Manoj Kumar Jha on Democracy, Dissent & India

It is not yet time for me to write a personal memoir of my political journey or attempt to chronicle my public life, but in this crisis-laden time in Indian politics, it is perhaps natural to reflect on what politicised me as an individual. Earlier, too, I had written about influences that shaped my understanding of India, its democracy, and the challenges confronting its future. My political and intellectual awakening began during my student years at Patna University in the late 1980s. Like many young people of that generation, I was searching for ideas that could help make sense of a rapidly changing society. A small group of us felt compelled to engage more actively with the questions of our time. We believed that silence was not an option when the social fabric around us was being tested.

For students interested in equality, justice, and progressive social transformation, the Left appeared to be a natural intellectual home. Whether one formally belonged to an organisation or not, its language of social justice, secularism, and democratic rights offered a credible framework through which we interpreted the world. Ideas really mattered in the university, and the atmosphere was marked by intense debate and ideological contestations. Public life was animated by conversations about poverty, caste, democracy, social change, and the unfinished promises of the republic.

Yet those years were also marked by deep anxieties. India was witnessing a profound political churn around the Ram Janmabhoomi-Babri Masjid movement. For the youth of today, it is important to understand that the mobilisation was not a mere tool to alter electoral arithmetic; even at that time it transformed social relationships and public discourse. Reports of communal violence from different parts of the country became distressingly frequent. The rhythm of everyday life was increasingly interrupted by stories of fear, suspicion, and bloodshed.

Students were not insulated from these developments. Universities reflected the tensions unfolding in society and for many of us, the period raised difficult questions. Could the idea of India, founded upon pluralism and constitutional citizenship, withstand the pressures of identity-based mobilisation? Were the institutions of democracy strong enough to absorb these shocks? However, at that stage, these questions were largely intellectual concerns. Over time, they became deeply personal and political.

A few years later, I moved to study at Delhi University. The concerns that had shaped my student life in Patna travelled with me. Delhi exposed me to wider debates, new perspectives, and a more diverse social landscape. At the same time, like countless young people from modest backgrounds, I remained equally concerned about my academic career and professional future. Public engagement and personal aspirations had to coexist, and it was difficult at times.

After completing my MPhil, I got employed as an assistant professor. Since academics was to be my vocation, I faced an important decision regarding the choice of a doctoral research topic. I chose to study the Bhagalpur riots of 1989. Looking back, I realise that the decision was driven by more than scholarly curiosity. I wanted to understand how neighbours become adversaries, how trust collapses, and how violence acquires legitimacy in the minds of ordinary people.

The research journey was intellectually enriching but emotionally unsettling because the stories I encountered challenged many comforting assumptions. They revealed the fragility of social coexistence and the depth of wounds that communal violence leaves behind. Bhagalpur was a gruesome episode of collective violence, but it was also a stark warning that the ideals sustaining the republic could not be taken for granted.

The deeper I immersed myself in the subject, the more I realised that communal conflict is rarely a spontaneous eruption of hatred. It is often the culmination of political calculations, institutional failures, social prejudices, and sustained campaigns of othering. Violence does not emerge “spontaneously” from nowhere. There is enough documentation that tells us how it is prepared, justified, and normalised long before it appears on the streets. As I was concluding my doctoral work, India witnessed another traumatic chapter: the Gujarat violence of 2002. For many citizens, including me, it represented a moment of profound reckoning. The events reinforced concerns that had emerged during my engagement with Bhagalpur. They suggested that the challenges facing India’s secular and democratic foundations were not isolated incidents but part of a broader transformation in the political landscape.

In the aftermath of the violence, I participated in relief and peace-building initiatives in parts of Gujarat. Those experiences remain among the most significant of my life. While one might have encountered statistics in reports and academic studies, nothing prepares you for meeting people whose lives have been irreversibly altered by violence. Their stories force you to confront the human consequences of political failure.

