A Political Notebook

The Opposition Is Losing More Than Elections

Disagreeing with the government does not necessarily mean agreeing with everyone opposing it. Perhaps this is a distinction our opposition needs to understand.

Politics   |   Opinion

I have never really been someone who hesitates to criticise the present government. Whether it is a legislation that I find questionable, the manner in which a policy is implemented or an administrative decision that appears inconsistent with constitutional principles, I have had my disagreements, and I have expressed them rather vividly. I don't believe that being in government gives any political establishment the luxury of escaping scrutiny. But that is precisely why I find some of the current anti-government politics equally deserving of criticism.

I sometimes feel that the opposition has mistaken the existence of dissent for the existence of a political alternative. There are protests, demonstrations, political statements and a great deal of discussion around democratic institutions. Yet I am not entirely convinced that all this is translating into anything substantial beyond the familiar political constituency that is already opposed to the BJP. And I find this rather unfortunate because the opposition has a much larger audience to convince than the one it is currently addressing.

Let me put this differently. I can disagree with the BJP on a number of issues and still find an argument made by its opponents unconvincing. Why should that be so difficult to accept? Questioning the government does not require me to suspend my ability to question those questioning it. Nor should every disagreement with the opposition be interpreted as an endorsement of the ruling party. This peculiar tendency to put people into one of two political boxes is perhaps one of the more damaging aspects of our present political discourse.

The difference between 2014 and now

I keep going back to the years preceding 2014. Corruption, inflation and the general dissatisfaction with UPA-II had a much wider public appeal. You did not have to be an Anna Hazare supporter to be frustrated with corruption. You did not have to belong to the BJP or subscribe to its ideology to understand what rising prices meant for your household. These were concerns that travelled across political and social boundaries. The BJP, then in opposition, understood how to connect them to a larger argument about governance and accountability.

I don't see the opposition displaying the same political understanding today.

The present political agitations may have their own legitimate concerns, and I have no intention of questioning anyone's right to protest. But I do question the assumption that every anti-government mobilisation automatically represents a larger democratic awakening. The right to dissent is fundamental, but the political claims made in the name of dissent should be open to scrutiny too.

Take the criticism surrounding the Election Commission and the Special Intensive Revision of electoral rolls. I have absolutely no objection to questioning the Commission, demanding transparency or examining whether the process has been conducted fairly. A constitutional institution cannot expect unquestioned acceptance merely because of its position. But there is a difference between identifying procedural shortcomings, establishing irregularities and questioning the legitimacy of an institution itself.

If the opposition has evidence, it should put it before the public and pursue the appropriate constitutional remedies. Merely repeating allegations does not make them established facts. At the same time, the government cannot dismiss every question as politically motivated or expect institutions to be defended through blind faith. The same standards of accountability must apply irrespective of who is in power.

What I find problematic is the tendency to turn almost every institutional disagreement into an argument about the credibility of the entire democratic process. Institutions deserve scrutiny, but the opposition also has a responsibility to ensure that its own arguments remain credible. Democracy cannot become a convenient vocabulary that is invoked selectively, depending on the political outcome.

The opposition and its little castles of electoral arithmetic

There is another thing that has increasingly caught my attention. The opposition seems to have become almost obsessed with elections. Every political development is eventually brought back to electoral calculations, every disagreement with the government becomes an opportunity to discuss defeating the BJP, and almost every political intervention seems to have the next election somewhere in the background.

I understand the importance of elections. They are central to parliamentary democracy. But surely politics cannot be reduced to the business of winning them.

“The real test is to reach those who don't already agree with you.”

Sometimes I feel that the opposition is so busy building its own little castles of electoral arithmetic that it has stopped looking beyond them. It seems to be addressing an audience that has already made up its mind against the BJP, while paying considerably less attention to the much larger section of people it still needs to convince.

There is a considerable difference between mobilising people who already dislike a political party and persuading someone who does not necessarily share that dislike. The latter is where the real political work begins.

