[dropcap]I[/dropcap]n 2005, during Jharkhand’s first-ever assembly polls, the Jharkhand Mukti Morcha (JMM) had hired a chopper for Guruji—Shibu Soren. After a week of campaigning, when it was time to see off the pilot, a man named Meer, we sat together for a cup of coffee. As we chatted, Meer—a veteran pilot who had flown almost every big political leader of India in the past three decades, from LK Advani and Lalu Prasad Yadav to Sharad Pawar and Jayalalitha—remarked that he had never met a leader like Shibu Soren.
“We didn’t understand what he meant. We thought perhaps it was Guruji’s simplicity that had impressed him. I asked in surprise, ‘What’s so unique about him?’” recalled JMM MLA from Giridih, Sudivya Kumar Sonu.
A Leader Who Made People Cry, Not Laugh
“The pilot replied, ‘All politicians give speeches that make people laugh. But your leader makes them cry.’”
That, Sonu said, was a defining characteristic of Guruji.
“He would recount his struggles, the sacrifices made for Jharkhand’s formation, why people shouldn’t drink, and why education matters. His words made people reflect deeply. We witnessed it often, but it took an outsider to make us realize how different Guruji’s speeches truly were.”
But it wasn’t just about speeches.
Shibu Soren, a lifelong teetotaler and vegetarian, practiced community farming, held adult literacy classes at night, and organized panchayats to resolve family disputes—in the 1970s itself. At the height of his movement, he travelled mostly on foot through the forests of Giridih, Dhanbad, Bokaro, and Jamtara.
The 81-year-old Soren, who breathed his last today at Delhi’s Gangaram Hospital, stood apart from most Indian politicians. He was one of the rare leaders who was brought into mainstream politics by an IAS officer and mentored by an engineer-turned-social-activist-turned-MP.
Soren’s hold on the oppressed classes—particularly tribal communities—was so strong that even two prominent leaders of the Jharkhand region, Arun Kumar (AK) Roy, a three-time MP from Dhanbad, and advocate Vinod Bihari Mahto, helped shape his political path and the larger movement.
During the Emergency, How a DC in Disguise Brought Guruji into the Mainstream
But the person who brought Guruji into the mainstream was Dhanbad’s then-Deputy Commissioner, IAS officer Kunwar Bahadur (KB) Saxena.
It was during the Emergency declared by Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. At the time, Tara Babu Marandi, a government employee at Bharat Coking Coal Limited (BCCL), was helping run the Pokharia Ashram in Tundi. He recalled an unusual visitor who arrived on a bicycle, claiming to be a bike mechanic.
“He said he had come to repair Guruji’s bike. When I told him the bike wasn’t working, he asked who would pay him. I said, ‘Guruji will.’ But he insisted on meeting him first. So, I took him to Parasnath Hills where Guruji was. There, the man revealed his identity by showing an ID card—he was the DC of Dhanbad,” Marandi recounted.
Soren was leading a movement against oppressive landlords and advocating for tribal rights. Saxena advised him to surrender to the court, warning that the Emergency and the increasing violence would either get him killed or force him to spend life hiding in forests.
“Guruji listened to the DC patiently. Saxena told him to go to jail temporarily and then return to the movement through legitimate political means. That same day, Guruji surrendered,” Marandi recalled.
Marandi wasn’t the only one inspired by Soren’s vision. He left his government job to join Soren’s movement, as did Chotu Ram Tuddu, a teacher. Tuddu was tortured by landlords after the Kudko double murder case—his head was burnt with cigarettes and he was tied to a jeep and dragged. Believing him https://lbs.uol.edu.pk/ dead, they left his body behind.
“I wasn’t even there when the murder happened—I was attending a wedding. But when I returned, I was tortured anyway,” said Tuddu, now 73. His son is currently a Block Development Officer in Ranchi.
In 1980, after Soren was elected MP from Dumka, he visited his comrades in Pirtand, Giridih.
“He told us jokingly, ‘I’m the Bada Chaprasi (senior gatekeeper), and MLAs are Chota Chaprasi (junior gatekeepers).’ We laughed then,” said Babu Ram Hembram, who was with Soren from the early days of the Dhaan Katni (reap the crop) movement.
A Childhood Marked by Tragedy, A Life Shaped by Resolve
“Today, some leaders call themselves Chowkidars and claim to have coined that concept. But it was Guruji who first used such metaphors.”
The roots of Soren’s life struggle go back to his childhood. His father, Sobran Manjhi, a teacher, was killed by landlords when Soren was just 13. He was in Class 8 when the news reached him. He went directly from school to the site where his father had been killed—and never returned to the classroom. That moment changed his life and set him on the path of resistance.
Despite a lifetime of struggle and electoral victories, Soren never enjoyed long tenures in power. Though he became minister and chief minister, he never completed a full term in office. But that was never his goal. Shibu Soren—known affectionately as Guruji and Dishom Guru—belonged to the people.
He never gave up on the idea of social reform. In the 1970s, he urged tribal villagers to give up drinking, warning them that liquor weakened their resolve and made them easy prey for landlords. Decades later, even while campaigning, he would urge people to shun alcohol.
In his five-decade-long public life, Soren served as an eight-time Lok Sabha MP, two-time Rajya Sabha MP, three-time MLA, and three-time Chief Minister of Jharkhand. Yet, his career was not without controversy.
During the movement against landlords, he was accused in two murder cases. Later, in national politics, he was accused of killing his secretary and of accepting bribes during the Narasimha Rao government’s efforts to survive a no-confidence motion.
Even so, Shibu Soren remains a towering figure in Jharkhand’s political history—a man who rose from forest trails and grassroots protests to the halls of Parliament, driven by a singular mission: justice and dignity for the tribal people of Jharkhand.
He may have passed away, but this true tribal leader’s story will continue to inspire generations.
[dropcap]O[/dropcap]n July 26, 2025, two Christian nuns were detained at Durg station in Madhya Pradesh. The charges against them were serious, but the matter was simple: they were accompanying three women who wanted to be trained as professional nurses. An all-party delegation led by Vrinda Karat of the CPI(M) was not easily permitted to meet them. The charges related to human trafficking and attempted conversion. While the Chief Minister of the state insists on the charges of human trafficking and conversion, the parents of the women stated that they had given permission for their daughters to go in search of better job opportunities.
Harassment Normalised in Remote Areas
This intimidation of Christians—on one pretext or another—has been on the rise over the last 11 years, particularly in BJP-ruled states. Various reports from local and international agencies have documented the increasing harassment of Christians in India. Prayer meetings are attacked on the pretext that they are being organised for conversions. Pastors and nuns in remote areas are increasingly susceptible to being harassed or assaulted on one ground or another. Bajrang Dal activists are particularly aggressive in taking direct action against vulnerable pastors and nuns in these distant regions.
Denied Even in Death: Burial Rights Under Threat
Another issue that has come to light is the denial of burial rights to Christians. They are being prevented from burying their dead in shared or Adivasi burial grounds. For example, on April 26, 2024, in Chhattisgarh, a 65-year-old Christian man died in a hospital. His grieving family faced further distress when local religious extremists blocked them from burying him in the village and demanded their “reconversion” to Hinduism. The family was able to conduct the burial according to Christian customs only under the protection of about 500 police officers, which ensured peace in the village.
“Every day, we have four or five attacks on churches and pastors, and every Sunday it doubles to roughly ten—this we have never seen before,” said a persecuted Christian leader of a major denomination in 2023. According to him, the main source of Christian persecution in India is the Sangh Parivar, a group of Hindu nationalist organisations that includes the influential paramilitary group RSS (Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh), the ruling BJP, and the Bajrang Dal, a violent youth wing.
The major organisations Open Doors (at the global level) and Persecution Relief (at the Indian level) are doing vital work in monitoring these atrocities, as mainstream print and television media are either silent on the issue or misrepresent the facts.
Data Confirms Escalation in Hate Crimes against Christians
In its 2020 report, Persecution Relief noted: “Hate crimes against Christians in India have risen by an alarming 40.87 percent… That increase came despite a complete nationwide lockdown that lasted three months to stem the spread of Covid-19 infections.” According to Open Doors, India ranked 11th on the 2024 list of countries of particular concern in terms of Christian persecution.
Sudhi Selvaraj and Kenneth Neilson rightly observe: “This (anti-Christian) violence is… characterized by a strong convergence of direct, structural, and cultural forms of violence, involving vigilante attacks and police complicity, but also an increasingly coercive use of state law, coupled with the production of a wider cultural common sense about the anti-national essence of non-Hindu religious minorities.”
