal a judiciary struggling with its own internal coherence—and perhaps, its political soul.

Is the Judiciary Filling a Vacuum?

Supporters of judicial activism argue that the courts are stepping in where the political class has failed. In a system riddled with corruption, dynastic control, and military manipulation, the judiciary, they say, is the only institution left with enough credibility to act as a check on power.

Indeed, many Pakistanis still look to the courts for justice in a system where police and bureaucracy are compromised. Landmark rulings on minority rights, women's inheritance, and environmental protection demonstrate the judiciary’s capacity to protect the vulnerable and uphold fundamental rights.

But legitimacy is a fragile currency. If judicial action is perceived as selective, or worse, politically motivated, it can erode public trust. The danger is not just to the court's image—it is to the very foundations of democratic governance.

Arbiter or Actor?

So, where does that leave the judiciary today? Somewhere in between. It has certainly outgrown the image of a rubber-stamping institution. But whether it has matured into a neutral arbiter is less certain.

When courts begin to selectively interpret constitutional clauses to remove political rivals or dictate policy, they risk becoming political actors in robes. This erodes the separation of powers and undermines the idea of an impartial judiciary. Worse, it opens the judiciary itself to politicisation, where judges are appointed or targeted not for their legal acumen, but for their perceived political leanings.

In such a scenario, judicial independence becomes a myth. What emerges instead is a form of judicial partisanship, often cloaked in constitutional rhetoric.

The Way Forward: Judicial Humility and Democratic Maturity

If Pakistan’s democracy is to mature, all institutions—especially the judiciary—must rediscover their limits. Judicial reform should focus not just on increasing efficiency, but on embedding institutional humility. Judges must resist the allure of public adulation and media limelight and return to the quieter but more powerful role of guardians of the Constitution.

At the same time, the political class must stop looking to the courts for political arbitration. Parties must resolve their disputes in Parliament, not the courtroom. Elections must be contested on manifestos, not petitions. And the military establishment, too, must respect judicial independence and refrain from covertly influencing the legal process.

The Battle for the Soul of the Judiciary

The rise of judicial politics in Pakistan is neither accidental nor entirely undesirable. A robust judiciary is essential for a functioning democracy. But when courts become proxies for political power, the very idea of justice is put on trial.

Pakistan today stands at a crossroads. The judiciary can either serve as the guardian of democratic values or become another pawn in the country’s endless game of power. It cannot be both.

@ Author is Faculty, Department of Political Science, University of Calcutta

Gross National Happiness and Electoral Politics in Bhutan: Compatible or Contradictory?

 Dr. Asis Mistry

In the foothills of the eastern Himalayas lies a country that has repeatedly defied conventional wisdom. Bhutan, often dubbed the last Shangri-La, transitioned from absolute monarchy to parliamentary democracy in 2008, not in the wake of revolution or international pressure, but at the behest of its own monarch. At the heart of its political and development philosophy lies a concept that continues to fascinate the world—Gross National Happiness (GNH).

But as Bhutan’s electoral democracy matures—with its fourth general elections recently held in 2023—one cannot help but ask: Is GNH compatible with the rough-and-tumble world of electoral politics? Or do the two sit in quiet contradiction?

GNH: A Radical Vision for Governance

Bhutan’s model of Gross National Happiness, introduced by the Fourth King, Jigme Singye Wangchuck, in the 1970s, rests on four pillars: sustainable development, environmental conservation, cultural preservation, and good governance. It is a bold attempt to measure progress beyond GDP, anchoring it instead in human well-being, ecological balance, and spiritual values.

Unlike traditional development models, GNH prioritises collective well-being over individual material wealth. It calls for balance—between modernisation and tradition, between economic growth and environmental limits, between the needs of the present and those of future generations. In many ways, it is both a philosophical worldview and a pragmatic policy framework.

Electoral Democracy: Pluralism, Competition, and Uncertainty

The democratic experiment in Bhutan is still young. Since the first elections in 2008, the country has seen peaceful transfers of power, increasing political awareness, and the evolution of political parties. But elections, by their very nature, invite contestation, populism, and short-termism—forces that often run counter to the measured, long-term orientation of GNH.

In an electoral setting, political parties are incentivised to promise quick returns—roads, subsidies, jobs—often at the expense of deeper, structural reforms. They must differentiate themselves, sometimes sharply, to win votes, even if it means challenging consensus on sensitive issues such as religious identity, environmental regulation, or foreign investment. This logic of political competition can strain Bhutan’s historical emphasis on unity, harmony, and deliberation.