What about someone who is unhappy with inflation but does not identify with Congress? Someone who has reservations about a government policy but is equally uncomfortable with the opposition's position on nationalism, religion or governance? What about voters who have supported the BJP but are perfectly capable of questioning it on particular issues without wanting to become part of an anti-BJP movement?

Do these people feature anywhere in the opposition's political imagination?

I sometimes get the impression that the opposition is celebrating agreement within its own circles and mistaking it for a wider change in public sentiment. It is relatively easy to convince people who already agree with you. The real test is to reach those who don't. And the threshold the opposition needs to penetrate is considerably wider than the existing anti-BJP constituency.

The ordinary citizen does not necessarily approach politics with the same preoccupations as a party spokesperson or an election strategist. His concerns may begin and end with employment, prices, education, public services, social security or the functioning of institutions. He may appreciate one government initiative and criticise another decision by the very same government. He does not necessarily owe permanent allegiance to anyone. Why, then, should the opposition expect him to become part of an anti-BJP political constituency simply because he disagrees with the government on a particular issue?

Perhaps the opposition needs to spend less time calculating how a particular issue might translate into electoral advantage and more time understanding why people outside its existing support base remain unconvinced. Everyone who dislikes the BJP does not necessarily want Congress to replace it. That is a political reality worth acknowledging.

When activism becomes an echo chamber

The involvement of student activists such as Neha Bora is another aspect I find worth discussing. I have no objection to young people entering politics or questioning those in power. In fact, student politics has historically played an important role in raising questions that established political parties sometimes prefer to avoid. But I do wonder whether certain sections of contemporary student activism have become too comfortable within their own ideological circles.

There is a difference between being politically vocal and being politically representative. An organisation may have committed activists, a long history of ideological engagement and considerable visibility within its own ecosystem, but that does not automatically make its politics relevant to a much wider population.

The Left, too, needs some serious introspection. Its contribution to discussions around labour rights, inequality and social justice cannot simply be dismissed because of electoral setbacks. But neither can it keep relying on its ideological inheritance without asking why it is finding it increasingly difficult to expand its political appeal. The changing political fortunes of the Left, including in Kerala, should invite some uncomfortable questions.

I wouldn't presume to know the motivations of individual activists or attribute an entire electoral outcome to a student organisation. But political movements cannot survive indefinitely by speaking primarily to people who already share their convictions. At some point, they have to examine whether their language, priorities and methods are connecting with the people they claim to represent.

Congress seems to be losing its own political inheritance

What I find even more interesting is Congress's predicament. Its problems, in my opinion, go considerably beyond electoral strategy. There seems to be a gradual loss of confidence in its own political inheritance.

For decades, Congress enjoyed an almost natural association with the freedom movement and its principal figures. Gandhi, Nehru and Patel were not merely historical personalities for the party; they were part of its political identity. But that inheritance is no longer something Congress can take for granted.

Look at Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. The BJP has made a determined effort to bring him into its nationalist imagination. The Statue of Unity was not simply about building a monument. It was also about establishing a political association with the man who played such an important role in integrating princely states into the Indian Union.

And there is something ironic about it. Patel was himself a Congress leader, a close associate of Gandhi and one of the most consequential figures in the making of independent India. Yet the BJP seems to have been considerably more assertive in claiming his place in contemporary national consciousness. Congress, which should have had a natural advantage in this regard, often appears to remember its historical figures when somebody else starts celebrating them.

I sometimes wonder whether Gandhi could eventually become another such figure.

It may sound unusual, considering how closely Gandhi is associated with Congress, but historical inheritance is not permanent political property. The BJP has also invoked Gandhi through initiatives such as Swachh Bharat and his broader national symbolism. Whether its politics is consistent with Gandhi's entire philosophy is an altogether different discussion. But Congress cannot simply assume that Gandhi will remain its political property because of its historical association with him.

