The Politics of Autonomy PDF

THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY
THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY

Indian Experiences
Edited by
RANABIR SAMADDAR
SAGE Publications
New Delhi Thousand Oaks London
Copyright © Mahanirban Calcutta Research Group, Kolkata, 2005
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The politics of autonomy: Indian experiences/edited by Ranabir Samaddar.

p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. India—Politics and government—1947– 2. Democracy—India.
3. Federal government—India. 4. Pluralism (Social sciences)—India.
5. Postcolonialism—India. I. Samåaddåara, Raònabåira. II. Title.
JQ231.P65 320.454'049—dc22 2005 2005026020
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CONTENTS
Acknowledgments 7
The Politics of Autonomy: An Introduction 9

Ranabir Samaddar
Part I: Genealogy
1. The Birth of the Autonomous Subject? 35

Pradip Kumar Bose
2. Women’s Autonomy: Beyond Rights and Representations 49

Paula Banerjee
3. Where Do the Autonomous Institutions Come From? 71

Samir Kumar Das
4 The Constitutional and Legal Routes 93

Ashutosh Kumar
5. Autonomy’s International Legal Career 114

Sabyasachi Basu Ray Chaudhury
Part II: Practices of Autonomy
6. The Ethno and the Geo: A New Look into the Issue of
Kashmir’s Autonomy 139
Sanjay Chaturvedi
7. Silence under Freedom: The Strange Story of Democracy

in the Darjeeling Hills 173
Subhas Ranjan Chakrabarty
8. Autonomy in the Northeast: The Frontiers of Centralized

Politics 196
Sanjay Barbora
6 / THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY
9. Autonomy in the Northeast: The Hills of Tripura and

Mizoram 216
Subir Bhaumik and Jayanta Bhattacharya
10. Resources for Autonomy: Financing the Local Bodies

Ratan Khasnabis 242
Bibliography 286
Index 301
About the Editor and Contributors 311
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Politics of Autonomy follows up with detailed essays, the research inputs
on keywords and key texts on the theme of autonomy (Indian Autonomies
—Keywords and Key Texts), published by the Calcutta Research Group
(CRG). These two companion volumes bring out, probably for the first
time, the dynamics of autonomy in India from various angles, and with
that, present the possible future history of autonomous politics in this
country. Along with that we have tried to present a general lesson for
post-colonial politics, in fact for democratic theory, which had all along
considered autonomy as an exceptional measure to keep the undemocratic
constituencies in a democracy happy, and at best, an exotic theme for
the philosophically minded people. This volume unearths sufficient
evidence to show that autonomy cannot be an exceptional measure to be
taken in doses to make democracy acceptable; it must be the historical-
political ingredient with which democracy is to be built. Thus, notions
of federalism, devolution of power, minority protection, rights of the
indigenous people, and legal pluralism must now be combined and put
in a collective form known as the politics of autonomies.
We need to caution our readers of two possible misinterpretations in
this context. First, when we speak of the principle and arrangements of
autonomies as essential components of the framework of democracy, we
are not suggesting thereby, even for a moment, that these are contention-
free principles or contention-free arrangements. Like all other aspects of
democracy, this too is an example of contentious politics, as the essays
in this volume sufficiently demonstrate. Like all other principles and
arrangements, these too are subject to governmental manipulation, nego-
tiation, and contest. Indeed, one form of autonomy may come in conflict
with another. Group autonomy may come into conflict with gender
autonomy. This brings us to the second caution, which is that the volume
speaks of autonomies and not one supreme principle of autonomy,
meaning thereby that in this vision, one form or arrangement of auto-
nomy cannot cancel another; autonomies must learn to co-exist in a sort
of negotiation, conversation, and daily dialogue. Our political future is
moving in that direction.
This work, as in other cases with the Calcutta Research Group, has been
a collective exercise. In this work, the contributors to the volume remain
mutually indebted, and it remains for the editor to thank the members of
the research collective for their continued support to the editor when the
laborious work of tidying up the manuscript began. The editor takes this
opportunity to sincerely thank Dulali Nag for going through all the essays,
offering suggestions on making the manuscript focused, and the essays
more rigorous. The other friend to be thanked especially is Bishnu
Mohapatra, whose interest in the research program and suggestions were
particularly helpful. He acted much more than a representative of the
Ford Foundation whose generous assistance saw this research program
through.
The research program on autonomy was combined with a dialogue
program also on the same theme. These papers, from their ideas to their
full forms, were discussed thoroughly in three discussion sessions, where
the dialogue participants shared various experiences and raised norm-
ative questions. These dialogues set the tone and the huge experiential
background against which the essays were written and subsequently
revised. As a method of research on a topic as this, this was a new and
enormously beneficial experience for the CRG. For the success of the
three dialogues (Shillong, Varanasi, and Darjeeling), whose reports are
available in print and on the web (www.mcrg.ac.in), my thanks go to besides
the contributors, Rabindra Kishore Deb Barma, Aditi Bhaduri, Dwaipayan
Bhattacharya, Fulan Bhattacharji, Lachit Bordoloi, Tapan Kumar Bose,
Linda Chhakchhuck, Khesheli Z. Chishi, Gautam Chakma, Bijoy Kumar
Daimary, Gurudas Das, Meenakshi Gopinath, Rajen Harshe, Achumbemo
Kikon, Dolly Kikon, Debabrata Koloy, Bani Prasanna Misra, Tilottoma
Misra, Udayon Misra, Surajit C. Mukhopadhyay, Soumen Nag, Arun
Kumar Patnaik, Pradip Phanjoubam, Abdur Rauf, Gina Shangkham,
Bhupen Sarmah, Hari Sharma, Nandini Sundar, Malini Sur, Kumar
Suresh, David Syiemlieh, Haliram Terang, C. Joshua Thomas, and Siddiq
Wahid.
Finally, it remains for me to acknowledge the assistance of Samir
Kumar Das, Sabysachi Basu Ray Chaudhury, and the general staff
support at CRG, without which carrying out of the long research pro-
gram would not have been possible. To the members of our staff, my
heartfelt thanks are expressed.
Kolkata Ranabir Samaddar

6 June 2005
THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY:
AN INTRODUCTION
Ranabir Samaddar
A Symbol of Emerging Political Spaces
I n this age when political thinking is caught between neo-liberal thinking

concentrating on the limits of governmental power and functions on
the one hand, and the seemingly overwhelming reality of governmental
power, functions, and actions on the people turning them into adminis-
trable population groups on the other, it is absolutely essential to give
proper attention to the visible and half-visible autonomies of the new
societies, if we want to trace the emerging patterns of the politics of
resistance. Resistance to the power of the state—demand for autonomy
in other words—is encountered today among various sections of society
such as women, ethnicities, classes, and so forth. This word, “autonomy,”
Michel Foucault, if asked about its mechanics, would probably have read
as the signature of governmentality. In this essay, however, we would
differ with Foucault to read “autonomy” as the symbol for the emerging
patterns of new spaces in politics, spaces that speak of rights, and justice,
the plank for these rights.
The analytics of government are concerned with the “how” of govern-
mental practices, including practices of self-government. The concern is
with how these practices form, increase, and intensify governmental rela-
tions between individuals and groups, and how issues of life and truth
become deeply marked by governmental relations. Seen from this per-
spective, politics is governmental politics, a specific form of power existing
in microform at every level of social life, helping each individual to
10 / RANABIR SAMADDAR
regulate and control his/her body and soul. Seen, however, from the
angle of those who are being ruled, i.e., the subjects of governmental
relations, politics means the agenda of creating autonomous spaces
defying the “iron” laws of governmentality and claiming autonomies in
life, in particular political life. “Politics of the governed,” to recall the
phrase recently used by a political scientist (Chatterjee, 2004), is not pol-
itics modelled and bound by governmentality, but politics that, in the
face of the seemingly overwhelming nature of governmental power can
claim autonomy for itself. It is only in this way that the capability of the
individual and the collectives to be autonomous increases, and power
relations intensify. The enhanced capacity to reflect on how governmental
practices regulate our political existence and eat up the autonomous
spaces results in new autonomies, by which I mean thinking on autonomy
beyond the conventional question of the self, and perching it on the crucial
concatenation of circumstances that create the political subject, who
forms the self through political practices, and whose hermeneutics can
be understood only in the context of collective actions and contentious
politics.
In short, autonomy indicates the autonomous practices that give birth
to the political subject whose existence is in contradistinction to the
existence of the governmental realities of this world. An analytic of auton-
omy goes beyond the analysis of governmental rationalities, or of rela-
tions between freedom and power, or forms of domination. It reflects, to
be precise, on the kinds and relations of power that propel the emergence
of autonomous spaces. In this way, it helps us to understand the emer-
gence of the political subject who claims autonomy and defines oneself
against the dominant form of relation.
I am suggesting, therefore, that autonomy is the “Other” of govern-
mentality, it is a stake that marks the existence of the political subject
today. It is different from freedom, because freedom is essentially a value,
while autonomy is essentially a category of power. It is different from self-
government because, while self-government focuses on the ability of the
individual or the collective individual to govern oneself, autonomy always
points towards the supplement that remains after (the task of) government
has been accomplished. The various forms of autonomy that we witness
today indicate the way which politics in the future may take, the new
forms of contestations, and the new possibility of disentangling demo-
cratic theory from its close association with the dominant organization
of power that may emerge. Autonomous practices in sum, indicate the
way society can be reorganized, the dialogic zone that can be created
The Politics of Autonomy / 11
where autonomies may be negotiated, the responsibilities that autonomies

may have to bear in order to converse among themselves—a situation
that can be described as the daily plebiscite of a democratic personhood.
Come to think of it, autonomous practices point to the principle of “auto-
nomy of the autonomies,” to borrow a term from Sanjay Chaturvedi—
beyond governmentality and the calculated behavior of the governed.
In my earlier work on issues such as peace accords as the basis of
autonomous arrangements, the public policy of conducting dialogue with
rebels to arrive at regulatory arrangements of a quasi-autonomous nature,
and the various successes, semi-successes, and failures of such actions,
I tried to show three things: (a) there is a close relation of link and contest
between governmentality and autonomy, (b) the autonomous space is a
dialogic form towards ensuring “minimal justice,” and (c) there is a con-
sequent renegotiation of the democratic question in autonomous spaces
(Samaddar, 2004). Yet, that work threw less light on the way autonomous
spaces emerge than on autonomy as a form of self-determination. In the
last few years, however, it has become clear that the environment of gov-
ernmental relations clouds the principle of self-determination everywhere.
So we need to study autonomous practices in the light of this reality, and
find out how the autonomous spaces are being retrieved and recreated
today.
We need to pay attention to two aspects of this relation: First, do
governmental rationalities apply to the principles and practices of
autonomy? Second, can we equate self-government with autonomy?
Autonomy and Government
In order to answer these questions we must first of all explore briefly,

what is meant by this theory of the overwhelming reality of government-
ality, what this governmentalized reality really is, and, consequently, what
the concrete historical backdrop is, against which autonomy emerges
as the Other, the counter-reality, the name of a politics not subsumed by
governmental rationalities of the government.
We should of course first note, that Michel Foucault, in discussing
the notion of “governmentality” never uttered a word on autonomy.1 He
speaks of the “conduct of conducts,” of the “self acting on the self,” of
the rules by which self-government is thus learnt, of the way social man-
agement is “governmentalised,” of governmental rationality being a
significant aspect of “bio politics” in which governing the body becomes

a critical task of government, and the “government that makes the state
possible.” It seems that Foucault had in mind the failure of the welfare
states in the West, also the early signs of neo-liberalism that argues for a
contraction of the state, particularly welfare functions of the governments,
and the imprisonment of democracy in these twin developments.2 We
cannot of course be certain about this explanation, because his later writ-
ings suggest that the roots of the theory of governmentality lay deeper.
He, as we know, strove to explain the technologies of politics in terms of
“technologies of the self,” and wanted to show that the realities of the art
of governing went back to the early days when the political class learnt
to dialogue, determined the conditions under which the members of the
political class could dialogue and the forms of the contests in the con-
versation, and the rules that men must make in taking care of the body,
because it was in bodily reality that the art of politics lay. Therefore, for
Foucault, governmentality did not mean only governing others, or rela-
tions of government, or even the tools and practices of governing people
that turn the latter into objects, or that field of relations or dynamics that
makes every relation into a relation of government; it also meant govern-
ing the self, controlling the self, a politics that builds upon this extensive
art of managing the self learnt through centuries of rule and government.
With this understanding in the background, the question will be—how
do we differentiate between the two concepts of self-government and self-
determination, or self-government and autonomy?
Yet, governing the self comes before governing others. As I have pointed
out, the theory of governmentality was never discussed from the angle
of the autonomy of the political subject. Foucault explicitly brings in his
discussion, the late middle age phenomenon of composing advice to the
princes of how to rule. There was then no outside morality in the science
of ruling; the science had to be learnt to tackle the triple issues of security,
population, and government. Government connects security and the
people. Self-government, on the other hand, connects with morality, while
governing the family connects with economy, and governing the state
connects with politics. This self-government has nothing to do, we should
note here, with political autonomy. It rather connects with what Foucault
would later term as certain “ethical practices”—of how to write, speak,
converse, keep the body healthy, address, make judgments, etc. Foucault
makes the sense of governmentality further clear when he stresses the
connection between a government and the economy in the perspective
of the relation between family and economy. As he says, “To govern a

state will mean, therefore, to apply economy, to set up an economy at the
level of the entire state, which means exercising toward its inhabitants,
and the wealth and behaviour of each and all, a form of surveillance and
control as attentive as that of the head of a family over his household
and his goods” (Faubion, 1999: 207). Government, besides indicating
processes of governing which its association with economy reveals, also
means the right disposition of things. Once again it is being indicated by
the term, that there is a field of “intervention through a series of complex
processes, which are absolutely fundamental to our history,” and this
field also means a right disposition, that is arrangement, of things and
men. Because, men governed means men in their relations, their links,
their “imbrication with things that are wealth, resources, means of sub-
sistence, the territory with its specific qualities, climate, irrigation, fertility
and so on, men in their relation with those other things that are customs,
habits, ways of acting and thinking, and so on; and finally men in their
relation to those still other things that might be accidents and misfor-
tunes such as famine, epidemics, death, and so on … government con-
cerns things understood in this way, this imbrication of men and things”
(ibid.: 208–9). To govern means, then, to govern things, and to stretch the
point a little, governing men by turning them into things.
One can see that Foucault reads the origins of the government quite
narrowly. It is almost a utilitarian reading of the task of governing that
has little to do with the tasks of ruling or suppression, or negotiating the
facts of mutiny, revolt, refusal to pay rents and taxes, or say for instance,
meeting the need for optimization of the colonial practices of an empire,
the need to maintain an army, to guard the extraction of resources and
revenues, and most important, the need to negotiate the parallel and
often-underground language of rights, autonomy, and illegality. If one
origin of the idea of governmentality is the utilitarian task of governing,
the other origin is sovereignty, once again the explanation arriving from
the top. Foucault says that sovereignty may not be enough for ruling, for,
in case of sovereignty, obedience to laws is indisposable, and law and
sovereignty are inseparable, “for government it is not a case of imposing
law, but disposing things.” Governmental rationality extends beyond law,
it “uses law like tactics,” “it is statistics,” and the art of government could
expand in peace-time after frequent and long drawn-out wars are over.
The framework of sovereignty is too large, abstract, and rigid; while the
theory of government relied on a model that was initially weak, the art of
government escaped the difficulty by inventing functions that were related

to economy, expansion of demography, and appropriateness of scale.
Technical developments aided the proliferation of governmental activities,
and the knowledge of governing related to the larger process of the econ-
omy led to the transition from the art of governing to the science of
governing, called political science.
Foucault concludes the discussion by saying two things, which have
implications for our discussion on autonomy.
First, he says that the ensemble of institutions, procedures, calculations,
tactics, etc. known as government is aimed at a population and its basis
is the knowledge of political economy. It soon overshadows state, sover-
eignty, etc. so much so, that even the state is governmentalized with
increases in the knowledge of government.
Second, this phenomenon draws initially on archaic models, drawing
support from military models and techniques, and grows with the growth
of knowledge of policing and managing, the dual practices being sub-
sumed within the single term governing.
We can now see that we cannot progress with our ideas and discussions
on autonomy without coming to an understanding of two posers raised
in the discussion earlier, namely, do governmental rationalities apply to
the principle and practices of autonomy? And, can we equate self-
government with autonomy?
I think if we leave aside the point that governing began with self-
governing, and therefore the self is the ultimate (or the first?) object of
government, it is true, however, that the practice of autonomy can internal-
ize many of the governmental rationalities, and can become limited or
fictive. Also, we can admit that governmental rationalities such as man-
agement of economy, quantifying objects of governing thereby turning
them into “things,” and complex institutional processes backed by
knowledge of the science of governing (much like what Max Weber
commented on bureaucracy)3 have become essential for politics. Autono-
mous movements and political practices for autonomy are infected or
invested with these rationalities. Yet, movement after movement for self-
determination, and more significant new spaces in society claiming
autonomy, show the limits of governmentality. Peace talks do not end
violence, nor do they produce devotion to the Constitution. Indeed, the
Constitution provokes autonomy of the street. Indigenous people de-
mand autonomy. Spaces in society clamor for legal pluralism, which is
the other word for autonomy of other forms of legal thinking than the
centralized modern legal system, and the sovereignty of the basic law.
Women claim autonomy, and increasingly feminism is used as a resource

for generating and enriching autonomy of spaces. Indeed, as Paula Banerjee
makes explicit in one of her recent studies on women’s movements, “Acts
and facts of women’s justice,” each time the women’s movement made
some progress in ensuring justice for women, law was able to cloud the
progress with a governmental form of justice; yet again that factor never
satisfied the feminist movements in India. The movements progressed to
the extent of giving birth to autonomous women’s organizations whose
purpose, dynamics, and style of functioning today defy any governmental
straightjacket.
Similarly, as the failure of so called peace accords and autonomy pack-
ages demonstrates, either these governmental packages fail to satisfy
discontent and rouse more desire for a share of sovereignty (the recurrent
Bodo and Tripura accords illustrate this), or they incite imagination for
an enriched form of autonomy that would redefine the two principles of
justice and democracy. The studies by Ashutosh Kumar, Sanjay Chaturvedi,
Subir Bhaumik, Samir Das, and Sanjay Barbora on themes such as the
history of the constitutional deliberations on autonomy, the interface of
geo-politics and the ethno-politics in the emergence of every autonomous
space in society, the interplay of constitutionalism and autonomy, and
case analyses of autonomy movements in Kashmir, Assam, Tripura,
Jharkhand, Mizoram, and the hills of Darjeeling form a bunch of solid
historical illustrations of the fact that autonomy represents the element
of “excess” that political imagination represents over and above the pol-
itics guided by governmentality.4 Thus, beyond the boutique variety of
multiculturalism, autonomy has become one of the fundamental prin-
ciples of reorganizing society. Indeed, today’s political society stands on
two related recognitions: (a) politics is autonomous, and it is not always
going to listen to economic wisdom, and (b) that political existences or
spaces must have some degree of autonomy in order to co-exist with
others and make politics meaningful. In event after event, it is clear that
raising the demand for autonomy is the most effective way of countering
constitutional essentialism, and forcing the agenda of dialogue to come
out in the front. We can say in that sense, there is a dramatic transfor-
mation in the significance of the word “autonomy.” As in all other cases,
here too, signs function in a group; and with the entire field of political
actions changing, the signs too are changing in their signifying func-
tions. Locality, difference, modes of sharing sovereignty, street politics,
mechanisms of dialogue, new forms of collective actions, and the per-
sistence of the raw physical forms of politics, such as “terror,” have made
a great change in the field of politics, so much so that achieving govern-

mental efficiency and rationality has become the most tenacious but
elusive dream of governmental managers trying to discipline wild societies
and runaway politics. Politics produces agents; agents claim and produce
autonomy.
We can now come to the insight provided by the above discussion.
Governmental science admittedly produces multiplicities, yet the irony
is that it wants to handle this multiplicity on a homogenous scale, by a
homogenous standard, at a homogenous level. Yet, autonomy is produced
from heteronomy. Heteronomy comes from difference, distance, and
inequality. “Difference, distance, and inequality” are not only signs of
multiplicities; they are essential to this heteronomic world. Deleuze
tells us,
We would be criticized for having included all differences in kind within

intensity, thereby inflating with everything that normally belongs to quality.
Equally we could be criticized for having included within distances what
normally belongs to extensive quantities. To us these criticisms do not appear
well founded. It is true that in being developed in extension, difference becomes
simple difference of degree and no longer has its reason in itself…. In short,
there would no more be qualitative differences or differences in kind than there
would be quantitative differences or differences of degree, if intensity were not
capable of constituting the former in qualities and the latter in extensity, even
at the risk of appearing to extinguish itself in both. (Deleuze, 2001: 238–39)
In other words, difference is autonomous. Difference is essential, and it

owes its fundamental existence to such physical factors existing at the
micro-level as distance, degree, and inequality. Weberian rationality or
Foucault’s governmentality cannot suppress differences that propel
autonomy. Distinct physical realities of politics defeat Weberian ration-
ality. Autonomy springs from this physicality of politics. Finally we can
say, governmentality produces difference from the top; autonomy is the
mark of negotiating difference from below.
Autonomy is, therefore, not an exceptional principle of democracy
conceded to some belligerent section of society or some areas or groups
of population, such as frontier populations insistent on autonomy.
Autonomy is the organizing principle of the emerging political society,
autonomies in perpetual dialogue among themselves, linked by respective
responsibilities to retain the autonomous places in a dialogic universe.
The Paradox of Autonomy in India
The fact that autonomy is a meeting ground of governmentalization and

difference and the fact that autonomy too can be governmentalized or
be another governmental product, yet again the fact that the salient feature
of today’s politics is that the political agency claims autonomy from gov-
ernmental modes and forms (be it statehood or the given form of territory,
law, or sovereignty, or the gendered form of politics, or adhering to parlia-
mentary modes of politics, etc.), it should not be surprising that the Indian
experiences of autonomy present a paradox, unexplained by the liberal
theory of autonomy, or for that matter the neo-liberal theory of govern-
mentality. In order to understand the paradox, we should begin with
what the political theory of autonomy fails to indicate.
As is commonly understood, the notion of autonomy is seen as
belonging to nature, which is to say it is the source or the basis of political
morality: claims and obligations. In the political context, individuals or
communities as political actors should possess independent self-governing
and self-legislative authority. Immanuel Kant thought of rational actors
who could be lawgivers or legislators to themselves, and therefore respon-
sible for their modes of behavior. This was to him a universal principle
that required that one could set one’s own ends only within a framework
that was based on acceptance by all other such beings. Autonomy, the
categorical principle, was to lead therefore to harmony, and not discord.
Autonomy was the property of the will by which it (was) a law to its own
self (independently of any property of the objects of volition), subject
only to laws given by him, but still universal. One should notice here that
Kant in describing autonomy as “property of the will” was integrally
linking it to will. By the same token, however, autonomy was different
from freedom, because, as Locke thought, freedom was the condition
of a person to think, or not to think; to move, or not to move, according
to the preference or direction of his own mind; autonomy implied on the
contrary, responsibility, legality, universality, and morality.
To be sure, the long liberal thinking of autonomy never came to terms
with freedom, will, and the political realities of coercion and management
of orders connected with will. Is there then a hierarchy of values involved
in this uneasy relation between autonomy and the other values of freedom
and will? Can we say then that a person is autonomous with respect to a
desire if s/he is not moved by it, or s/he has not identified with it, or if
s/he does not want to be so autonomous? In an autonomous move the

actor directs and governs the action. But what explains this autonomous
move? Free will? Reason? We can already see the contours of the paradox.
If we say, reason governs my life and is thus the source of my autonomy,
the problem is, what do we say of the actor who is guided by passion and
claims to be autonomous? Clearly, the unease that surfaces the moment
we think along that line indicates a confusion here—autonomy suggests
freedom, yet it suggests regulation, direction, or to be precise, self-
regulation, self-direction, and self-governance. Autonomy is thus only
one subject in the empire of conditions. These conditions of management,
rule, governance, and admissible forms of politics are so basic and in-
tensely physical or material, that issues of autonomy affect and involve
even the body.
The Indian experiences of course suggest that there is more to the
paradox that I have just suggested above.
In the construction of a political society, people or the actors continually
face the principle of several autonomies. These autonomies (horizontal,
vertical, political, fiscal, cultural) mark the contentions and engagements
that make a political society. In this political society, what we term as
public sphere is on the one hand regarded as the “habitus” of democracy,
and on the other shows itself to be singularly incapable of coping with
what I call the “politics of autonomy.” One reason which I do not have
the occasion here to discuss at length, is the fact that modern democratic
polities with their celebrated public spheres are not all dialogic, therefore
they understand freedom much more and are ready to be guided by wills,
but cannot cope with autonomies, perched as they are on the old juridical
notions of sovereignty. All that these polities can accommodate is a sort
of “boutique multiculturalism.” The situation is indeed worse, and even
by Habermas’ standards, defies the capacity of “communicative ration-
ality” to be set right. The South Asian experiences of Sri Lanka, India,
Nepal, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, or the experiences of Basque, Kosovo,
Northern Ireland, all point to the incapacity of democracies to appreciate
the paradox and tensions in the politics of autonomy and imagine new
forms of political society.
In India the political struggles of autonomy led to a wide variety of
constitutional forms, in the introduction of which, the colonial admin-
istrative practices too had an equal hand. Indeed, the Indian experience
is the most instructive because of its diversity and range, the extent of
colonial innovations, multiple forms of autonomy, the complex path
of constitutionalism, a wide variety of accords, the persistent demands
for self-determination in various forms, and an unyielding and innovative