The question, then, is not whether democracy is right for Bhutan—clearly, the country’s peaceful and purposeful transition is a democratic success story—but whether the competitive nature of elections is fully aligned with the slower, more reflective, and holistic approach of GNH.

Tensions on the Ground

Over the past decade, a few areas have exposed the subtle tension between electoral politics and the GNH ethos.

1. Politicisation of Development

Political parties often frame development promises in terms of quick deliverables—construction projects, cash handouts, or employment schemes. While these may meet immediate needs, they can undercut Bhutan’s long-term commitment to sustainability and equitable growth. For example, pressure to increase infrastructure development in fragile ecological zones or to ease restrictions on mining can conflict with Bhutan’s commitment to environmental preservation.

2. Regional and Identity Politics

GNH emphasises social cohesion and the preservation of Bhutan’s unique cultural identity. However, electoral politics can incentivise candidates to appeal to regional loyalties or ethnic identities, potentially undermining national unity. While overt identity politics remains rare in Bhutan compared to other South Asian democracies, the risk increases as party competition intensifies.

3. Media and Political Speech

Democracy requires a free press and open political debate. But Bhutanese culture values restraint, humility, and respect for authority—traits often seen as incompatible with adversarial political discourse. Negative campaigning and politicised narratives can erode trust, especially in a society where harmony is prized.

4. Youth and Employment

The promise of GNH includes the well-being and empowerment of future generations. Yet Bhutan faces rising youth unemployment and migration, leading to disillusionment. Political parties now compete over who can generate more jobs, sometimes through promises of rapid economic liberalisation or foreign investment, which may not align with Bhutan’s cautious, values-driven development model.

Signs of Compatibility: Democracy as a Tool, Not a Threat

Despite these tensions, it would be unfair—and inaccurate—to portray GNH and democracy as inherently at odds. In fact, Bhutan’s democracy has evolved with surprising maturity, showing several ways in which GNH and electoral politics can reinforce each other.

1. Institutional Checks

Bhutan’s Constitution, adopted in 2008, enshrines GNH as a state objective. This means that elected governments are legally and morally obligated to frame policies in line with their principles. Independent institutions, such as the Gross National Happiness Commission (GNHC), act as policy gatekeepers to ensure consistency with GNH values.

2. Educated Electorate

Voter awareness programs and civic education efforts—especially among youth—have helped Bhutanese citizens understand that elections are not only about material gain but about preserving national values. There is growing public expectation that political parties must align their manifestos with GNH, not just market-friendly reforms.

3. Responsible Political Culture

So far, Bhutan’s political parties have largely avoided demagoguery and have operated within a relatively respectful and constructive space. While competition exists, it is tempered by a shared national ethos and a small population that fosters accountability and interpersonal ties.

4. The Monarchy’s Moral Influence

Although constitutionally limited, the monarchy continues to exert immense moral authority. The King’s frequent engagement with citizens and emphasis on unity and well-being reinforce the foundational values of GNH and act as a subtle counterweight to potential excesses in electoral behaviour.

What Lies Ahead?

As Bhutan navigates its democratic future, it faces a crucial challenge: how to institutionalise GNH in a way that enhances democratic deliberation rather than constrains it.

One solution lies in deepening participatory democracy. If GNH is to thrive in a democratic context, it must not be reduced to a top-down metric. Citizens must be involved in defining what happiness means to them, and in evaluating the performance of elected leaders on those terms. This means investing in local governance, participatory budgeting, and inclusive planning.

Another imperative is political education and media responsibility. As political competition increases, Bhutan must nurture a media landscape that is critical but constructive, and a political culture that embraces disagreement without discord.

Lastly, Bhutan must resist the temptation to emulate other electoral democracies wholesale. It should instead carve its own democratic path—one that celebrates pluralism without undermining harmony, and embraces electoral choice while staying rooted in long-term well-being.

The relationship between Gross National Happiness and electoral democracy is not one of contradiction, but of creative tension. GNH offers a moral compass; democracy offers a method. If Bhutan can continue to steer both with care, it may just prove to the world that politics need not be a zero-sum game—and that happiness and democracy, far from being incompatible, can in fact be co-architects of a just and balanced society.

@ Author is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of Calcutta.