The broader picture of the rise in anti-Christian violence across diverse forms has become increasingly clear over the past few decades. It is not that such violence is new—it has long existed as an undercurrent, especially in remote areas. In contrast to anti-Muslim violence, which often takes on horrific proportions and garners wide media attention, anti-Christian violence has typically remained more insidious and less visible. Except for the high-profile incidents like the burning of Pastor Stains and the Kandhamal violence, it has continued largely unnoticed.
The first major incident was the brutal hacking of Rani Maria in Indore in 1995. This was followed by the horrific killing of Pastor Graham Stains in 1999, an Australian missionary working with leprosy patients in Keonjhar, Odisha. He was accused of conversion activities. The attack against him was led by Bajrang Dal’s Dara Singh, who incited people to violence. Stains and his two minor sons, Timothy and Philip, were burned alive while sleeping in an open jeep.
Then-President KR Narayanan described the attack as belonging to “the world’s inventory of black deeds.” The NDA-BJP government, led by Atal Bihari Vajpayee, at first dismissed the incident as a conspiracy by foreign powers to defame the government. However, the Wadhwa Commission later identified Rajendra Pal, alias Dara Singh of Bajrang Dal, as the main conspirator. He is currently serving a life sentence in prison.
A Long History of Demonising Christian Missions
Prior to this, the RSS had established Vanvasi Kalyan Ashrams to promote the belief that Christian missionaries were using education and healthcare work as a front for conversions. These ashrams were set up in regions like Dangs (Gujarat), Jhabua (Madhya Pradesh), and Kandhamal (Odisha). Figures like Swami Aseemanand and Swami Laxmananand propagated anti-Christian sentiments in these regions. At the same time, cultural-religious events like the Shabri Kumbh were organised to convert Adivasis to Hinduism.
In these Adivasi areas, Shabri—a symbol of destitution—was transformed into a goddess figure, and Hanuman was promoted as the ideal devotee of Ram. Temples were erected in their names. Amidst all this, what is often forgotten is that Christianity has ancient roots in India. The apostle St. Thomas is believed to have established a church on the Malabar Coast in AD 52. Despite nearly two millennia of Christian presence in India, Christians make up only 2.3% of the population today. Interestingly, in 1971, Christians made up 2.6%—a figure that has actually declined—while propaganda continues to claim that conversions are happening on a massive scale through force, fraud, and allurement.
Several states have enacted anti-conversion laws that further intimidate missionary workers.
MS Golwalkar, the second Sarsanghchalak of the RSS, had written in Bunch of Thoughts that Muslims, Christians, and Communists are the internal threats to the Hindu nation. After years of anti-Muslim violence, the anti-Christian agenda is now becoming more visible and dangerous.
[dropcap]A[/dropcap]nother ‘honour’ killing has shaken Tamil Nadu—this time in Tirunelveli—where a software engineer from the Scheduled Caste community was hacked to death by the family of the girl he had loved since childhood. Kevin Selvaganesh, just 27, was once a brilliant student and had secured a job at Tata Consultancy Services. He was in a relationship with Subashini, his school-days girlfriend, and they had planned to marry. It appears that her family was aware of their relationship. Both of Subashini’s parents serve in the Tamil Nadu Police, and it seems a plan was hatched within the household to eliminate Kevin.
Subashini’s brother, Surjith, lured Kevin out under the pretext of resolving issues between the two. Trusting Surjith, Kevin went with him. But after a distance, Surjith stopped his scooter, verbally abused Kevin, and hacked him to death with a sickle he had carried. Thus, another promising young life was brutally cut short in Tamil Nadu—this time, in the name of false caste ‘honour’. These chilling crimes are no longer isolated incidents in the state.
Sadly, this is not unique to Tamil Nadu. We recently witnessed the case of Radhika Yadav in Gurugram, where a young girl was murdered by her own father. Although it wasn’t labelled as an honour killing, the elements were clear. Tamil Nadu, often held up as a model state by those who admire the legacy of the Dravidian movement and the contributions of Thanthai Periyar, seems to be grappling with a deep contradiction. While Periyar’s ideas of justice and dignity have inspired generations, the political parties claiming allegiance to his ideology have done little beyond ritualistic rhetoric on caste atrocities.
The anti-caste movement and philosophy cannot merely be an anti-brahmin movement. It must also embrace the individual’s right to choose, to love, to marry, and to live freely—values championed by both Baba Saheb Ambedkar and Thanthai Periyar.
A State of Social Contradictions
The rise in honour killings in Tamil Nadu reflects a deeper truth about Indian society—social reform is tolerated only as long as it doesn’t threaten the entrenched caste order. Despite Tamil Nadu’s impressive performance on many development indicators, it continues to be a deeply violent society when caste hierarchies are challenged, especially through inter-caste relationships.
Between 2018 and 2023, Tamil Nadu reportedly witnessed nearly 400 ‘dishonour’ crimes, including honour killings. Yet, the state officially recorded just 13 cases. Nationally, government data shows about 500 honour killings since 2014—mostly targeting women. Activists argue the real number is much higher due to rampant underreporting, and because many cases are disguised as suicides.
As Dr. Ambedkar said, India remains a society proud of its ‘graded inequality’. Here, individual rights are often crushed under the collective weight of caste identities. In such a system, murdering someone for love becomes permissible—so long as it restores the ‘honour’ of the caste group. Laws are rarely implemented sincerely, and political parties treat caste more as a vote-bank tool than a social issue to be addressed.
Brutalisation of Dalits and the Caste Order
Kevin’s and Subashini’s backgrounds reveal much. Kevin’s mother was a panchayat teacher and his father a farm worker. Kevin excelled academically, completed engineering, and joined TCS. Subashini had finished her Bachelor of Siddha Medicine and Surgery and was working at a private Siddha clinic. Her parents, both sub-inspectors in the Tamil Nadu Police, represent the state’s educated middle class. Yet, even education failed to break their caste mindset.
This shows how deeply embedded caste remains, despite education and upward mobility. All sociological theories aside, caste remains the central identity in Indian society. Every caste wants to preserve its distinction, claim purity, and glorify its history. And that’s the brutal reality.
Kevin belonged to the Devendra Kula Vellalar community, officially listed as a Scheduled Caste. Subashini was from the Maravar community, categorised as a Most Backward Community (MBC). Ironically, the Devendra Kula Vellalar—comprising seven sub-groups—has been campaigning for delisting from the SC category. Dr. K. Krishnasamy, leader of the Puthiya Tamilagam party, once inspired by the Bahujan Samaj Party’s rise in Uttar Pradesh, now champions this cause.
When I asked some in the community why they wished to disassociate from the SC category, they said they did not consider themselves ‘untouchables’ and wanted to escape the stigma. Yet, a young man from that very community is hacked to death for daring to love a woman from an MBC community—considered ‘superior’ in the caste hierarchy. That’s the bitter irony.
Dalits, especially when they assert themselves or cross caste boundaries through love and mobility, often become targets of such violence. Dominant caste groups like Thevars, Vanniyars, and Maravars lash out when their imagined purity is threatened. Even within OBC and MBC communities, inter-caste mobility invites similar brutality—as we saw in the 2020 killing of M. Sudhakar, an MBC youth, for marrying a Vanniyar woman.
No political party is interested in ending this. Caste is too powerful a tool for mobilisation. You don’t need to improve lives—just invoke historical pride, and thousands will rally behind you. Even those championing Hindutva are not free of caste—they too operate within its logic of purity and pollution.
The Constitution vs Caste: A Battle We Haven’t Fought
That Subashini’s parents are both police officers should shake us. What does it say about our society when even protectors of law participate in such violence? It reflects a painful truth: the Constitution is not a part of our social consciousness. We refer to it only when in trouble—otherwise, caste rules us.
Go to any Indian village, and you will hear caste names—never OBC, Dalit, or MBC. These administrative categories exist only for policy convenience; they have no bearing on people’s lived realities. As long as caste norms remain unchallenged, everything appears fine. But the moment someone marries outside their caste, the masks fall.
In political rallies, we shout slogans of Dalit-Bahujan unity. But in practice, every leader, every party, manipulates these identities for their own gain. Caste remains the most potent political currency—but one that can destroy lives when individuals dare to cross its lines.
The anti-caste movement today stands diluted. While we demand rights as communities, we’re hesitant to give up caste privileges. In cities and universities, Dalits, OBCs, and others face isolation and hostility. In villages, caste gives collective strength—until someone crosses the line of tradition.
Whether you marry within your caste or outside, the threat remains real. The moment love challenges the logic of caste, violence is almost inevitable.