state determined to keep the destined nation intact while keeping others
from gaining nationhood. It is also important to recall in this context,
the political and constitutional ways in which the minorities have been
negotiated by the Indian state by granting mainly religious minorities
limited form of autonomy in personal laws and cultural autonomy, a
process discussed in detail in one of my earlier works, A Biography of the
Indian Nation, 1947–97 (2001a). Asutosh Kumar’s essay on the constitu-
tional history of autonomy also illustrates the interface of the legal and
the political in autonomy’s contentious career.
The Constitution provides special status for certain states such as
Jammu and Kashmir, Nagaland, Sikkim, Assam, Manipur, Arunachal
Pradesh in Articles 370 to 371H. The Constitution also embodies the
principle of non-discrimination in Articles 14, 15, 16, 19, and 29. It assures
freedom of conscience in Article 25 and freedom to manage religious
affairs in Article 26. Article 30 ensures the right of minorities to establish
and administer their own educational institutions. Under the special
protection clause in Article 371, tribal customary laws, procedures, and
land rights are protected. Part XVI ensures special provisions for sched-
uled castes, scheduled tribes, and other backward classes. There are
arrangements for zone councils. The States Reorganization Commission
ensured statehood for major linguistic groups. There is provision for
autonomous district councils in scheduled tribe dominated districts. The
73rd and 74th Amendments to the Constitution ensured devolution of
powers at village and town levels. Similarly, the Constitution arranged
for financial autonomy of the states through constitutionally prescribed
division of resources and the National Finance Commission. Apart from
creating new states (some very recently created) and autonomy for some
states in particular, a range of accords and unilateral measures on
Darjeeling, Bodoland, Leh, North Cachar Hills, Karbi Anglong district,
Khasi district, Jaintia Hills district, Tripura Tribal Areas district, Chakma,
Mara, and La districts in Mizoram, created autonomous areas and district
councils under the Fifth and Sixth Schedules.
The pattern of combining nationhood with exceptional autonomies is
significant. Is autonomy a part of the basic features of the Constitution
that the Parliament should not touch? There is no clear answer whether
the provisions of autonomy are inviolable or not in the context of the
erosion of Article 370 providing for autonomy of the state of Jammu
and Kashmir. The apex court never had autonomy in mind when com-
menting upon the violability or the inviolability of the basic features,
that primarily meant fundamental rights, which have only one among it
dealing with autonomy.5 In the constitutional thinking, the democratic
language is one of rights and not autonomy. Thus provisions such as
Articles 14–16 (again combining exceptional discrimination on positive
grounds), Articles 22–23, Article 25 (combining exceptional right), Article
29, Articles 38–39 (defining common welfare, securing common good, and
indeed laying down the constitutional basis of a welfare state), Articles
46–47, Articles under Part IX (the panchayats)—intend to create a polity
that can be said to be based on republicanism—that is, one nation, one
people—while allowing autonomies as exceptional measures. It is not
surprising, therefore, that even though provisions such as Article 244
(administration of scheduled areas—Fifth and Sixth Schedules) form
a part of the Constitution, they are inadequate to counter the wave of
majoritarianism that draws legitimacy from the republican ideology.
There is more to this unequal co-existence of nationalism and auton-
omy. For example, there is no uniform civil law. There are, on the contrary,
a variety of personal laws and linguistic autonomy in some measure.
The Indian constitutional and political system has evolved through at
least a 70-year-long history of a range of autonomies—administrative,
cultural, religious, fiscal, and legal-juridical. Yet, demands for the right
to self-determination, ranging from more autonomy to secession have
risen frequently. If some have mellowed, others have persisted and have
grown insistent notwithstanding massive state suppression and loss of
lives. It began with the Muslim demand for self-determination in the
pre-independence time and continues in various forms and at various
levels till today. The constituent states have said that their legislative,
administrative, and financial autonomy is inadequate or has diminished.
Kashmir says its autonomy is fictive. Insurgents in the Northeast have
said that the grant of statehood is a ploy to subsume them in the Indian
polity. Religious minorities say that they are under unprecedented attack
from the fascist communal forces belonging to the majority community
backed by the state. The scheduled castes and tribes say that their de-
privation, poverty, and disempowerment have only grown. The legal-
administrative measures for protection of autonomy, such as the Min-
orities Commission, Human Rights Commission, Women’s Commission,
are severely limited in their powers and functions. These national commis-
sions have their state counterparts even more limited in powers and
functions. In short, we have in the Indian instance, the most extraordinary
juxtaposition of measures of autonomy and a relentless centralization.
Seen from another angle, we have here, the most relentless constitutionalism
and governmentalization of the principle of autonomy and the most

insistent demand of the political subject to gain recognition. It is also a
narrative of how and when a group refuses to accept at some historical
moment, the identity of a minority and claims the status of a people, a
nation.
The paradox of governmentality and autonomy inherent in the
emergence of the political subject in India has been evident in the tortuous
history of legal negotiation with the notion of autonomy on the basis of
certain constitutional principles, which have not been adequate for that
purpose. Marc Galanter had commented 30 years ago,
The modern legal system has transformed the way in which the interests and
concerns of the component groups within Indian society are accommodated
and find expression. In traditional India, many groups (castes, guilds, villages,
sects) enjoyed a broad sphere of legal autonomy, and where disputes involving
them came before public authorities, the latter were obliged to apply the rules
of that group. That is, groups generated and carried their own law and enjoyed
some assurance that it would be applied to them. In modern India we find a
new dispensation—the component groups within society have lost their former
autonomy and isolation. Now groups find expression by influence in the political
sphere, by putting forth claims in terms of general rules applicable to the whole
society. The legal system, then, provides a forum in which the aspirations of
India’s governing modernized western-educated elite confront the ambitions
and concerns of the component groups in Indian society. In this forum the law
as a living tradition of normative learning encounters and monitors other trad-
itions of prescriptive learning and normative practice. (Galanter, 1971/1997:
237–38)
It is of course true that nationalism and democracy have broadened the

public sphere and the disadvantaged within the group now have access
to justice previously denied to them. Also, Galanter is concerned here
with only one kind of autonomy. Primarily concerned with battles within
“Hindu” society for legal justice, he neglected the issue of autonomy of
other kinds of groups. The main issue is: Can we have a differential system
of justice in place of an equal system of public justice with one or the other
group dominating the public and turning its norm into its favor? Can the
democratic legal system accommodate legal pluralism in the widest
possible sense retaining justice as the standard? The question that follows
as a corollary to the above is, if we have a differential system, will it be
competitive or cooperative? Since a modern constitution is based on the
republican system of an equal public sphere that sees autonomy as an
exception, how will such a basic law inhere autonomy as an integral
principle of democracy? Also important is the question, how will that

equality be pursued on the ground in a society largely committed to the
value of hierarchy?
Finally, one can take the case of caste as an example of the impossible
politics of a constitution producing an enduring form of autonomy in
India. Though the Constitution finally did not include the series of draft
enunciations relating to lower castes and tribes that aimed at defining
them as minorities, and suggested that an entire separate part for this be
kept in the Constitution, clearly, the text as we find it today, aims at de-
fining the place of caste in Indian life and the role of law in regulating it.
The Constitution takes a dim view of the place of caste in Indian life, is
ostensibly not concerned with it, the ties of ascription remain beyond its
domain; but it sees itself as the fundamental instrument to ensure that
these ascriptions do not lead to hierarchy, inequality, and invidious
treatment in public life. Caste, therefore, with its own internal order and
rules promulgating powers and functions, may continue as an autonomous
association, but this autonomy is supervised so that this does not spill
over into public politics. Doctrine, ritual, and culture, all three remain
outside juridical bounds till these affect the constitutional mission of
promoting equality. If they do, the courts and the law become active. In
such a perspective, caste becomes both a religious body in the sense that
its own prerogative on such matters such as marital rituals, devotional
methods, or representation to bodies like relevant commissions is allowed,
and a non-religious body in the sense that the Constitution tries to detach
it from the wider perspective of the Hindu society and determines its
character (advantages and disadvantages) among Muslims and Christians
as well. But in the institution of caste, securely tied to the “Hindu world,”
few can opt out of the caste-fold and receive protection. The entire con-
troversy over the right to be converted to another faith shows the limits
of the Constitution in upholding the autonomy of an individual or a
group to choose faith.6
For instance, Indian law permits different family laws on religious lines,
even different public laws according to different religions in matters like
religious trusts, permits compensatory discrimination in favor of dis-
advantaged groups, and is sometimes extremely solicitous to religious
sensibilities. The broad regulative powers that the state has (“subject to
public order, morality and health” vide Article 25.1, and Article 25.2a)
are rarely comprehensively enforced. The result is a paradox: we have on
the one hand a publicly equal system with broad state powers to regulate
practices of separate identity so that they do not go against equality as
well as differential provisions to help the disadvantaged. On the other

hand, we have a public system accessible to a group determined to impose
its values in a large or total measure thereby making the public and group
interest almost identical. In such a situation, the stress on the judiciary is
excessive. The political failure is sought to be compensated by judicial
activism to the extent where a judge is compelled to define “who is a
Hindu,” or the boundaries of faiths. In short, as I explained in my earlier
work on autonomy and autonomous arrangements as the dialogic form
of political existence, the Indian instance in an acute manner shows the
South Asian experience, namely, that modern law is not a self-fulfilling
prophecy working towards the satisfaction of the political subject. Faced
with asymmetries of power it can manage at best the co-existence of vari-
ous normative orders, at worst become a willing accomplice to the mani-
pulation of the public principles by a particular group. It also shows that
beyond the given territorial form of autonomy, South Asia by and large
has not been able to discover other forms of autonomy that will combine
both spatial and spiritual dimensions. The resultant situation displays
the existence of two political idioms. There is a liberal republican idiom
of democracy originating in the Constitutional exercises of 1946–49 in
India (elsewhere in this region at different times) that tolerates autonomy
and dissent to a defined extent. There is also a politics of recognition
fundamentally expressed in territorial form, pre-existing and now re-
inforced by the same liberal idiom, which threatens to break out, and
indeed sometimes breaks out, of the imposed confines, resulting in a
renewed phase of constitutional frenzy. These two are the quarrelsome
duo, one not quite being able to displace the other. Together, they have
produced the uneasy reality of accommodation, which is not tolerance,
but an accommodation of competing realities till one succeeds in pushing
the other out of existence. But this situation, as I shall argue now, impels
the issue of justice to surface again and again, and places the question of
a new dialogic order at the core of the issue of self-determination.
The aporia, which I term as the “democratic closure” is clear, and the
situation can be summarized briefly as follows:
1. Autonomy hangs as a categorical principle between freedom and

regulation, and likewise between reason and passion;
2. autonomy being subject to rules and regulations is an event in the
field of governmentality, where freedom and life become subject
to governing codes and rules reflected in the “will to power”;
3. yet, autonomy indicates the desire of politics to escape these rules

and regulations and find new forms of federal and confederal
political existence;
4. autonomy is stuck between a republican legal code and a hier-
archical order, and is yet to achieve a satisfactory regime of legal
pluralism;
5. the juridical theory of sovereignty is strengthened by autonomy
as a regulative principle, while in contrast to this, the political
theory of autonomy requires as its fulfilment, “autonomy of the
autonomies”;
6. the success of autonomy depends on the effectiveness of a dialogic
order, while autonomy has to depend on the strengthening and
the relentless invocation of constitutionalism, which marginalizes
the dialogic spirit;
7. though the history of autonomy seems, in a typically Hegelian
glass, the progressive realization of a democratic spirit, its con-
ditions are marked by a combination of geo-politics and ethno-
politics, which go far beyond the twin problematics of territory
and identity, and summon the very ingredients of the particular
mode of power on which modern politics is based.
The experiences of South Asia bear out the closure I am speaking of here.
Dialogic Politics as the Third

Dimension of Autonomy
As in all situations of aporia, we need as a way out, a third dimension

here, which is latent but mostly shut out by contending forces and pulls.
Dialogic politics that emerges from the quest for minimal justice is the
third dimension or the third way.
Important from the point of view of a dialogic order, is the shift implied
in the politics of autonomy itself, that springs historically from what I
term as the quest for minimal justice. Justice moderated by acknow-
ledgment of rights is achieved, every time it is conversed and contested,
minimally. The success, semi-success, and failure stories of autonomy
are actually narratives of five broad rules of minimal justice. These are:
First, all stories of autonomy reflect the requirement of the principle of
compensation for past injustices, wrongs, and gestures on behalf of the
national state to convince the other of its desire to continue with the
principle of compensation.
Second, they tell us of the need for the principle of supervision which
means deciding on the right and agreeable way to supervise the introduc-
tion of autonomy.
Third, they suggest the principle of custodianship, which is crucial to
settle the balance between the territorial sovereignty of the state and the
autonomy of the dissenting community.
Fourth, and this follows from the preceding principle, the principle of
guarantee against future erosion of autonomy and of a mechanism for
continuous conversation,7 is very important.
Fifth, there is the principle of innovation of federal and autonomous
practices along non-territorial lines towards federalizing the political
society.
Yet, we must understand, that these are not mere abstract principles.
They are the products of the experiences mentioned above, and will re-
main historically conditioned. Minimal justice is “minimal,” not only
because it does not make claim to redress all wrongs, but accepts the fact
that justice is always historically produced and therefore contingent. These
principles require a dialogic order at an increasing scale because, besides
other reasons, in this age of globalization they require international
guarantee and flexibility of forms of accommodation. This becomes pos-
sible when the state is irreversibly linked to an order that propels such an
evolution of forms of shared sovereignty.
Minimal justice is “minimal” also because the liberal order does not
allow justice to play out its possibilities to the maximum. All that minimal
justice does is to lend a critical edge to politics that is attempting to come
out of the closure placed before the masses in the form of the imperial
theory of nationhood, dramatically evident since the miraculous year of
1989. It may very well be that with economic integration helping the
recolonization of the “excluded” areas through autonomy packages and
devolution, and with the historic growth of a political class that sees the
merits and more importantly the possibility of a revision of rules of gov-
ernance, these principles will be in practice in many parts of the world,
and the chronicle of the success and semi-success stories of autonomy
will be seen as one of a phase of revision of liberal political rule world-
wide. Fifty years later, political and constitutional historians will say that
the principle and practices of self-determination occasioned the revision
of rule. The issue of justice thereby will not be exhausted; politics is a
matter of self, and will continue its vocation of being just, that is seeking
new standards of justice. For, after all, the theory and the reality of the
juridical form of sovereignty in the form of a territorial democratic state
exists as a “state of nature” whence all things follow and to which all
things return. It is this immanent significance of the dialogic form of
justice, which I term as “minimal justice” that helps autonomy come out
of the governmental bind as the conceptual illusion of a liberal order.
One can notice in this context, that researches on democratic experi-
ments in this country have largely ignored the given theory of (national)
sovereignty. While democracy in practice brings in a notion of shared
sovereignty and autonomy, the theory of (national) sovereignty per se
has refused to adapt to the changing circumstances. The republican idea
of citizenship has not always met the requirements of democracy. The
history of the thinking on sovereignty has been highly uneven. Similarly
uneven has remained our thinking on related themes such as the norm
of autonomy, its philosophy and its practices, autonomy and the cur-
rent state of international law, gender and autonomy, experiences of
autonomy, autonomy as the product of peace accords, fiscal autonomy,
autonomy and decentralization, and the Indian juridical-political thinking
on autonomy as a means of accommodation and pluralism. We also
have had little thinking on one of the very significant questions of democ-
racy: is local governance necessarily to be understood from within the
purview of state institutions? And therefore, the question is, is autonomy
for local self-government or autonomy for governing the local? The
paradoxical fact that while autonomy can become governmentalized,
the imperative of autonomy is to become autonomous of government-
ality, is central to many of these questions. Thus, we have seen that the
state’s responses to demands for autonomy are not the same in every
case. In some cases it has a relaxed attitude to such demands, in others it
expresses a “pathological anxiety,” as in the case of demand of religious
communities. Likewise, while citizenship in India is multi-layered and
a mosaic of many ethnic and linguistic identities, yet, constitutionally, it
is still guided by a very official republican idea that cannot grasp the
need for renegotiating the principle of citizenship in the light of autono-
mous and semi-autonomous realities. Similarly, autonomy-enhancing
institutions may not necessarily always be democracy-enhancing institu-
tions internally. Autonomy of the group and democracy within the group
do not necessarily follow from each other. In this context it is instructive
to see how granting autonomy can become part of a governmental exer-
cise in administering inter-ethnic and inter-regional relations. And above
all, what is the final test of autonomy in a gender unjust polity and society?
How should one judge in this respect the issue of women’s autonomy?
What is at the heart of the question of women’s autonomy: representation/
justice/rights—all these in relation to the existing patriarchal politics and
the state, in relation to the movement?
One can further notice in this context, that similar to the way in which
the given theory of (national) sovereignty has been largely ignored in
political studies of democracy, and least attention has been given to the
phenomenon of emerging claims and forms of sharing sovereignty, the
theory of justice too was ignored in studies of the claims for autonomy.
Because some of these claims are pronouncedly territorial, our thinking
on autonomy too has been largely confined to territorial arguments, form,
and solutions. Yet, the conflict-ridden history of autonomy in India
demonstrates two things: First, the non-territorial forms of autonomy
are as important as the territorial forms of autonomy (gender, fiscal,
etc.); Second, the reorganization along territorial-autonomous lines can
be effective only when these claims of autonomy have the scope to
position themselves in a dialogic space and certain standards of justice
are available for the dialogue to be meaningful. I have shown elsewhere
(Samaddar, 2003) how population flows in different parts of the country,
most pronouncedly in the Northeast, have provoked demands for
homelands—a demand whose only official or governmental form of
expression is autonomy.8 The borders of these “homelands” can be as
murderous and conflictive as the borders and boundaries of nations are;
they can be as effective lines of partition as real national partitions have
been. They can produce xenophobia and mass murders in the same way
nation state formations have produced.
Yet, we cannot ignore the democratic aspirations in these demands
for autonomy and the claims for territorial guarantees for autonomy that
these claims have led to. How can democracy settle those claims without
the “final solution” of partition? In a situation like this norms of justice
are the only means to institute the dialogic space in which autonomies
can emerge. Such a dialogic space gathers strength on two realizations:
First, the language of rights is inadequate in such a circumstance and
hence must be conditioned by the accompanying language of justice;
Second, this dialogic space cannot emerge through the Westminster
model of representative democracy which runs by numbers, and in which
a representative has to create a “mass” which will send him/her to the
parliament, and therefore, can easily become the catalyst for mixing com-
munalism, anti-migrant hysteria, and majoritarianism with democracy.
The geo-politics and the ethno-politics of autonomy, which Sanjay
Barbora and Sanjay Chaturvedi discuss threadbare, form the inflammable

material for the politics of autonomy. Dialogic justice assumes even
greater significance in this context. In the solar universe of sovereignty,
everything—autonomy, self-determination, nationhood, minority rights,
devolution—moves in a confusing circle, at times even losing its distinctive
position, but never losing its vocation of circling around sovereignty. And
as Sabyasachi Basu Ray Chaudhury points out in the course of tracing
autonomy’s international legal career, the political notion of autonomy
is caught between various legal ideas of the right to self-determination,
minority rights and minority protection, obligations of the state to offer
autonomy to the indigenous population groups, etc., and we still do not
know if the right to autonomy is unambiguously a legal right in demo-
cracy or not.
In any case, all these issues, questions, and historical experiences
of autonomies in Indian politics call for a new theorizing of the theme of
autonomy, which can take into account the tensions and the virtues
of dialogue, dialogic forms and dialogic order, the immense significance
of territorial and non-territorial forms of autonomy, and can make a
fruitful negotiation with the paradox inherent in the politics of autonomy:
that it is the dual site of regulation and freedom, power and will.
Conclusion
To conclude, understanding the contradictory history of autonomous

practices in politics is the key to understanding its significance as a prin-
ciple of politics. In the first decade of the 21st century, in which we live,
autonomy has become one of the major concerns of our social and polit-
ical existence. Right to autonomous life is now a political, cultural, and
social call for both individuals and groups—a rare con-formity that points
to the critical importance of the problematic of autonomy in the agenda of
critical thinking, as well as its inextricable relation with the philosophy
of our time.
The term autonomy began to be applied primarily or even exclusively
in a political context to “civic communities” possessing independent legis-
lative and self-governing authority. Then the term was taken up again in
the context of individual rational persons in the context of their individual
rights and existences, and their individual modes of behavior. In the
background of the upsurge of anti-colonial movements, the term gained
new perspectives and meanings, which would now imply not only new
rights, but also new responsibilities (autonomy of whom, for whom, with
respect to what?). It became the emblem of group rights, in particular,
minority rights. In time the idea of autonomy became not only the stand-
ard of rights or responsibilities, but also an issue of governmentality,
something that denotes transaction, government, negotiation, and
relating to others on the basis of set rules.
It is this contradictory history of autonomy that has generated the
questions mentioned briefly in this introduction and in detail in the
book. To recast some of those issues born of the paradox, we have to ask
if autonomy has been emblematic of rights, whether it takes into account
the gendered nature of the term. Can we trace the birth of the autonomous
subject? What are the relevant constitutional and juridical thoughts shap-
ing the universe of autonomy? Why is autonomy, an idea that holds uni-
versal attraction for mass politics, related to so much violence? Is autonomy
one more regulated term, or is the concept autonomous, so that we can
speak of autonomy of the autonomies? And, is private property, to go to
the fundamentals, a problematic for autonomy? What is autonomy with-
out access to resources? On the other hand, if forms of ownership of re-
sources determine autonomy, what is left of autonomy as a norm? Once
again, historical illustrations point to both possibilities: First, autonomy
as autonomy of politics and a particular form of ethics derived from pri-
vate property and its arrangements; second, autonomy of life that one
can enjoy only when access to property makes that enjoyment possible.
We have a number of studies on financial devolution and financial auto-
nomy at the village level that point to this paradox. The study by Ratan
Khasnabis (in this volume) makes the point clearer.
If we relate the concept of autonomy to the more familiar notions of
freedom or self-determination, we can locate in this case, the questions
of responsibility and the conditions of freedom. We know that autonomy
is generally held as a valued condition for persons in liberal cultures. We
uphold autonomous agents as the exemplar of persons who, by their
judgment and action, authenticate the social and political principles and
policies that advance their interests. But the sceptic may ask if we are not
being blinded by the ideal of autonomy. Therefore the question: What
happens if we value autonomy too much? In autonomous action the
agent herself directs and governs the action. But what does it mean for
the agent herself to direct and to govern? In the context of the emerging
demands for group autonomy, the further question to be probed is if this
is not now the occasion to investigate and re-envision the concept of
democracy with the norms, principles, and various forms of autonomy

and more importantly in a way, where the standards of minimal justice
become the foundation for a new democratic outlook inscribed by prac-
tices of autonomy perched on an understanding of each other. Accommo-
dation becomes the form of responsibility for the agency that wills
autonomy.
In the history of thought, reason has co-opted our conception of auton-
omy. Given this history, it can be argued that the task is now to set autonomy
free, make autonomy autonomous. But the question is how? Surely, the
problem is in the way the self defines the claims for autonomy, the way
in which it relegates the issue of justice and understanding from consid-
erations of autonomy. Law becomes in such conditions the most assured
site of autonomy, and the juridical arrangement handed down from the
top becomes its only possible form.
We can then repeat, or redefine the paradox in this way: If we are
governed by reason in what we choose and how we choose, it means we
subject ourselves to reason in this business of what and how we choose;
we are not in that case autonomous. Yet, if we say that we are not gov-
erned by reason but by desires and passions, then in that case we are not
governing ourselves in what we are choosing, and we are not therefore
autonomous. The way out of the closure has to be sought in historical
understanding of the way in which the two principles of autonomy and
accommodation have worked in political life, and the way in which
standards of justice have provided the negotiating ground between
autonomy and accommodation. Demands for new statehoods, new
autonomous arrangements, newer forms of financial autonomy of the
political units below, autonomy of feminist politics of recognition and
justice, autonomy of the indigenous people and the common property
resources, new notions of legal autonomy, autonomy of ethics from
recognized and legitimized forms of constitutional politics, and finally
the autonomy of dialogue and dialogic forms, all these demands illustrate
the point that autonomy is one of the cardinal principles on which demo-
cracy will have to be redefined and reshaped.
We require both historical and analytical understanding of the issue
for such a critical enterprise. We require, moreover, a deeper and more
rigorous understanding of the geo-political and ethno-political grounds
on which the call for autonomy is now articulated and which modulate
the self ’s understanding of the norm. Similarly, the need is to inquire
into the ethical grounds on which the call for autonomy is made and
practices of autonomy continue. The purpose of a critical political inquiry
is to look into conditions and dimensions of autonomy, their historical

nature, and their political significance in terms of enriching democracy.
Because, today democracy cannot proceed without autonomy; indeed
the test of democracy is how much autonomous its constituents are, and
how much dialogic space it has created for the working out of the stand-
ards of justice and rights, the demands for which have brought the autono-
mous spaces to life.
Notes
1. Though in several of his fragmentary writings and speeches in later years Michel
Foucault spoke of governmentality, for my purpose here, I shall in the main rely
on his essay, “Governmentality” presented as part of a course on “Security,
Territory, and Population” given in 1977–78 at the College de France, and later
published in Faubion (1999: 201–22).
2. This is the explanation that broadly emerges from Dean (1999). The first wave of
discussions of course is created by Burchell, Gordon, and Miller (1991); later comes
Barry, Osborne, and Rose (1996).
3. Weber noted the technical superiority of bureaucratic organization over admin-
istration by notables, and attributed this superiority to factors like speed, precision,
knowledge of the files, reduction of material, personal costs, etc. He also noted
that legal reorganization had to precede or accompany such rise of bureaucratic
structures, and that statutes became more effective than grace and gratitude.
Administration became administration of rational laws and rational procedures.
See, Roth and Wittich (1968: 973–75).
4. Each of the essays on autonomy referred to here is a commentary on autonomy’s
other, namely governmentality.
5. The “basic features” of the Constitution cannot be amended by exercising the
power of amendment under Article 368. The Constitution 42nd Amendment Act,
1976 had inserted in Article 368(5), a provision that there was no limitation on
the constituent power of the Parliament to amend the Constitution. Though the
Supreme Court invalidated this, ambiguity still remains. See Keshavananda Bharati
v. State of India (AIR 1973 SC 1461), Minerva Mills v. Union of India (AIR 1980
SC 1789), and Srinivasa v. State of Karnataka (AIR 1987 SC 1518).
6. On the legal complexities arising out of the position that caste occupies in public
life, see Bailey (1957); Galanter (1963: 544–59); Smith (1996).
7. The importance of this principle is evident from the way in which Kashmir’s
autonomy was eroded; see in this connection, text of T. Muivah’s interview with
Karan Thapar in BBC program, “Hard Talk India.”
8. Sanjib Baruah has analyzed the situation with exceptional clarity and perspicacity.
See, Baruah (2005: 183–208).
PART I
Genealogy
1
THE BIRTH OF THE AUTONOMOUS SUBJECT?