Gandhi was much more than a convenient face of secularism. His political philosophy involved truth, non-violence, religious coexistence, decentralisation, Gram Swaraj and, perhaps most importantly, moral restraint in public life. His nationalism was deeply rooted in Indian civilisation without making citizenship conditional on religious identity.

I sometimes feel that we have reduced Gandhi to a few familiar photographs, quotations and political occasions. His actual political philosophy is considerably more demanding. A party cannot keep invoking him while conveniently ignoring the parts of his thinking that might be uncomfortable for its own political conduct.

And this applies to every party that claims his inheritance, not just Congress.

Can communalism be countered through another politics of identity?

I have a similar discomfort with Congress's approach towards secularism. Defending minorities against discrimination is a constitutional responsibility. There should be absolutely no ambiguity about that. But I sometimes feel that the party is struggling to distinguish between defending minority rights and organising politics around religious identities.

The answer to majoritarian communalism cannot be another form of religious polarisation. If the response to one religious bloc is to create another, what exactly has changed?

Congress should be able to defend minority rights without making religious identity the foundation of its electoral appeal. It should be able to speak about Hindu society without feeling compelled to imitate the BJP's political vocabulary. And it should be able to articulate Indian nationalism without behaving as though the subject belongs exclusively to its opponents.

I find it particularly disappointing because Congress has a political tradition that should allow it to make a much stronger argument for an India that is culturally rooted, constitutionally secular and socially inclusive. Instead, much of its contemporary political positioning appears reactive. It is almost as though the BJP has become the reference point for deciding what Congress should say, what it should oppose and sometimes even what it should believe.

A party that once had the confidence to define its own version of Indian nationalism should not have to borrow its political vocabulary from the very party it is trying to challenge.

Disagreement should not come with political conditions

I am not suggesting that the BJP has no contradictions, that its legislation should escape scrutiny or that its execution of policies is beyond criticism. Quite the opposite. I remain critical whenever I find its decisions inconsistent with constitutional principles or the standards of governance expected from an elected government.

But that is precisely why I find it necessary to maintain the same standards when examining the opposition.

Democratic values cannot be partisan conveniences. Institutional independence cannot be defended selectively. Freedom of expression cannot become sacred only when the speaker happens to agree with us. Equality cannot be invoked in one political context while being compromised in another.

Perhaps the opposition has become so accustomed to viewing every political development through the prism of its disagreement with the BJP that it has forgotten something rather fundamental: people are not obliged to agree with the opposition simply because they disagree with the government.

Someone can be deeply dissatisfied with the functioning of the government, question its legislation and still find the opposition's arguments unconvincing. There is nothing contradictory about that.

The experience of 2014 should also remind us that a political alternative requires considerably more than the aggregation of grievances. The BJP managed to give different concerns a common political direction. Whether one agrees with what followed is a separate discussion, but the political proposition was larger than simply being against UPA-II.

Today, the opposition has several issues on which it can question the government. What I find missing is the confidence to articulate a larger political idea that people can identify with independently of their dislike for the BJP.

I would rather have an opposition that questions the government rigorously but also possesses the confidence to question itself. One that does not confuse criticism with hostility, dissent with political entitlement or electoral defeat with institutional conspiracy. One that can defend constitutional values without first calculating whether doing so will benefit its electoral fortunes.

“I have no particular interest in making the government comfortable. But neither do I think the opposition deserves intellectual immunity simply because it is challenging the government.”

If we want accountability from those in power, we must be equally willing to demand intellectual honesty from those who seek to replace them.

And perhaps that is the distinction our politics needs more than another round of electoral calculations.

End of article

Beyond Financial Independence

People often speak of financial independence as the highest form of freedom.

And certainly,

there is dignity in possessing enough

to not be cornered by necessity,

to not have one’s spirit chained to survival alone.

I too have always desired that freedom:

not for luxury,

but so that thought itself remains unconstrained by financial fear.

Yet if I am honest,

another freedom has always appeared far more profound to me.

Social independence.

The ability to exist without continuously reconstructing oneself

to satisfy society’s imagination of what a person should be.