Rethinking the Anti-Caste Movement
The anti-caste movement cannot survive if it fails to challenge all forms of caste violence. Today, political parties amplify caste pride for votes. Rarely do honour killings get reported honestly; most are recorded as simple murders and disappear after brief media attention. The mainstream media has little time for these stories—unless they can be spun for political benefit.
The silence of many ‘caste intellectuals’ and ‘social justice’ champions is telling. Just days ago, Radhika Yadav was murdered by her father in Gurugram—a clear case of honour killing. Yet, there was no outrage. The issue would only have become a ‘caste atrocity’ if someone from another caste had killed her. This selective outrage exposes the hypocrisy within the anti-caste discourse.
Tamil Nadu’s Dravidian movement, born of Periyar’s revolutionary ideas, sought to destroy caste hierarchies. Yet, the rise in honour killings reveals how far we are from that goal. The movement’s emphasis on self-respect marriages has faded. Today, caste pride is once again being weaponised for political mileage.
The absence of a dedicated national law against honour killings, and the weak application of existing legal provisions like the SC/ST (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, allow perpetrators to escape justice.
Kausalya’s Struggle: A Light in the Darkness
One cannot forget the case of Kausalya and Sankar in 2016. Kausalya, from the Thevar community, chose to marry Sankar, a Dalit. Her family brutally murdered him in broad daylight. But Kausalya did not surrender. She stayed with Sankar’s family, testified against her own parents, and fought for justice. A trial court sentenced six people, including her father, to death. But in 2020, the Madras High Court overturned most of the convictions. The case is now in the Supreme Court.
Kausalya continues her activism, refusing to be silenced. She remains a powerful symbol of resistance against caste-based violence in Tamil Nadu.
Kevin’s murder has now pushed the issue of caste violence back into focus. Will Subashini show the same courage as Kausalya? Will she stand up for Kevin, defy her family, and demand justice? Only time will tell.
But this much is clear: the Tamil Nadu government must act swiftly and decisively. A special court should be constituted. Justice must not be delayed, and the state must demonstrate that it will not tolerate caste killings—however they are justified.
Kevin Selvaganesh deserves justice. And so does every individual whose life is destroyed in the name of caste ‘honour’.
[dropcap]R[/dropcap]ecent social media posts have sparked controversy by claiming that Prime Minister Narendra Modi has surpassed Indira Gandhi’s uninterrupted tenure as India’s prime minister. These narratives conveniently omit that Indira Gandhi served not only from 1966 to 1977 but also from 1980 until her tragic assassination on October 31, 1984. More disturbingly, some have falsely labelled Jawaharlal Nehru as an “unelected” prime minister from 1946 to 1952, alleging he swore allegiance to the British Crown rather than the Indian Constitution. Such claims, often propagated by ideologically driven groups, distort India’s political history and undermine the legacy of its freedom struggle. This article sets the record straight by examining the facts surrounding Nehru’s tenure and the interim government of 1946–47.
The Interim Government of 1946: A Diverse Coalition
The interim government, formed on September 2, 1946, under the leadership of Jawaharlal Nehru, was a critical step in India’s transition to independence. It was not a unilateral appointment but a coalition reflecting India’s diverse political landscape. The first cabinet included:
Jawaharlal Nehru – Vice-President of the Executive Council, External Affairs & Commonwealth Relations
Vallabhbhai Patel – Home Affairs, Information & Broadcasting
Baldev Singh – Defence
John Matthai – Finance
C Rajagopalachari – Education
CH Bhabha – Commerce
Rajendra Prasad – Food & Agriculture
Asaf Ali – Transport & Railways
Jagjivan Ram – Labour
Sarat Chandra Bose – Works, Mines & Power (resigned; replaced by Vallabhbhai Patel)
On October 26, 1946, the Muslim League joined, adding members such as Liaquat Ali Khan (Finance), I.I. Chundrigar (Commerce), Abdur Rab Nishtar (Posts & Air), Ghazanfar Ali Khan (Health), and Jogendra Nath Mandal (Law, representing the Scheduled Castes). This coalition, formed under British oversight, required all members to take an oath of allegiance to their office, administered by the Viceroy. There is no evidence suggesting Nehru’s oath differed from that of his colleagues, including Patel or Mandal.
The First Cabinet of Independent India
After India’s independence on August 15, 1947, Nehru led India’s first cabinet, sworn in under Governor-General Lord Mountbatten. This cabinet was equally diverse, comprising:
Jawaharlal Nehru – Prime Minister, External Affairs & Commonwealth Relations, Scientific Research
Vallabhbhai Patel – Home Affairs, Information & Broadcasting, States
Baldev Singh – Defence
Rajendra Prasad – Food & Agriculture
Maulana Abul Kalam Azad – Education
John Matthai – Railways & Transport
Rafi Ahmed Kidwai – Communications
Rajkumari Amrit Kaur – Health
BR Ambedkar – Law
RK Shanmukham Chetty – Finance
Syama Prasad Mookerjee – Industry & Supply
CH Bhabha – Commerce
Jagjivan Ram – Labour
NV Gadgil – Works, Mines & Power
This cabinet included luminaries like Patel, Ambedkar, and Mookerjee, all of whom took the same oath of office as Nehru. Claims that Nehru alone swore allegiance to the British Crown are baseless and lack documentary evidence. The oath was a standard procedure for all ministers during the transitional period.
Debunking the “Unelected” Myth
The assertion that Nehru was an “unelected” prime minister from 1946 to 1952 is a gross misrepresentation. The interim government was formed following the 1946 provincial elections, where the Indian National Congress secured a significant mandate. Nehru was chosen as the leader by elected representatives, not appointed by the British. The Constituent Assembly, tasked with drafting India’s Constitution, was also elected indirectly through provincial assemblies. To dismiss Nehru’s leadership as “unelected” is to question the legitimacy of the entire Constituent Assembly, including the contributions of figures like Ambedkar, who drafted the Constitution, and Patel, who unified the princely states.
The transfer of power was a gradual process, beginning in the 1930s with the Government of India Act, 1935, which introduced provincial autonomy and elections. The Indian National Congress boycotted the 1930 elections but participated fully in 1937 and 1946, winning majorities in most provinces. Nehru’s appointment as head of the interim government and later as India’s first prime minister was rooted in this democratic mandate, not British fiat.
The RSS and Historical Revisionism
Certain groups, often aligned with the RSS, have propagated narratives that vilify Nehru while ignoring the collective contributions of his contemporaries. These narratives falsely single out Nehru for taking an oath of allegiance, conveniently ignoring that Patel, Mookerjee, and others took the same oath. Such selective storytelling aims to discredit Nehru’s legacy while whitewashing the contributions of others who worked alongside him.
The claim that Nehru was solely responsible for post-independence challenges is equally misleading. The partition, communal violence, and economic difficulties were complex issues tackled by the entire cabinet. Patel’s role in integrating princely states, Ambedkar’s work on the Constitution, and Azad’s contributions to education were integral to India’s early years. To pin all failures on Nehru while ignoring the collective responsibility of his cabinet is intellectually dishonest.
A Unified Vision for India
Nehru, Patel, Ambedkar, and their contemporaries had differences, as is natural in a democracy. However, they shared a commitment to a secular, democratic, and inclusive India. Their debates—whether between Nehru and Patel on governance or Nehru and Ambedkar on social reforms—were rooted in a shared vision for a united nation. The Constitution, a product of their collective efforts, embodies this vision with its emphasis on secularism, socialism, and republican democracy.
Critics who reject secularism or socialism as foundational principles are, in effect, challenging the very framework of India’s Constitution. The freedom struggle, led by these leaders, was not a gift from the British but a hard-won victory through decades of sacrifice. To reduce it to petty political point-scoring is to diminish the legacy of India’s independence movement.
India’s rise as a global power owes much to the visionary leadership of Nehru, Patel, Ambedkar, and others who laid its foundation. Distorting their contributions for political gain undermines the nation’s history and the sacrifices of its freedom fighters. Nehru was not an unelected leader imposed by the British; he was a democratically chosen prime minister who led a diverse cabinet through tumultuous times. The facts are clear: Nehru, like his colleagues, took the same oath, worked for the same nation, and shared the same dream of a free, inclusive India. Let us honour their legacy by embracing truth over propaganda. Moreover, it is equally important that a prime minister might have a short tenure but might be much more respected for their life. Two of India’s greatest prime ministers were Lal Bahadur Shastri and Vishwanath Pratap Singh, and their term was limited, but when history was written, their roles as political leaders, their simplicity of life, andhonesty of ideology would always be remembered. Let us be clear that a nation will not count days and years of somebody’s prime ministership. Leaders remain in our hearts with the empathy they have for people and the vision for the future, which is inclusive in nature and respects diversity, liberal values and social justice.