Pradip Kumar Bose
Introduction
T he idea of autonomy, addressing theoretical as well as practical public

policy oriented issues, occupies a central place in contemporary polit-
ical and philosophical debates (such as the concept of personhood or
moral responsibility) and is often recognized as a central value in moral
and political philosophy. In the domain of public policy, autonomy has
been invoked to address a variety of issues, beginning from the right to
privacy (Kupfer, 1987: 81–89), to right to freedom of association, and
freedom of religion. It has also been central to public policy debates con-
cerning the public provision of opportunities for its exercise, such as mini-
mum standards of welfare or subsidized cultural activities (Taylor, 1979).
The idea of autonomy is today an important issue in medical ethics too,
where the claim has been raised that practicing medicine should no longer
be primarily concerned with the well-being of the patient but with
restoring her autonomy (Komrad, 1983: 38–44).
The important question to ask at this stage is: how did it come about
that the idea of autonomy plays such a major role in so many debates.
One possible reason could be that in the contemporary world we structure
our world upon this concept, since it is now (May, 1998) recognized as
the central characteristic of a person (Frankfurt, 1971). It follows, there-
fore, that we must temper our actions towards a person who expresses
36 / PRADIP KUMAR BOSE
this will to direct her/his own personal commitment as a sign of our

respect for her/his autonomy. Autonomy then becomes the essential value
characteristic of personhood, a “super-value” rather than simply one
value among many other competing ones. When in conflict with other
values, autonomy will override the others for its essentiality. Respecting
autonomy, then, comports well with the values of a democratic society
that places individualism and freedom over communitarian solidarity
and authority.
But, of course, to acknowledge this position is not to concede the ground
for its theoretical defensibility. History tells us that autonomy as an ideal
has not always been valued nor is its primacy among all other human
values accepted by everyone. Individual autonomy is an idea that is gen-
erally understood to refer to the capacity to be one’s own person, to live
one’s life according to reasons and motives that are taken as one’s own
and not the product of manipulative or distorting external forces. The
idea of autonomy of the individual, in the sense of the individual’s cap-
acity to live her own life according to her own reasons and motives as
opposed to being the product of external forces, is at the center of the
Kantian tradition of moral philosophy. It is also accorded a fundamental
status in John Stuart Mill’s version of utilitarian liberalism. Examination
of the concept of autonomy also figures centrally in debates over educa-
tion policy, biomedical ethics, legal freedoms and rights as well as moral
and political theory. It is in the last two fields that the centrality of auton-
omy in the human value system has been countered with alternative
frameworks such as an ethic of care, utilitarianism of some kinds, and
an ethic of virtue.
It is possible that in the morally pluralistic modern world the centrality
of the idea of autonomy has a functional utility that ensures that certain
groups within society do not try to impose their own views upon others.
What is important, however, is that the concept of autonomy is contro-
versial and has been much debated, the disputes generating from the
concept of personhood in general. Hence, a proper analytical framework
on autonomy has to select certain key conceptual domains and relate these
with the basic premises of liberalism. The two fundamental questions
are: is there a coherent meaning of autonomy? Is the concept of autonomy
theoretically defensible? As we shall show in this chapter, the answers to
both the questions are negative in nature. The idea of a self-constituting
subject as contemporary theories show is an effect of power, which brings
forth the subject. While the paper denies the possibility of the autonomy
of the subject, it explores the conditions of agency of the subject.
The Birth of the Autonomous Subject? / 37
Autonomy and Liberalism
What in earlier times were debated as “free will” and “moral responsibil-
ity” have today morphed into the question of “autonomy” for political
and social theorists. This later incarnation is linked to the idea of self-
governance, a concept of the individual possessing an inner structure
representing her/his true self, a self-critical and self-mastering entity,
producing desires that motivate free action. If we survey various theor-
etical attempts to conceptualize autonomy, we find there is no single
meaning to the term, though concern for self-governance underlies the
use of the concept. Gerald Dworkin notes that the term “autonomy” is
“used sometimes as an equivalent of liberty (positive or negative in Berlin’s
terminology), sometimes as equivalent to self-rule or sovereignty,
sometimes as identical to freedom of the will ... it is identified with self-
assertion, with critical reflection, with freedom from obligation, with
absence of external causation, with knowledge of one’s own interests”
(Dworkin, 1989: 54–62). This conceptual confusion about the meaning
of the term reinforces the suspicion that there is no unified account of
autonomy.
Feinberg too doubts that autonomy has a single coherent meaning.
He claims that there are at least four different meanings of autonomy in
moral and political philosophy: the capacity for self-governance, condi-
tions for self-government, a set of rights expressive of one’s sovereignty
over oneself and a personal ideal (Feinberg, 1989: 27–53). These four
“meanings” of autonomy all share a conceptual core of actual conditions
of autonomy that include the ability to self-govern. The question here is,
however, whether rights are prior to actual conditions of self-governance
as described by Feinberg. Autonomy can also be viewed as a system of nega-
tive rights against actions that disrupt the conditions of self-government.
In this sense the status of right-autonomy is ambiguous. A little reflection
will also show that this distinction between positive and negative rights
ultimately collapses because autonomy will include the factors that must
be absent to facilitate self-direction.
There is also a much discussed charge, that the idea of autonomy and
the moral and political principles built upon it are overtly individualistic
in their requirements and implications. Some have sought to replace this
individualistic idea of autonomy with another concept called “relational
autonomy” to establish the integral role that relatedness plays both in
persons’ self-conceptions (relative to which autonomy must be defined)
and self-governance itself (Mackenzie and Stoljar, 2000). These views,
however, contain certain ambiguities as well: on the one hand, relational

accounts rest on a non-individualistic conception of the person and then
claim that insofar as the meaning of autonomy is self-governance and
the self is constituted of relations with others, then autonomy is relational
(and therefore not self-governed); on the other hand, these views may be
understood as claiming that whatever selves turn out to be, autonomy
fundamentally involves social relations rather than individual traits.
The idea that individual autonomy is a basic moral and political value
is very much a modern development which is the product of the enlight-
enment humanism of which contemporary liberal political philosophy
is an offshoot.1 The view that moral principles and obligations, as well as
legitimacy of political authority should be grounded in the self-governing
individual can raise many skeptical eyebrows because it becomes difficult
to argue for autonomy as an unqualified value for all individuals when
one tries to precisely specify the social conditions for the existence of an
autonomous individual, even though in a general sense autonomy, is
certainly desirable since its opposite—being guided by forces external to
oneself—is the definition of oppression. Autonomy, therefore, can be
identified as being in the eye of the storm in the complex (re)consider-
ations of modernity. Another related but important issue regarding the
property of autonomy pertains to its scope. Sometimes it is viewed as a
property of preferences or desires as employed by economists. Others,
however, regard autonomy as a property of whole persons or persons’
lives. Dworkin, for example, calls it a “global concept” and, therefore,
not applicable at localized levels. The scope of autonomy thus remains
undetermined.
The idea of autonomy is central to certain frameworks of morality, both
as a model of the moral person and as an aspect of persons that ground
others’ obligation to them. In Kant, these ideas imply each other. But it
can be argued that this equivalence is not a necessary one. For Kant, the
self-imposition of a universal moral law is the ground of both moral
obligations generally and the respect others owe us. That is, practical
reason—our ability to use reasons to choose our own actions—presup-
poses that we understand ourselves as free. Freedom means the absence
of barriers external to our will. Such freedom, however, also requires a
Law to guide our decisions, a Law produced by an act of our own will.
This self-imposition of a moral Law is the essence of autonomy. And
since this Law must have no content provided by sense or desire, it must
be universal. Hence we have the Categorical Imperative, meaning that
by virtue of our being autonomous we must act only on those maxims

that we can consistently will as Universal Law.
Since autonomy thus defined is not a property of groups or collectives,
the autonomy that grounds basic rights and connects to moral responsi-
bility is assigned to persons without essential reference to other people,
institutions, traditions, or the like. Critics argue that this runs counter to
the manner in which all of us in some ways define ourselves with reference
to other people/institutions/traditions to motivate ourselves to act and to
ground our moral commitments. These challenges have focused most
pointedly on the relation of the self to its culture. What is at issue from a
policy perspective is, that emphasis on the individual’s right to self-
governance makes it difficult, if not impossible, to ground rights to the
protection and internal self-government of traditional cultures themselves.
This is problematic because the assumption that the autonomous person
is able to separate himself from all cultural commitments forestalls moves
to provide state protection for cultural forms themselves insofar as such
state policies rely on the value of autonomy. This critique has been coun-
tered from a liberal position to say that autonomy need in no way require
that people step away from all their connections and values to critically
appraise them.2 This liberal response though, fails to take seriously the
permanent and unalterable aspects of the self and its social position.
In contrast to the individualistic conception of the self proposed by
liberals, communitarians have argued that our selves are constituted of
various social attachments. The implication of this position is that politics
cannot be only about securing conditions for exercising autonomous
choice, but also about promoting social attachments and community ties
for the well-being of the subjects. Taylor, for instance, objects to the liberal
view that “men are self-sufficient outside society” and calls this view
“atomistic.” The liberal image of a subject who imposes his will on the
world, according to the communitarians, neglects the reality of individ-
uals who are embodied agents, who act in ways specified by their social
backgrounds, a priori routines and habits. Liberals have countered by
pointing out that liberal politics is concerned with securing the conditions
for individuals to lead autonomous lives by making choices with respect
to things that are valued. It is not always that communal practices ought to
be valued though they may be instrumental in guiding our behavior. This
modified version, however, still implies that moral outlooks are products
of individual choices. Communitarians, however, insist that individuals
do not invent moral choices and preferences. Our social space provides
some sort of moral orientation. In this sense, the liberal ideal of free, au-
tonomous, self-inventing moral choices and outlook cannot do justice to
actual moral experience.
The concept of the autonomous person plays a variety of roles in liberal
political theory. Principally, it serves as the model of the person whose
perspective is used to formulate and justify political principles, as in social
contract models of principles of justice (Rawls, 1971). One manner in which
debates concerning autonomy directly connect to controversies within and
about liberalism is by the role state neutrality is to play in the justification
and application of principles of justice. Neutrality is a controversial stand-
ard, of course, and the precise ways in which liberal theory is committed
to a requirement of neutrality are complex and controversial. The question
to be asked here is: Since the reliance on autonomy in the justification
and specification of liberal theories of justice render them non-neutral
simply because of this reliance, should liberal theories attempt to utilize
the concept of autonomy in a neutral manner in relation to other concepts
of morality and value?
A liberal position claims that the validity of a value depends on its
reasonable endorsement by the person in question. It follows, therefore,
that the legitimacy of the principles guiding the institutions of social
and political power depends on being reasonably endorsed by those
subject to them. This commitment of liberalism is known as the
“endorsement constraint.”3 This structuring principle is mirrored in the
liberal condition that a person is autonomous relative to some action-
guiding norm or value only if, upon critical reflection of that value, the
person identifies with or approves of it. Taken together, these two con-
ditions of liberalism assert that a culture of autonomy is to be respected
only when the guiding values or principles in a society are embraced as
reasonable by those governed by them. Perfectionists, however, reject
this set of claims. Perfectionism argues that values are valid for an
individual or a population even when that value is not endorsed or ac-
cepted from the subjective point of view of these agents or groups. That
is, such values are seen as entirely objective. This position generally resists
the liberal claim that the autonomous acceptance of the central compon-
ents of political principles is a necessary condition for the legitimacy of
those principles (Wall, 1998).
Historically, liberalism arose out of the social contract tradition of
political philosophy that rests on the idea of popular sovereignty. Popular
sovereignty implies that justice must be an extension of people’s rule of
themselves, a free and rational pursuit of people’s own conception of

morality and the good, assuming pluralism among such conceptions.
The concept of autonomy figures centrally in at least one dominant strand
in this tradition, the strand that runs through the work of Kant. The
major alternative version of the liberal tradition sees popular sovereignty
as a collective expression of rational choice where the principles of the
institutions of political power are merely instruments for maximizing
aggregate welfare of the citizenry. This is the strain that runs from Hobbes
through the classical utilitarian philosophers. In this tradition, individual
self-government, insofar as that is understood as over and above simple
rationality, is of only instrumental value: autonomous individuals tend
to be better able to pursue welfare.
But it is the Kantian brand of liberalism that places the autonomy
of the individual at the center-stage. Rawls’ Theory of Justice was a later
manifestation of this Kantian approach to justice, where justice was
conceived as those principles that would be chosen under conditions of
unbiased rational decision-making. The original position where such
principles would be chosen was said by Rawls to mirror Kant’s Categorical
Imperative. That is, it is a device by which persons choose principles to
impose upon themselves in a way that is independent of contingencies
of social positions like race, sex, or conception of the good. But the
Kantian foundation of Rawls’ theory of justice rendered it vulnerable to
the charge that it was inapplicable to those populations where deep moral
pluralism abounds. For under such conditions, no theory of justice which
rests on a metaphysically grounded conception of the person could claim
full allegiance from the members of the population whose deep diversity
causes them to disagree about metaphysics itself. Communitarians, for
instance, have argued that standards of justice must be found in forms
of life and traditions of particular societies and hence can vary from
context to context. MacIntyre and Taylor have argued that moral and
political judgment will depend on the language of reason and the inter-
pretative framework within which agents view their world. It therefore
makes no sense to begin the political enterprise by abstracting from the
interpretative dimensions of human beliefs, practices, and institutions.
In closing, a few words about the relationship between autonomy,
justice and democracy. Liberal conceptions of justice have evolved to
include reference to collective discussions and debates (public reason) as
one of the constitutive conditions of legitimacy. Autonomy here remains
a part of the background conditions against which justice is to operate.
Some thinkers, like Habermas, have highlighted the connection by making

a distinction between the individual or “private” autonomy and collective
or “public” legitimacy (Habermas, 1990). Legitimacy and justice, according
to him, cannot be established in advance through philosophical construc-
tion and argument. Justice is delivered by a set of principles established
in practice and legitimized by the actual support of affected citizens.
Systems of rights and protection (private, individual autonomy), will
necessarily be postulated through institutionalized frameworks of public
deliberation that render principles of social justice acceptable to all af-
fected. This view of justice provides an indirect defense of autonomy
and, in particular, conceptualizes autonomy in a way that assumes reflec-
tive self-evaluation. Insofar as autonomy is necessary for a functioning
democracy, and democracy is a constitutive element of just political
institutions, then autonomy must be seen here as reflective self-appraisal.
Critics have argued that the concept of an autonomous person assumed
here is open to contest and not internalized by all participants in contem-
porary political life. Others motivated by postmodern considerations
concerning the nature of the self, rationality, language and identity, are
also opposed to the manner in which the basic concepts operative in
liberal theories of justice (“autonomy” for example) are understood as
fixed, transparent, and without their own political presuppositions
(Butler, 1990).
The fundamental problem with the divergent and somewhat in-
consistent conceptions of autonomy is that the self is here conceived as
prior to society, outside of regimes of power. Autonomous subjects are
outside any norms and techniques prescribed by a regime of power/
knowledge. Instead of asking how natural subjects get together to con-
stitute a sovereign state and its practices, we can ask, following Foucault,
how subjects themselves are constituted through a multiplicity of forces,
powers, desires, and thoughts. The question of autonomy then, can raise
practical and ethical issues of a new sort. The characteristic of modern
power is that it is local and multiple in its applications, normalizing,
individualizing, invisible, and anonymous. The modern subject on the
other hand believes in autonomy, in the importance of comprehending
itself and designates itself through both self-scrutiny and the practices
of human sciences. The question of autonomy is thus intimately linked
with the birth of the modern subject. Is it then a product of technologies
of self built in the history of the last two centuries?
De-centering the Subject:

Agency and Ethical Conduct
One of the key features of Enlightenment philosophy was to redefine

the status of the human individual. The Cartesian system confirmed the
centrality of the autonomous human individual, a percept that separated
the subject from the object, thought from reality, and Self from the Other.
“Cartesian Individualism” posited the autonomous “I” that acted in the
world through this separation. This “I” was no longer to be seen as merely
operated upon by divine will or cosmic force. This Self was separate from
the world and could be viewed as a source of human understanding,
action, and meaning. The Self was equipped to employ intellect and
imagination in producing knowledge and representation of the world.
This particular view of the autonomous individual obviously downplayed
the role of social relations or language in the formation of the self. The
critique of the subject-object duality in Western philosophy culminated in
Nietzche with his critique of subject-centered reason. The position later
continues in Foucault in his problematization of the Western subject.
Consider, for instance, his critique of the Kantian subject. The Kantian
subject cannot know but only represent objects through its own reason,
and knows only its own representation. Thus Kant’s critical philosophy
analyses the representational subject. In contemporary transformation
within the Kantian project, instead of reason, language is posited as the
logos of subjectivity. Foucault points out that this uncovers the subject of
representation as itself a metaphysical construction, because Kant’s
analysis then is not an absolute essence but a particular kind of linguistic
construction. The identity of the Kantian subject produced by unifying
subjective reason is thus a construction of a particular historical period.
However, the inadequacy of such a position was shown both by Freud
and Marx. Freud, in his theories of unconscious dimensions of the Self,
revealed that everything about the individual’s formation is not accessible
to thought, thereby blurring the subject-object distinction. Marx pro-
nounced that it is the social being that determines the consciousness of
men. Both these views significantly disturbed the notion of integrity and
autonomy of the individual. This eventually resulted in the elaboration
of the theory of subjectivity by their followers.
The idea of subjectivity draws our attention to the production of the
human subject through ideology, discourse, and language. Individual
identity here is seen as an effect rather than as the cause of such factors.
This position has destabilized the Enlightenment assertion of individual

autonomy and interrogated the capacity of the subject so formed. The
psychoanalytic theory of Lacan, for instance, would argue that the Subject
is produced in language and subjected to the laws of the symbolic that
pre-exists it. As Sassure had argued, signs produce a reality through a
system of differences, the Subject is produced by a system of differen-
tiations between “I” and “not I.” In brief, both the structuralist and the
poststructuralist positions assert that it is better to think of the Subject
as a “site” rather than a “center” or a “presence.” Here the subject is de-
prived of his role as source of meaning because meaning is deciphered
in terms of systems of signs—systems that the subject does not control.
That is why Levi-Strauss declared that the goal of the human sciences is
not to constitute man but to dissolve him. Such theoretical ventures began
with making man an object of knowledge, but on deeper analysis they
found that the Self dissolves as its functions are traced to various imper-
sonal systems that operate through it. In fact, summarizing the post-
structuralist analyses, Culler writes: “As the self is broken down into
component systems, deprived of its status as source and master of
meaning, it comes to seem more and more like a construct: a result of
systems of convention. Even the idea of personal identity emerges
through the discourse of culture: the ‘I’ is not something given but comes
to exist as that which is addressed by and relates to others” (Culler,
1981: 37). Derrida offers a more radical critique of the subject when he
challenges the Cartesian notion of a fixed subject and individuality.
The phenomenological view in the post-war period was dominated
by the philosophy of the subject and argued that all knowledge and prin-
ciples of all significations originated from the meaningful subject.
Foucault points out that the centrality of the subject in this philosophy
was derived from the Cartesian idea but was also linked to an institutional
context. The absurdity and brutality of the wars compelled the individual
subject to give meaning to his existential choices. The philosophy of con-
sciousness, however, could not found a philosophy of knowledge, and a
philosophy of meaning failed to take into account the structure of systems
of meaning. There were two possible paths to go beyond the philosophy
of the Subject: the first was the theory of objective knowledge, the path of
logical positivism; and the second was an analysis of systems of meaning
or semiology, the path chosen by certain schools of linguistics, psycho-
analysis, and anthropology. In his attempt to liberate himself from the
philosophy of the Subject, Foucault took another direction of investi-
gating the Subject across history through a genealogy of this Subject.
Foucault argues that it is not enough to understand the genealogy of the

Subject only through techniques of domination. One must take into
account the techniques of the Self as well. To quote Foucault:
Let’s say: he has to take into account the interaction between those two types
of techniques—techniques of domination and techniques of the self. He has to
take into account the points where the technologies of domination of individuals
over one another have recourse to processes by which the individual acts upon
himself. And conversely, he has to take into account the points where the
techniques of the self are integrated into structures of coercion or domination.
The contact point, where the individuals are driven by others is tied to the way
they conduct themselves is what we can call, I think, government. Governing
people, in the broad meaning of the word, governing people is not a way to
force people to do what the governor wants; it is always a versatile equilibrium,
with complementarity and conflicts between techniques which assure coercion
and processes through which the self is constructed or modified by himself.
(Foucault, 1993: 203)
Foucault denies the possibility of a sovereign founding Subject. “The

Subject is constituted through practices of subjection, or, in a more au-
tonomous way, through practices of liberation” (Foucault, 1988: 50). A
hostility to the Subject runs throughout Foucault’s work. He attempted
to efface the idea of the self-constituting Subject and construct a history
of the different modes by which human beings are made into subjects.
For Foucault, the individual and the Subject are arbitrary constructs of a
social formation. It is the ubiquity of power which brings forth the Subject,
and no individual possibly could constitute himself as an autonomous
agent free from all regimes of power.
The liberal idea of the individual located outside or coming before the
society is thus precluded by Foucault. He instead argues, that to believe
in the Subject as an autonomous agent is to have internalized the tech-
nique of the Self that makes one see Confession falsely as a way of un-
locking the inner selves. “The obligation to confess is now relayed through
so many different points, is so deeply ingrained in us, that we no longer
perceive it as the effect of a power that constrains us; on the contrary, it
seems to us that truth, lodged in our most secret nature “demands” only
to surface” (Foucault, 1990: 60). In other words, Foucault’s critique of
the Subject is thus a critique of autonomy as well.
As we have seen, many recent trends in social philosophy such as
communitarianism and postmodernism have stressed the implausibility
of the autonomous Subject outside of society. However, some have argued,
that while Foucault denies autonomy of the Subject, his rejection of

autonomy does not entail a rejection of agency.4 In contrast to autono-
mous Subjects, agents only exist in specific social contexts. In this view,
therefore, the Subject is an agent even though not an autonomous agent.
Insofar as modernity is understood in terms of an ideal of autonomy
and liberty, Foucault presents a forceful critique of modernity that is
associated with Enlightenment and liberalism. The undifferentiated
concept of power in Foucault is deployed as a critique of modernity
understood as providing an ideal of autonomy.
This concept of power, however, implies that subjects and knowledge
are simply products of social power and leaves no room for an alternative
model to the modern one of autonomy. While Foucault in his earlier
phase talks of disciplinary power, the later Foucault shifted his focus to
power that operates in terms of techniques of the Self. One might presume
that this form of power recognizes the value of the Subject as an Agent,
although Foucault never describes things quite in these terms. One can
say that in such a framework power has to pass through the consciousness
of the Subject implying recognition of the Subject as an Agent, though
not an autonomous agent.
In this particular scheme, Foucault traces the genealogy of the Self: its
constitution through a continuous analysis of one’s thoughts under a
hermeneutic principle of making sure they are really one’s own. Foucault
in his analysis of sexuality analyzed how the techniques of confession
allow for the Self to be related and subjected to the relations of power
that constitute modern social institutions. In this context, Foucault’s
distinction between morality and ethics is important. While morality for
him refers to a set of rules that specify what individuals should or should
not do, ethics, in contrast, refer to the ways individuals conduct them-
selves in relation to such sets of rules. Morality consists of requirements
and restrictions for the individual, while an ethic constitutes a practice
through which an individual negotiates such rules and restrictions. In
other words, an ethic is not a set of rules but an orientation toward a set of
rules. A society, ancient Greece for example, with a loose set of rules, an
open system of laws, permits an individual to develop a variety of ethical
behavior.
Today’s social norms lack the flexibility that can be interpreted through
ethical conduct. They are law-like requirements imposed from outside
leaving little freedom in relation to morality. The task of morality is not
to allow agency but to regulate conduct, while an ethic allows the subject
to constitute himself in an active fashion through a critique of the moral
rules, by interpreting them creatively. Ethical conduct, thus, has the

possibility of establishing a relation to the Self such that one devises a
personal style to enhance one’s beauty and pleasures in life. This freedom,
attained in ethical conduct, is not a liberation of the true Self from all
social influences, but rather an ability to modify the Self in the context
of social influences at work. As Foucault said, “the subject constitutes
himself in an active fashion by the practices of the self ” but these are not
“practices invented by the individual himself. They are models that he
finds in his culture and are proposed, suggested, imposed upon him by
his culture, his society and his social group” (Foucault, 2000: 291). By
exploring the limits of authorized forms of subjectivity, by questioning
the rules and developing an ethic of conduct one can escape the normal-
izing effects of modern power. It is thus that the Subject produces himself
through his conduct. It is then possible to question established identities
and norms through our conduct to produce ourselves. A good society
thus requires ethical conduct more than any given moral system, because
to act ethically is to transgress current rules of behavior.
Foucault insists that the Subject is “not a substance. It is a form, and
this form is not primarily or always identical to itself ” (ibid.: 290). This
means that subjects are constituted differently in different discursive
situations; it also means that different forms of relationship with the
Self are established through these different modalities of subjectivity.
“You do not have the same type of relationship to yourself as a political
subject who goes to vote or speaks at a meeting and when you are seeking
to fulfil your desires in a sexual relationship” (ibid.). In his practices of
self-making, Foucault also distances his account of constituting oneself
as a Subject from any humanist notion of self-”discovery.” He is interested
in the ways subjects constitute themselves “in an active fashion by the
practices of self.” He is not suggesting that subjects are “free” to create
themselves at will. The subjects are agents but not autonomous agents.
Thus, ethics are not just a theory, they are a practice, a style of life, and
hence the real problem is to give liberty “shape in ethos.” That is why he
says: “what is ethics, if not the practice of freedom, the considered practice
of freedom” and “Freedom is ontological condition of ethics. But ethics
is the considered form that freedom takes” (ibid.: 284–86).
Why should we be moved to accept Foucault’s art of the Self as a social
possibility? Because we agree not on a new conception of a Self but with
the analysis that the modern system of power normalizes individuals by
linking universal norms to rational and quasi-metaphysical truths about
man. In analyzing the processes by which we have been constituted as
our-Selves, Foucault sought to raise questions about who we might

become—in our thinking as in our lives. As Foucault writes: “May be our
problem is now to discover that the Self is nothing else than the historical
correlation of the technology built in our history. May be the problem is
to change those technologies. And in this case, one of the main political
problems would be nowadays, in the strict sense of the word, the politics
of ourselves” (Foucault, 1993: 222–23).
Notes
1. For historical discussions of autonomy, see Schneewind (1998).