Because society does not merely impose rules.

It manufactures personalities.

It rewards certain temperaments,

certain ambitions,

certain performances of masculinity and femininity,

certain definitions of success,

certain emotional expressions,

certain lifestyles,

certain rhythms of existence.

And slowly,

without realizing it,

people begin editing themselves into socially digestible versions.

Not because they are false,

but because authenticity itself becomes socially exhausting.

I think that is one of the quietest tragedies of modern life:

human beings drifting away from their own nature

through endless adaptation.

To me,

social independence has always felt almost sacred.

To think without needing intellectual approval.

To feel without shame.

To remain emotional in a civilization that glorifies emotional numbness.

To value depth in an age addicted to performance.

To preserve one’s inward temperament

despite the constant pressure to become more marketable,

more acceptable,

more explainable.

Because I do not think freedom merely means:

“I can spend without fear.”

I think true freedom is when one can walk through society

without slowly disappearing into it.

When one can participate in the world fully,

love deeply,

work sincerely,

dream greatly,

yet still retain an untouched inner center

that does not alter itself every time the collective changes its expectations.

There is something deeply metaphysical about a human being

who refuses to become a social fabrication.

Someone who quietly says:

“I will live in society,

but I will not allow society to author my entire being.”

And perhaps,

more than wealth,

that has always felt like freedom to me.

#SocialIndependence #Authenticity #Philosophy #Selfhood #InnerFreedom #Metaphysics #Existentialism #ModernLife #Consciousness #Society #Identity #Freedom #Psychology #SelfAwareness #HumanCondition #Individuality #InnerLife #PhilosophicalThought #PersonalPhilosophy #SelfRealization

Unlived

I am a congregation of unfinished lives.

When I close my eyes, I see them — all the men I never became, standing shoulder to shoulder in some celestial corridor of what-ifs, waiting neither in grief nor accusation, but in quiet companionship.

One of them is a renunciate. He speaks rarely. He lives beneath the sky and prays not to gods, but to stillness. He is a pandit, not by ritual but by rhythm — the rhythm of the sacred breath, of mantra and memory. He knows peace, the kind that smells of sandalwood and silence. I have touched that life, once, briefly — in the way I once touched the Vedas — not to understand, but to feel what I was missing.

Another is a professor — pale-eyed and half-wrinkled from pages and pens. He teaches philosophy in a sun-drenched university town. He has long dialogues with younger versions of himself who arrive as students. He drinks bitter black coffee and writes letters he never posts. He is alone, but never lonely.

Somewhere in a colder city lives the lover I never became — the one who said yes when she asked for forever. He works in a newsroom, returns home with ink on his fingers, reads poetry out loud in the kitchen. They fight. They make up. They grow old together. I visit him sometimes in dreams.

There's also a revolutionary — wild-eyed, speech heavy, purpose burning. He gave up family and fame. He leads marches that are never covered on television. He knows that the system won’t bend, but he still screams at it with all his heart. He has scars. Some of them on his skin. Most of them invisible.

And then there’s the hermit — the one who left it all. The boy who walked into the Himalayas and never came back. People think he died. But I know better. He dissolved. Into winds, into scriptures, into stars.

I’ve loved them all. I’ve betrayed them all.

I never had the courage to choose. Or perhaps I had the wisdom not to.

Because each of them is a limb of my soul — and I, this half-shaped man who writes, am not their failure, but their witness.

I walk carrying their voices. Their hungers. Their renunciations.

And maybe, just maybe — when I finally come undone — I will not be remembered as a man who lived a great life,

but as the one who heard all his unlived ones calling…

…and didn’t turn away.

We Were Never Lovers, Yet Everything Was Lost

We were never lovers.

There were no midnight confessions, no trembling hands folded into each other’s palms, no declarations to the stars.

And yet, what passed between us could not be confined to friendship, nor described by the dry language of fate.

It was something ancient. Something hovering just beyond articulation—like a word trapped forever on the tip of the universe’s tongue.