रामगढ़: रामगढ़ ज़िला के एक विवाहित युवक आफताब अंसारी पर एक महिला द्वारा यौन शोषण का आरोप लगाया गया. इस मामले में 23 जुलाई को उनके विरुद्ध रामगढ़ थाना में महिला ने एक लिखित शिकायत दर्ज की.
लेकिन उसी दिन शाम को लगभग तीन बजे अर्शी गारमेंट्स जहां आफ़ताब अंसारी काम करते थे, वहां
कुछ व्यक्तियों ने आफ़ताब अंसारी के साथ दुकान में घुसकर उनके साथ मारपीट की. उसके बाद उनको घसीट कर बाहर लें आए. बाहर लाकर फिर मारपीट की. जिसका वीडियो भी वायरल हुआ.
इस मारपीट को लेकर आफ़ताब की पत्नी सालेहा खातून ने दावा किया कि घटना के बाद रामगढ़ थाना की पुलिस आफ़ताब को थाने ले गई.
सलेहा खातून के अनुसार थाने में आफ़ताब अंसारी 24 तारीख की दोपहर तक मौजूद रहे लेकिन उसके बाद से उनकी कोई सुचना नहीं मिली.
26 जुलाई को पत्नी ने करवाई गुमशुदगी की रिपोर्ट दर्ज
सालेहा खातून ने अपनी लिखित शिकायत में 23 जुलाई को आफ़ताब अंसारी के साथ हुई मारपीट का ज़िक्र करते हुए दावा किया कि मारपीट करने वाले टाइगर फोर्स के सदस्य हैं.
मारपीट करने वालों की पुष्टि करते हुए रामगढ़ के SP अजय कुमार ने बताया कि हिंदू टाइगर फ़ोर्स के एक सदस्य की गिरफ्तारी हुई है. मामले की जांच के लिए एक टीम गठित की गई है जो जांच कर रही है. जबकि मामले में दो FIR हुई हैं. एक सलेहा खातून के आवेदन पर तो दूसरी अर्शी गारमेंट्स की मालिक नेहा सिंह के आवेदन पर.
SP के अनुसार मामले में BNS की 329, 333, 115, 126, 109, 79, 299 आदि के अलावा
IT एक्ट की धारा भी लगी है.
जब रामगढ़ SP से पूछा गया कि सलेहा खातून का दावा है कि आफ़ताब अंसारी 24 जुलाई की दोपहर तक आफ़ताब रंगढ़ थाने में थे, तो वह वह कब और कैसे बाहर निकल गए? इस सवाल पर उन्होंने बताया कि आफ़ताब 24 जुलाई को 12 बजे थाना से चुपचाप निकले, जिसकी CCTV फुटेज भी है.
26 जुलाई की रात आफ़ताब का शव दामोदर नदी के निकट मिला
आफताब की गुमशुदगी की खबर फैलते ही शनिवार देर रात तक बड़ी संख्या में लोगों ने सड़कों पर उतरकर प्रदर्शन किया. देर रात पुलिस को दामोदर नदी के निकट आफ़ताब अंसारी का शव मिला.
जिसे प्रदर्शनकारियों ने मॉब लिंचिंग की वारदात करार देते हुए आरोपियों के खिलाफ सख्त कार्रवाई की मांग की.
पुलिस ने आफताब अंसारी की मौत के मामले में रविवार को हिंदू टाइगर फोर्स के एक सदस्य राजेश सिन्हा को गिरफ्तार कर लिया है.
बाकी आरोपियों की गिरफ्तारी के लिए एसपी ने टीमें गठित की हैं.
तो दूसरी तरफ उनका पोस्टमार्टम राँचीके रिम्स मेडिकल कॉलेज में हुआ है.
राजनीति भी है जारी
जबकि आफताब अंसारी की संदिग्ध मौत पर स्वास्थ्य मंत्री इरफान अंसारी ने भाजपा पर गंभीर आरोप लगाए हैं. उन्होंने बजरंग दल पर दबाव बनाने और बाबूलाल मरांडी के ट्वीट्स को नफरत फैलाने का कारण बताते हुए उन्होंने हिंदू टाइगर फोर्स पर प्रतिबंध की मांग की.
दरअसल बाबूलाल मरांडी ने 26 जुलाई की शाम को X पर लिखा कि “रामगढ़ में नौकरी का झांसा देकर आदिवासी बेटी के साथ भयावह अपराध हुआ. आफताब अंसारी नामक व्यक्ति ने उसके साथ दुष्कर्म किया, और वीडियो बनाकर धर्म परिवर्तन के लिए भी मजबूर किया. इस घिनौने षड्यंत्र में ARSHI Garments का मालिक भी शामिल बताया जा रहा है. “
Agua Bonita ( Colombia): In the village of Héctor Ramírez, known as Agua Bonita, in La Montañita, Caquetá, Colombia, a vision of peace and renewal is unfolding. In the pre-2016 period, this would have been nearly impossible for outsiders to visit here, which was the epicentre of violent resistance against state oppression. However, after the Peace Accord was signed between the Colombian government and former revolutionaries, marking the end of a 70-year insurgency that claimed over 400,000 lives till 2025, including civilians, rebel fighters, and security personnel. Visiting Agua Bonita during the Global Land Forum in Bogotá revealed a village of hope and resilience. The former revolutionaries of FARC led by Sandra Gonzalez Sanabria have settled here and converted this village into a centre of peace and hope.
A two-hour flight on a 60-seater plane from Bogotá lands in Florencia, the capital of Caquetá. From there, a two-hour drive leads to Héctor Ramírez, 10 kilometres from La Montañita, offering a gateway to Colombia’s Amazonian forests. The 30-minute journey from La Montañita reveals lush greenery and grazing cattle, reminiscent of Gujarat’s Gir cows, though distinct. Reports note that commercial grazing on community forestry lands, now controlled by Colombia’s elite, has caused massive deforestation in the region. However, post-2016, ranching and mining have significantly declined, and forests look greener.
From a Conflict Zone to a Village of Peace
While organisers provided an air-conditioned bus from the airport, many of us switched to a vibrantly painted local bus, called a Chiva, at La Montañita. Adorned in bold colours and blasting music, it evoked the feeling of travelling in rural buses with loud music in Bihar and Bengal.
Agua Bonita welcomed us warmly with villagers assembled in the makeshift hall where the event was being organised. The stunning beauty of the village looked at odds with its revolutionary past. Murals and paintings on every house wall paid tribute to commanders resembling Fidel Castro and Che Guevara, blending natural splendour with striking graffiti. The impact of the former commanders and their ideology was openly visible in the village. In an open hall, a large community gathered along with several officers of armed police, as well as local leaders from the municipality, as community elders. The events that followed were led by a confident yet concerned woman, Sandra Sanabria, popularly known as Betsy, when she took the microphone, making announcements in Spanish. Security officers outlined strict protocols, reflecting ongoing tensions. This hall served as our discussion centre for three days.
Sandra Sanabria in combat uniform | Arranged
Sandra Sanabria: From Child Victim to Revolutionary Leader
Héctor Ramírez ETCR (Territorial Space for Training and Reincorporation) was established post-2016 to reintegrate former Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) members into civilian life. Named after Héctor Ramírez, a FARC leader killed in the conflict, the region was a FARC stronghold in the 1990s and early 2000s. Despite the peace accord, dissident threats and violence persist, as evidenced by the heavy police presence during our visit. Without this historical context, Agua Bonita might seem like a staged showcase, but its lakes and mountains make it undeniably picturesque. The security protocol resulted in the male members of the team numbering nine, shifted to stay in a secluded place about a kilometre outside the main venue, but it came as a boon for all of us. The locality was stunningly beautiful, surrounded by greenery and a beautiful lake. We came to know that these huts allocated to us for our stay were meant to promote eco-friendly tourism for the communities living in Caquetá.
Interestingly, the community’s camaraderie defines Agua Bonita, transforming it into a beacon of peace and hope. Focusing on sustainable agriculture and ecotourism, it symbolises a fragile yet inspiring shift from conflict to coexistence, serving as a model for reconciliation and democratic inclusion.
While the village of Agua Bonita won our heart not merely because of its beauty but also the people and the community who actually taught us their philosophy of life, and led them, for this particular event, was Sandra Gonzalez Sanabria, the community’s passionate leader known as Betsy among friends and colleagues locally. Born on January 14, 1979, to a peasant family in Neiva, Huila, in the Caquetá region, Sandra fled home at 12 as life became extremely difficult after her father’s disappearance during the violent clashes between revolutionaries and government forces. “My father disappeared in Neiva, Huila, on February 13, 1986, when I was six,” she shared. “I consider myself an orphan due to the conflict between guerrillas and the army, where civilians were caught in the crossfire, accused by both sides.”
