When Telangana Chief Minister A. Revanth Reddy announced last week that his government would introduce a fresh law to curb hate speech in the upcoming Budget session of the Legislative Assembly. The declaration—on the surface—appeared unexceptionable. After all, few would openly argue against penalising speech that insults religions or deliberately incites communal disharmony.
Yet, context matters. The announcement was made while addressing a consultative meeting of the Jamiat Ulama-e-Hind, with the Chief Minister stressing that the proposed legislation would help maintain public order and safeguard minority rights. It is this setting, rather than the stated intent alone, that has raised eyebrows—particularly among those who have tracked the intersection of law, politics and civil liberties for decades.
As someone who has spent over four decades in journalism, covering politics and public policy for a leading English daily, I have learnt that laws are judged not merely by their wording, but by their timing, intent, and eventual application.
Existing laws: Are they really inadequate?
A central question raised by critics—and legitimately so—is whether India genuinely lacks legal instruments to deal with hate speech. The answer, quite plainly, is no.
With the replacement of the Indian Penal Code by the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), 2023, the Centre has already strengthened and reorganised provisions dealing with hate speech and communal provocation:
- Section 196 (earlier IPC 153A) criminalises promotion of enmity between groups on grounds of religion, race, caste, community or language, and acts prejudicial to the maintenance of harmony.
- Section 197 (earlier IPC 153B) deals with imputations and assertions prejudicial to national integration.
- Section 299 (earlier IPC 295A) penalises deliberate and malicious acts intended to outrage religious feelings.
- Section 302 (earlier IPC 505) addresses statements conducing to public mischief, including those that incite hatred or alarm.
These provisions are cognisable, non-bailable in serious cases, and applicable across faiths, ideologies, and political affiliations. They already empower law enforcement to act against speeches or publications that intentionally provoke communal tension.
It was precisely this point that senior television anchors like Arnab Goswami and Rahul Shivshankar flagged in their respective debates. While Goswami, in his characteristically combative style, questioned the moral authority of a Chief Minister who himself has made intemperate public remarks in the past, Shivshankar adopted a calmer legal lens—asking whether the proliferation of laws risks becoming a tool of political convenience rather than justice.
Fear of selective application
Concerns have also been amplified by public commentary and televised debates involving voices such as Dr Anand Ranganathan, who recalled how previous Congress governments at the Centre resorted to sweeping actions—such as the brief and later-revoked ban on the RSS—without durable legal justification.
Adding to this unease are viral social media clips suggesting that the proposed law could be used to target specific political opponents, Hindu organisations, or sections of the media critical of the government. Even if such interpretations are premature, they underline a trust deficit that any democracy should take seriously.
The danger is not the law itself, but selective enforcement—a malaise India is already grappling with. When laws are perceived as instruments to protect one vote bank or silence inconvenient voices, even well-intentioned legislation loses credibility.
A journalist’s view
Let me be clear: hate speech that is intentional, malicious, and likely to incite violence or communal hostility has no place in a civilised society. Political parties across the spectrum have, at times, crossed that line, and they deserve to be held accountable—without fear or favour.
But it is equally true that India does not suffer from a lack of laws; it suffers from inconsistent application of existing ones. Introducing another statute risks redundancy unless the government can clearly demonstrate why current provisions under the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita are insufficient.
If the objective is genuine—maintaining harmony and public order—the focus should be on impartial enforcement, professional policing, and judicial scrutiny, not legislative overkill.
If the proposed hate speech law is faith-neutral, politically blind, and judicially applied to all—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh, atheist, politician, activist, or journalist alike—then few would find fault with it. Equality before law is not a slogan; it is the Constitution’s core promise.
But if the law becomes a shield for some and a sword against others, history will judge it not as a measure to curb hate, but as one that deepened mistrust.
In a democracy, intentions must not only be sincere—they must also be seen to be so.