During one such visit, I had a conversation that stayed with me for years. A British citizen travelling through Gujarat asked me about my work and interests. As we spoke about communal violence, democracy, and social reconciliation, she posed a simple question: if people committed to these causes believe that the public sphere is deteriorating, why do they remain outside mainstream politics? Why do they not enter the arena and attempt to repair what has been damaged?

A poster carrying an image of a victim of the 2002 Gujarat riots outside Gulberg Society in Ahmedabad, where riot survivors gathered in February 2012 to mark the 10th anniversary of the attack on the housing complex that killed 69 Muslims including former Congress MP Ahsan Jafri. | Photo Credit: SAM PANTHAKY/AFP

The question lingered long after the conversation ended. Academics often believe that ideas alone can change society. Politicians often believe that power alone can do so. The truth, as usual, probably lies somewhere in between. Democracies require both moral imagination and political action. They need people willing to analyse reality and people willing to engage with it institutionally.

Years later, that lingering question contributed to my decision to join the Rashtriya Janata Dal. The choice was informed by my belief that the party, despite its limitations and contradictions, which all political parties have, had consistently positioned itself against communal polarisation and politics rooted in hate. I entered public life not because I viewed politics as a career but because I came to see it as an extension of concerns that had accompanied me since my student years.

I began as the national spokesperson of the party, participating in public debates through television, newspapers, and other forums. Eventually, the party entrusted me with the responsibility of representing it in the Rajya Sabha. The transition from classroom to Parliament was significant, but the underlying questions remained remarkably similar: How do we deepen democracy? How do we protect constitutional values? How do we ensure that diversity becomes a source of strength rather than division?

It is against this backdrop that I view contemporary India. The political moment that began taking shape in the late 1980s acquired a new momentum after 2014, when Narendra Modi became Prime Minister. Today, after more than a decade and well into the third consecutive terms of the government led by him, it is possible to assess not only the success of a political project but also its broader social consequences. My concern is not so much about electoral victories or defeats. In a democracy, governments come and go. What concerns me is the transformation of public culture. The language of citizenship increasingly appears overshadowed by the language of identity. Dissent is frequently portrayed as disloyalty and criticism is designated as hostility to the nation. Public institutions that were expected to serve as guardians of constitutional values sometimes appear more inclined to glorify power than scrutinise it.

The result is a growing sense of democratic unease. We need to recognise that the challenge before India is as much moral as it is political. Democracies do not decline only when institutions weaken. They decline when citizens gradually lose the capacity to critique power on the one hand, and to offer empathy to the powerless on the other. Democracy declines when prejudice becomes normal, when fear becomes a governing principle of public life, and eventually people only encounter silence when they become targets and expect solidarity from the rest.

I am aware that such observations may sound pessimistic. In an age dominated by slogans, optimism is often expected as a civic duty. But optimism detached from reality is little more than performance. The mark of a responsible citizen at this hour is not to manufacture hope artificially but to confront reality honestly. At the same time, honesty requires acknowledging another truth. Despite the darkness that often dominates public discourse, India remains larger than its divisions. The republic still draws strength from millions of ordinary people who refuse to surrender their humanity to the demands of hatred. There are our fellow citizens in villages and cities, in classrooms and workplaces, who continue to practise coexistence in moments that rarely attract headlines.

The future of India will not be determined solely by governments or political parties. It will be shaped by citizens who continue to believe that freedom, equality, justice, and fraternity are not merely constitutional words but ethical commitments. Hope lies in the conviction that democracy remains worth defending. This does not mean that we deny danger, but we have to gather and practice a willingness to confront it. The struggle to protect the idea of India is therefore not a struggle for the nostalgic past but a struggle for the future. And like every meaningful struggle, it demands courage, patience, and an unwavering faith in the possibility of a more humane republic.

Manoj Kumar Jha is a member of the Rajya Sabha from the Rashtriya Janata Dal.

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