2. See Kymlicka (1989).
3. See Kymlicka (1989).
4. See Bevir (1999).
2
WOMEN’S AUTONOMY:
BEYOND RIGHTS AND REPRESENTATIONS
Paula Banerjee
M ary Wollstonecraft took England by storm when she published

her radical work, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman in 1792,
locating the notion of women’s rights within the context of universal
human rights. Within half a century this question of women’s rights
assumed center-stage in debates of social reform in both England and
India. While these debates led to some changes in the situation of women,
more importantly, they led to a social construction of the woman as more
a member of a community than as an individual. Questions of women’s
autonomy, therefore, were historically subsumed within questions of
religion, community, and personal law and hardly ever treated as a matter
of either individual right or justice. Autonomy for women thus remained
hostage to community rights. Any critique of women’s situation would
always be addressed as a critique of one particular group of women whose
group affiliation would be on lines of religion, ethnicity, or race and the
critique would emerge as a critique of a specific community.
My chapter will address questions of women’s autonomy in the Indian
context and analyze its location within different discourses of which the
legal discourse is but one. Discourses on women’s autonomy always re-
mained subsumed within other discourses such as those on rights and
representations because Indian society even until the recent past, did not
50 / PAULA BANERJEE
treat women as autonomous subjects. It was only after women successfully

led autonomous movements in different parts of India from the 1980s
that there emerged a realization that women are autonomous subjects
even in representing their communities.
Women’s movements have often put forth the question of women’s
autonomy through exploring women’s position in law. There are, how-
ever, other traditional social indicators of women’s position as analyzed
through marriage, divorce, and property acts. This chapter will explore
how the question of women’s autonomy appeared through different dis-
courses in Indian politics. It will analyze the evolution of a number of
acts, that have had tremendous impact on women’s legal position, to ask
if these have led to women’s autonomy or suppressed questions of auton-
omy leading to further marginalization of women in the polity.
The paper is founded upon two crucial observations. These are: patri-
archal forces deny not just social rights to women but also political rights,
and that location matters and law affects different women, differently.
This is particularly true of women in India because Indian women are
traditionally located within different communities.
Women’s Question
and the Colonial Discourse
The official discourse on Indian women in the post-colonial period has

often been shaped by the colonial discourse and “the way it entered into
the nationalist discourse in the pre-independence period” (Mahanta,
1994: 88). In the 19th century, gender was far from being marginal to the
new world. It was continually being rearticulated through social reforms
that began with the abolition of Sati and ended with the Age of Consent
Bill in 1892. It was around the same time that there was emerging a
division between public law and personal law. “Public law was designed
to encourage and safeguard the freedom of the individual in the market-
place and was established by statutes, personal law was intended to limit
the extent of freedom” (Tharu and Lalita, 1991: 157). Yet, as revealed
by the Indian Marriage Act, 1864, even statutory acts were considered to
be part of the personal realm where women’s issues were concerned. It
scrupulously avoided any modification of the Hindu and Muslim per-
sonal laws, thereby creating procedures for only Christian marriages as
the community leaders of the other two communities were opposed to it.
Women’s Autonomy / 51
Other acts, such as the Hindu Widows Remarriage Act and the Age of
Consent Act did affect notions of marriage at least among the Hindus, but
made no effort to put issues of marriage within the realm of the civil.
The Indian Succession Act of 1865 was one of the first efforts to system-
atize civil law in India. It declared that no person “shall by marriage
acquire any interest in the property of the person that he or she marries,”
thereby challenging husbands’ right over their wives’ properties, but it
did not stipulate any maintenance for the wives, which would later lead
to destitution of many women. Even this Act was not applicable to the
Hindus, Muslims, or even the Parsis who had a separate legislation for
their community.
The first Indian Divorce Act came into effect in 1869. It followed the
1850s Divorce Act1 in England, not to ensure equality of the sexes but to
make provisions so that marriages legalized in England could be dissolved
in India, if needed. But it also needs to be said here that notions of equality
of sexes had already appeared in the political and legal discourses of the
time. For example, Sir Henry Maine, who was one of the chief architects
of these Acts, was said to have commented rather sarcastically upon the
Parsis’ partial Civil Code that allowed their daughters to inherit only
one fourth of what they allowed their sons to inherit. However, no effort
was made to translate these sentiments into legal provisions for any
communities in India. Even the Age of Consent Bill that raised the age
of marriage for women from 10 to 12 was severely criticized by Hindu
leaders who considered it a severe encroachment into their “personal”
domain, thereby relegating questions of women’s autonomy into the
domain of the personal that later came to be defined as group rights.
There is an argument that in the late 19th century, the nationalists
resolved the women’s question by creating the hierarchical opposition of
spiritual/Indian and material/Western realms and relegating questions
of women’s rights into the realm of the spiritual. Since women’s questions
fell within the spiritual realm it became imperative to protect it from
changes that did not reassert the spiritual purity of Indian women. As a
result, women could take part in public life only when they were able to
adequately demonstrate their purity. Such an argument assumes that the
nationalist voice was actually a male voice and ignores the materiality
and material practices in the lives of women where women’s question
was never resolved. It also ignores how women subverted notions of
spirituality to create spaces for themselves in the realm of the public.
Hence, even though proscriptive literature of the time seemed to be
obsessed with the theme of Western influence in education, threatening
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the spirituality in the lives of women, middle class women were constantly
reclaiming education as an essential aspect of their training as nationalist
and autonomous beings. Writings by women such as Rashsundari reveal
that one cannot unproblematically argue that women had to assert their
spirituality to legitimize their aspirations to be literate and consider it
exhausted of any other possibility.2 One has to consider how through
such writings she reclaims her right to be an individual who is over and
above an autonomous being rather than a wife or a mother. Therefore,
within women’s own politics of protest, education assumed the center-
stage for a short while.
That women embraced education even at the cost of displeasing others
in the family was clear from many autobiographies written at the time.
Rashsundari learnt how to read secretly without anyone knowing that she
could do so. Ramabai Ranade learnt how to read even after facing stiff
opposition from older women in her family. In her autobiography, she
wrote that although her husband was in favor of her learning, the other
women within her family hated it. Ramabai wrote of her experiences:
… some woman or the other in the house was bound to be eavesdropping,

standing either on the staircase or at the door. They used to memorize the
tunes and stanzas I had sung at night and mimic my singing the next day. They
used to make faces at me, mock me, and put me to shame in front of the other
women in the house. But I never retaliated…. I knew they had the secret support
of the elders. But neither did I agree with them nor did I argue back. I just
quietly did what I wanted to. (Ranade, 1991: 283–84) (emphasis mine)
Little wonder then, that education became a priority for some of the
first women’s groups that were formed. In 1926, Margaret Cousins
gathered together some eminent Indian women such as Sarojini Naidu,
Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay, Begum Sheba of Bhopal, Rajkumari Amrit
Kaur and Muthulakshmi Reddy to discuss the problems faced by Indian
women at that time. They formed the All India Women’s Conference
(AIWC) in 1927. The AIWC began as an organization for promoting
women’s education as education was considered the most important
means for improving the status of women. The Educational League was
formed in various provinces such as Gujarat, Bengal, Hyderabad and
Indore. In 1928, the All India Fund for Women’s Education (AIFWE)
was set up. In the first meeting of the AIWC, women such as Gool
Bahadur opposed the resolution, “teaching in the ideals of motherhood.”
But the proposed amendment that teaching for men should therefore be
in the ideals of fatherhood got only three votes. What is important is not
that there were only three women who questioned the notion that
women’s education should be geared towards making women better
mothers, but the understanding that even in these early times there were
three women who were thinking of equity. However, there were other
resolutions that worked beyond constructing women’s roles as that of
being only a good wife and a mother. Among such resolutions was the
one demanding compulsory physical training in all girls’ schools. There-
fore, although the over-arching stereotype for educating women was the
“ideals of motherhood,” or “making a beautiful home,” a few women
had already started to subvert that stereotype through education (Basu
and Ray, 1990: 8).
One of the landmarks in the incipient Women’s Movement in India
happened when the AIWC took up questions other than those dealing
only with women’s education. There was a proposal to raise the age of
consent for women to 16 years from where “came the realization that
these questions could not be separated from India’s political subjection.
Thus, the AIWC came to a point where it stressed the political goal of
national self-government as a means to achieve women’s aspirations”
(Menon, 1999: 8). Women participated in the anti-colonial movement
in huge numbers. Although, the story of women’s participation in large
numbers has been repeated innumerable times, only recently have feminist
scholars explored the ambivalence of women’s responses to the move-
ment. Thanks to the writings of feminists such as Madhu Kishwar, we
know that although nationalist leaders such as Gandhi encouraged
women’s participation in the movement in large numbers they did almost
nothing to help women liberate themselves from the patriarchal strangle-
hold or question their position within their communities. That women
enjoyed some autonomy of action was made clear in a number of ways
and not least by members of the AIWC who negotiated with the state to
come up with a new curriculum for women at the time of the Quit India
Movement when the rest of the Congress leaders urged them repeatedly
to boycott the government.
In the official realm too, any changes favoring women’s position in
society were few and far between and there was no question as to whether
women could be treated as individuals and not as members of a particular
community. Legislative Assembly Debates during the first half of the 20th
century also concerned themselves with discussions over the position of
women. Both during the 1920s and 1930s there were heated discussions
over the situation of Hindu women in the assembly debates. In 1939,
two crucial bills in this regard were introduced. One of these was the
“Hindu Women’s Right to Divorce Bill” and the other was the resolution
54 / PAULA BANERJEE
to set up a committee to investigate the position of women under existing

laws. Discussions over both these resolutions portrayed how questions
of women’s autonomy were addressed. G.V. Deshmukh, who introduced
both resolutions, was often at pains to explain that he had consulted
orthodox religious opinion. No one challenged the concept that for any
legislation on women’s position in society, orthodox religious opinion
needed to be not just consulted but addressed as well. There were others
belonging to the orthodox opinion such as M. Ananthasayanam Ayyangar,
who were totally against encouraging any changes in the lives of women.
He opposed wives receiving maintenance in case of divorce because that
meant they would be provided for, even when they lived away from their
husbands. In fact, he even said, that if they lived away from their husbands
even when their husbands meted out “ill-treatment” he saw no reason for
women being allowed to claim maintenance. He loudly complained that:
So far as the wife is concerned, when does her right of maintenance accrue?
It is only when she wants to live away from her husband that the question of
maintenance comes in. Is there any Member of this House including the Leader
of the House who is unconditionally prepared to allow any woman to live
separately from her husband even though there may have been ill-treatment?….
Therefore, all this is moonshine and let no ladies be tempted by it. (Ayyangar,
1939: 3674)
There were some members even in the Congress Party, such as Bhulabhai
Desai, who showed concern that if the position of women changed to
any great extent it will result in chaos as among the Parsi community.
He said that “recently, my friends, the Parsis, have gone just as far as they
could and some 300 odd Parsi ladies who were waiting for it, got them-
selves divorced as soon as the Bill was passed” (Desai, 1939: 3662). There-
fore, most of the members were against any large-scale changes that might
have substantive effects in the lives of women as individuals. Herein was
the crux of the problem. Women were to be treated as part of their families
or communities but not as individuals.
Late-Colonial Developments in the

Women’s Movement
In another quarter of a century, however, there were new and unpreced-

ented developments. But that was largely outside the purview of middle
and upper class/caste women who were agitating for educational reforms
or lobbying for legislative reforms. Women’s activism was now noticeable
among the working class during their strikes in 1928 and 1929. In an
article, Tanika Sarkar describes these actions as sporadic and violent
(Sarkar, 1989: 231–40). For example, during the scavengers’ strike in
Calcutta, it was the women who were most violent in their protests
confronting the police, and attacking them with buckets of excretion.
Their strategies were so novel and actions so violent that for a while the
administration was at a loss as to how to confront them. Even in jute
mill strikes of the period women’s activism was noticeable. Sarkar attri-
butes it to the presence of a large number of migrant women within the
working class population. However, the fledgling Women’s Movement
of the time did little to encourage any dialogue between the working
class and the middle class women.
Even in the rural areas, women were particularly visible in the Tebhaga
and the Telengana movements. Although both these movements were
Left-leaning and women leaders from the Left were in the leadership
roles, the urban middle class Women’s Movement could not establish
strong linkages with these movements. These were not feminist move-
ments insofar as there were no conscious attempts to provide an alter-
native gendered framework. However, women either within or outside
these movements did not even imagine claiming their individual land
rights. They participated because, as Kavita Panjabi comments, they were
claiming their “bhalobashar jami.”3 However, alternative gendered frame-
works were established nevertheless as a result of these movements. In
Tebhaga for example, “urban middle class women within MARS (Mahila
Atmaraksha Samity) and the Communist Party united with village women
as activists in an anti-imperialist and class struggle,” thereby challenging
the patriarchal paradigm of the bhadramahila (ibid.). Also, women did not
participate as appendages of men but as individual activists thereby
portraying the limitations in the Gandhian construction of sahadhormini
(helpmate) (ibid.). In the late 1940s, however, both these movements had
run their course and the emerging Indian state was as patriarchally
unsympathetic to these movements as the colonial state.
Meanwhile, debates on Indian women’s status were taking place in
another site. At the Constituent Assembly Debates, they appeared in un-
precedented forms during the debate on Article 31 on the question of
people’s right to livelihood. Article 31, clause (I), as proposed read “the
citizens, men and women equally (should), have an adequate means of
livelihood.” The first amendment that was suggested was that “men and
56 / PAULA BANERJEE
women equally are unnecessary and redundant.” When the member pro-
posing this amendment was questioned as to why he thought the clause
was unnecessary, he replied “the masculine, as it is well known, embraces
the feminine.” He went on to explain that “if we are to make it clear that
any law shall apply to men and women equally and if we are forced to
declare it everywhere, then this expression has got to be used unnecessarily
in many places” (Ahmad, 1948). Such a disregard about issues crucial for
women often cut across religious and ethnic lines. During the debate on
the Uniform Civil Code, it was decided to be placed in the list of Directive
Principles making sure that it would probably never see the light of the
day even though Rajkumari Amrit Kaur and Hansa Mehta opposed it.
According to Aparna Mahanta, the “failure of the Indian state to provide
a uniform civil code, consistent with its democratic secular and socialist
declarations, further illustrates the modern state’s accommodation of
the traditional interests of a patriarchal society” (Mahanta, 1994: 95).
The Indian state’s attitude to women was further revealed over the
question of abducted women. The partition of the Indian subcontinent
in 1947 witnessed probably the largest refugee movement in modern
history4 accompanied by horrific violence. Some 50,000 Muslim women
in India and 33,000 non-Muslim women in Pakistan were abducted,
abandoned, or separated from their families.5
The two states of India and Pakistan embarked on a massive Central
Recovery Project during which some 30,000 women were recovered by
their respective states. Even when the two countries decided on little else,
they decided that the abducted women must be restored to their families.
Problems arose over the process and progress of recovery. An Abducted
Persons (Recovery and Restoration) Bill was brought in the Indian Par-
liament. Boys below the age of 16 and women of all ages were brought
under this Bill that gave unlimited power to police officers regarding
abducted persons. If police officers detained women under this Bill they
could not be challenged by any court of law. The women thus lost agency
over their own persons as their speech was silenced. Although numerous
amendments were proposed in the House, the Bill passed unchanged on
19 December 1949 (Banerjee, 1998: 8–9). According to Rameshwari
Nehru, adviser to Government of India, Ministry of Rehabilitation, many
abducted women showed extreme unwillingness to leave their “captors”
(Rameshwari Nehru Papers). Ritu Menon and Kamla Bhasin observe that
women were “abducted as Hindus, converted and married as Muslims,
recovered as Hindus but required to relinquish their children because
they were born of Muslim fathers, and disowned as ‘impure’ and ineligible
for marriage within their erstwhile family and community, their identities
were in a continuous state of construction and reconstruction, making
of them ... ‘permanent refugees’” (Menon and Bhasin, 1993: 13).
Menon and Bhasin explain these forced repatriations as national honor
being bound to women’s bodies (ibid.). According to Jan Jindy Pettman,
repatriation was made a nationalist project because women’s bodies be-
came markers of male honor and thus a “part of other people’s agendas”
(Pettman, 1996: 194). India made claims of moral superiority over Pakistan
or the Other and vindicated that by the state’s ability to protect/control
female bodies. This control was essential for the self-definition of the
male identity that was in a state of crisis.
Abducted women were not considered legal entities with political and
constitutional rights. All choices were denied to them and while the state
patronized them verbally by portraying their “need” for protection it also
infantilized them by giving decision-making power to their guardians
who were defined in the Act by the male pronoun “he.” The state mar-
ginalized them from the decision-making process and made them non
participants. Since it was their sexuality that threatened their security
and the honor of the nation, their vulnerability was focused on their
bodies. By denying agency to the abducted women, the state made it
conceivable to deny agency to all women under the guise of protecting
them. This Act, therefore, frontally challenged notions of women’s auton-
omy. In fact their own families often refused to accept forcibly repatriated
women, but they still had to be brought back. Because, what needed to
be stressed was, that women belonged to their families, the kin, and the
nation and never to their own persons. In the context of increasing
women’s militancy and activism in Tebhaga, Telengana, and their further
assertions of personhood in the Constituent Assembly Debates, this Act
was necessary to symbolize their subjection and challenge their growing
expectations of autonomy.
Women’s Movement in Post-Colonial India
The Abducted Persons Act remained in operation until 1956. The

militancy that was visible in the working Women’s Movement and the
Tebhaga and Telengana movements remained a thing of the past and
the legal correctives6 reiterated women’s social positioning as wives and
mothers. The Hindu Law Code contained the Hindu Succession Act that
58 / PAULA BANERJEE
came into force in 1954–56. But immediately motions were on to curtail

women’s right to inherit agricultural land. Many women leaders met the
Chief Minister of Punjab to press their views against such a measure.
Though the Hindu Marriage Act, 1955, gave women and men equal right
to divorce on such grounds as adultery, the implementation of the Act
remained skewed. What is more, the Act applied only to Hindu women.
Women from other communities remained under their own personal laws.
For example, Muslim women continued to be guided by Shariat laws
that decreed that women might not inherit agricultural land. The legal
correctives failed to control rampant social discrimination. For example,
under the Special Marriage Act, 1956, both the husband and the wife were
given equal rights to divorce on the ground of cruelty, but in its implement-
ation, the courts did nothing to revise the patriarchal paradigm of a “good
wife.” According to one observer:
The recognition of cruelty as a ground for divorce was significant as it expanded

the grounds on which women and men could exit from a difficult marriage.
However, the courts have interpreted this ground against the norm of familial
ideology. When applied to women, this amounts to a moral evaluation of her
conduct, and whether it conforms to the norm of a good mother and wife. A
wife who fails to perform her marital obligations, which are primarily concerned
with caring for and obliging her husband, is vulnerable to a charge of cruelty.
(Kapur and Cossman, 1996: 110–11)
Women also could not effectively challenge the paradigm created by

the state of a good woman until a much later time. That The Hindu Law
Code did not in any way challenge that paradigm is evident from the
New Educational Policy set up by the Government of India under a
National Committee on Women’s Education in 1959 which argued that
the courses likely to interest women were home science, music, drawing,
painting, and nursing.
The new laws thus practically changed nothing in women’s situation
in society. The only way out was to rescue women’s rights from being
placed in opposition to group rights but as yet women’s groups had not
developed strategies whereby women’s rights could be negotiated not in
opposition, but in tandem with other rights such as minority rights or
ethnic rights.
The Citizenship Act of 1955 reiterated the male-centrism of the project
of state-formation in India. Dealing with modes of acquiring, renouncing,
termination, and deprivation of citizenship, the Act did not produce the
category of universal citizen that it was supposed to. The section on

citizenship by registration stated that “women who are, or have been,
married to citizens of India” were to be given citizenship if they applied
for it. No such stipulations were made for men marrying women who
were Indian citizens. In the section on the termination of citizenship it
was stated that where a male person “ceases to be a citizen of India under
sub-section (1), every minor child of that person shall thereupon cease
to be a citizen of India” (Consul, 1962: 179–85). Citizenship was acquired
and transferred through the male line giving women a second class
citizenship. Although in later acts women could transfer citizenship rights
to their spouses and to their children, it did not alter the maleness of the
Indian state, as conceived in the formative years. This Act too, entrenched
women’s location within essentially patriarchal sites such as the family
or the community. The one thing that the state consistently refused to
consider was a Uniform Civil Code that could have challenged women’s
location within a kin and a community.
Demands for women’s autonomy were successfully contained by the
state until the 1970s when these demands resurfaced. The context was
both internal and international. The United Nations declared 1975–85
as the decade for women and Indian women activists used the occasion
to explore the actual situation of women in India that revealed that despite
legal victories over the years, political, economic, and social disparities
between men and women continued. There was extensive evidence of
increasing violence against women despite such measures as the amended
Factory and Mines Act of 1953, the Dowry Prohibition Act, 1961, and
its amendment in 1964. These gaps between women’s formal legal rights
and their substantive inequality in practice could no longer remain un-
noticed. The Towards Equality Report of 1975, brought women’s margin-
alization in society to popular perception.
That women were slowly becoming aware of their lack of control over
resources and their distance from the trade union movements largely led
by men is clear by some of the initiatives that they undertook in the
1970s of which the Self-Employed Women’s Association (SEWA) is but
one. SEWA, a women’s trade union movement, started in 1972 with the
objective of making it possible for poor women to have access to and
ownership of economic resources. Their intention was “overcoming ex-
ploitation by men, society and state policies” (Bhatt, 1999: 34). As a result
of these developments, the Equal Remuneration Act, 1976, was passed.
But even these legislations succeeded only upto a point. Newer initiatives
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were necessary both in the field of legislation and in other forms of politics
for more substantive changes in women’s social and political lives. That
legislation might also be a double-edged sword was further proved by
the events following the Shah Bano case.
Shah Bano, a Muslim woman of 73 years, was divorced by her husband
after 40 years of their marriage. She brought a petition for maintenance
from her husband under Section 125 of the Criminal Procedure Code of
1973. In April 1985, the Supreme Court held that she was entitled to
maintenance of Rs 179.20 per month. This judgment created a furor in
the country. For Shah Bano, victory came after 10 long years of struggle.
She was not the first Muslim woman to apply for and be granted main-
tenance under the 1973 Criminal Code. But the repercussions of this
judgment surpassed any other, perhaps because the Supreme Court called
for the enactment of a Uniform Civil Code. When some by-elections
took place in December 1985, a sizeable Muslim vote that traditionally
voted in favor of Congress-I, turned against it. From Kishengunj con-
stituency, the opposition Muslim candidate Syed Shahbuddin came to
power. Soon, an independent Muslim Member of the Parliament
introduced a bill to “save Muslim personal law.”7 The Congress-I, the
ruling party, issued a whip to ensure the passage of the Bill. The Women’s
Movement, some Muslim organizations, and even the Hindu Right
vigorously campaigned against the Bill. “The government, initially
supportive of the Supreme Court decision, reversed its position, and
supported the enactment of the Muslim Women’s (Protection of Rights
on Divorce) Act in May 1986, which provided that Section 125 of the
Criminal Procedure Code did not apply to divorced Muslim women”
(Kapur and Cossman, 1996: 63).
The Shah Bano case strongly brought forth the question of the sanctity
of personal law. At the initial stage of the debate, a Member of Parliament
argued that since this issue pertains to Muslim religion “only a Muslim
judge should decide such cases because in such cases only a Muslim got
the right to do iztihad, i.e. right to give opinion where there is a conflict
between the order of the law and that of the Prophet” (Owaisi, 1985: 399).
Such claims asserted that the right of the cultural community was greater
than that of the political community. Meanwhile in a dramatic turn around,
even Shah Bano dissociated herself from this judgment. She said “I, Shah
Bano, being a Muslim reject it (the SC judgment) and dissociate myself
from every judgment which is contrary to the Islamic Shariat” (Shah
Bano in Jayal, 1999: 120). Her rejection of the Supreme Court judgment
symbolized women’s capitulation to the cultural community when
arrayed against patriarchal forces that work across cultural and political
communities. In a recent interview, Sona Khan, who acted as Shah Bano’s
lawyer commented that “one cannot make a Shah Bano of a rich woman.
It is only the poor and uneducated who get taken in by what religious
fundamentalists say. Also, it is not fair to criticize the discriminatory
personal laws of one community while discriminatory laws of other com-
munities are not paid attention to.”8 Women’s apprehensions that the
new law was retrogressive proved correct the next year. In March 1987,
the Minister for Social Welfare, Rajendra Kumari Bajpai, reported that
not a single woman in India was granted maintenance by the Wakf Board
in 1986 (Jayal, 1999: 135).
But the controversy helped women to organize themselves into a
movement as never before. The motion that was started by the Towards
Equality Report gathered momentum because of the Shah Bano case.
This can be gleaned from the debates led by women Members of Parlia-
ment exactly at the time when the Shah Bano case was on. It started
with the Lok Sabha Debates on “Progress of Indian Women in Social,
Educational, Political and Economic Fields in the International Women’s
Decade” which made an occasion for the women members to place the
situation of women in India before the apex law making body of the
state. It was revealed that the number of illiterate women in India had
increased from 215.3 million in 1971 to 241.6 million in 1981 (Mukherjee,
1985: 288). The number of women cultivators was on the decline and
women agricultural laborers on the increase proving that land was pro-
gressively being taken away from the hands of women. In India, “more
boys are born than girls but more girls die than boys and the expectation
of life is lower for girls. The death rates of females particularly in the age
group of 0 to 4 is much higher” (Patnaik, 1985: 307). More girls suffer
from malnutrition than boys. Members also pointed out that the “number
of women workers is decreasing every year,” even in traditionally women-
dominated industries such as cashew, tobacco, bidi, matches, and tea
(Mollah, 1985: 312). In jute and textile industries, 30–60 per cent women
workers were displaced (ibid.). It was said that 43.5 per cent of all
marriages in India were marriages of girl children. Also, members re-
ported the link between “commercialization of agriculture and nutrition
deprivation of females” (Sinha, 1985: 318).
This was perhaps the first time that there was an effort to make a holistic
audit of women’s position in society in the Indian Parliament. Even the
legal status of women came under fire. Women activists felt that within
the Indian context, the “main problem is that there (are) many laws but
62 / PAULA BANERJEE
women are dominated not by secular laws, not by uniform civil laws, but
by religious laws” (Mollah, 1985: 314).
But another insidious trend was noticeable with the Shah Bano case
that entrenched women within their own communities. While the debate
over Muslim personal law was on, there were calls from some women
candidates such as Abida Ahmed who argued that the “Government
should frame a law which should prohibit interference with Personal
Law time and again and may end the disturbed atmosphere that has been
created in various quarters as a result of the Shah Bano case” (Ahmed,
1984: 333). Leaders such as Jaffar Sharief even argued that “today, in
the Shah Bano’s case, I am finding that many people are more sympathetic
towards Muslim women than their own women. This is very strange”
(Sharief, 1985: 7) (emphasis mine). The whole question of women’s rights
was subsumed within the question of group rights defining our women
and their women. The politicization of the question led to a realignment
of politics. The Left and the Hindu Right were aligned together and the
Congress and the Muslim conservatives were on the other side. The new
political realignments reflected that patriarchal forces cut across party
politics where women’s self-definition was consistently marginalized.
Movements for women’s autonomy once again focused on parliamentary
reforms, which due to a number of new legislation had become one of
the most contested sites for the issue of women’s rights.
Demands for reservation of seats for women began in the early 1970s
and culminated in the 1980s. According to one observer, “Ramakrishna
Hegde’s government in Karnataka started the process in 1983 before
Central legislation mandating representation for women was passed. It
provided for 25 per cent reservation for women at village Panchayat levels.
This was before any powerful women’s lobby emerged in Karnataka to
press for this move” (Kishwar, 1999: 135). After the Shah Bano case,
women within political parties seized on the issue of representation as
the only way to change the situation of women. This was followed by the
73rd Amendment in 1992 that reserved 33 per cent seats for women at
the Panchayat level. This led, in September 1996, to the introduction of a
Bill in Parliament that called for the reservation of one-third of the seats
for women in Parliament. Debate over this issue continues till today.
Women’s demand for equitable representation started with the Towards
Equality Report. The Nairobi Declarations in 1985 also called for increased
representation for women. The 73rd Amendment therefore responded
to women’s long-standing demands for representation. Once the 73rd
Amendment was passed, however, the Women’s Movement felt a backlash
because it was argued that only the female relatives of political leaders
could benefit from such reservations. This backlash caused the major-
itarian Women’s Movement, that was substantially weakened by legis-
lative reversals due to the controversy generated by the Uniform Civil
Code, to all but dissipate. But women’s activism did not. The Women’s
Movement found new defenders of women’s rights from a number of
autonomous women’s groups that emerged in the 1980s.
The 1980s witnessed unprecedented women’s activism both along
party and non-party lines. While political parties were concerned about
the issue of representation, other women’s groups emerged to concentrate
on other issues such as violence. These autonomous women’s groups
emerged because most political organizations gave minimal attention to
women’s questions and relegated what they considered women’s issues
to women cadres. Although many of these autonomous women’s groups
largely supported the 73rd Amendment, as it gave space to more women
to come to the political forefront, their own agenda was often different.
They were separate from either the state or political parties and this was
“a statement about their desire to remain independent” (Gandhi and Shah,
1999: 337). It all started with the protest against rape and violence faced
by many Indian women even in the 1980s. The Mathura rape case brought
forward such an alliance in Mumbai. Soon, there were a number of women’s
autonomous groups such as Stri Shakti Sangathan of Hyderabad, Nari
Nirjatan Pratirodh Mancha in Kolkata, Meira Paibies in Manipur, Naga
Mother’s Association (NMA) in Nagaland, etc. that brought to the fore-
front of politics, the pervasive marginalization of women, particularly
tribal and dalit women, in India. Ideologically heterogeneous, these
women’s groups did not have to toe the party line and could have new
kinds of debate. That most of the recent creative political responses have
been undertaken by these groups of women is made clear by their per-
formance in Northeast India, particularly in their fight against laws such
as the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA), as is clearly revealed
by the situation in Nagaland and Manipur.
Tribal and Dalit Women in the Movement
Despite the 73rd Amendment, it became clear in the 1990s, that the
situation of women among the scheduled castes and scheduled tribes
remained extremely precarious. Among the tribal people who were giving
64 / PAULA BANERJEE
up jhum cultivation, the women were the poorest, though there are dif-
fering opinions regarding the relative position of women in tribal India.
Although there are great disparities among women’s status in North-
east India, due to their different historical experiences and hence different
social construction of their roles, recent researches show that since most
of these women practiced jhum or shifting cultivation, they enjoyed a
better position in society. A noted woman scholar of Assam is of the
opinion that, “because of the practice of shifting cultivation, women are
considered as assets to the families and partners of men in jhum culti-
vation” (Debi, 1994: 2). Population movements and pressure on lands
have impacted heavily in areas where people practiced jhum cultivation
before forcing a stop to it. Therefore, the situation of women who were
the majority among the cultivators is becoming worse as is the case of
Naga women or Reang women in Tripura. Both their social and economic
positions are affected by this transition, yet, there are hardly any programs
to retrain them for income generation, leading to the pauperization of
tribal women. The situation of most of these tribal women is further
exacerbated by the political climate that they live in. Often their commu-
nities are living under siege because many of them are embroiled in state
versus community conflicts and are therefore forced to live under the
Armed Forces Special Powers Act of 1958 (AFSPA amended in 1972).
In terms of creative political actions, those undertaken by autonomous
women’s groups against AFSPA have perhaps been most significant. The
best known among these organizations is the Naga Mothers’ Association
(NMA). It came into existence on 14 February 1984, with a preamble that
stated, “Naga mothers of Nagaland shall express the need of conscient-
izing citizens toward more responsible living and human development
through the voluntary organization of the Naga Mothers’ Association”
(Constitution of the Naga Mothers’ Association, 1992). Membership of
NMA is open to any adult Naga woman irrespective of whether she is
married or single.9 Members can join through the women’s organizations
of their own tribes. The organization encourages human development
through education and its efforts are directed towards eradicating social
evils and economic exploitation, and working towards peace and progress.
The NMA has rendered valuable service for the cause of peace. It
mediated between the Government of Nagaland and the Naga Students’
Federation over age limit for jobs and came to an equitable settlement.
An achievement of the NMA is the formation of the Peace Team in
October 1994 to confront the deteriorating political situation. Their theme
was “Shed No More Blood.” The NMA spoke against killings not only
by the army but also by the militants. In a pamphlet released on 25 May

