While there are no lingering doubts anymore about the integrity of the Election Commission of India or the transparency of the electoral process, certain questions still gnawed at my conscience. The rejection of my Rajya Sabha nomination stunned everyone and exposed yet again the authoritarianism that has overwhelmed our democracy. Yet, this wasn’t the first time the tendency had bared itself. Initially no one paid heed, opportunism was even celebrated as political expediency, and those left behind in the process were dismissed as fools.

The tendency was already manifest when Madhya Pradesh, the state I come from, effectively stopped elections to the state’s APMCs (Agricultural Produce Market Committees) or mandis back in 2013. (The elected committees completed their terms in 2018, and the state government has kept deferring these elections ever since, placing the management of the mandis under state-appointed administrators. When this happened, we kept mum, I must concede.

The mandi is not an insignificant institution, not secondary to the Rajya Sabha in my reckoning. This is where the fate of a farmer’s produce is decided. A farmer’s voice rarely reaches the ministry of commerce, but it used to reach the mandi. That voice is fainter than the trader’s or the commission agent’s in the social pecking order, but their representation in the mandi still gave the farmers’ voice some strength.

Once those elections stopped, procurement at the minimum support price (MSP) declined and farmers began to be silenced with token relief instead of getting their rightful dues. They were offered ex-gratia payments, agricultural credit plans, loan waivers and price-difference compensation.

But amid these ‘acts of benevolence’, their actual rights got buried. No one seemed to realise that the right to representation, the very essence of democracy, was being stifled by this gilded cage of handouts. Even when farmers faced gunfire, the demand for elections to mandis never made it to the narrative. Today, as deals are struck with America, the voice of the farmer is nowhere to be heard.

Cooperative societies met the same fate. Their elections retained no trace of the cooperative spirit; the government determined the lists of both voters and candidates — obviously in alignment with the ruling party’s interests. Why are these elections important? Because the availability of rations and seeds and fertilisers for those at the very bottom of the social pyramid depends on these societies.

When powerful groups seize control, they script new narratives of exploitation. The most vulnerable get what remains after the village elites have taken their share. Where can they raise their voices? There is no mechanism left that will allow them to become decision-makers or to challenge the black-marketing, exploitation and plunder in the Public Distribution System. Even with reserved seats for the most oppressed sections of society, their voices go unheard because these positions usually go to pawns of the powerful.

While this was happening right under our noses, we didn’t register it as a hollowing out of our democracy. It didn’t trouble our political conscience. Instead, we saw this as a failure of the cooperative model, buying into the capitalist narrative that human nature is inherently uncooperative. Meanwhile, elected canal committees were dissolved; landowners took control. We weren’t happy about this, but didn’t offer meaningful resistance.

The panchayat elections were next. As the rights of the gram sabha (village assembly) were eroding, we told ourselves it might be best to wait for a favourable government. There were now eligibility criteria for candidates, yet we didn’t see this as an attack on democracy.

Most states conduct elections — or don’t — entirely at their whim. But all this left us quite unmoved. Why should it surprise me now that a Rajya Sabha election has come to resemble a cooperative society election?

The Rajya Sabha is, after all, a representative chamber elected by legislators. But there are many institutions, both elected and unelected, representing people far weaker. Cooperative societies, gram sabhas, panchayats, market committees, canal committees carry the voice of the marginalised, give voice to the soul of the nation. When those voices were being suppressed, we did sense that something was amiss. But did it strike us as injustice? That is the question that now occupies my mind.

There is another aspect to consider. The third candidate who was declared elected (following the rejection of the author’s nomination to the Rajya Sabha—Ed.) hails from a community that has for millennia faced rejection from powerful overlords solely on the basis of their birth. They faced exclusion everywhere — from temples, schools, communal dining, even cremation grounds.

I was born into the community that did the excluding. Although women do not wear the janeu (sacred thread) and are not considered dwija (twice-born), the privileges I do have — my own janeu, so to speak — are markers of inequality. Let’s say my fate in the present context is penance for the karma of my community.

The Constitution is a blueprint to eradicate this very inequality. It grants both me and the unopposed candidate the right to fight on equal terms, ensuring a level playing field. Yet, as Babasaheb Ambedkar warned, socio-economic inequalities can devour political equality. Justice and empowerment do not come from representing the powerful, they come from challenging them.

The practice of resistance raises uncomfortable questions. Confronting these questions is satyagraha, the means to fight a righteous battle.

Meenakshi Natarajan is a former Member of Parliament from Mandsaur, Madhya Pradesh

Mahatma Gandhi transformed fasting from a simple act of abstaining from food into a means of cultivating inner strength, exerting moral pressure and shaping public opinion. Gandhi believed that no matter how powerful a government might be, if it were confronted by an unwavering commitment to truth and moral conviction, it would ultimately have to yield.

Three decades into the 21st century, a question presents itself with renewed urgency: has fasting as a political instrument lost its effectiveness?

Sonam Wangchuk’s prolonged fast — first over Ladakh’s environmental concerns and constitutional rights and now seeking Dharmendra Pradhan’s resignation — the farmers’ movement, sit-ins by various civil society organisations and numerous local protests have revived a fundamental question: is today’s political establishment less responsive to moral pressure? Or has the very nature of democracy changed?

