A republic cannot survive on selective respect for the Constitution. When elected lawmakers swear allegiance to the Constitution on one hand and openly glorify those accused of orchestrating communal violence on the other, the danger is no longer rhetorical—it becomes existential.
The Supreme Court of India has, after careful consideration, denied bail to Umar Khalid and Sharjeel Imam in connection with the larger conspiracy behind the 2020 Delhi riots. The apex court’s refusal was not casual or political; it was grounded in prima facie evidence, including speeches, digital trails, and the coordinated nature of protests that morphed into violence. The Court was explicit that the charges go beyond dissent and enter the realm of deliberate destabilisation of public order.
Yet, even as the highest constitutional court speaks, some lawmakers choose to shout.
The most disturbing recent example is that of Trinamool Congress MP Mahua Moitra, who has publicly praised these prime accused as “true revolutionaries,” romanticising them through poetry and symbolism, as if sedition can be sanitised by literary flourish. This is not mere opinion. It is a direct moral challenge to the authority of the Supreme Court.
One must ask: how can a Member of Parliament—who has taken an oath to uphold the Constitution—openly undermine a verdict of the apex court and glorify individuals who have threatened India’s territorial integrity, including calls to cut off the Siliguri Corridor (the Chicken’s Neck) and separate Jammu & Kashmir from the Union of India?
These are not abstract threats. The Chicken’s Neck connects the entire North-East—Assam, Arunachal Pradesh, Meghalaya, Manipur, Mizoram, Nagaland, Tripura, and even parts of West Bengal—to the rest of India. To advocate its severance is not dissent; it is strategic sabotage.
This pattern is not isolated.
We have seen campuses like JNU and Jamia Millia Islamia repeatedly erupt with slogans that go far beyond criticism of the government—slogans calling for the digging of graves of the Prime Minister and the Home Minister. Such language is not protected speech; it is intimidation, incitement, and dehumanisation. When left unchecked, it emboldens extremist narratives and normalises hatred against constitutional authority.
Equally alarming is the growing culture of institutional defiance. The DMK government in Tamil Nadu has openly dragged its feet on implementing High Court directions in sensitive religious and administrative matters, choosing political convenience over judicial discipline. Ironically, the same Madras High Court has also demonstrated judicial firmness by banning a book that sought to undermine and provoke unrest against an earlier judicial verdict—proving once again that courts are alive to the dangers of engineered chaos.
The contrast is telling: courts uphold the Constitution; political actors selectively reject it.
This raises a legitimate and uncomfortable question:
Is there a larger, coordinated attempt—within and outside India—to delegitimise constitutional institutions, weaken the Modi government, and push the country into controlled instability?
Western-funded NGOs, ideological echo chambers, foreign media narratives, and questionable “activist” networks have repeatedly surfaced in investigations related to anti-CAA protests and campus unrest. While dissent is the lifeblood of democracy, foreign-influenced disruption is its poison. India is not obliged to tolerate destabilisation masquerading as liberalism.
The Modi government has so far shown restraint—perhaps too much of it. But restraint must not become surrender.
The law of treason and sedition exists for a reason: to protect the sovereignty of the state and the authority of its constitutional organs. These laws are not meant only for foot soldiers on the street. If lawmakers themselves play into the hands of those accused of orchestrating riots, glorify calls for national disintegration, or undermine the judiciary, they cannot claim immunity merely because they sit in Parliament.
Freedom of speech does not extend to freedom from consequences, especially when that speech legitimises violence, riots, or secessionist thought.
India today stands at a critical juncture. The choice is not between dissent and dictatorship—as some would falsely frame it—but between constitutional order and orchestrated anarchy. A government elected with a decisive mandate has both the authority and the obligation to act.
If that means invoking stringent laws—even against powerful MPs—so be it. No republic can afford to let its enemies hide behind poetry, privilege, or parliamentary seats.
The Constitution must be defended—not selectively celebrated.
And those who seek to burn it down, from within or outside, must finally be told: the Indian state will not blink.