1995, representatives of the NMA wrote that “the way in which our
society is being run whether by the overground government or the
underground government, have become simply intolerable.”
Apart from peace initiatives, the NMA has worked for social regen-
eration. In Nagaland there is rampant abuse of alcohol and drugs. The
NMA collaborates with the Kripa Foundation of Mumbai for rehabilita-
tion of drug-doers. The NMA is probably the first women’s organization
in the Northeast to test pregnant women for HIV virus and provide
pioneering service for the care of patients afflicted with AIDS. An NMA
spokesperson is of the opinion that conflict in Nagaland is a result of
chronic underdevelopment. Therefore, the NMA believes that without
addressing developmental issues there cannot be any peace in Nagaland.10
The NMA’s greatest achievement is that most Naga women’s organ-
izations are its collaborators. The members of the NMA also collaborate
with the Naga Women’s Union of Manipur and work very closely with the
Naga Hohos. That the NMA has an enormous influence in Naga politics
is borne out by the fact that it is the only women’s group in South Asia
which has participated in a cease-fire negotiation. In 1997, they mediated
between the GOI and the NSCN (IM) faction and facilitated a cease-fire.
The other group that has shown tremendous political initiatives is the
Meira Paibies (The Torchbearers) who symbolize women’s activism in
the Manipur Valley. Manipuri women trace their origin from the military
deeds of Linthoingambi of Ningthou Khomba, who was known to have
saved her palace from attacks by the enemy. During the last century,
there were two women-led uprisings against the British in Manipur known
as the Nupi Lal. Today, there is a women’s bazaar in Manipur known as
Nupi Keithel where women meet, sell their wares, and discuss problems
of the day, including politics. This bazaar has served as a launching pad
for collective revolt by women. According to Yumnam Rupachandra of
the North-East Sun, the Meira Paibies have become an institution in their
own right today. They started as nasha bandis or combat groups for the
ever-increasing consumption of alcohol by the men. Slowly they captured
the imagination of the Peoples Liberation Army (PLA). The PLA imposed
a ban on bootlegging and booze in January 1990. Two months later,
succumbing to this pressure, the United Legislative Front government
declared Manipur a dry state. This was a victory for the Meira Paibies.
According to some critics, Meitei militants actively support these women’s
groups. But recent events have proved that Meira Paibies enjoy the support
of most of the civil society in Manipur. In the last two years the Meira
66 / PAULA BANERJEE
Paibies have expanded their area of action through campaigning against

atrocities by the security forces, keeping nightlong watches to foil raids,
and by communicating with security forces to convince them from picking
up innocent bystanders for questioning as a part of counter insurgency
operations. In July 2004, a group of Manipuri women protested in the
nude in front of Assam Rifles Headquarters in Imphal. The event that
triggered this protest was the rape and killing of a 32-year-old Manipuri
woman called Manorama who was in the custody of Assam Rifles. When
Manipuri women protested in the nude, they said, “the silence of the
State authorities and negligence in redressing their woes forced them to
go beyond shame” (The Sentinel, 17 July 2004). Their protest touched
the core of male-centrism of the Indian state structure that has unleashed
unprecedented violence against women. Their activism succeeded in the
formation of Apunba Lup, a coalition of civil society groups in Manipur
against the AFSPA and extracted an assurance from the Prime Minister
that more humane laws will replace the AFSPA.
The actions of the Maira Paibies and the NMA portray that they have
mastered the art of creating a common platform for all civil society groups
thereby producing an alternate vision of peace. The naked protests of the
Maira Paibies show that they are acting not just against the AFSPA but
also against the masculinist militarized machinery. Through such a pro-
cess these women have successfully created their own space in the politics
for peace. The Naga women also did the same through their Shed No
More Blood campaign. These protests show that women’s negotiations
for peace have the potential to change the situation of women and lead
to a democratization of society inasmuch as democracy can be equated
with social justice. Therefore my contention is that these autonomous
women’s groups have not only redefined peace but their own situation is
redefined by the politics of peace through an enlargement of the space
for democratic actions. They have worked against the binary that women’s
rights are always in contention with group rights by establishing, that
increasing the space for women’s action also means an increase in the
democratic space for communities.
The Women’s Movement as it Stands Today
Women’s demands for autonomy have taken different forms from the
colonial period onwards. At times they focused on questions of education
and at other times on legislative reforms. With every achievement it was
revealed that something yet was left to be done. The legal reforms of the
1960s led to the Towards Equality Report that portrayed that if there are
acts there are facts too. Institutionalized marginalization of women came
to the political forefront in the 1970s leading to women’s militant activism
in the 1980s. The 1980s activism focused on questions of Uniform Civil
Code. As it became more and more apparent that Uniform Civil Code
would remain a distant dream, participants in the Women’s Movement
then focused on adequate representation of women in the legislature tak-
ing this to be the only substantial way to empower women. But for this
women needed the support of political parties that were guided by their
own patriarchies. These patriarchies would support the question of
equitable women’s representation only up to a point and would definitely
not support women’s increased representation if it encroached on their
space. No wonder then, that after the 73rd Amendment was passed, there
was an effort by these men to keep the reins of decision-making in their
hands. Hence, the criticism that women let their men rule from behind
in the Panchayats. It was ironical that all those who were criticizing
women for not exerting their autonomy had traditionally challenged the
autonomous persona of women and tried to confine them within their
families, kin, and communities. Even women’s rights activists themselves
fell prey to this doubt and started to think that increased representation
in Panchayats did not resolve the issue of women’s marginalization.
Later evidences from places such as Kultikri in West Bengal and Vitner
in Maharashtra suggested that women’s Panchayats have often led to
success stories. Yet, opposition to reservation for women in the Parlia-
ment continued. Many participants in the Women’s Movement, therefore,
switched their strategy, from bringing in reservation for women in
parliamentary politics to supporting women’s autonomous groups for
furthering the question of women’s autonomy.11 This does not mean that
support for reservation of seats for women was abandoned, but that many
women decided to expand the movement for autonomy by looking at
other avenues.
In the Parliament, women continued to be viewed as being different
from men justifying different treatment, even legally. The last Prime
Minister of India, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, has often made statements with
the implicit assumption that there is natural difference between them.
His statement that “women who want to become men and want to make
other women men are worthy of ridicule,” is particularly revealing (quoted
in Kapur and Cossman, 1996: 246). The debates in Parliament over the
85th Amendment Bill showed that in institutional politics women could
68 / PAULA BANERJEE
not remove themselves from being considered merely as members of

their communities or families. Women leaders appealed to the Parlia-
ment to pass the 85th Amendment Bill on the grounds that it would lead
to political peace in the family, community, and country. Girija Vyas,
while arguing for the Bill stated that “woman is also mother and her
home is temple, mosque, gurduwara and church for her and she prays
for welfare and well being of entire family. She would never wish that her
children, in to husband or brother should die.” Hence, giving in to women’s
demands for 33 per cent would lead to peace and so it should be supported
and passed (Vyas, 2000: 709). Thus, even in women’s self-assertions in
the Parliament, a woman remains an integral part of her community. As
for those who opposed the Bill in its present format, did so again, by
situating women within their communities be it that of caste, class, or
religion. One such person has argued, “today women too are known by
their castes as who is a Brahman, who is a dalit and who belongs to the
backward class. Therefore, in view of this fact if we are really concerned
about the upliftment of women then there should be reservation for
women of every class for strengthening their position” (Choudhury,
2000: 712). Neither could they oppose the primacy of personal law in
guiding women’s lives. Parliamentary debates portray that even recently
while introducing amendments to marriage and divorce acts, all efforts
were made to follow the guidance of personal law. Arun Jaitley, the
Minister of Law, highlighted the importance of personal laws by stating
that although it was decided that the maximum amount of maintenance
“that could be given to a wife would be capped to one-fifth of the husband’s
income, this is not the position with regard to the other personal laws
and, therefore, there was a demand that this one-fifth cap should be
removed. This has also been sought to be removed” (Jaitley, 2001: 392).
In areas where there are no personal laws there are customary laws.
For example, the Autonomous District Councils that came into being
under the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution have made no special
provisions for women who are often living under repressive customary
laws.12 These are the laws that guide women’s participation in institutional
politics. Therefore, when women’s participation in institutional politics
seemed to have reached a dead end, autonomous women’s groups took
up the issue of women’s autonomy.
Agitation for representation, therefore, created closures in the Women’s
Movement for autonomy. Autonomous women’s groups in some parts
of Northeast India seem to be showing the way out of such closures. They
have created an alternative to representational politics by challenging
the notion that women’s autonomy can only be achieved in contradiction
to group autonomy. They have proved that women’s activism against
violence creates more space for other civil society groups and for democ-
racy. This does not mean that their politics is in opposition to parliament-
ary politics and against questions of representation, only that their agenda
is different. They feel that for any substantial changes in women’s lives,
women need to embark on a politics for justice rather than parliamentary
politics of representation. By focusing on justice they have expanded
both the scope of civil society movements and Women’s Movements.
This is not to say that by focusing on violence and justice, Women’s
Movements for autonomy could address all challenges. According to
Gabriele Dietrich, such a focus did not help the Women’s Movement to
build bridges with caste based movements. She is of the opinion that
in the Women’s Movement there is a tendency to “play down the caste
factor” (Dietrich, 2003: 57). There might be many other lacunae but one
thing can be said with certainty, that is, the autonomous Women’s
Movements could make spaces for raising questions of women’s auton-
omy within different kinds of politics of which the politics of peace is
one. True that these collectives did not question women’s group identities
but they rather fought against closures that were created by putting
women’s rights in opposition to group rights. These groups also expanded
the scope of Women’s Movements from their limited focus on questions
of representation. However, the effects of such initiatives are still emerging
and it is early to figure out the full impact of such movements. It would
suffice to say for now, that autonomous women’s groups were able to
raise debates on women’s autonomy from paying attention to only issues
of women’s representation in parliamentary politics to a larger focus on
women’s interventions in the politics for justice. In this manner women’s
autonomous groups created greater space for women’s voices in political
decision-making and greater scope for women’s participation and activism
in different modes of politics; thereby these groups both problematized
and diversified questions of autonomy. They also made space for women’s
participation in different kinds of politics, thereby diversifying movements
for women’s autonomy and raising them from questions of rights and
representation to those of justice.
70 / PAULA BANERJEE
Notes
1. Although the Bill was introduced because of pressures from women’s groups,
yet, it treated men and women differently as women could obtain divorce only
on grounds of aggravated adultery and men needed to prove only simple adultery.
2. See Sarkar (2001: 85–124).
3. Literally translated as “terrain of love” in Kavita Panjabi, “Before Nation, After
Partition,” presented in the Seminar entitled The Line Between: The Experience of
Partitions and Borders, Seagull Arts and Media Resource Centre, Calcutta, 10 April
2004.
4. About eight million Hindus and Sikhs left Pakistan to resettle in India while
about six-seven million Muslims went to Pakistan.
5. For a scholarly account of gender in the politics of partition refer to Menon and
Bhasin (1998) and Butalia (1998).
6. These legal correctives or measures did not go beyond what one analyst calls the
“typecasting women as wombs to bring forth babies, lips to utter sweet nothings,
and laps to cuddle infants.”
7. This phrase was used by a number of scholars writing on the Shah Bano case
including Zakia Pathak and Rajeswari Sunder Rajan, “Shahbano.” See Butler
and Scott (1992: 257).
8. Interview of Sona Khan with Deepti Mahajan, 6 July 2004, New Delhi.
9. Statement made by Neidonuo Angami, President NMA, in Second Civil Society
Dialogue on Peace, organized by Calcutta Research Group, Shantiniketan, 14
July 2002.
10. Interview with Ms Kheseli, Secretary NMA, 27 January 1999 and 10 October
1999, Kohima and Calcutta.
11. For an analysis of women’s representation in Panchayats, see Mohanty (1999:
19–33).
12. At present, an initiative is on to codify these laws. That customary laws are dis-
criminatory becomes clear when one sees how it deals with the issue of rape.
Perpetrators of rape often get away by paying a minimal fine of about Rs 500
after raping women.
3
WHERE DO THE AUTONOMOUS

INSTITUTIONS COME FROM?
Samir Kumar Das
Introduction
P eace accords1 may be defined as those that are signed between the
state and its adversaries involved in some form of discord in an
attempt to bring about “peace” between them. A few qualifications, how-
ever, should be kept in mind while thinking about accords: (a) Accords
are necessarily preceded by discords, but at a point where the discordant
parties feel it expedient, for whatever reasons, to sign an accord. Charles
Tilly (Tilly, 2003: 194–220) warns us against the commonplace tendency
of viewing accords as the logical culmination of any linear progression
and intensification of discords to make a distinction between violence
that culminate in accords and those that do not. (b) Accords are meant
for bringing about peace between otherwise discordant parties. Whether
peace achieved or sought to be achieved through accords is “war continued
through other means” or not, is an altogether different story. (c) While
accords specify the mutual obligations of the parties, they are also ex-
pected to provide some form of autonomy that the state evidently pro-
mises to grant to accommodate its adversaries into its legal and political
framework. Autonomy provided through accords is first and foremost
72 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS
an acknowledgment that those who have now been provided with it were
hitherto denied it.
Keeping these qualifications in mind, this review will be constrained
by the following conditions: First, it will restrict itself only to those accords
in which the state (whether the Government of India, or the respective
state governments, or both) is one of the signatories. It does not bring
under its purview, those accords that are signed between say, rival com-
munity leaders (like, the Nagas and the Kukis in the hills of Manipur) in
their bid to bring the internecine warfare to an end. For the purpose of
this chapter, we propose to locate autonomy as a space that is sought to
be created within the realm of the state’s institutions and practices. This
is not to say that autonomous spaces are not created outside the state’s
realm or for that matter, the spaces thus created necessarily attract oppos-
ition from the state. I have shown elsewhere how the Jatiya Unnayan
Parishad or “National Development Council,” acting reportedly in close
collusion with the United Liberation Front of Asom (ULFA), provided
leadership to village development works particularly in the late 1980s by
way of mobilizing the rural masses, that forced the wealthy local contrac-
tors, traders, and middlemen, hitherto prospering on commissions and
kickbacks from public sector expenditures, to pay for them independently
of, but not necessarily in opposition to, the state agencies. There is no
reason to believe that the government agencies did not know of their
works and activities. But there is hardly any case of the government agen-
cies ever deciding to crack down on them (Das, 1994: 83–84).
Second, since we are more concerned with the constitutional and legal
provisions of autonomy, we take only the intra-state peace accords, signed
between the state on the one hand and its adversaries on the other, into
account. For our convenience, we define the Indian state in the broadest
possible sense to include all of its agencies or any combination of them
having the authority of signing and executing the accords and/or carrying
out the responsibility of monitoring and implementing them, at times
jointly with others. There is always some difficulty involved though in
stretching the distinction between intra- and inter-state accords beyond
a certain point. Inter-state accords have their implications for intra-state
accords and vice versa. The Indira–Mujib agreement, reportedly reached
between the two Prime Ministers of India and Bangladesh in 1972, was
always cited as the reason why the Indian state could not accede to the
demands of the student leaders during the Assam movement (1979–85).2
The center seemed averse to the students’ demands for detection, dis-
enfranchisement, and deportation of the “foreigners” who had migrated
Where Do the Autonomous Institutions Come From? / 73
mainly from erstwhile East Pakistan during 1947–71 and settled in dif-
ferent parts of Assam, supposedly on the ground that Mrs Gandhi had
promised to accept their responsibility on India’s behalf. A comparison
between the intra- and inter-state peace accords, though enormously
insightful, would definitely be beyond the scope of this study.
Third, the chapter restricts itself mainly to an analysis of the institutions
and practices of autonomy as enshrined in the accords. It is interesting
to see how varieties of institutions and practices are offered by the accords
and how they also read back into the accords signed between otherwise
contending parties (Das, 2001a). Viewed in this light, it will be difficult,
if not impossible, to make any rigid distinction between the provisions
offered by the accords and their implementation. Accords fail not because
there are failures in implementing them, but because such failures in im-
plementation are built in them. Texts of accords are therefore to be seen
as relatively vast and open sites where varieties of institutions and prac-
tices enact and play themselves out.
Autonomy as Difference
The relation of accords to autonomy has received some, though very

sketchy, attention. On the one hand, accords are viewed as the means of
“normalizing” the adversaries into a nation of fully autonomous and
rights-bearing citizens. These are primarily instrumentalities through
which the state builds its nation, brings in ever-newer ethnicities and
bodies of people, hitherto lying outside, into the orbit of nationhood by
way of entitling them to the constitutional and legal provisions of au-
tonomy. Accords, from this point of view, prepare the adversaries for en-
titlement (Dasgupta, 1995). From another point of view, accords are seen
as “strategically deployed” means alongside force and coercion by the
state in order to establish and perpetrate its “domination” over the adver-
saries. “Strategic deployment,” therefore, involves an intelligent mix of
force and coercion on the one hand, and negotiation, consensus building,
and accords on the other. But essentially, both are geared to the same
objective of keeping the instability inherent in any asymmetrical and
iniquitous social formation within limits and thereby helping in repro-
ducing the status quo (Singh, 1999). Thus, a distinction is made between
peace, established through accords by disarming the adversaries, and
autonomy promised but not (meant to be) implemented through accords.
Peace accords, hence, are more peace accords than autonomy accords.
The point is often stretched a step further to argue that what we call
“autonomy” takes place essentially within a “modular form” in which the
main policy demands and the aspirations for rights of the ethnic com-
munities not only remain unaddressed but are transformed into issues
of “managing conflicts and monitoring peace” and of governmentality
(Samaddar, 2004: 159–96). The promise of autonomy is made to accom-
plish the cessation of hostilities and disarming the militants. Once status
quo ante is re-established and peace is restored, the promise is conven-
iently forgotten and the accords are allowed to gather dust. Accords there-
fore play a role in relegating autonomy into governmental technology.
Indeed, there is ample evidence in support of such a conclusion. Accords
are believed to have failed because of their singular failure in addressing
the issue of autonomy independently of their utility as a technology. To
cite an example, an investigating team, representing as many as eight
Human Rights organizations spread over six states of India, visited
Jammu and Kashmir in 1995 and its conversations with various cross-
sections of people living in the valley as well as in Rajouri and Poonch
of Jammu led it to conclude that “the people there have held the Govern-
ment of India responsible for having trampled the demand for autonomy
within the Indian state” (APDR, 1995: 12).
Autonomy viewed in these studies oscillates between the twin extremes
of existing constitutional and legal provisions and their hitherto unimple-
mented or often unimplementable promises. By confining the autonomy
project to the existing structure of constitutional and legal provisions,
these studies have not been able to break new grounds in our understand-
ing of autonomy and its complex and uneasy relationship with the already
existing constitutional and legal provisions. Thus, the argument that the
Constitution is a superordinate body of laws, absolutely untrammeled
by and impervious to the demands of autonomy (Omar, 2004) may have
its juridical value; but fails in reading it as a political document. Such a
view obviously goes against the body of work that sensitizes us to the
continuous process of constitutional engineering initiated by the Indian
state while addressing and responding to the changing political realities
in different parts of the country. According to Ghosh, “... the process of
Constitutional engineering was a necessary requirement for managing
the heterogeneity of India” (Ghosh, 1998: 60).
I want to argue that the Constitution is neither an absolutely inflexible
legal document nor a constantly changing political document that can
be and is subjected to any and every conceivable form of experimentation
and engineering. While there is always the imperative of changing the

Constitution in keeping with changing and hitherto unforeseen political
realities—a process better known as constitutional engineering—it cannot
be, and does not have to be, so flexible as to extend its seal of approval to
all the changing political realities around the country. The relation of
accords to the country’s constitution in that sense is always complex and
tenuous and the state can acknowledge it only at its own peril. Not all that
the state does in order to facilitate the peace process enjoys constitution-
ality in the strict sense of the term. Peace is what pushes the state to
bend but not necessarily to break its norms in ways not acknowledged
publicly by it (Das, 2003: 10–28). We will have occasions to reflect on this
relationship in the concluding section of this chapter. Governmentality
is the story of how norms are bent and inflected in order to create and
provide for spaces of autonomy, albeit selectively, within the body politic
as a means of “managing conflicts and monitoring peace.” It is not pre-
dicated on an inevitable denial of autonomy. At any given point of time,
it operates through a veritable combination of autonomy and a denial of
it. Governmentality, therefore, is not merely a technology; it also has
implications for the substantive question of continuously renegotiating
the norms and principles embodied in the constitution and the system of
laws while responding to ever-newer and of course ever-widening de-
mands for autonomy, though there is no denying that such renegotiations
are only secondary to governmentality.
In short, the existing studies shed more light on the nature of the state
and how it governs and less on the quality of autonomy guaranteed or
sought to be guaranteed by the state. The state as we know it is not a
given datum. It grows and develops through the government of autonomy
(among other things). These tensions within the state on the question of
autonomy are reflected in the very texts of the accords as well as the con-
stitutional and legal provisions that the state promises to be guided by.
The signing of accords is necessitated by the accommodation, albeit with
varying degrees of success, of these tensions, which we describe as differ-
ence. Accords are attempts to institutionalize the difference.
An appreciation of the difference between what we call the “original”
contract and its subsequent renegotiation brings certain aspects of an
accord to light. First, the “original” contract is seldom executed in an
explicit and overt manner. The entitlement of the contracting parties to
execute a contract on their behalf at the time of the making of the Consti-
tution was taken to be too obvious to require any ratification by way of
actually signing an accord. Thus, when the Sikh leaders demanded some
form of “reservation” in order to outweigh their minority status, they were

reportedly told by the Advisory Committee of the Constituent Assembly
that there was hardly any room for it in a federal polity with a parliament-
ary democracy based on adult suffrage and Fundamental Rights guar-
anteed in its Constitution, and the Sikhs “in any case being a highly
educated and virile community” needed no weightage (quoted in Grewal,
1994: 183). In other words, the argument is that since “a highly educated
and virile community” like the Sikhs is already a part of the polity, its
demand for any right to dictate the terms of incorporation sounds
redundant. The Sikh members of the Constituent Assembly as a result
refused to sign the draft Constitution to be adopted by the “people of
India” on 26 January 1950. Parties that sign the “original” contract are
taken to be so natural to it that they do not have in fact to sign it in order
to prove their incorporation. A nation gets formed around this core that
consists of the natural parties to the “original” contract.
India’s position with respect to Kashmir’s accession may serve as a
case by contrast. Indian leaders, particularly Nehru, were committed more
to the democratization of Kashmir than its accession to India. For him,
release of political detinues including Sheikh Abdullah was a precondition
for holding free and fair elections in Kashmir.3 In Jha’s words: “Nehru
felt reasonably confident that an election would bring the Sheikh to power
and that, given his opposition to the creation of Pakistan, his strongly
professed secularism, and his personal friendship with Nehru, Abdullah
would prefer to join India rather than Pakistan, but was fully prepared to
accept his decision if it went the other way” (Jha, 2003: 39). Sheikh
Abdullah vindicated Nehru’s “confidence” when he observed in his
inaugural address to the Jammu and Kashmir Constituent Assembly on
5 November 1951:
The real character of a State is revealed in its Constitution. The Indian Consti-
tution has set before the country the goal of secular democracy based upon
justice, freedom and equality for all without distinction. This is the bedrock of
modern democracy. This should meet the argument that the Muslims of
Kashmir cannot have security in India, where the large majority of the popu-
lation are Hindus. (reproduced in Kaul, 1999: 282)
But, in the same address, he also expressed his apprehension that there
were certain tendencies nevertheless active in India, that sought to “con-
vert her into a religious State” and in that case, the “interests of Muslims
will be jeopardized.” Notwithstanding these apprehensions, India’s self-
definition as a democratic country was expected to be the natural choice
of the Kashmiris once democratic institutions were established in that

state. Nehru, in other words, seemed to have felt that the actual process
of signing on the dotted lines of the Instrument of Accession (that subse-
quently became the bone of contention between the two countries) would
lose its significance once democratic institutions had made their entry
into Kashmir, and Kashmiris were allowed to make their choice through
a free and fair election, and that democratic reforms would make Kashmir
a natural part of India. Our nationalist leaders did not hold Kashmir in
the days of the Maharaja as “democratic.” Kashmir per se, therefore,
was not eligible for being a part of India; she was to be rendered eligible
through democratic reforms.
Second, the “original” contract is signed, albeit implicitly, between
parties which do not raise their demands in explicitly ethnic and most
importantly, ethnically exclusivist terms. Indeed, the responses of the
jurists and constitutional commentators are informed by an extreme fear
of ethnically exclusivist demands. Durga Das Basu, a pioneering com-
mentator on the Indian Constitution widely known for his liberal views
observes:
All this (the Khalistan movement) is anti-federal and looks like a prelude to the
setting up of an independent Khalistan, for, had it been a mere agitation for
wresting greater autonomy for the Punjabi-speaking State of Punjab, the Akali
leaders should have sought to carry Punjabi-speaking Hindus with them.…
The only conclusion that can be drawn is that it is not a political agitation, but
a religious crusade (dharma yudh) to carve out a semi-independent State for
the Sikhs which might lead eventually (at some opportune moment) to a fully
independent State of Khalistan. (Basu, 1985: 13)
It was thus imperative that the demand for autonomy be couched in

broad and general terms and in a language that keeps communication
with the potential minorities within the proposed territorial unit al-
ways open. This is evident in the Report of the States’ Reorganization
Commission.
Third, parties to the “original” contract have a genealogy that they seem
to share with the Indian nation. Thus, their genealogies get enmeshed in
that of the nation and vice versa. Notwithstanding their demands for
autonomy, they would never trace their existence to a history independent
of that of India or that of the Indic civilization at large. But, wherever an
ethnic community has sought to put forth a distinct genealogy, the state
felt the necessity of formalizing its incorporation through the signature
of accords. The Mizo National Front (MNF) in its “Declaration of
Independence” signed on 28 February 1966, pointed out that the Mizos

were an “independent nation” before the establishment of colonial rule.
They considered the Mizo Union-led merger of Mizo Hills with India, an
“act of political immaturity, ignorance and absence of farsightedness” and
portrayed India as a land of Hindus and Mizoram as a land of Christians
facing persecution under Hindu hegemony. The case of ULFA is quite
interesting in this regard. The insurgency of Assam led by ULFA is usually
regarded as the first of its kind, challenging the mainstream Hindu society
from within itself. Most of its leaders speak Assamese as their mother
tongue that has strong Sanskrit-Prakrit (Indo-Aryan) roots and, though
many of them have ethnic Mongoloid origins, they have become an
integral part of the Assamese peasantry whose ancestors had adopted
Hinduism of the Vaishnavite variety as their religion long back in history.
Thus it is argued:
The emergence of this movement from the mainstream therefore represents a

real crisis in the mainstream concept of Indian nationalism and nation building.
Hence, the predictable reaction of the Indian State ... is one of luring the move-
ment back into the mainstream with promises of riches to the returnees on the
one hand and crushing the movement out of existence by brute force on the
other. (Bora, 1997: 292)
While the two-fold strategy pointed out by Bora had had a differential
impact on the tribal and Hindu sections of its leadership, it is interesting
to note how ULFA seems to have distanced itself from the mainstream
Hindu society as insurgency gathered momentum in Assam. One has to
keep in mind that “most of its leadership was of Muttock origin and
belonged to Upper Assam” (Verghese, 1997: 57). It is no surprise that as
the organization cracked literally down the middle in the wake of several
consecutive rounds of army operations since 1991, it was mainly, though
not exclusively, the Hindu elements of the leadership that chose to give
way. According to some,4 the organization was not only unable to sur-
vive the schism that exists in the Assamese society between the tribals on
the one hand and the Varna-Hindu mainstream on the other, but gradually
tribalized itself by way of getting rid of its Hindu elements. We do not
have any independent way of verifying this hypothesis, but there is reason
to think that ULFA’s newfound tribalism was aimed more at building
bridges with other tribal insurgents of Mongoloid origin across the region,
than at directly striking at its Hindu roots. Its alienation from the so
called Varna-Hindu mainstream is only incidental to its need for entering
into a tactical alliance with others. Viewed in this light, while it may not
reflect the already existing schism that exists in the Assamese society, it
definitely highlights the need for broadening the scope of its tactical
alliance with like-minded insurgent organizations.5 An organization
intending to execute an accord either is situated outside the framework
of Varna-Hindu mainstream beyond any doubt or has to assert its outside
nature by way of discarding its traces.
The Moments of Difference
It is interesting to note how the measure of difference between the nature

of autonomy promised in the accords and that enshrined and enumerated
in the Constitution and other laws of the land is worked out in the course
of the peace process that sets the accords in motion. The point may be
appreciated if we keep at least three moments of this difference in mind:
recognition, constitution, and ethnic space. We have to keep in mind that
moments are more to be regarded as particular configurations of forces
than neat and chronologically sequenced stages.
RECOGNITION
First, there is the moment of recognition. That the necessity of signing

an accord is felt, indicates that the state confers recognition on its adver-
sary as a collective and ethnic agency represented by an authoritative
organization. At times, the recognition verges on an implicit recognition
of separate nationhood. The leadership’s initial vacillations on the ques-
tions of Kashmir and Nagaland seem to suggest that there was an implicit
recognition of difference. The recognition is not always easily forthcom-
ing. The Indian state’s early refusal to be involved in any kind of dialogue
with the All Party Hurriyat Conference (APHC) sprang from its hesitation
to recognize it as the representative of the Kashmiri people. We know
that the representative character of the APHC has always been a bone of
contention that has separated them. Morarji Desai, the then Prime
Minister, did not have any problem in talking to the Nagas who identified
themselves as Indian citizens. But he refused to hold any discussion with
Angami Zapu Phizo, whom he described as a “foreigner” and who also
had made the same claim of representing the Nagas as a collectivity, for
he did not want to be informed about the conditions of Nagas from a