Sandra was witness to the violent suppression of the local people seeking their rights and faced the trauma in the aftermath of the sad event. It is beyond imagination how a young girl, not even in her teens, would have faced the rough weather of life, which was not really natural but state-sponsored. Sandra’s parents worked as peasant contractors for the wealthy Lara family, who owned prime lands in Caquetá. It is a sad reality that poor people have to serve the business interest of the powerful. FARC fighters had been targeting the rural landed elite and redistributing land after snatching it. Of course, for the state, it was criminal, but this area remained under FARC.
During the conflict, FARC forced the redistribution of these lands to peasants. Her father’s disappearance, a victim of state repression, shattered her family. “My mother found it difficult to raise her,” Sandra recounted. “At 12, I ran away and begged FARC to take me in, as my mother could no longer cope.” Joining FARC offered her a sense of family and purpose. “Life in the guerrilla struggle was tough and austere, but we lived like a family, with reading, training, and ideology to understand the class struggle.”
Sandra’s skills extend beyond ideology. She is an Auxiliary Technician in Pharmaceutical Services and an Agricultural Technician specialising in food processing. As a leader in Agua Bonita’s reintegration process, she emphasises collective work. “We arrived in Agua Bonita in 2017,” she said. “Over 400 former combatants settled here initially; now, 278 remain. There were 20 hectares of land, but we collectively farm 10 hectares as the rest is arid terrain.”
Education, Eco-Tourism and Feminist Leadership in a Former Rebel Stronghold
During our conversation in the village, we found the immense bond among people, which is the outcome of the collectivisation process.Individuality might be an acceptable phenomenon globally, but it is also resulting in mindless exploitation of our resources and increasing greed to amass wealth without bothering about others.
Sandra’s commitment to community shines through her work with children. Though she chose not to have her own, she fights for the well-being of over 25 children aged 18 months to 5 years, ensuring they receive foundational education. “What I love most about this community is the family warmth and collective spirit, despite challenges,” she said.
During our conference, children with cameras documented the event, trained in videography, photography, and editing at a local library run by the Multi-active Cooperative for Good Living and Peace in Caquetá (COOMBUVIPAC). It was wonderful to hear their narrative on how they report on the village problems and also learn about current issues and read the latest books. Founded by The Commons Party, COOMBUVIPAC has 115 members engaged in farming, construction, and cooperative work for a solidarity-driven economy.
As president of the Association of Women Producers of Essence of Peace (ASMUPROPAZ), Sandra champions women’s economic autonomy through agro-food gardens, human rights, and ecosystem restoration. Active for five years, ASMUPROPAZ fosters mutual agreements for responsible land governance, benefiting families beyond its members. Sandra also serves on the municipal peace council and the Departmental Council of The Commons Party, established in 2017 to ensure former FARC members’ political participation. “I’ve led reconciliation and peace projects,” she said, “and I’m a member of the Territorial Planning Council of La Montañita.” Sandra is a woman of ideas and deep conviction who leads from the front and encourages her colleagues and sisters to enjoy the power of self-reliance and economic independence. For three days, we saw her in different activities, including disturbing food, snacks and tea, up to coordinating things and making arrangements for the guests.
Agua Bonita’s murals and monuments look reminiscent of left movements in Kerala, West Bengal, and Telangana, where communities honour victims of state violence. A memorial, created during the Agua Bonita Festival, reflects the community’s struggle and hope, with symbols of pineapple farming and peacebuilding. Yet, Sandra acknowledges ongoing challenges: “Repression persists from shadowy state forces. Over 450 peace accord signatories have been killed since 2016.” This is a dark reality that you cannot make everyone happy with a particular decision, particularly in a state that sometimes uses these tactics to ‘rearm’ itself and act accordingly. The same is true about the dissenters who might not have liked the peace accord and are still looking for a ‘Bolshevik revolution’.
Sandra’s story underscores the importance of inclusive peace. “The 2016 peace agreement aimed to ensure a dignified life for Colombians,” she said. “I don’t oppose it, but I’m critical of its failures. It’s about the dignity of the excluded majority and caring for biodiversity.” Her words echo the frustrations of Colombia’s marginalised, challenging elite narratives and advocating for economic independence. For a person engaged with the Ambedkarite perspective, it caught my own imagination and gave me new learning.We always said that India is ruled by the Brahmanical minority, but when I read the stories of people in Latin America as well as Africa, I realise the damage that colonialism has done to these societies and that we are not alone. It has many aspects. Somewhere, it reflects in white supremacism. While we fight against Brahmanical hierarchy in India and the feudal landed Muslim elites in Islamic societies, it is a fact that globally, it is the ‘minority elite’ that rules our societies despite tall claims of ‘democracies’ and ‘rule of law’. It is not a hidden fact that post-colonial rule of law in Colombia has only established and strengthened the control of the settler elite in the country. Nevertheless, the fight against injustice continues, and the good thing is that common masses, native and indigenous and Bahujan communities have now understood the art of politics and governance as clearly indicated in the reflections of Sandra Gonzalez Sanabria.
Sandra with her friends | Arranged
“Sowing Hope”: A Song, A Struggle, and a Socialist Dream
A song shared by Sandra, performed by two young people and Emilio, a peace accord signatory and artist in Agua Bonita, captures this spirit:
In the land where I was born,
where the sun embraces and the wind is harsh,
I sowed dreams with sweat and faith,
in a field where the skin grows tough.
Sowing hope, we will fight,
with heart and strength, never giving up.
For peace, for life, for a new day,
sowing hope, the future will come.
Amid bullets and broken promises,
we walk with a devoted soul.
Pain taught us to grow,
and in the struggle, we never stop believing.
In the fields, in the jungle, in the heart,
we carry the flag of redemption.
We don’t give up, we stand tall,
for a tomorrow where everyone will thrive.
Sowing hope, the future is here,
in our hands, we will make it near.
With love, with struggle, with dignity,
sowing hope, peace will arrive.
(The transcription and translation of the audio were provided by Grok)
Sandra Gonzalez Sanabria proudly embraces her association with FARC and the communist movement. She states, “I am an ordinary woman, a socialist, and a proud member of the Commons Party. Rooted in a social and peasant sensibility, I take pride in working alongside women deeply impacted by Colombia’s conflict—a reality I’ve lived since childhood. Many misunderstand socialism and communism. Colombia can be a patriarchal, violent, and individualistic society, yet socialism and communism are beautiful philosophies centred on prioritising collective well-being over competition. Embracing a simple life fosters happiness through solidarity and shared purpose.”
I’m struck by Sandra’s response to my provocative question. In so-called ‘liberal democracies,’ ‘socialism’ and ‘communism’ are often vilified and dismissed as contemptible terms. In many societies, both these terms are made to look even criminal and yet Sandra articulates them as a philosophy of life grounded in her experiences, something many of us struggle to do. Her political education and worldview stem from the practical realities of her surroundings, offering a perspective more authentic than uninformed critiques.
Sandra’s journey—from a childhood marked by conflict to a leader advocating for peace and empowerment—mirrors the transformation of Agua Bonita. Her story challenges elite narratives and calls for global solidarity among oppressed communities to rewrite their histories and build a future rooted in dignity and justice. A big salute to Sandra Gonzalez Sanabria.
Kolkata: At a time of language-based identity politics, a young scholar from Bengal reaffirms the strength of mother tongue through academic brilliance
At a time when the detention of Bengali-speaking migrant workers has kindled debates around ‘language politics’ or identity politics in India, call it sheer irony — or celestial justice — that a PhD scholar from West Bengal, pursuing her research in Bengali language, has secured a perfect 100 percentile in the UGC NET 2025.
Meet 26-year-old Nilufa Yasmin from Bengal’s Katwa district, who has topped the UGC NET exam. With a deep love for song and Bengali literature, Nilufa is currently pursuing her research on Moddhojuger Bangla Sahitya (Medieval Bengali Literature).
Speaking to eNewsroom over the phone, she gushed, “When I appeared for the NET exam on June 26, I had a gut feeling that I would qualify for the Junior Research Fellowship this time. But I hadn’t anticipated that I would top the exam.”
She added, “This was my third attempt. In my previous two, I had qualified NET but missed the JRF. I had been aiming for a good rank, and that pushed me to give it one more go.”
With both her parents being educators, academics was always an obvious path. But Nilufa insists her parents were never the imposing type.