The answer lies not merely in the conduct of any particular government but in the broader political and social landscape.

During Gandhi’s time, fasting was effective because it was embedded within extensive public engagement, dialogue and moral credibility. Every fast Gandhi undertook was more than an act of personal asceticism; it was an appeal to the conscience of society. News of his fasts reached villages across the country, dominated newspaper headlines and influenced the British government. The British were colonial rulers, but they were not entirely insulated from the pressures of global politics, parliamentary scrutiny, the press and democratic criticism. They still felt compelled to demonstrate a degree of political legitimacy.

Today, the circumstances are markedly different. Democratic governments derive their legitimacy from electoral majorities. That confidence, rooted in electoral success, can sometimes foster the belief that winning elections represents the electorate’s ultimate and final endorsement. Consequently, voices raised on the streets are often viewed as expressions of limited interest groups, partisan opposition or temporary discontent. In such an environment, the moral force of fasting no longer carries the same weight it once did.

It would be inaccurate to suggest that this is a phenomenon unique to the present government. Governments across the political spectrum have generally responded to large-scale movements through a familiar sequence: first, a period of waiting, followed by administrative control and, eventually, limited dialogue. This trend is visible in democracies around the world. The modern state has become increasingly technocratic, security-obsessed and centralised. Administrative management has taken precedence over ethical persuasion.

It is equally true that many contemporary Indian social activists and public intellectuals have expressed concern that the State’s response to protests is harsher than it once was. Restrictions on demonstrations, prolonged delays in granting permissions, the detention of protesters, internet shutdowns and limitations imposed on movement in the name of security have intensified the debate over whether the public space available for dissent is steadily shrinking.

The government argues that maintaining law and order, preventing disruptions to public life and safeguarding national security are part of its constitutional responsibilities. For that reason, this debate resists simplistic or one-sided conclusions.

It is within this context that Sonam Wangchuk’s movement assumes particular significance. His campaign was not centred on a personal grievance but on the protection of Ladakh’s fragile environment and constitutional safeguards for the region.

The activist-educator then went on a fast seeking reforms in the education system. His fast has succeeded in drawing the attention of many citizens, yet it also underscores an important reality: moral appeals alone do not necessarily produce immediate policy changes.

Another significant change deserves attention. In Gandhi’s era, channels of communication were limited. A major fast naturally became national news. Today, society exists amid an overwhelming abundance of information. In an age of 24-hour news cycles and social media, each day brings new controversies, new campaigns, new public debates. Sustaining public attention around any one movement has become difficult. This crisis of visibility has also diminished the effectiveness of fasting as a form of political action.

A second major shift has occurred within civil society. During Gandhi’s time, the Indian National Congress functioned as a mass movement. Today, political parties, social organisations and citizens’ groups operate as distinct, often disconnected entities. The coordination that once existed among them is less evident. Consequently, it has become far more difficult for any single fast to embody the moral voice of society as a whole.

It is also worth recognising that the excessive use of fasting can weaken its moral authority. When every minor or major dispute culminates in a hunger strike, society gradually becomes desensitised. Gandhi himself regarded fasting as a moral measure of last resort, not an everyday political tactic. Its dignity rested precisely in its restrained and judicious use.

Does this mean that Gandhi’s philosophy of nonviolence has become irrelevant?

The answer is no.

Nonviolence is not synonymous with fasting alone. It encompasses dialogue, truth, public organisation, constructive action, moral courage and democratic pressure working in concert. Detached from these elements, fasting is reduced to little more than a symbolic abstention from food. Combined, it can still stir public conscience, even if its immediate impact is not readily visible.

History bears witness to the fact that many movements did not achieve immediate success, yet profoundly reshaped the politics of later generations.

The Chipko Movement, the Narmada Bachao Andolan, the struggle for the Right to Information and numerous environmental campaigns initially appeared ineffective. In time, however, they deeply influenced both public policy and collective consciousness. The success of a fast, therefore, cannot be judged solely by whether the government accepted its demands at that particular moment.

The true test of democracy lies in the responsibilities of both those who govern and those who resist. Governments must recognise that dissent is not the enemy of democracy but one of its essential conditions. Social movements must recognise that symbolic resistance alone is insufficient without moral credibility, evidence-based discourse and sustained public engagement.

What is needed today is not a mechanical imitation of Gandhi’s methods but a fresh understanding of the philosophical principles that animated them. Were Gandhi alive today, he would likely not rely on fasting alone. He would probably integrate digital platforms, public dialogue, environmental concerns, local self-governance and community organisation into a wider moral movement. His objective would not be the defeat of any particular government but the awakening of society’s collective conscience.

To declare that fasting has become entirely meaningless does justice neither to history nor to politics. A more accurate conclusion is that the social and political context in which fasting operates has fundamentally changed.

The greatest challenge before Indian democracy is whether it will continue to treat dissent as an administrative problem or begin to embrace it as one of democracy’s life-giving forces. The answer to that question will shape the future. If the space for moral voices continues to contract, not only will social movements suffer — democracy itself will become less responsive and less humane. But if both the State and society succeed in reviving a culture of dialogue, Gandhi’s philosophy of nonviolence will remain relevant, not simply as a historical memory, but as an indispensable foundation for the future of democracy.