To know her was to feel a quiet ache beneath the bones—an ache that resembled longing, yet never dared to bloom into it.

She and I danced on the edge of something immense.

And we never jumped.

But oh, how the world shifted in that pause.

There are some silences so loud they shape the course of things. Ours was such a silence.

A soft severing. A wound dressed in grace.

At a moment—fragile, fleeting—she wished for it.

For loss.

Not in cruelty. Not in arrogance. But in weariness.

Perhaps the weight of “what might be” became heavier than the comfort of “what is.”

Perhaps she feared the mirror I held too steadily for her to shatter.

And so, she stepped away. Not with anger. Not with goodbye.

Just… absence.

A quiet undoing of a bond that never found a name.

I bore the aftermath not like a heartbreak, but like an unspent storm.

I did not grieve the end of a love story—we never had one.

I grieved the death of a possibility.

Of a sacred union that would have asked for no performance, only presence.

She may have lost someone who would have worshipped the soil beneath her self-doubt, who would have read her silences like scripture.

But what I lost—what we lost—was something far more irreplaceable.

The world lost a softness it so desperately needed.

A tenderness that could have unfolded into poems and prayers,

Into a quiet revolution of warmth.

Our separation was not merely a personal sorrow.

It was a cosmic misstep.

A fracture in the universe’s deeper narrative.

For what we might have become—together—was not just love.

It was light.

And now, that light lies unlit—somewhere between what was felt and what was never said.

And that, I believe, is not just my loss.

It is the world’s.

To Love Her Was to Be Undone

To love her was to be undone — slowly, and with full awareness.

Not by betrayal, nor cruelty,

but by the quiet weight of being misunderstood.

She did not see the ache behind my stillness,

nor the trembling restraint in every word I never said.

She thought me unwell, obsessive perhaps —

but what she called madness was simply this:

I had no self left outside her.

She had become breath. Pulse.

My days moved as her shadow did.

And still, I asked for nothing.

Even when I was burning, I folded my pain gently

so it would not disturb her peace.

She never truly looked —

or maybe she looked through the eyes of others,

who never touched my silence,

never knew how I worshipped her in ways

that felt more like prayer than possession.

So she left — and I let her.

I bore the blame, her doubt, her silence.

If hating me made it easier for her to live,

I gave her that too.

But the wound remains.

Not because she went,

but because she never knew

that someone once loved her

so completely,

he forgot what it meant to be a person

without her.

If Ever There Were an English Mushaira...

If ever there were an English mushaira,

it wouldn’t begin with applause—

but with a silence that settles like soft dusk upon a tired city.

No spotlight, no raised hand—just a voice,

spilling like warm tea into porcelain twilight.

There’d be no declarations, no stage bravado—

only the gentle unfolding of metaphors,

like a lover untying the knot in a letter

they’ve read too many times to count.

A poet would rise not to perform,

but to confide.

And we would listen—not to respond,

but to remember something we had forgotten

in the bustle of being.

Perhaps someone would speak of grief

not as a tragedy, but a companion—

and another would turn longing into a landscape

where no country has borders, and every silence is sacred.

There’d be no winners. No final round.

Only verses—draped across hearts like shawls in December.

And somewhere in the back,

someone would whisper, “How strange... I’ve never heard English ache like this before.”

A poet without a muse

What is a metaphor without a face to rest upon?

I have built entire worlds of beauty—

soft similes, aching alliterations,

lines that could clothe a soul,

or undress it gently under moonlight.

But there’s no one here

to slip into the language I stitched.

No collarbone to carry my metaphors,

no palm to pour my sonnets into,

no laughter to stretch the meaning of joy,

no silence to sip my metaphysics like warm wine.

I am a poet debarred of purpose,

a candle burning in a room that no one enters.

My ink does not dry—it drowns.

It waits.

I have metaphors of rain,

but no skin to receive it.

I have verses of longing,

but no eyes to read them aloud.

It is a strange exile—

to be full of love,

and yet so utterly

unloved.