“I’m not a morning person,” she laughs. “I used to study late at night — often till dawn. Every time my dad caught me up at those odd hours, he would chide me, saying, ‘Don’t stress yourself so much. You don’t need to study this hard’,” she recalled.
Despite an impressive academic record, her passion for literature steered her https://ojs.njhsciences.com/ towards Bengali as her subject for higher education.
“I scored above 90 per cent in both Madhyamik and Uchcho Madhyamik (Higher Secondary) exams. And even though everyone kept asking me to take up Science, I chose Arts — and later, Bengali — because I love singing and literature, Bengali literature to be precise.”
And how many hours did she study to get this result? The young scholar laughs.
“I didn’t really follow a very structured routine. Sometimes I’d study for long hours, and sometimes I’d take long breaks. At times, I’d get bored of reading the same things over and over, and I’d call my mother to vent. Every time I spoke about being stuck in that same cycle, she would calmly say, ‘Don’t worry — you’ll get a perfect score this time’.”
So, what does Nilufa do when she’s not researching Bengali literature?
“I’m a trained Rabindra Sangeet singer and I also have a YouTube channel. I love singing — it keeps me going when I’m not buried in my research work,” she chirps.
And does she think her achievement will inspire others?
“I hope it does. I’d tell every girl who dreams of an academic career to aim for the JRF. It makes you financially independent while working on your PhD,” she added.
[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he Koshi emanates from the Himalayas, fed by glacial waters from Tibet and rainwater from Nepal. It’s considered a whimsical, chanchal river. Since prehistoric times, it has been known to dramatically change its flow, cutting over riverbanks and changing its course by hundreds of kilometres, inundating miles of land. It also carries massive amounts of mica-laden soil from the Himalayas and dumps it in the plains, rendering fertile soil barren.
After Independence, check dams were built to tame this restless river. The people living on its banks enthusiastically participated in the project, giving up their lands and volunteering to work on the dams and barrages. They thought that, finally, the river would be calmed and that they would live happily ever after. They were wrong.
The trapped Koshi became even more tempestuous, and the torment of the people displaced by the embankment multiplied manifold. Today, their plight is akin to kala paani, the imprisonment suffered by many freedom fighters in the Cellular Jail in the Andamans.
Every late summer and monsoon, Koshi floods and tries to break free of the embankments to devour the land. The helpless villagers watch as their farms flood and the land simply dissolves into the river. They barely manage to salvage their belongings and scamper to higher ground. Some take refuge on the roofs of their homes only to discover that snakes and scorpions have also done the same. Sometimes, children fall off and vanish into the flood; some are rescued, many are lost. Villagers are bitten by venomous snakes and scorpions, but there is no primary care available, andno anti-venom is at hand. It takes more than four hours to reach the nearest hospital, so most of those bitten die. This happens every year without fail.
Flashback to a satyagraha
The Koshi Navnirman Manch has been fighting tirelessly for the rights of the embankment-affected over the past decade and a half. Mahendra Yadav, a stubborn and combative young man, is spearheading the battle in Supol district of north Bihar.
I went to Bihar a few days ago to campaign for the INDIA alliance in the upcoming Assembly elections. We partnered with 25 local organisations, who helped plan and execute a yatra under the banner ‘Badlo Bihar, Banao Nayi Sarkar’.
Tushar Gandhi with others | Courtesy: All Indians Matter
I reached Patna on July 11 and began the yatra the next morning from Bhitiharva in West Champaran district. I wanted to beginfrom where Kasturba and Mahatma Gandhi (whom I call ‘Ba’ and ‘Bapu’ respectively) fought for the rights of farmers and showed that the British could be forced to retreat. During the Champaran Satyagraha, Ba camped in Bhitiharva and established an ashram that still stands. She established a school for girls too, which barely survives.
From Bhitiharva, we went to places associated with the Champaran Satyagraha. We visited the school and college named after Raj Kumar Shukla, the man who brought Bapu to Champaran. We visited Kurtulia, where Bapu had sat under a neem tree and listened to the woes of indigo farmers. The British used to tie the farmers to the tree and flog those who could not pay the brutal tax imposed by them.
I then visited Motihari station, where Ba and Bapu had alighted and thousands of indigo farmers had welcomed them. Before that, I visited the village where Bapu was served the extradition notice while travelling on an elephant.
Motihari station has been renamed ‘Motihari Bapu Dham’ and a large statue of his has been installed on Platform 1. There is a museum dedicated to his visit, Gandhi Sangrahalaya, but it is in pathetic shape. Its highlight is a long table, seated at which the district magistrate had conducted the extradition trial. They have built a Bapu Park there too, where a larger-than-life statue in typical Kathiawadi dress was installed with the help of late industrialist Dhirubhai Ambani.
Motihari was being spruced up. Prime Minister Narendra Modi was to launch his campaign for the Bihar election there. He had announced that he wanted to turn Motihari into another Mumbai. In an earlier election, he had promised to restart the sugar mill at Motihari and drink tea sweetened by the sugar it produced. The mill remains shut and his promise forgotten.
Courtesy: All Indians Matter
The shelter that wasn’t
On July 15, we reached Supol. Mahendra and his associates were waiting for us. As we alighted from the car, we walked down to Benga Sanpatahan village on the banks of the Koshi, almost directly under the Koshi Mahasetu bridge. A flood relief shelter had been built by the local government there, which is where we held our first meeting. The condition of the shelter was poor – it stood almost in ruins. Many women, children and men had gathered there.
One group had started their journey at 6.30 am; they had to take a bus, walk and then take a boat, which unfortunately got stuck on a sandbar. They eventually got to the spot at 11 am, although they had to cover barely 10 kmto 12 km. One woman complained that this was their daily plight. They spend a lot of money and time just to get to their place of work, and most of them earn a minimum wage. Many a time, even less than that.
I was told the shelter itself gets submerged and the people scamper to the terrace and watch helplessly as their homes are swept away.
After the meeting, where the people complained of neglect and official apathy, I suggested that they boycott the election. They said they had tried it, but the politicians were not bothered as they did not comprise a large enough vote bank. Strangely, their MLA is a ‘strong’ politician, representing Supol for seven terms. He is known as a ‘Nirman Purush’ (man who creates things), but he too isn’t bothered about their plight.
The villagers complained that most of the money allotted for relief schemes is lost to corruption. They added that even basic facilities like shelter, education, healthcare, transport, electricity and potable water had been denied to them during ‘Amrit Kaal’.
Courtesy: All Indians Matter
‘We share space with snakes and scorpions’
After the meeting, we hiked to the riverbank where a boat was waiting to ferry us to the next village. I was yet to see the actual picture of the plight of these people.
Our next destination was Ekdera, a hamlet in Sisauni Panchayat in Marauna Block. Ekdera was almost one and a half kilometres from the riverbank, but there was no access road. We trudged through mudflats, waded through ditches and precariously walked on mud borders of paddy fields. Halfway there, a youth on a motorcycle offered to ferry me the rest of the way. He expertly navigated flooded paths, slippery tracks, narrow dykes and small humps of land where people had built homes.
Many had gathered to meet me, a ‘leader’ visiting their hamlets. They had never experienced this. Most of them had not believed that I would land up.
We heard the same litany of complaints: “We have no homes. They have been washed away multiple times. We are forced to flee and take refuge on higher ground… We sit on roofs for days on end till the floods recede. We have no food or water. Scorpions and venomous snakes also take refuge there, and often our children and we are bitten… There is no healthcare facility. It takes four hours to reach the nearest facility or hospital. Often, our people die before we can get there… There are no schools in or near our villages. Our children walk, cross rivers and take multiple modes of transport to reach educational institutions, even primary schools. It takes them two to three hours. Often, they have no choice but to drop out… We want to study and go to college. Please build schools in our village… We have no electricity. Solar lamps were fitted, but they are never repaired, and many of the poles, made of bamboo and teak, were swept away and never replaced… Our youngsters have no employment. Our men are forced to migrate to the metros and to Punjab, Haryana and Western Uttar Pradesh to work as farm labourers… We are cursed. We are the kala paani prisoners of the Koshi.”
I kept hearing similar complaints everywhere we went that day.
The skies were ominously overcast, and soon it began to rain. Hurriedly, a tarpaulin was spread and held above us like a tent as we sat out the shower huddled under what the locals called panni.
While we waited, two women pleaded with me for a home. They had lost their homes thrice to floods and had no money to rebuild. They were forced to live on higher ground in shanties. Their husbands were farm labourers in Punjab. These were once proud farmers, unaccustomed to a life of homeless destitution. Both women broke down as I watched helplessly.