“foreigner” (Das, 2001a). In almost every case, what we call recognition
in fact, stands for recognition on the state’s part that the administration
of the relevant community cannot be conducted in the way it is done in
the rest of the country.
CONSTITUTION
Second, there is the moment of constitution. We have discussed elsewhere

how the act of making peace and signing peace accords effects certain
transformations in the composition and nature of the organizations that
sign them, and also, of those of the communities on whose behalf they
are signed (Das, 2001a). Two of these transformations are quite evident:
One, every peace accord is prefaced by a disarmament clause. Article 18
of the Bodo Accord, 1993, for example points out:
ABSU (All-Bodo Students’ Union)-BPAC (Bodo Peoples’ Action Committee)

leaders will take immediate steps to bring overground and deposit all arms,
ammunition and explosives in the possession of their own supporters and will
cooperate with the administration in bringing overground all Bodo militants
along with their own arms and ammunition etc. within one month of the forma-
tion of BEC (Bodoland Executive Council). In order to ensure the smooth re-
turn to civil life of the cadre and to assist in the quick restoration of peace and
normalcy, such surrenders made voluntarily will not attract persecution.
Every accord thereby points to a neatly made distinction between “civil

life” and “underground.”
Two, every accord includes a protection clause that commits the state
to work for the protection and preservation of the tradition and culture
of the relevant community. But it is interesting to see how the community
that is sought to be protected is constituted through the accord. Article 6
of the Assam Accord, 1985, provides for such protection, but its Bengali,
English, and Assamese versions, all officially published, were at variance
with each other. While the English and Assamese versions called for the
“protection, preservation and promotion of the cultural, social, linguistic
identity and heritage of the Assamese people (Asomiya raij ),” the Bengali
version—presumably meant for the Bengali-speaking public of Assam and
elsewhere—referred to “the people of Assam” (Asamer janasadharan) as
the beneficiary. Asomiya raij and Asamer janasadharan are by no means
the same: It is quite apparent that the latter is a wider category that
includes not only the Assamese (-speaking) people but also many others
who do not necessarily speak Assamese as their mother tongue (like the
Bengalis) living in the state. These ambiguities obviously leave room for
the constitution of a wide variety of ethnic groups and communities. As
the Asom Gana Parishad (AGP) came to power with the promise of imple-
menting the Accord and the Bodo movement gathered momentum, the
“political hazards of this confusion” (Baruah, 1999: 116) began to be felt.
Conversely, wherever such constitutive ambiguities are avoided, the ethnic
subject gets a chance of being “entrenched.” The entrenchment clause is
believed to be the key to the apparent success of the Mizo Accord, 1986.
Since factionalism within the Mizo National Front (MNF), that spear-
headed Mizo insurgency in the pre-Accord era, was reportedly much
less and by all accounts, Pu. Laldenga, its Chief, took his comrades into
account almost at every step, it was possible for him to get his organization
to accept it (Nunthara, 2002). The Mizo peace process was unusually
long primarily because such intra-MNF discussions were an integral part
of the Mizo peace process. Further, comparatively low level of in-migration
is also believed to be responsible for a certain homogeneity amongst the
Mizos, resulting in a reduction of constitutive ambiguities.
ETHNIC SPACE
Third, there is the moment of ethnic space. Every peace accord tends to
work out how the adversarial ethnic community is to be provided with a
distinct geo-political space it can claim as its “homeland.” Viewed in this
light, an adversarial ethnic community is not simply a minority (like the
Muslims in contemporary India) but an ethnicity that also intends to
carve out a distinct geo-political space for itself where it will no longer
be considered and treated as a minority.6 It seems to be born of an appre-
hension that the institutions and practices of democracy in India heavily
weigh against the minorities. Since it is only with reference to a pre-
demarcated geo-political space that one community becomes a minority
(or not), ethnic minorities, almost without any exception, pursue the
agenda of political and administrative reorganization in a way that will
be unlikely to relegate them into minorities. Whether it is a demand for
statehood, or a demand for the establishment of an autonomous district
council, or even a demand for the detection, disenfranchisement, and
deportation of the foreigners/outsiders in a bid to retain the demographic

balance in one’s favor or any of their combination, the concern for an
ethnic space is what puts an ethnic community into some sort of a conflict
with the state. If the existing borders have reduced them to a minority
status, they seem to turn the same logic of bordered space on its head by
way of demanding the same for themselves where they would not feel
constantly threatened as a minority.
But, the desire for bringing the ethnic cousins under a single geo-
politically compact and homogeneous entity is not necessarily driven
by the fear of having to live as or being reduced to a minority in the near
future. The Memorandum of Settlement signed between the Prime
Minister of India and the President of the Shiromani Akali Dal on 24
July 1985, is illustrative of this point. Punjab’s exclusive claim over the
capital city of Chandigarh, shared now with Haryana, does not seem to
have issued from any immediate fear of losing the demographic edge
enjoyed now by the Sikhs over other communities living in Punjab. The
18th session of the All India Akali Conference held in Ludhiana on
28–29 October 1978, for example, resolved: “Chandigarh originally raised
as a Capital for Punjab should be handed over to Punjab.” Besides, there
were also demands for including certain “Punjabi-speaking areas” of
the contiguous states in Punjab. The working committee of the Shiromani
Akali Dal in its meeting, held at Sri Anandpur Sahib on 16–17 October
1973, expressed its “determination to strive by all means to constitute a
single administrative unit where the interests of the Sikhs and Sikhism
are specifically protected.” All these demands reflect a desire on the part
of the Akalis to unify the Sikhs under one single political and administra-
tive unit but not necessarily as a means of tiding over any demographic
challenge whatsoever, within Punjab. Inclusion of the “Punjabi-speaking
areas,” however, would have saved the “Punjabi-speaking” people from
the compulsion of having to live as minorities in other states. Chandigarh
interestingly was an altogether different issue. Punjab’s exclusive claim
over the common capital city is hardly based on any demographic argu-
ment. It was more of fulfilling an assurance that was made to Punjab at
the time of reorganizing the state. Article 7, Clause 1 of the Memorandum
of Settlement mentioned above points out among other things: “The
Capital Project Area of Chandigarh will go to Punjab.” Chandigarh’s transfer
to Punjab was never thought to be a unilateral affair. The Hindi-speaking
areas of Punjab territorially and linguistically contiguous to Haryana
were to be transferred to the latter in lieu of the award of Chandigarh.
Two things of importance stand out: First, the Memorandum not only
speaks of the bargain but states that this is struck at the instance
of Indira Gandhi, the former Prime Minister of India, that “when
Chandigarh is to go to Punjab some Hindi speaking territories in Punjab
will go to Haryana.” The question of whether Haryana wants these areas
to be included in it or not is clearly irrelevant.
This case shows how difficult it is to actually put the terms of a bargain
into practice. In pursuance of the Memorandum, the Mathew Commis-
sion was set up for the purpose of determining the territorially and lingu-
istically contiguous Hindi-speaking areas. Although it was well known
that a Punjabi-speaking village intercepted between Abohar Fazilka
villages and Haryana, the Commission recommended their transfer to
the latter, while many other Hindi-speaking areas lying contiguous to it,
remained undemarcated by the Commission. The Commission suggested
that another Commission be instituted to identify the remaining Hindi-
speaking areas of this nature. Mathew’s successor, Venkataramiah, ruled
that 70,000 acres in total should go to Haryana in lieu of Chandigarh,
but was successful in identifying only 45,000 acres as Hindi-speaking
areas and recommended that the remaining 25,000 acres “should some-
how be given to Haryana.” This was unacceptable to the Chief Minister,
Surjit Singh Barnala, because such areas could only be Punjabi-speaking
ones. The territorial issue was thus messed up and Chandigarh could
not be transferred to Punjab.
Ethnic space is likely to create a difference in two rather complementary
senses: The first is that it is expected to consolidate the collective self by
way of bringing the divergent sections of the community (like the Nagas
in the Northeast and the Kashmiris in the Northwest) strewn between
divergent political spaces closer together. The Naga case aptly illustrates
how the demand for integration of the Naga-inhabited areas of the North-
eastern region into a single political and administrative unit is informed
by the desire of bringing the divergent Naga groups and communities
together and articulating them into a grand pan-Naga solidarity. The
NSCN-IM has been demanding a “sovereign” Naga state comprising an
area of 120,000 sq. km. It is, in fact, seven times more than the present
state of Nagaland including Ukhrul, Tamenglong, Senapati, and Chandel
districts of Manipur, Karbi Anglong, North Cachar Hills, Sivasagar, Jorhat,
and Golaghat districts of Assam, and Tirap and Changlang districts of
Arunachal Pradesh. The demand is for recognition of the centrality
of the political in promoting and fostering pan-Naga solidarity. While
NSCN-IM is presently engaged in peace talks with the Government of
India, a unanimous resolution was passed by the Nagaland Assembly in
December 1994, that urged the Government of India to integrate all Naga-
inhabited areas of Manipur and Arunachal Pradesh with the present state
of Nagaland. Such a demand for the integration of the Naga-inhabited
areas under one single and separate/“sovereign” unit is based on the
argument that, although diverse and heterogeneous by nature, the Naga
groups and communities of the region have been concentrated since pre-
colonial times within a single continuous habitat that was subsequently
vivisected by the British as well as the Indian and Burmese (presently
Myanmarese) governments into multiple and sovereign political and
administrative units with the motive of socially and politically frag-
menting and weakening them. When Nagas raise the demand for the
formation of a single “Nagalim,” their demand, if conceded, is expected
to correct the “wrongs” historically done to them.
The Naga peace process, thus, may be regarded as only complementary
to what is called the Naga Reconciliation Process. The peace process
makes it imperative on the part of the Nagas to consolidate their com-
munity and strengthen the bonds of pan-Naga solidarity amongst their
diverse groups and communities. Formation of the Naga collective self
does not precede the peace process; it gets constituted through it. The
necessity of initiating a separate reconciliation process whereby all
the diverse Naga villages and communities can come together and bridge
their mutual differences was also felt by the insurgent organization
presently engaged in peace talks with the Government of India (Solomon
et al., 2002: 6).
The second is that in a multiethnic country like India, it is expected to
create newer ethnic minorities in the proposed ethnic spaces. The fiasco
over the Bodo Accord, 1993, provides a classic illustration of this point.
By all accounts, it was a non-starter. The central problem was the question
of delineating the territorial jurisdiction of the Bodoland Autonomous
Council (BAC). Its jurisdiction was kept vague in the text of the Accord
and its precise delineation was left to the state government. Over and
above the 2,570 villages that would come under the BAC jurisdiction on
the basis of mutual agreement, the Bodo leaders asked for the incorp-
oration of another 515 villages into it. The Assam Government refused
to accede to the demand on the ground that the “Bodos constitute not
more than 2 per cent of the total population in these villages.” In order
to maintain physical contiguity of these villages with the already agreed-
upon BAC jurisdiction, even villages with only 30 per cent Bodo popu-
lation have been added to the list. Moreover, non-Bodos account for about
25 per cent of the total population coming under the jurisdiction of BAC.
Two militant organizations, the Bodoland Army and Bodo Liberation

Tiger Force refused to recognize the Council and described it as “a stooge
of Dispur.” The Government’s apprehension that the Bodo militants
would target the villages with substantial non-Bodo population in their
bid to cleanse them of ethnic minorities came true in the wake of organ-
ized attacks on the ethnic Muslims and adivasis (mostly the Santhals) in
the proposed Bodoland area. The Sanmilit Janagoshthiya Sangram Samiti
(SJSS) serves as the coordinating body of the non-Bodo organizations
opposing the institution of the new Bodoland Territorial Council (BTC).
Autonomy as difference during this moment is elaborated through the
principle of territoriality. While territorial demarcation was at the heart
of the intense inter-ethnic strife in the proposed Bodoland area, this
proved to be a stumbling block to the implementation of the Tiwa Accord
in Assam signed on 14 June 1995. The Tiwas (Mishings) were aggrieved
by the exclusion of certain forest and riverine areas, and other villages
that they felt belonged to them.
We may refer back to the Naga case for further illustration. As a part
of the Naga peace process, the Government of India has entered into
cease-fire agreements separately with the NSCN-IM and NSCN-K, two
of the organizations spearheading the Naga movements in recent years,
in 1997 and 2001 respectively. The scope of the cease-fire with the former
remained limited to the territorial borders of the present state of Nagaland.
It was only on 18 June 2001, when the cease-fire was given a new lease
of life for another year, that a source of the Government of India declared
in Bangkok its extension “without territorial limits.” This actually opened
up a Pandora’s box. Many of the communities viewed it as the first step
towards realization of the integration of the Naga-inhabited areas. The
All-Manipur United Clubs’ Organization (AMUCO), a social and volun-
tary organization brought into existence with the sole purpose of safe-
guarding the territorial integrity of Manipur, and the Monitoring Group
on Territorial Integrity of Manipur strongly opposed the extension of
the cease-fire to the territory of Manipur and asked the BJP-led National
Democratic Alliance Government at the center to retract its stand in the
interest of the people. On 6 May 1995, the Manipur Assembly too adopted
a resolution upholding the territorial integrity of the state. It re-ratified
the same resolution on 17 March and 11 July 1997. Six organizations in-
cluding AMUCO, AMKIL, IPSA, NIPCO, and UPF in their declaration,
known as “People’s declaration to defend the territorial integrity of
Manipur,” pointed out that any attempt at alteration of the existing
boundary would “necessarily initiate the process of disintegration of the
Republic of India duly constituted in 1950.” In another development on

19 June 2001, the All-Assam Students’ Union (AASU) decided to take up
a tough course of action against the Bangkok Declaration. They threat-
ened to launch a mass movement if the decision of extending the cease-
fire to Assam was not withdrawn immediately. All-Nyishi Students’ Union
held a five hour dharna in Itanagar (Arunachal Pradesh) on 29 June
2001, in protest against the extension of the cease-fire beyond Nagaland.
Neither the Assamese of Assam nor the Nyishis were under any real
threat of losing out their majority status had integration come into effect.
It seems that more than the fear of being turned into a minority in the
near future, the threat to the demographic edge being thinned out loomed
large in the protesters’ minds. In the face of these protests, the Govern-
ment of India decided to withdraw the controversial part of the statement
and the cease-fire was made effective only with respect to the Indian
state of Nagaland.
Each of these accounts testifies to the logic of the nation state. While
the state logic is bound to create this drive for autonomy, it is also forced
to remain perpetually fluid and ambivalent. For if it leads one community
to carve out an ethnic space for itself, it literally traps many others who
are yet to carve out ethnic spaces for themselves into it. What once was
a state logic contributing to the creation and formation of ethnic space
now begins to work against itself. It unleashes certain forces over which
it hardly has any control. The state is pitted, as it were, against its own
self. Brajendra Kumar Brahma, the then President of Bodo Sahitya Sabha
and a moderate Bodo leader, refers to the same paradox. On the one hand,
he finds “justification” in the non-Bodo misgivings about the newly
constituted Bodo Territorial Council (2002). On the other hand, Brahma
likened their fears with “our fears when we started feeling neglected and
exploited by the Assamese people. It is the same fear” (Das, 2002: 15).
The fear is built into the very institution of the Indian state.
Besides, such an ethnic space is intended to protect the customary
laws (“the Naga way of life” as they have phrased it) and retain ownership
over land and resources. These two are secondary to the principle of ter-
ritoriality. It is interesting to see how the accords address the critical
question of territoriality. The Punjab Accord of 1985 mentioned above
may serve as a case in point. We know that the Akali agitation had actually
brought the issue of sharing of inter-state river waters to a head. Article 9,
Clause 1 of the Memorandum, first of all, establishes the principle that
none of the disputing states (Punjab, Haryana, and Rajasthan) will get
water “less than what they are using from the Ravi-Beas system as on
1st July 1985,” be it for agriculture or for consumption, and provides for
the institution of a tribunal for the verification of the quantum of usage
by them. On 1 July 1985, the Bhakra-Beas Management Board had pro-
vided the figures as 9.655 maf for Punjab, 1.334 maf for Haryana, and
4.500 maf for Rajasthan. The total water available was estimated to be
18.28 maf. According to the terms of the Memorandum, only less than
3.00 maf could be distributed between Punjab and Haryana. Punjab
was therefore to get at least 10.00 maf. But it was awarded only 5.00 maf
by the Commission, which was less than even the actual usage. Haryana
was awarded a much larger share than it actually used: 3.83 maf. The
share of Rajasthan remained 8.6 maf.7
Government of Autonomy
In the existing literature on accords, autonomy and peace are seen as

two divergent axes of peace accords. While the promise of autonomy
helps in restoring peace, peace has its own way of deferring autonomy.
Militant organizations, for example, are unwilling to be trapped in pro-
longed spells of cease-fire (Perera, 1999: 18). Today, however, it is no
longer possible to view their relation in dichotomous terms. Peace is not
the enemy of autonomy. For us it will be interesting instead to see how
autonomy and peace form part of government: government by the state
today implies renegotiating the terms of the original contract by way of
selectively creating spaces and terrains of autonomy within the body
politic. The states all over the world have learnt, sometimes at great cost,
that they cannot operate with the fundamentals that they have promised
to adhere to and be guided by in the course of their day-to-day operations.
Government, as Foucault argues, is not about the fundamentals and
principles of building and organizing the state in post-colonial India but
about convenience and order. According to him: “... government (is) not
a question of imposing law on men but of disposing things: that is, of
employing tactics rather than laws, and even of using laws themselves as
tactics—to arrange things in such a way that, through a certain number
of means, such-and-such ends may be achieved” (Foucault, 1994: 211).
Government, therefore, is not premised on peace through the necessary
denial of autonomy. In fact, it makes autonomy one of the key imperatives
of peace.
There is reason to believe that the state finds it difficult to continue

to uphold and abide by the early doctrine of indivisible sovereignty and
seems to have modified it. “Governmentalization of the state” in Dean’s
words, refers to a “process whereby the art of government is separated
from the theory and practice of sovereignty and whereby that theory
and practice must reconcile itself with this burgeoning and proliferating
art of government” (Dean, 1999: 102). While all this goes on quietly, the
state cannot concede in public, ULFA’s demand for including the right of
national self-determination by making a suitable constitutional amend-
ment. ULFA, it may be noted, sets this as a precondition for holding talks
with the Government of India. While ULFA has consistently shunned
the idea of holding talks with the Government on this ground (along
with a few others), the Nagas engaged themselves in a series of talks
with the Government since 1997, notwithstanding their assertion of the
“right to self-determination irrespective of what the Constitution said”
(Perera, 1999: 16). Unlike NSCN-IM, ULFA has taken a very legalistic
stand in this regard. One has to understand that peace process is more
than, if at all, a legal and constitutional process. It may be true that
many of the provisions enshrined in the accords may have their bearings
on the Constitution necessitating amendments. Ernest Gellner has
described a “Hidden Deity” that is “inversely related” to social coherence
(Gellner, 1995: 38). This idea of Gellner fits very well with our idea of
the Constitution,8 which does not (have to) take cognizance of all these
instances of necessity. Logical coherence is regarded as an essential
juridical virtue, but it is not necessarily a social virtue.
Viewed in this light, the reference to the Constitution in almost every
ethnic accord may sound ritualistic. The Bodo Accord, 1993, for example,
promises “maximum autonomy within the framework of the Consti-
tution.” Similarly, Article 8, Clause 1 of the Memorandum of Settlement
signed between Rajiv Gandhi, the then Prime Minister of India, and
Sant Harchand Singh Longowal, the President of the Shiromani Akali
Dal, states that the Anandpur Sahib resolution that served as the basis
of the Akali agitation in Punjab in the early 1980s, was “entirely within
the framework of the Constitution.”
As a result, the notion of “indivisible sovereignty” has undergone
significant transformations in recent years: First, the state today has no
difficulties in conducting negotiations with the rebel leaders in foreign
countries. Bangkok, Chiangmai, Geneva, and Amsterdam have already
become favorite destinations for talks between the rebel leaders and
the Government of India. In most cases, these talks are held in complete
confidence and with very little media coverage, if at all.
Second, the state too feels that government depends on the success of
accords and not their failures. Success of accords in its turn depends, not
so much on handling the demands of autonomy from within the given
federal structure, but on some adventurous experimentation with our
institutions. The debate has already begun. In other words, efforts are
being made to break free from the institutional paradox in which con-
solidation of a particular ethnic community within a geo-political space
necessarily creates its minorities. The vicious circle in which a minority
becomes a majority by way of getting the borders redrawn and thereby
creates its own minority and the circle continues to roll with nauseating
regularity is inherent in our established federal setup. Attempts are now
being made to explore newer institutional alternatives.
We may refer to at least three interesting strands, not necessarily
mutually exclusive, of this debate: First, reform-minded scholars and
activists like B. K. Roy Burman (2001) recommend a Scandinavian SAMI-
like multi-layered parliamentary system in which ethnic communities
will have the right to represent themselves instead of being bound by the
majoritarian commands of our existing parliamentary system. Second,
some have argued that the “first-come-first-served” electoral system in
which the minorities dispersed over a large space are constantly under
the subjection of the numerical, and therefore political, majority is incom-
patible with the pluralistic nature of our society (Narayan, 2003: 38).
Even reservation of seats for them will not help the situation. Narayan
advocates introducing proportional representation as a means of pro-
tecting these groups from majority rule and retaining their autonomy.
Third, a case has been made for widening the consociational base of our
democratic system. Lijphart (1996), for example, shows how the basic
preconditions of a consociational (power sharing) democracy were met
during the first few decades of our Independence and how that base has
been weakened as a combined result of “centralization of the Congress
Party and the federal system” in the 1980s and growing “attack on min-
ority rights” in different parts of India. He, in fact, pleads for resuscitating
the institutions and practices of consociational democracy that protected
India reasonably well in the first few decades against inter-group violence
and communal riots.
Governmentality today does not necessarily exclude the people
and civil society as it once did. The Shillong Accord, 1975, for example,
coincided with some of the worst repressive measures that sent the Naga
civil society underground. For one thing, a national emergency was
declared immediately after the Accord was signed. In the words of
Luingam Luithui and Meredith Preston, “there was no political space to
function under such circumstances” (Luithui and Preston, 1999: 4). For
another, there were reported attempts at rallying the Naga civil society
behind the Accord leaders in order to get them to “rubberstamp” the
Accord. According to Luithui and Preston, the Government was wrong
in taking the Accord leaders as representing the Naga civil society.
Nowhere in the Northeast is the civil society so much vigilant as it is
in Nagaland. And it will not be an exaggeration to say that the civil
society vigilantism is a part and parcel of the Naga peace process. It is
interesting to see that peace process in today’s India is an unusually long
haul. It means that there is an eagerness on the part of both parties to let
the civil society grow and develop and civil society is seen as the guarantor
for enduring peace and autonomy.
It is to be noted, however, that a civil society driven by the community’s
concern for autonomy can seldom create a civil space. While civil societies
amongst both the Nagas whether of Nagaland, or of Manipur, and
Meiteis of Manipur are unusually strong and vibrant, there is little or
hardly any interaction between them. In the turbulent days of June 2001,
very strongly worded statements were exchanged between both sides,
which resulted in the burning of bridges between them. A Convention
represented by the United Naga Council, Manipur, Naga People’s Move-
ment for Human Rights (Manipur Sector), Naga Women’s Union,
Manipur, All-Naga Students’ Union, Manipur, and Naga People’s Con-
vention held in Senapati on 28 June 2001, for example, noted with concern
“the belligerent and confrontationist approach of the Meitei [sic] com-
munity towards the extension of ceasefire in the Naga areas outside the
present Nagaland state including Manipur” and “concluded that the well
articulated agenda for the territorial integrity of Manipur by the Meitei
community is a move to deny the rights of the Naga people.” It seems
that neither of them is in a mood to engage in any civic interaction in
order to reconcile the conflicting rights claims. It has to be noted, that re-
cently some initiatives have been adopted particularly by some women’s
organizations to build bridges between the two communities. It is sadly
ironical for the civil societies in the Northeast, that wherever they have
refused to “rubberstamp” the state-crafted (non-)accords9 and act as stooges
of the state, they have turned into one of its parties.
Governmentality, in that sense, also engulfs the civil society. While

drawing a distinction between the old and the new forms of power, Dean
shows how the emergence of the new “disciplinary” power regards “the
subjects, the forces and capacities as living individuals, as members of a
population, as resources to be fostered, to be used and to be optimized”
(Dean, 1999: 20). If peace and autonomy are how we can harness, foster,
and optimize our resources, present day peace accords may be cited as
only one of their illustrations.10
Notes
1. Unless otherwise indicated, I have depended on Datta (1995) for the texts of the
accords cited in this chapter.
2. Very recently, Jairam Ramesh (2004) made the plea for investing states of the
Indian Union with the power of independently signing agreements and entering
treaties with foreign countries. What is considered as “good” for the constituent
state often becomes unacceptable to the Government of India due to its “national
compulsions.” While India is “a mythical idea,” he argues that the states like
“Bihar or Assam are a reality.” Thus, it will be perfectly in the fitness of things if
Bihar or Uttar Pradesh (UP) wants to sign any river water sharing treaty with
such upper riparian states as, Nepal and Bhutan, as a step towards controlling
devastating annual floods in the region.
3. Sheikh Abdullah was arrested during the prime ministership of Ramchandra Kak
on 20 May 1946.
4. I am thankful to Devabrat Sarma for having brought this to my attention.
5. For an understanding of the tribal turn of ULFA, see Das (2001: 48–69).
6. This is not to say that the demand for a separate and at times “sovereign” geo-
political space did not ever emanate from any section of the Muslims in post-
colonial India. The examples of proposed “Swatantra Muslimsthan” (separate land
for the Muslims) and “United States of Bengal” consisting of the bordering districts
of West Bengal and Assam in India on the one hand and parts of Bangladesh on
the other, obvi-ously come to our mind. While these proposals are primarily meant
for protecting the interests of Bengali-speaking Muslims living in the bordering
areas under the perceived threat of being marginalized by both Muslims and non-
Muslims of the respective mainlands of these two countries, neither of these spaces
is supposed to provide a refuge for all Muslims or for that matter, all marginalized
Muslims all over the two countries. Their identity as borderlanders sharing a
common Bengali language seems to prevail over that as Muslims per se.
7. The figures are adopted from Grewal (1994: 234).
8. In Gellner’s words: “... it had to be a Hidden Deity which would set the rules and
norms, but be too proud or too distant to interfere in day-to-day management of
the world. It had to scorn making exceptions, it had to be distant and orderly, it
could not be a kind of head of a bribable and interfering patronage network,
which is what High Gods are in many other systems” (Gellner, 1995: 38).
9. Subir Bhaumik for example, describes the Shillong Accord, 1975, as “the accord
that never was.”
10. All translations from non-English sources are mine.
4
THE CONSTITUTIONAL AND LEGAL ROUTES