Courtesy: All Indians Matter
‘We live like this our entire life’
Our next destination was Bela Panchagachiyain in Majaoha Panchayat of Kishanpur Block. The hamlet was a kilometre inland, but this time there was no motorbike. The dirt tracks had turned into mud and slush, and the ditches were flooded with dark, stagnant water. We waded through ankle-deep mud and knee-deep water surrounded by waist-high reeds and grass.
We had been warned about snakes and scorpions, which added to our anxiety. Once, I slipped and fell. The volunteers helped me up, and the villagers helped me clean up.
A large crowd had gathered at the hamlet to speak to us, many of them not believing that a descendant of the old man whose photo they saw on currency notes would visit them.
Once again, similar laments were heard. One of the women, Indira Devi, said: “You have come here just once. Unfortunately, you fell. Think of our plight. We live in such circumstances our whole life.” I felt ashamed at feeling sorry for myself.
Three girls – Chandula Kumari, Premlata Kumari and Khushboo – requested me to get primary, secondary and high schools built in their village and a college close by. “We want to study.”
Some young men – Shekhar and Akhilesh alias Mukesh – spoke of the lack of teachers and the lack of health facilities.
When the rain stopped, we made our way by boat to Khokahnaha hamlet in Ghoghariya Panchayat of Marauna Block. Hundreds were patiently waiting for us. Once again, we heard the same tales: no drinking water, submerged farms, no electricity, no schools, no healthcare… just a miserable existence.
This village has a mixed Hindu and Muslim population living in harmony. The prevalent hate and division didn’t reach there. The venom spread by the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh-Bharatiya Janata Party hasn’t poisoned their hearts. Misery and adversity, it would seem, repel hate.
We were behind schedule, and our boat got stuck on a sandbar. Our hosts had identified navigable channels, but the Koshi dumps so much silt and sand that new sandbars and shallows form in a matter of days. It took time to push our boat off the sandbar, and the propeller had to be cleaned too.
By the time the meeting ended, dark clouds had gathered, and we could sense a downpour coming. A panni was borrowed and hurriedly stretched over our heads. The downpour lasted about 20 minutes, and it was pitch dark by the time we resumed walking towards our boat.
By this time, Mahendra realised that it had gotten too late, so he cancelled the visit to the next two villages, Mungaur and Dumriya, in Supol Block. Even a public meeting on the riverbank had to be cancelled.
But fate had more excitement in store. In the dark, our boat hit many more sandbars and was marooned in the shallows. One jolt was so severe that one of my companions toppled over and his chair broke. Mine broke too, but fortunately, I did not fall. So, what should have been a 40-minute journey took three hours, and we finally reached our destination after 10 pm. It had been a long day and an emotionally disturbing one.
Throughout the trip, I saw large, colourful posters boasting about Amrit Kaal and the progress made by the ‘Double Engine Sarkar’ in Bihar. They had beaming mug shots of Chief Minister Nitish Kumar and PM Modi. I was amazed at how shameless our elected leaders have become. The people I had met that day were the antimjan Bapu talked about, the poorest and helpless, the last elements of our society.
When Bapu visited Champaran in 1917 and witnessed the plight of the indigo farmers, he was shocked. I had a similar experience when I visited the villages plagued by the annual inundation of the Koshi.
It is 2025, but nothing has changed, other than the oppressor. It used to be the British; now it is an uncaring government of independent India and its partner in Bihar.
[dropcap]I[/dropcap] was in a small block in Chhattisgarh when the COVID-19 pandemic gripped the nation in 2020. Fear was all-encompassing — fear of infection, uncertainty, and death. But as the virus spread, so too did another — more insidious — epidemic: communal hate. What began as a public health emergency quickly devolved into a campaign of scapegoating and vilification. The Tablighi Jamaat, a Muslim missionary group, was blamed for everything from the spread of the virus to an imagined bio-war. I was not just a witness to this narrative; I was, in a small but painful way, a participant in it.
Our local mosque, the only one within a 5-kilometre radius, was managed by Muslims associated with the Tablighi Jamaat. I had prayed there regularly. But at the height of the media trial, I too fell prey to fear and uncertainty. I stopped going to the mosque. I offered my prayers at home. Worse still, I posted on social media, urging the Jamaat to suspend congregations and exercise caution. In hindsight, it was less a call for public health safety and more a subconscious surrender to the dominant narrative. I thought I was being balanced. I now see I was being diplomatic when I should have been principled. I deeply regret that choice.
A Mosque, a Moment of Weakness, and a Regret That Lingers
The Tablighi Jamaat gathering at Delhi’s Nizamuddin Markaz was held in early March 2020 — a time when no lockdown had been announced, flights were still operational, and public events of all types continued without restriction. The gathering included Indian and foreign attendees, many of whom became stranded due to the abrupt lockdown that followed.
Almost immediately, a media onslaught followed. Prime-time channels dubbed it a “super-spreader event.” Fake news and communal disinformation mushroomed. Stories about Muslims spitting to spread infection or engaging in “Corona jihad” flooded the public sphere. The Jamaat was not merely criticised — it was demonised. The government, especially in Delhi, released data that portrayed the Jamaat as a major contributor to the spread of COVID-19. Police filed FIRs. Foreign nationals were detained. Mosques were surveilled. Entire communities became objects of suspicion.
From Congregation to Condemnation: How the Jamaat Became the Villain
Now, years later, the truth is finally being acknowledged by the judiciary. Just this week, the Delhi High Court quashed 16 charge sheets filed against Indian citizens accused of sheltering foreign Jamaat attendees during the lockdown. The judge said: “Chargesheets quashed.” Back in January 2022, Delhi Police had opposed these quashing petitions, alleging that these individuals had violated prohibitory orders and contributed to spreading the virus. That claim has not stood the test of judicial scrutiny. These citizens were not criminals. They were victims of poor policy, media hysteria, and communal bias.
One cannot overstate the role of the media in legitimising this witch-hunt. Anchors who project themselves as rational, secular voices — including Rajdeep Sardesai — echoed the government’s position with minimal critique. They chose not to ask tough questions: Why were Jamaat members treated differently than attendees of the Kumbh Mela or political rallies? Why were Muslim congregations portrayed as reckless while Hindu gatherings were framed as acts of faith? Channels ran debate shows questioning whether the Jamaat should be banned, without examining whether any law had been broken. Photos of Muslim men in prayer were circulated out of context. And the media, instead of being a guardian of truth, became a tool of persecution.
Media as Prosecutor, Not Watchdog
Arvind Kejriwal’s role in this affair was particularly disappointing. Known for his secular image and governance-first politics, Kejriwal capitulated under pressure. His government released data blaming the Tablighi Jamaat for half of Delhi’s COVID cases, without clarifying the basis or timeline. He offered no defence of due process. No protection for those being unfairly maligned. His silence during similar violations at Kumbh Mela or political rallies revealed a dangerous truth — that his secularism is negotiable. When faced with the choice between standing up for justice and pandering to majoritarian sentiment, he chose the latter.
Just as disheartening was the silence — or weakness — of Muslim leaders. At a time when the community was being vilified en masse, those in positions of influence remained muted or evasive. Few stood up to defend the Jamaat or challenge the hysteria. Some even echoed the sentiment that the gathering was “irresponsible,” thereby legitimising the unfair treatment it received. The truth is, Muslims in India needed strong, clear leadership during that time. They got ambiguity instead. And this vacuum of leadership allowed the narrative of guilt to flourish.
This pattern of hesitation and delayed resistance has resurfaced during the ongoing assault on the Waqf. When the nationwide attack on Waqf properties and institutions began last year — through surveys, illegal occupations, and the weaponisation of state agencies — the common Muslim public remained silent. Many assumed it was “not their issue.” Prominent Muslim organisations responded late, and even then, in tepid terms.
But just like the Tablighi Jamaat case, the attack on the Waqf is not just about one group. It is a structural assault on Muslim identity, autonomy, and presence. By the time awareness spread, considerable damage had already been done — properties sealed, madrassas defunded, and the narrative again framed as one of “illegal encroachment.” This comparison is not incidental. In both cases, Muslims were first criminalised, then isolated, and finally punished — while their leaders calculated, hesitated, or remained silent.
Silence from Leaders, Both Political and Religious, Enabled the Witch-Hunt
Let us also not forget the role of the State. The police didn’t merely investigate — they persecuted. People were arrested and detained without due process. FIRs were filed on flimsy or non-existent grounds. Foreign nationals were held for months in legal limbo. Even in small districts like mine, local administrations began compiling lists of Muslims linked to the Jamaat. The implication was clear: a religious affiliation was enough to attract surveillance.