Ashutosh Kumar
T he endurance of democracy in India is remarkable given that very

few post-colonial states of Asia and Africa, including those who shared
the same colonial legacy, have been able to remain actually existing dem-
ocracies.1 Being the largest and the most diverse democratic republic in
the world, the other obstacles in the pathway to the building of democracy
in India were her traditional hierarchical social order that resisted the
idea of political equality and the actual unequal economic structure of
Indian society.2 The introduction of the formal principles of represent-
ation, rights, and equality seemed impossible in the face of the twin
obstacles. The segmented nature of the society further deepened in the
run up to partition, as ethnic, linguistic, religious, and cultural distinctions
flared up.
Indian Federalism: Institutional Features
The members of the Constituent Assembly adopted the idea of federalism

to assuage communal, ethnic, and cultural sectarianism. This “ethnofeder-
alism” was less a choice than a necessity in post-colonial India given the
vast size and diversity and history of repeated colonization (Jalal, 1995;
Smith, 1995). Federalism was enshrined in the Indian Constitution in the
form of a written Constitution, a dual polity, a division of legislative and
94 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR
executive powers between the center and the state, an independent judi-
ciary, and supremacy of the Constitution and electoral rules (Basu, 1999).
A range of formal institutions such as state and national legislatures,
National Finance Commission, Planning Commission, National Devel-
opment Council, Inter-State Council, and numerous other inter-state
coordinating bodies further embodied the federal political structure in
the Indian Constitution. The acrimonious discussions on community
and nation in the course of the nationalist movement as well as the in-
formed deliberations in the Constituent Assembly, meant that the Indian
Constitution was well ahead of its time not only in recognizing diversities
but also in providing for representation of the diverse collectivities in the
formal democratic structures (Jayal, 2002). The special provisions for
affirmative action in favor of historically disadvantaged groups, a variety
of personal laws, and the decision to desist from imposing a uniform civil
code, protection of cultural and educational rights of the linguistic and
religious minorities, secular citizenship defined by civic and universalistic
criteria, all were among the significant constitutional measures, legislative
enactment, and government policies indicating the constitutional/legal
recognition of four different categories—religion, language, region, and
caste.
These forms of cultural autonomy, however, hardly extended to the
territorial form. The Constituent Assembly finally adopted a Constitution
that in the famous words of Ambedkar could be “both unitary as well as
federal according to the requirements of time and circumstances” (Con-
stituent Assembly Debates, 1949: 34). In colonial India, concerted efforts
were made from the early 1930s up to the Cabinet Mission proposals in
1946 to set up a national federal structure that could provide for the dis-
persal of authority in order to accommodate the territorially based ethnic
groups. The thinking at that time was that the interests of the Muslim
majority provinces, the princely states, and the provinces ruled by the
Congress Government after the 1937 elections, were not identical. That
necessitated a loose federal arrangement that would enable them to enjoy
autonomy of each other while co-existing either as a colony or a dominion
or an independent state.3 Three significant efforts to set up a loose feder-
ation with the Muslim majority provinces forming a kind of separate
unit were made between 1944 and 1946. The first was the Rajagopalachari
Plan followed by the Sapru Committee. Finally, it was the Cabinet Mission
that proposed the setting up of a three-tiered federal system wherein some
units could group together to have a different level of federal linkage
with the center on the line of the Austro-Hungarian federal arrangement.
The Constitutional and Legal Routes / 95
These units were to work out the political and constitutional modalities
within themselves, with the center only having jurisdiction over communi-
cations, currency, foreign affairs, and defence. Such a federal arrangement
was unlikely to succeed in pre-partition India, reconciling the conflicting
agenda of the variants of nationalism and that of the feudal princely
states.4 None of the above three Indian groups, however, showed any
inclination to adopt such a formulation that remained basically the
brainchild of the colonial regime having its own agenda. That the Ob-
jective Resolution moved by Nehru at the initial stage of the Constituent
Assembly did envisage the formation of a loose federation with a minimal
center with vast residuary powers to be with the constituent units and
should be viewed as a matter of necessity to ensure the participation of
the Muslim League and the princely rulers in the Constitution-making
process (Austin, 2002: 33). The withdrawal of the League from the Con-
stituent Assembly followed by partition finally brought to an end this
mode of federal thinking.
In the changed circumstances, the Constituent Assembly, with the
overwhelming presence of the Congress, resurrected the idea of federalism
that had first evolved in the form of the Nehru Committee Report of 1928.5
The extraordinary situation prevailing in newly independent India6 called
for the Indian federation to have an inherent mechanism to convert itself
into a unitary state during a period of emergency eventually provided for
in the form of Article 352 in the Indian Constitution. The powerful all-
India presence of the Congress as the single dominant party, the absence
of strong regional or provincially-based political parties, and most signifi-
cantly, the departure of the Muslim League, contributed to this tendency.
That is why the term “union” substituted the term “federal” in the
Indian Constitution, making it distinct from the “model” federal consti-
tutions, as argued by Ambedkar while introducing the draft Constitution.7
He emphasized that the Indian federation essentially stood for a division
for convenience of administration while the country remained one inte-
grated whole. Explaining the usage of the term “union,” Ambedkar said:
“though India was to be a federation, the federation was not the result of
an agreement by the states to join in a federation, and the federation not
being the result of an agreement no state had a right to secede from it”
(Rao, 1968: 435).
The 1950 Constitution thus exhibited quasi-federal features. It adopted
a dual polity with a single citizenship. The Constitution was to be much
less rigid in nature. Under Article 249, the Parliament was empowered
to legislate on state subjects in “national interest” even during “normal”
96 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR
times if the Rajya Sabha passed a resolution to that effect. The Parliament
can also enact laws regarding any state subject vide Article 252 if two or
more state legislatures pass a resolution to this effect. The laws made, how-
ever, would be applicable only to the states concerned. The constitutional
provisions relating to the division of subjects, imposition of emergency,
the appointment and tenure of governors, comptrollers and the Auditor
General of India, the Chief Election Commissioner of India and the
functionaries of the all India services, taxation and revenue distribution
between the center and the states, all contributed to the difficulty of pro-
moting the idea of federalism in India in the classic institutional sense.
Reading the Indian Constitution:

Forms of Autonomy in Jammu and
Kashmir and the Northeastern States
Notwithstanding the above, the Indian Constitution did include provi-

sions as exceptional measures providing for a certain degree of auton-
omy to certain states, following the principle of asymmetric federalism
in Part XXI under the heading “temporary, transitional and social pro-
visions.” The Constitution provided for a variety of autonomy arrange-
ments vide Article 371 along with the Fifth and Sixth Schedules which
are applicable to the Northeastern states, namely Nagaland, Sikkim,
Assam, Manipur, and Arunachal Pradesh. Article 370 accorded special
constitutional status to Jammu and Kashmir (Basu, 2001: 1663–79). Such
recognitions were in deference to the historical specificity of these states
as well as to the then historical conjuncture.
JAMMU AND KASHMIR
At the time of independence, the state of Jammu and Kashmir was the
only state that negotiated the terms of its accession to the Union of India.
The state signed the Instrument of Accession that was limited to the area
of defence, external affairs, and communication. Furthermore, the state
did not accept the constitutional provisions of the independent Indian
republic and retained its own institutions and its autonomy vide Clause
5 of the Instrument of Accession. Article 370 has been at the core of the
constitutional relationship between India and Kashmir which says that

the Indian state “... acknowledged the distinctiveness of the state of J&K
in terms of its religion and cultural diversity and historical and political
specificity, thereby allowing an asymmetrical relationship within the
Indian federal structure” (Tremblay, 1995).
The implications of Article 370 have been that it extended the state
within the Indian Union. Moreover, it restricted the Parliament’s legislative
power over Jammu and Kashmir to three subjects: defence, external af-
fairs, and communication. This was confirmed in Article 152 of the 1956
version of the Constitution where it was specified, that the expression
state, “does not include the state of Jammu and Kashmir,” making this
state an autonomous polity under Indian protection (Kaur, 1992: 94).
Third, prior concurrence was, however, required if other constitutional
provisions were involved. Such concurrence by the Head of the state of
Jammu and Kashmir was subject to ratification by the Constituent
Assembly of the state. Fourth, the concurrence clause was supposed to
lapse once the state’s Constituent Assembly had finalized the scheme
and dispersed. With the dispersal the President’s extending power was to
come to an end too. Sheikh Abdullah’s observation in this regard is most
instructive: “The fact that Article 370 has been mentioned as temporary
provision in the constitution does not mean that it is capable of being
abrogated, modified or replaced unilaterally. In actual fact, the temporary
nature of this article arises merely from the fact that the power to finalize
the constitutional relationship between the state and the union has been
specifically vested in the Jammu and Kashmir Constituent Assembly.”
Abdullah went on to caution: “it follows that whatever modifications,
amendments or exceptions that may become necessary either to Art. 370,
or any other article in the Constitution of India in their application to
the Jammu and Kashmir state are subject to the decision of this sovereign
body” (Report of the State Autonomy Committee, 1999: 34). As per the
National Conference’s perception, thus, it was obvious that once the
Constituent Assembly dispersed after framing the Constitution of Jammu
and Kashmir, no amendments to the Constitution of India could be made
in their application to the state for the simple reason that “any other inter-
pretation would have reduced the terms of Article 370 to a naught” (ibid.).
Subsequently, the end of hereditary rule in Jammu and Kashmir as
recommended by the Basic Principles Committee of the Constituent
Assembly paved the way for the Delhi Agreement. The main features of
the Delhi Agreement signed between the Governments of Jammu and
Kashmir and India were as follows: residuary powers were to continue
98 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR
to be vested in the state as provided in Article 370; the state legislature

was to retain power to regulate the rights and privileges of the permanent
residents or the state subjects as defined in the 1927 state order; the funda-
mental rights chapter of the Indian Constitution was to be applicable to
the state with modifications and exceptions such as enabling transfer
of land to the tiller without payment of compensation, jurisdiction of
Supreme Court was to be extended to the state; the state flag was not to
be treated as rival to the national tricolor; the power to grant reprieve
and commute sentences was to lie with the President of India; Head of
the state was to be recognized by the President on the recommendation
of the legislative assembly of the state; financial arrangements to be
evolved between the state and the union; national emergency under
Article 352 was to be applicable to the state in case of external aggression
only. In case of internal disturbances, emergency could be proclaimed
only at the request of or with the concurrence of the state government;
the Election Commission of India’s jurisdiction with regard to the state
was to be only with regard to holding elections of the President, Vice
President, and the Members of Parliament.
NORTHEAST INDIA
Along with Jammu and Kashmir, the Indian Constitution also envisaged
autonomy, though in a different form, vide its Articles 371 A, B, C, D, F,
G, and H for the Northeastern states, namely Nagaland, Assam, Manipur,
Sikkim, Mizoram, and Arunachal Pradesh respectively. Based upon the
recommendations of the Bardoloi Committee in the Constituent Assem-
bly, the Constitution provided for the Special Protection Clause of the
Article 371 for the tribal customary laws, procedures, and land rights. It
also provided for the creation of an autonomous region within an autono-
mous district in case a minority tribal group resided in the jurisdictional
area of the district. The Constitution also made special provisions for the
administrations of the tribal areas in the states of Assam, Meghalaya,
Tripura, and Mizoram under the Sixth Schedule vide Article 244(2). In
the table appended to the Sixth Schedule, the tribal areas after the reorgan-
ization of the Northeastern states are mentioned as autonomous districts,
i.e. North Cachar Hills, Mikir Hills, Karbi Anglong, Khasi Hills, Jaintia
Hills, Garo Hills, Pawai, Lakher, Chakma, Tripura tribal areas, and Lai.
These districts were either under the popularly elected district councils
or the regional councils which exercised certain legislative and judicial

functions with regard to the management of unreserved forest, land, water
bodies, the regulation of shifting cultivation, appointment of chief or
headmen, inheritance, marriage, and social customs. These councils were
given the power to assess and collect land revenue and to impose specified
taxes (The Constitution of India, 1996: 124–30). The autonomy of the
district councils/regional councils is protected by the Sixth Schedule by
stipulating that no legislative act of the state shall be applicable to them
without their consent. The applicability of parliamentary laws to these
districts/regions requires the assent of the Governor in the case of Assam
and that of the President in the case of other Northeastern states (Basu,
1999: 280–81). The institutional arrangements for autonomy were,
however, organically related to other institutions of federal structure in
terms of the devolution of power and responsibilities that put the exercise
of autonomy under strain. For instance, notwithstanding the financial
powers mentioned above, the management of the district/regional fund
was to be regulated as per the rules and regulations determined by the
governor. The central grants to the councils had to be routed through the
state government. Like the Panchayati Raj Institutions (PRI), the councils
had to remain dependent on the state government for funds. In a com-
parative mode, while providing for autonomy at the grassroots level, the
PRIs lay down the republican principle of one nation, one people, and
one land whereas the autonomy arrangement under the Fifth and Sixth
Schedules appear as exceptions.
Redrawing the Territorial Map of the States:

Demand for Linguistic Homeland in
“Nehruvian” India
It was almost inevitable, that as early as in the 1950s, the first irritants
erupted in the form of demands for homelands urging the center to re-
organize the states. The demands had a historical basis as the demarcation
of the states as political administrative units by the British colonial regime
was the result of “a process of annexation, and on the basis of strategic
and political considerations rather than on any rational basis ... the infra-
structure of the polity that we inherited in 1947 was a confused mosaic
created by a foreign imperial power unmindful of the valid basis for the
100 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR
territorial organization of the sub-continent” (Khan, 1992: 39). What

led to the flaring up of regionalism was the reluctance of the Congress
national leadership to concede the demands for the reorganization of
the administrative units, despite the Party accepting the idea of reorgan-
ization of provinces along linguistic and cultural lines long back in 1905,
in the wake of the Bengal partition. Since 1908, it started the process of
reshaping its organizational structures in terms of linguistic units i.e.,
Bihar (1908), Sindh, and Andhra (1917). The Home Rule Movement was
the forerunner in recognizing “the integrity of language areas” and de-
manding to “adopt the linguistic principle as determining the provincial
delimitation” (Sitaramayya, 1969: 130). The Report of the Nehru Com-
mittee in 1928, strongly advocated the idea of linguistic reorganization
(Chitnis, 1990). The Congress Party reaffirmed its commitment to the
idea as late as in its election manifesto of 1945–46. The hesitance on the
part of the national leadership was more surprising given the fact that
“the boundaries formed after the integration of princely states and former
British provinces were economically, administratively, linguistically and
culturally illogical” (Vanhanen, 1992: 70). It was with much reluctance
that the Linguistic Provinces (Dar) Commission was constituted to make
recommendations about the demand of the linguistic states. In its
Report submitted in December 1948, it said that “nationalism and sub-
nationalism are two emotional experiences, which grow at the cost of
each other” and therefore “all sub-national tendencies in the existing
linguistic provinces should be suppressed.” It further stated that “in view
of the dangers which now surround our country, and in the circumstances
that now exist, the Congress stands relieved of all past commitments
and it is its right as also its duty to come to a fresh decision on the subject
in the light of the present circumstances” (Dar Commission Report, 1948,
in Rao, 1968: 479). The Commission’s Report, with all its weaknesses,
stands out for pointing out the lack of unanimity among different groups
and within different groups regarding the redistribution of territory. It
also raised apprehension about the fate of linguistic minorities. The Dar
Commission Report notwithstanding, the center was compelled to set
up a high powered political committee at its Jaipur session in 1948. The
Committee, known as JVP and headed by Pattabhi Sitaramayya, did
acknowledge the long standing promise of the Congress to reorganize
the states on linguistic basis in its report in April 1949. However, it sug-
gested taking up the issue only after the integration of the princely states
was completed. Holding the security and unity of India paramount, the
Committee cautioned that language could equally be a unifying as well
as a divisive force. Therefore, mutual agreement was to be the basis of

the creation of new states. The delay in reorganizing India according to
language and culture has been explained in terms of the intention of
Nehru to resolve first the other pressing concerns and more importantly
to “prove that it could be a viable country; to prove that there was some-
thing concrete and not merely metaphorical and mystical in the idea of
unity of India” (King, 1998: 211).
It was only after persistent demand from the regional elite, the local
party leaders, and the people—that found expression in the form of the
violence in the state of Madras in 1953—that the center was forced to
divide the state of Madras into Andhra Pradesh (for the Telugu speaking
people) and Madras (for the Tamil speaking people), something that had
already been suggested by the JVP Committee.
Facing similar demands from other regions, the center subsequently
set up a States Reorganization Commission headed by Fazal Ali in
December 1953, to look into the matter of territorial reorganization. The
four principles guiding the Commission were: the preservation and
strengthening of the unity and integrity of India; linguistic and cultural
homogeneity; financial, economic, and administrative considerations;
successful working of the Five Year plans. Besides language being the
main criterion, cultural and economic viability also influenced the re-
commendations of the Commission submitted in 1955, that were imple-
mented particularly in south India.
However, there remained a reluctance to divide the bigger states under
the belief that the development planners would take the diversities into
consideration to achieve regional balance in terms of development. In
sociological terms, under the influence of the post-war Western liberal
modernization/political development theory, it was thought that mod-
ernization would reduce the linguistic diversities, secularism would do
away with the religious identities and affirmative actions would make
caste wither away. Thus, the suggestion by K. M. Panikkar to divide Uttar
Pradesh on the ground of greater administrative efficiency and develop-
ment was vehemently opposed by Nehru and Pant (Mawdsley, 2003: 40).
Subsequently, religion and ethnicity were also granted recognition as
“informally valid” bases for the reorganization of the states under certain
circumstances, as in the case of the formation of Punjabi Suba after split-
ting post-partition Punjab as well in the formation of several new states
in the Northeast of India, i.e. Meghalaya in 1971, Manipur and Tripura
in 1972, and Arunachal Pradesh and Mizoram in 1986.
Another major expression of regional autonomy on ethnic basis in

south India took place in the form of the Dravidian parties led movement
in the 1950s and early 1960s against what was dubbed as imposition of
Hindi from above by the center. The issue was finally resolved by the
center’s decision to adopt a three-language formula with the passage of
the Language Act by the Parliament in 1963, on the basis of the Report
of the Kher Commission.8 English was allowed to continue as an official
language along with Hindi for an indefinite period, besides allowing the
usage of the regional language.
It has been well argued that “the political prudence, legal flexibility,
institutional inclusion, and interactive opportunities incorporated in the
federal design (has) accounted for an important measure of the durabil-
ity of Indian federalism” (Dasgupta, 2001). As one can observe with the
benefit of hindsight, conceding the demand of linguistic communities
for the reorganization of the states preserved the unity of the nation
rather than balkanized it as apprehended initially. “In creating a system
of essentially linguistic states, India has provided a local political milieu
that is conducive to the flowering of many linguistically-rooted cultures
and thereby evolved a system which greatly enriches the cultural life of
the nation as a whole” (Schwartzberg, 1985: 177).
Thinking about State Autonomy:

The Constitution Review Commissions
The decline of the Congress Party in the late 1960s as a dominant party
both in terms of ideology and organization was a direct result of the
centralist leadership by Indira Gandhi. The overemphasis on the centralist
character of the Congress eroded the ability of the state-level leaders to
effectively articulate regional sentiments and aspirations within the party,
unlike during Nehru when the regional leaders enjoyed autonomy within
organization. Moreover the breakdown of the social coalition so as-
siduously built up over the first three decades of Indian independence
meant that the Congress Party, despite retaining power both at the Center
and in most of the states no longer remained the natural party of governance.
The increased level of the electoral participation of the peripheral social
groups of the civil society along with the economic empowerment of the
neo-rich intermediate peasant castes paved the way for the growth of
regional parties as well as national parties with a concentrated regional
base, a process aptly described as the “federalization of party system”.
(Saha, 1999: 21)
This was the backdrop to the Rajamannar Commission (RC) formed

by the ruling DMK government in Tamil Nadu in 1969, to make recom-
mendations about the nature of the allocation of powers between the
union government and the states. RC based its report on the responses
of Chief Ministers, party leaders, and all representatives of Tamil Nadu
in the Parliament and the state legislature to a questionnaire about the
true nature of Indian federalism. In its Report, the RC observed that
“there are unitary trends and in the allocation of powers there is a strong
bias and tilting of the scales in favour of the centre” (Rajamannar Report
on Centre–State Relations, 1971: 16). It held the presence of the Congress
Party, as the ruling party both at the center and in most of the states, re-
sponsible for the development of the unitary trends. The RC recom-
mended reworking of the federal relations by transferring some union
subjects to the state list in the Seventh Schedule of the Constitution,
abolition of Articles 249, 356, and 357 of the Indian Constitution on the
ground that the latter two provide for the extension of the executive power
of the union government to act on a failure of the constitutional order in
any state, and vesting of the residuary power of legislation and taxation
solely to the state legislatures.
The working of Indian federalism came under close scrutiny once
again in 1977 in the form of a Memorandum on Centre–State Relations
submitted by the Left Front Government of West Bengal. Following in
the footsteps of the RC, the Memorandum dubbed the Indian Consti-
tution as being “essentially unitary in character” as it empowered the
federal government “with some powers at the expense of the autonomy
of the states.” Significantly, it argued that the decentralization of powers
would pave the way for the outlet of the democratic urges at the regional
level thus helping to “ward off fissiparous tendencies instead of en-
couraging them” (Government of West Bengal, 1978).
The rise and growth of regional parties like the DMK, AIADMK,
SAD, NC, AGP, and the TDP in the 1970s and 1980s, further accentuated
the demands for decentralization in the form of an increased sharing of
sovereignty. It was such sentiment that found expression in the form of
the Anandpur Sahib Resolutions of 1973 and 1978 and later in the form
of the autonomist/secessionist movement in the decade of the 1980s.
The core of Akali demands relating to the political, economic, and social
relationship between the center and the state of Punjab are to be found
in the Anandpur Sahib Resolution adopted by the Working Committee
of the Akali Dal in October 1973 (Kumar, 2004). The Resolution incorp-
orated seven objectives aiming at establishing the “preeminence of the
Khalsa through creation of a congenial environment and a political set
up” (Singh, 1981: 346). These were: (a) transfer of the federally admin-
istered city of Chandigarh to Punjab; (b) readjustment of the state
boundaries to include certain Sikh majority Punjabi-speaking territory
presently outside but contiguous to Punjab; (c) autonomy to all the states
of India with the center retaining jurisdiction only over external affairs,
defence, and communications; (d ) introduction of land reforms, subsidies,
and loans for the peasantry as well as measures to bring about heavy
industrialization in Punjab; (e) enactment of an All India Gurudwara
Act to bring all the historic gurudwaras under the control of the SGPC;
( f ) protection for the Sikh minorities living outside the state; ( g) reversal
of the new recruitment policy of the center under which the recruitment
quota of Sikhs in the armed forces was reduced from 20 per cent to 2 per
cent (Deol, 2000: 101–3). The Working Committee of the Akali Dal
finally submitted a set of 45 demands to the center in September 1981.
These included, among others, the halting of reallocation of available
waters of riparian Punjab to non-riparian states. Under the federally
regulated arrangements, 75 per cent of the river waters of Punjab were
being allocated to other states (Pettigrew, 1995: 5).
In the wake of the Anandpur Sahib Resolution asking for regional
autonomy as well as the March 1983 Conclave of opposition parties held
in Bangalore, the center constituted a Commission on Centre–State Rela-
tions in June 1983, popularly known as the Sarkaria Commission (SC),
after the name of its chairman, Justice R. S. Sarkaria, to undertake a
study of center–state relations.
Like the RC, SC also based its study on a detailed questionnaire re-
sponded to by all the state governments, political parties, and community
leaders regarding issues related to economic and social planning, industry,
commerce, and inter-governmental relations. The SC, in its Report sub-
mitted in 1987, significantly began by recognizing that “there is consid-
erable truth in the saying that undue centralization leads to blood pressure
at the centre and anaemia at the periphery. The inevitable result is mor-
bidity and inefficiency.” As for its recommendations, the SC proposed
that an informal convention of consulting the state governments when-
ever the union parliament intends to enact on a subject in the concurrent
list “should be strictly adhered to, except in rare and exceptional cases of
extreme urgency or emergency.” Regarding the appointment of governors,
the SC recommended that the appointed one should be “eminent in some
walk of life, should be a person from outside of the state, and should be
detached and not too intimately connected with local politics of the state.”
It also held it desirable that “a politician from the ruling party at the
union is not appointed as governor of a state which is being run by some
other party or a combination of other parties.” More significantly, the