The High Court’s acquittal of these cases is a welcome development. But where is the accountability? Will the police apologise? Will the State compensate the innocent? Or will it quietly move on, having tarnished reputations and terrorised communities without consequence? This episode must be remembered — not just for the legal injustice, but for what it reveals about the fragility of India’s secular fabric. In the name of a virus, an entire community was demonised. And many, including myself, failed to stand up at the right time.
But recognition is the first step to repentance. I was wrong to be diplomatic when I should have been courageous. I should have visited that mosque, spoken in its defence, and challenged the disinformation. I won’t make that mistake again.
What the Tablighi Jamaat and Waqf episodes teach us is this: when truth is under attack, neutrality is betrayal. When a community is being targeted, silence is not wisdom — it is complicity. Let the courts quash the charges, yes. But let us also quash the prejudice and passivity that made those charges possible in the first place.
[dropcap]T[/dropcap]hey go down into the sewers, but never come back the same. Some don’t come back at all.
This is not a line from a tragic novel. It’s a brutal reality for thousands of Dalit workers across India who die, suffer, or disappear in the dark trenches of our gutters, septic tanks, and drains — all in the name of keeping our cities clean. Despite being legally banned, manual scavenging continues to kill, maim, and marginalize a community that has been historically dehumanized.
The Reality Beneath Our Feet
According to the National Commission for Safai Karamcharis (NCSK), over 400 deaths due to manual scavenging were recorded between 2018 and 2023. Activists and ground-level workers, however, insist the actual number is much higher, as many deaths go unreported, misreported, or simply ignored by local authorities. These are not accidents. These are institutional killings rooted in caste, class, and indifference.
Manual scavenging involves cleaning human waste from dry latrines, open drains, and septic tanks without protective gear. The Prohibition of Employment as Manual Scavengers and Their Rehabilitation Act, 2013, outlaws the practice, but enforcement is feeble and convictions are rare.
In 1993, India first banned manual scavenging. In 2013, the Prohibition of Employment as Manual Scavengers and Their Rehabilitation Act expanded the ban and introduced rehabilitation measures. Yet, nothing changed on the ground. The sewers remained full, the machines missing, and the same community kept dying.
According to official figures, over 400 sanitation workers have died cleaning sewers in just the last five years, but some social organisations claim this is a gross undercount, as many deaths go unreported, misclassified, or settled quietly. The fact that even today humans are sent into toxic, oxygen-deprived chambers to clean feces with bare hands is not just a policy failure — it is a moral crisis. A democracy that promises dignity to all still allows one caste to die for the cleanliness of others.
Caste and the Curse of Birth
At the heart of this injustice lies India’s caste system. Nearly all manual scavengers belong to Dalit communities, particularly sub-castes like Valmiki, Balmiki, or Hela, historically labelled “untouchables.” This is not just a coincidence. It is caste-based occupational segregation — society telling people: “You were born to clean our filth.”
Manual scavenging is not just a dangerous occupation; it is the modern face of an ancient injustice. Rooted in the oppressive caste system, it emerged from a deeply entrenched social order that designated Dalits, particularly Valmikis and Helas, as “filth handlers,” condemned by birth to clean human excreta. British colonial policies institutionalized it further by integrating manual scavenging into municipal governance, and post-Independence India failed to dismantle the system. Instead, it continued — often invisibly — with the state as both employer and silent enabler.
A 2019 report by Safai Karmachari Andolan (SKA) found that over 98% of manual scavengers are Dalits. Despite affirmative action and constitutional guarantees, their daily lives remain entrapped in discrimination, humiliation, and danger.
They are not just cleaning gutters; they are trapped in centuries of systemic exclusion.
Life on the Edge: Poverty, Disease, and No Way Out
Those who survive the job still carry the scars. They suffer from chronic respiratory illness, skin diseases, and mental health trauma. Their life expectancy is far lower than the national average. Children drop out of school early, often forced to take up the same work. Women in this community clean dry latrines with bare hands, earning a pittance and bearing layers of social ostracism.
Housing conditions remain deplorable, access to clean water and healthcare is minimal, and social mobility is virtually non-existent.
State Machinery: Where is the Machine?
Despite the promises of Swachh Bharat Abhiyan and speeches about a “New India,” the government has failed to mechanize sewage cleaning at scale. A 2021 Parliamentary Standing Committee Report noted that only 27% of urban local bodies had sewer cleaning machines. In most places, the equipment lies unused or is unavailable due to poor planning, corruption, or lack of political will.
Meanwhile, workers continue to be sent down toxic sewers without harnesses, masks, or gloves — inhaling methane and hydrogen sulphide gases that suffocate them within minutes.
What kind of development kills the poor so the rich can live hygienically?
Laws Without Teeth, Rehabilitation Without Meaning
The 2013 Act mandates not only prohibition but rehabilitation of manual scavengers with provisions like skill training, housing, and alternate employment. Yet, the implementation has been negligible. According to the Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment, less than 50,000 manual scavengers have been officially identified — a number that doesn’t reflect the scale of the problem.
Even those “rehabilitated” often receive inadequate training or temporary contracts and are pushed back into unsafe jobs. Some are given tricycles to collect garbage — a mere cosmetic shift, not dignity.
Swachh Bharat but for Whom?
India celebrates cleanliness with celebrity endorsements and colorful ads. But who gets the credit, and who pays the price? Swachh Bharat Abhiyan claims success in building toilets but rarely addresses who cleans them, at what cost, and under what conditions.
The Swachh Bharat Abhiyan has become one of the most advertised government missions in Indian history, with over Rs 1200 crore spent solely on publicity and advertisements between 2014 and 2019, according to official government responses in Parliament. Billboards, television jingles, celebrity endorsements, and glossy social media campaigns have promoted the idea of a “clean India” far and wide.
But beneath this clean image lies a filthy truth: the same government that finds hundreds of crores to spend on ads cannot find the political will or budget to provide basic safety gear, mechanized equipment, or dignified rehabilitation for sanitation workers.
Imagine what Rs 1200 crore could do:
· It could equip every sanitation worker in India with proper PPE kits, gas detectors, and mechanized tools. · It could fund thousands of safe machines to replace dangerous manual cleaning of sewers and septic tanks. · It could provide livelihood training and educational scholarships to the children of safai karamcharis — breaking the chain of caste-based occupation.
Instead, the face of the campaign is a celebrity holding a broom, while the reality is a Dalit man suffocating to death inside a sewer.
Swachh Bharat was meant to be a mission for dignity. But for the sanitation workers — mostly Dalits — it has only meant more work, more danger, and the same silence. They are the ones who make the vision of a clean India possible, but they remain invisible in policy, ignored in budgets, and discarded in death.
How can a nation claim cleanliness when its most essential workers are forced to die in human waste? A broom in the Prime Minister’s hand is not cleanliness.
Justice is. Mechanisation is. Dignity is. Safety is.
Until the government spends more on saving the lives of its workers than selling slogans to its voters, Swachh Bharat will remain nothing but a lie written in bold and soaked in blood.
The Moral Collapse of a Nation
The Constitution of India guarantees equality and dignity. Yet, we have normalized a system where one caste cleans the waste of another — under threat of death, without any support or respect. This isn’t just social injustice. It is the moral collapse of a modern democracy that prides itself on equality while allowing a community to die in silence.
India’s Sewer is Not Just Underground — It’s in Our Society
The stench of injustice is not just in the gutters. It’s in our silence, our privilege, and our politics. We’ve allowed an entire community to be buried in the name of “cleanliness,” and turned our eyes away while they choke, suffocate, and die.
How long will we stay silent? How long will we walk on clean city roads while pretending not to see the bodies buried beneath them — the ones that suffocate and die in darkness just to keep our surroundings clean?
When a sanitation worker enters a sewer, they’re not just cleaning waste. They are carrying the weight of India’s caste system, apathy, and hypocrisy on their shoulders. Every time a Dalit worker is sent into a toxic drain without safety gear and dies there, it is not an accident. It is a murder. A murder sanctioned by society, overlooked by the state, and ignored by us.
The government spends hundreds of crores on Swachh Bharat advertisements, but it cannot provide a simple oxygen mask, a machine, or even the dignity of a safe job to those who actually clean our filth.
What does that say about our priorities? Are we only moved by their deaths? Or are we ready to be ashamed of the way they are forced to live?
Those we call “safai karamcharis” are not just cleaners. They are carriers of our collective guilt. Their hands do not just hold brooms — they hold the truth we refuse to face. A truth soaked in sewage, caste, and silence.
Until the day no human has to clean another human’s waste with their bare hands, we are not a clean country. We are just pretending to be one.