SC sought to curb the political abuse of Article 356 by recommending
its use only in extreme cases, as a measure of last resort, when all available
alternatives fail to prevent or rectify a breakdown of constitutional ma-
chinery in the state. The SC categorically asked for amendment of the
Article so that the assembly cannot be dissolved either by the president or
the governor “before the proclamation issued under Article 356[1] has
been laid before parliament and it has had an opportunity to consider it.”
As for institutional reforms, the SC recommended the constitution of the
Inter-State Council (ISC), the reconstitution of the National Development
Council, and the revival of the regional councils to enable both the center
and the states to work out a consensus on federal issues. At the grassroots
level, it recommended the restructuring of the local, self-governing
Panchayati Raj Institutions to create a third tier of government.
In the aftermath of significant party realignment, both at the federal
and the state levels, heralding an era of coalition politics in India, ISC was
finally constituted by the Janata Dal government in 1990. However, over
the last one and a half decades it has had a mixed legacy. Hardly viewed
as an independent high-powered body, ISC, in the absence of professional
representatives, has been unable to provide academic inputs along with
an objective view on center–state issues (Saez, 2002: 129). The SC pro-
posed recommendations to be accepted by the union Government—130
recommendations without change and 25 with reservations. So far,
however, only two out of 247 recommendations of the SC have been
actually implemented: one of these two being the constitution of the
ISC itself under Article 264 and the other being the introduction of local
self-governing bodies vide the 73rd and 74th Constitutional Amendments.
The National Commission to Review the Working of the Constitution
(NCRWC) in its Report submitted in March 2002, has also reiterated the
significance of the ISC in providing a constitutional forum for the center
to undertake “individual and collective consultation with the states.” It
also suggests providing explicitly for the taxation powers of the states in
respect of certain specified services falling exclusively under their domain.
For the purpose of facilitating inter-state trade and commerce, NCRWC
recommended the establishment of the “Inter-State Trade and Commerce
Commission.” It also recommended the resolution of inter-state disputes
especially the water dispute by arguing in favor of the abolition of the
River Boards Act, 1956 and the enactment of another comprehensive
act under entry 56 of List 1 in the Seventh Schedule vide Article 246.
The Commission also suggested consultation with the chief minister
before the appointment of a Governor. Significantly, the Commission

asked for the use of Article 356 “sparingly and only as a remedy of the
last resort and after exhausting action under other Articles like 256, 257
and 355” (Majeed, 2004: 171–78).
Reading the Autonomy Commission Reports:

Constitutional Form of Autonomy in
Jammu and Kashmir
T H E S T A T E A U T O N O M Y C O M M I T T E E (SAC) 9
Constituted in 1996, by the National Conference Government of Farooq

Abdullah, the SAC in its Report submitted in 1999 observed that the
process of erosion of the state’s autonomy started with the dismissal and
arrest of Sheikh Abdullah in 1953 that ultimately destroyed the content
of the Instrument of Accession and the Delhi Agreement. The Report
argues that the successive Chief Ministers of the state, namely Bakshi
Ghulam Mohammad, G. M. Sadiq, and Mir Kasim slavishly maneuvered
the Jammu and Kashmir Legislative Assembly’s approval of the extension
of the jurisdiction of several union institutions and acts to the state as
well as the application of various entries in the union and concurrent
lists of the Constitution of India.
In the process, Article 370 “acquired a dangerously ambiguous aspect.
Designed to protect the state’s autonomy, it has been used systematically
to destroy it” (Report of the State Autonomy Committee, 1999: 35). The
Report illustrates it by stating, as to how in 1986 during the President’s
rule, “the President made an order under Article 370 extending to the
state Article 249 of the Constitution in order to empower the parliament
to legislate even on matters in the state list on the strength of a Rajya
Sabha resolution” (ibid.). The process of the erosion of autonomy started
with the Constitution (Application to Jammu and Kashmir) Order, 1954.
The Order extended the jurisdiction of the union Parliament from three
subjects to almost all the subjects in the union list amounting to a reversal
of that and the 1950 Constitution Order. Part II and Part III of the Indian
Constitution now became applicable to the state and so were Part V and
Part XI.
The Report observes that the people of Kashmir remained mute
observers to the political events taking place in the state. The extension
of constitutional provisions to the state of Jammu and Kashmir beyond

the original scope of Article 370 and the Delhi Agreement of 1952 has
had no reference to the people of Kashmir. In the nationalist discourse in
India, the complete constitutional integration of the state is considered
to be imperative for the survival of India as a nation. Pertinently, when
Article 306(A), which later became Article 370, was adopted by the
Constituent Assembly of India on 17 October 1949, Gopalaswami
Ayyangar had assured those who denounced this special provision “that
in due course Jammu and Kashmir will become ripe for the same sort of
integration as has taken place in the case of the other states” (quoted in
Korbel, 1966: 220). Such expression of hope about complete integration
was indicative of the true nature of the Indian government’s policy
towards the state’s right from the beginning.
A reading of the Report enables us to understand that it was the federal
context of India that was more relevant to the people of Kashmir than
its “nationalist” context. Having pragmatic and functional reasons for
preferring India to Pakistan, the Kashmiri leadership was emphatic on
maintaining the distinctiveness of Kashmir. Autonomy as guaranteed
under Article 370 not merely symbolized a “special status” but was also
the basis of the federal “contract” that the state had with the Indian state.
What the Report problematizes is not so much the substantive effect of
the constitutional and legal provisions extended to the state as, the very
process of integration, that took away the notion of parity in a negotiated
relationship. That most of the constitutional changes leading to the pro-
cess of integration took place during the period 1953–75, when the legit-
imacy of the local political elite responsible for initiating the process of
integration was suspect, is reiterated in the Report. It is in this context
that the Report recommended maximum autonomy. “The best course is
for the President (of India) to repeal all orders which are not in conformity
with the Constitution (Application to Jammu and Kashmir) Order, 1950
and the terms of the Delhi Agreement of 1952” (Report of the State
Autonomy Committee, 1999: 111).
R E G I O N A L A U T O N O M Y C O M M I T T E E (RAC)
The state of Jammu and Kashmir has been witness to the perennial
demand for regional autonomy that has emanated from two of its regions,
Jammu and Ladakh. The simmering discontent has been a consequence
of the asymmetrical relations these two regions have always shared with
the Kashmir Valley. The popular feeling of deprivation and discrimination

in these regions, especially in Jammu, has resulted in periodic regional
agitations dating back to the early 1950s. It was in the above context that
the state government set up four Commissions to analyze the contentious
regional issue. These were the Gajendragadkar Commission (1967), the
Qadri Commission (1972), the Sikri Commission (1979), and the Wazir
Commission (1981). While the Commissions appointed in 1972 and 1981
examined the demand for carving more districts in Jammu, the other two
commissions were to recommend measures that could rectify the regional
imbalances to harmonize inter-regional relations. The Gajendragadkar
Commission, in its Report, recognized the widely-held feeling of regional
discrimination in the two regions of the state by stating that “even if all
the matters were equally settled, we feel that there would still be a measure
of discontent unless the political aspirations of the different regions of
the state were satisfied. In fact, we consider that the main cause of irrita-
tion and tension is the feeling of political neglect and discrimination,
real or imaginary from which certain regions of the state suffer” (Report
of the State Autonomy Committee, 1999: 73).
Regional discontent led to the demand for devolution of political power
within the state since the state’s accession to India. Sheikh Abdullah had
responded to such misgivings by assuring in a public address in 1953, that
his government would “give autonomy to the different cultural units of
the state as would be provided in the constitution that is being drawn
up…. This would remove all the fears of domination of one unit over
the other and will make for the voluntary unity and consolidation of the
people of the state” (ibid.: 2).
The fact that the RAC was constituted in response to compelling pol-
itical circumstances prevailing in Jammu and Ladakh should have made
it imperative to refer to the political sensibilities of the regions of Jammu
and Ladakh. Yet, the Report of the RAC did not refer to these regional
sensibilities. It, in fact, negated the very notion of the regions of Jammu
and Ladakh as such. The central argument of the Report, ironically,
revolved around the logic of counteracting the existing understanding of
the regions. It did not use the term “Region” to define the political status
of Jammu or Ladakh or for that matter even Kashmir. Defining them as
“Provinces” or “Divisions” created for administrative convenience, the
Report called the earlier attempts to define these as “the distinct regions”
as erroneous in nature (ibid.: 11). The Committee came to the conclusion
that it is urgent to demarcate the regions in the state for the purposes of
political and economic decentralization of power. The administrative
classification of the provinces should be recognized as the genuine and

real classification of the regions (Report of the State Autonomy Com-
mittee, 1999: 8).
By problematizing the claims of Jammu and Ladakh to their regional
status, the RAC Report virtually jettisoned the whole political logic of
“regional autonomy.” And in order to do that it took upon itself the task
of redefining “Region” and on the basis of that definition, “mapping”
the regions of the state (ibid.: 15). This, despite acknowledging that
“internal autonomy has been a constant demand of different ethno-
cultural-linguistic groups” (ibid.: 13).
Significantly, the recommendations of the two reports are based on
premises that are fundamentally at odds (Wirsing, 2003: 208). “There is
... SAC report which offers maximalist version of the secular demand
for autonomy for Jammu and Kashmir as a whole ... and then there is
the ... RAC report advocating the reorganization of the state into eight
new ‘provinces’ whose boundaries are defined on ethno-religious lines”
(Aijaz, 2000: 17).
The RAC reveals a mindset that explains why Jammu and Ladakh
have grown to resent the special treatment accorded to Kashmir by the
center at the expense of the minorities in Jammu and Ladakh. The latter
two, therefore, have favored full integration with India while Kashmir
clamors for autonomy or azadi.
The flawed RAC Report brings home the understanding, that to attain
greater autonomy, it is imperative that effective measures be taken up by
the Kashmiri leadership to end the ongoing discrimination against the
regions of Jammu and Ladakh.10 Such measures would help the Kashmiri
cause for autonomy as Jammu’s discontent against the dominant Kashmiri
leadership has often been used by New Delhi to force the pace of constitu-
tional integration of the state with the union.
Indian Federal Democracy and

the Autonomy/Self-Determination
Movements: Kashmir and Northeast
A reading of the constitutional provisions related to the special consti-

tutional status granted to Jammu and Kashmir and the North-eastern
states, avowedly to accommodate the aspiration of autonomy of the
territorially organized ethno-religious groups, leads us to think of other

commonalties as well. The two regions do have similarities in terms of
geographical, historical, and sociological elements (Manor, 2001: 100).
Kashmir as well as the Northeastern states are border regions and share
boundaries with hostile neighboring countries who have been keen on
extending help to the secessionist ethno-religious movements in these
states. Both the regions were not a part of the mainstream polity of British
India. The colonial regime had adopted the policy of “least interference”
towards both regions and had allowed the remote regions to be governed
by the traditional institutions. In sociological terms, the Northeastern
states have had tribal communities as the majority but who are minorities
in the rest of India. Jammu and Kashmir is a Muslim majority state.
Economically, as well as in terms of politics, these border regions remain
marginal to mainstream India.
There is another commonality between the two regions and that is the
breach of contract by the Indian state. The state of Jammu and Kashmir
was the last princely state to be annexed to an independent India. It was
also the only state to negotiate its annexation with India. The same can
be said about the Northeastern states. The people of both regions perceive
their federal context primarily in terms of contractual relations. The terms
of contract enshrined in the form of the constitutional provisions and
accords have, therefore, been always sacrosanct for them. Their federal
perceptions have been defined by concepts of “parity” and “negotiability.”
Hence, they have remained averse to the processes leading to “hierarchy”
and “assimilation” that have been the bane of the working of federal
democracy.
The autonomy promised under the constitutional articles mentioned
above, however, has not been honored. The incompatibility between the
normative and existential order is reflected in the fact that the Indian
state has never allowed Kashmir or the Northeastern states to function
even like any other state, let alone under Articles 370 or 371.
Trying to solve regional movements demanding recognition of their
distinct identities and rights by merely amending the Sixth Schedule11
has not worked. Political alienation characterizes these regions in the
absence of any credible guarantee against further erosion of autonomy
or the guarantee of a mechanism for dialogue based on the “principles of
rights and shared sovereignty.” Post-colonial experiences reveal that
India’s Kashmir and Northeast policy has been marked by the politics of
coercion (deployment of armed forces and repression of the autonomist
and the secessionist forces by taking recourse to the extraordinary laws),
economic populism (in the form of economic packages), ad hocism (in

the form of having short term security-centric policy), and cooperation
(with the locally discredited “nationalist” leadership in the form of failed
accords). Moreover, given the socio-political heterogeneity of these states,
the regional discontents over the perceived domination of the majority
community leadership, have often been used as pretexts by New Delhi to
force the pace of constitutional integration with the union.
In the above context, the ongoing ethnic conflict in Kashmir based on
the right to self-determination and similar movements in the Northeast
should be viewed primarily as the peoples’ demand to exercise their demo-
cratic right to participation, representation, and self-government as en-
visaged under the relevant autonomy clauses of the Constitution or the
accords.
Concluding Observations
The Constitution of India was framed under the shadow of partition.

The very real fear of disintegration of a country of India’s diversity along
with the vision of a homogenized modern nation state resulted in a
constitutional document in India that, though had federalism as its “chief
mark,” reflected a pronounced unitary bias (Bagchi, 2000: 3052). As the
experiences of Jammu and Kashmir and the Northeastern states show,
even in the case of the states which were granted autonomy by the
Constitution, the center has been playing a much more dominating role
than what even the Constitution makers had envisaged for the “main-
stream states.” The idea of genuine autonomy being granted to the states
has not been given a proper chance nor has its potential been appreciated
in providing solutions to the regional problems. It is in the context of the
ongoing movements for autonomy or secession in these states as well as
the shortcomings revealed over the years in the working of the Con-
stitution that the core issues of Indian federal democracy need a critical
rethinking.
Notes
1. While viewing federalism as “a means of launching colonies into independence,”

Hicks has drawn attention to the failure of most of the post-colonial federal
democracies. He has analyzed, in particular, the east African federations of Kenya,
Uganda, Tanzania; the Caribbean federation; and those of Malaysia and Singapore.
See Hicks (1978: 37–38).
2. Drawing attention to it, Ambedkar had argued on the occasion of the adoption of
the Constitution: “On the 26th of January 1950, we are going to enter into a life
of contradictions. In politics we will have equality and in social and economic life
we will have inequality.... How long can we continue to deny equality in our
social and economic life? If we continue to deny it for long, we will do so only by
putting our political democracy in peril.” Quoted in the Constitutional Assembly
Debates (1968: 944).
3. In the words of Aiyar: “federalism emerged as a means of reconciling conflicting
elements in the Indian polity, and came to prominence in the nineteen thirties.
Federalism then seemed to be the only political device for bringing together the
Indian states and the British Indian provinces and for integrating politically the
Hindus and the Muslims—the two major communities of the sub-continent.” See
Aiyar (1965: 1).
4. Even if the proposed federal scheme would have come into existence it would
have faced “considerable constraints due to the absence of a common set of values
such as representative government, democracy, secularism and so on. The system
would no more be a skeleton-like framework of guarantees and safeguards without
a sense of shared purpose, leave alone nation-hood, it would have been more
remains of an empire.” See Banerjee (1992: 5).
5. While providing for a division of powers between the provinces and the union,
the Nehru Report had shown a tilt towards the union as it granted certain emer-
gency powers to it. See Banerjee (1989: 26).
6. The communal bloodbath followed by partition had created a concern for the
critical need for a dominant center to prevent further dismemberment of the
country. Historical precedents were also cited in this regard. The highly centralized
nature of the Constitution and the lukewarm response to political decentralization
was also due to the urgent need felt by the Constitution makers to deal effectively
with acute food crisis, integrate more than 560 princely states in India and their
administrative consolidation, and undertake the agenda of nation building by
implementing the development planning model.
7. Introducing the draft Constitution to the Constituent Assembly, Ambedkar argued
that the federal provisions in the Indian Constitution compared better than their
counterparts in the sense that they did not suffer from two common drawbacks of
the federal constitutions namely, rigidity and legalism. The Constitution had an
amending procedure that was far simpler than its counterparts in the world. As for
the second, excessive diversity of laws, administrative styles, and judicial procedures
was done away with the constitutional provision of a single judiciary, uniformity
in fundamental laws, and a common All India services. See Rao (1968: 422–27).
8. Nehru in his speech in the Lok Sabha on the Official Language Bill observed: “The
makers of our constitution were wise in laying down that all [the regional] langu-
ages were to be languages of equal status. There is no question of any one language
being more a national language than another.” Quoted in King (1998: 219).
9. The state government formed the Committee “to examine the question of
restoration of autonomy to the state of Jammu and Kashmir.” The Committee
had the following terms of reference: (a) To examine and recommend measures
for the restoration of autonomy to the state of Jammu and Kashmir, consistent
with the Instrument of Accession, the Constitution Application Order, 1950,
and the Delhi Agreement of 1952. (b) To examine and recommend safeguards
that would be regarded necessary for incorporation in the union/state constitution
to ensure that the constitutional arrangement that is finally evolved in pursuance
of the recommendations of this committee, is inviolable. (c) To also examine and
recommend measures to ensure a harmonious relationship for the future between
the state and the union. See Rao (2002: 238).
10. Balraj Puri, who was sacked by the NC government as chairman of the RAC, to
be replaced by the then state finance minister, in his own draft of the Report,
recommended the devolution of the state’s administrative powers in such a manner
that would preserve the unity of the state and leave the three communally hetero-
geneous regions essentially intact. Autonomy at the grassroots level was to be
realized by promoting local (village, block, and district) self-government along
the lines of the Panchayati Raj institution. Puri suggested such a measure not
only to achieve decentralization of state power but also to enhance the institutional
representation of the ethno-linguistic minorities, i.e. Gujjars, Baltis, Paharis, Gaddis,
Ladakhis, etc., without strengthening the communal identities of the three regions
of Jammu, Ladakh, and Kashmir. See Puri (1999).
11. Most of the ethnic movements for autonomy/secession in the Northeast have
veered around the provisions of the Sixth Schedule. The Khasis, Garos, Jaintias,
Mizos, and Nagas while rejecting the limited scope for autonomy envisaged under
the schedule have demanded and achieved separate statehood. The Karbis and
Dimasas have been asking for greater autonomy. The Bodos, Chutiyas, and
Tiwas have asked for their inclusion in the Sixth Schedule. See Misra and Misra
(2000: 112).
5
AUTONOMY’S INTERNATIONAL
LEGAL CAREER
Sabyasachi Basu Ray Chaudhury
O ne of the most sought after, and at the same time, resisted, devices
for conflict management in the contemporary world is autonomy
(Ghai, 2000: 1). The promise to consider or negotiate autonomy has been
used successfully to bring about truces between warring parties (ibid.).
Autonomy arrangements have sometimes been considered as an interim
solution, as a breathing space while long-term solutions are explored
and negotiated (ibid.). Yet, autonomy remains a contested concept as it
has been used to separate as well as to bring people together (ibid.).
There is no developed or reliable theory of autonomy. Modern but
contested justifications revolve around the notion of identity. But the
structures or the mechanisms of autonomy are still hazy. Our increasing
preoccupation with autonomy has made us opportunistic in use, over-
ambitious in our expectations, and excited by the variations and flexibility
to which it will lend itself (Ghai, 2000: 4). Keeping this in mind, we shall
examine the international legal discourses on autonomy that emerged in
the 20th century. Since the questions of self-determination, and rights of
minorities and those of the indigenous people are closely linked to the
question of autonomy, we need to pay adequate attention to these issues
as well.
Autonomy’s International Legal Career / 115
If the human rights movements across the globe in the second half of
the last century have helped the individual secure a status in international
law, the use of autonomy as a species of group rights has changed the
character of international law in another significant way (Ghai, 2000: 2).
In the late 1980s, it was realized that a purely individualistic approach to
human rights was inadequate to respond to various demands of ethnic
minorities and other collectives claiming greater recognition of and
protection for their culture, and in some cases, greater political authority
over their own affairs. Against this backdrop, in the post-Soviet world, a
few significant developments in international law have served to provide
legal foundations for autonomy, although its legal basis appears to be
somewhat unclear (Hannum, 1990). There is a growing recognition that
international instruments should include the possibility of autonomy,
in the form of self-government, for minorities and indigenous peoples
within a state. Therefore, a “new principle of international law can be
discerned in the interstices of contemporary definitions of sovereignty,
self-determination, and the human rights of individuals and groups”
(ibid.: 473).
Self-Determination
The notion of self-determination is central to the normative debate in

international political theory. If nations have a right to statehood, then
the international community cannot deny some nations this right and
privilege others. Yet, that is what happens in reality (Samaddar, 2001b).
Traditionally, self-determination was external in character and applied
to situations of colonial domination or racist regimes in the form of
independence. Hurst Hannum, a leading expert on international law,
argued in the early 1990s, that no non-colonial people “had yet acquired
the right to independence or self-determination in international law.”
But, as he was confining his observation to independence from the state,
the question as to whether other modes could be applicable to non-
colonial peoples as well, remained open. Following the disintegration of
the Soviet Union, the demands for the self-determination of people started
reaching a new high (Archibugi, 2003: 488). In the process, different and
often contradictory aspirations were grouped under the single banner of
self-determination (ibid.).
116 / SABYASACHI BASU RAY CHAUDHURY
But before proceeding further it is better to look at the different categor-

ies of the “right to self-determination.” The first category, according to
Daniele Archibugi, is the more or less widely accepted self-determination
of colonial peoples. The second meaning encompasses the demands of
minorities intending to break away from the state they belong to, and
has been the most in vogue since the end of the Cold War and directly
associated with the armed conflicts and civil wars of the late 1990s. This
is the meaning, in particular, that clashes with the concept of state sov-
ereignty. Finally, the third meaning refers to certain ethnic or cultural
groups, which, although intending to remain part of the state they belong
to, wish to achieve certain collective rights. This is the most innovative
meaning and has of late triggered a fierce debate (Archibugi, 2003: 488).
But, in all these three meanings, self-determination is a subjective right
that still fails to be precisely matched by a body of law. As the right to self-
determination cannot be self-assessed by conflicting political commu-
nities, mainly reflecting the power of the contending parties rather than
the interests of the peoples, the concept of self-determination should be
fitted into a legal system far broader than that of a single state and even
of inter-state law in order to retain its validity. Self-determination requires
a cosmopolitan legal order in order to play a progressive role in the global
community and to avoid the risk of entertaining particularistic and
chauvinistic demands contrary to fundamental human rights. But
such a cosmopolitan legal order is unlikely to be achieved soon (ibid.:
488–89).
The Romans and the Spanish at the time of the discovery of the New
World, and the European states before and after the French Revolution,
all felt the need to guarantee certain rights to “peoples” even if they lacked
a “state” (ibid.: 489). But at the beginning of the 20th century, a major
divide emerged between “states” and “peoples.” At the Paris Confer-
ence of 1918, as President Woodrow Wilson mediated between the
views and interests of the European governments, self-determination for
peoples could not really entail the creation of one state for every people.
In a Europe founded upon nation states, new states like Czechoslovakia,
Yugoslavia, Poland, and the Baltic republics were created with sizable
ethnic minorities where people were forced to live together (Arendt, 2003:
489–90). The mediating great powers were aware of the potential
problems, and at the Paris Conference they had the governments of the
new states pledge to recognize and guarantee certain rights to minorities,
and accept a limitation on the exercise of their sovereignty domestically

with the new born international organization, the League of Nations,
acting as a guarantor of the rights of minorities (Archibugi, 2003: 490).
After the tragedy of World War II, the UN Charter was much more cautious
in accepting the dichotomy between states and peoples. But even then it
failed to address the problem of ethnic minorities inside the already exist-
ing states.
The case law of the International Court of Justice (ICJ) on self-
determination was initially restricted to cases of colonialism or alien
domination. In the case of Namibia, the ICJ affirmed the principle of
self-determination for non self-governing territories, a decision gener-
ally interpreted as giving the right to self-determination to colonies. This
view of the “Namibia case” was endorsed in the ICJ’s Advisory Opinion
in the Western Sahara case, where the court held that the right of self-
determination requires a free and genuine expression of the will of the
peoples concerned. This cannot be taken to endorse a general right to
self-determination in situations not concerned with decolonization and
alien domination.
But since the late 20th century, self-determination has increasingly
been recognized as having an internal aspect that requires full and effective
participation by all groups in a society. And autonomy is being considered
as a method of allowing internal self-determination to minorities who
form a part of the peoples of an existing state.
Minority Rights
Most of the post-1945 international arrangements regarding the

treatment of certain western European minorities, such as the Paris
Agreement of 1946 between Austria and Italy on the German-speaking
south Tyroleans, resulted from very particular political and territorial
circumstances where the emphasis in international Western practice was
almost entirely on human rights for all, while minority rights were looked
upon with great suspicion. But over the years, the right to self-determination
has increasingly been reinterpreted in terms of internal constitutional
arrangements for the political and autonomy rights of minorities (Ghai,
2000: 3). The Canadian Supreme Court has given a new twist to the right
of secession in its answer to the reference from the federal government
as to whether Quebec has a right to unilateral secession. The court held

that under neither the Canadian Constitution nor international law did
Quebec have the right but that, once a part of Canada declared emphatic-
ally that it wished to secede, all parties had to enter into negotiations
over this claim (Ghai, 2000).
A number of constitutions now recognize an entitlement to self-
government, such as the Philippines in relation to its indigenous peoples
and the Muslim minority; Spain, which guarantees autonomy to three
regions and invites others to negotiate with the center for autonomy;
Papua New Guinea, which authorizes provinces to negotiate with the
central government for substantial devolution of power; and Ethiopia,
which gives its “nations, nationalities and peoples” the right to seek wide-
ranging powers as states within a federation and even guarantees their
right to secession (ibid.: 3–4). The Chinese Constitution entrenches
the rights of ethnic minorities to substantial self-government, although
in practice the dominance of the Communist Party negates their
autonomy.
In other instances the Constitution authorizes, but does not require,
the setting up of autonomous areas, with China as an interesting example,
in order to provide a constitutional basis for the “One Country, Two
Systems” policy for the reunification of Hong Kong, Macao, and Taiwan
(ibid.: 4). On the other hand, some constitutions prohibit or restrict
the scope of autonomy by requiring that the state be “unitary” or some
similar expression. Such a provision has retarded the acceptance or the
implementation of meaningful devolution in, for example, Sri Lanka,
Papua New Guinea, and China (ibid.). Moreover, the distinction between
peoples and minorities in international instruments remains a purely
legal creation without any acceptable definition of either type of entity.
In such a situation, a particular group may be treated as a minority within
a state and, at the same time, qualify as a people.
Some minorities briefly enjoyed the rights to culture, language, and
education under the League of Nations minority system. But, the League
minority system applied only to a few new or reconstituted states of cen-
tral and eastern Europe, the Aaland Islands, and Iraq. The guarantees it
recognized, were never intended for universal application but only as a
specific and limited response to a series of problems arising in particular
states (Preece, 2001: 10). Interestingly, the post-war document of the
Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 1948, made no mention of the
special minority rights, but endorsed the principles of equality and non-
discrimination (Preece, 2001). However, its Articles 18 (freedom of
thought and religion), 19 (freedom of expression), 20 (freedom of peaceful
assembly and association), and 27 (the right to freely participate in the
cultural life of the community) have some relevance for the minorities
(ibid.). Even Article 27, directed at the preservation of the cultural com-
munities, is not clear about the nature of the cultural community—
whether it includes the minority cultures or simply the dominant culture
(ibid.: 10–11).
This ambiguity has given rise to an idea that it guarantees participation
in the dominant culture. So it could not prevent the assimilationist policies
directed against the minorities (ibid.: 11). However, there are indications
that the initial draft of the Universal Declaration included a guarantee
that “in all countries inhabited by a substantial number of persons of a
race, language or religion other than those of the majority ... minorities
shall have the right to establish and maintain, out of an equitable
proportion of public funds ... their schools, cultural institutions, and to
use their language before courts, organs of the state and in the press and
public assembly.” But, the final draft did not contain this guarantee for
the minorities (ibid.: 11).
Prior to 1989, only the International Covenant on Civil and Political
Rights (ICCPR) 1966, incorporated a specific minority rights clause.1
Article 27 of the ICCPR provides that, “In those States in which ethnic,
religious or linguistic minorities exist, persons belonging to such minor-
ities shall not be denied the right, in community with the other members
of their group, to enjoy their own culture, to profess and practise their
own religion, or to use their own language.” It is interesting to note that
this provision refers to “minorities” rather than, as does ICCPR Article 1,
to “peoples,” and protects “persons belonging to” minorities rather than
the minorities themselves, although the right is exercised “in community
with the other members” of a minority. But many argue that this provision
gives the state signatories the freedom to determine whether or not the
ethnic groups in their jurisdictions constitute such minorities by will.
Therefore, many states, possessing minorities, have avoided their inter-
national obligations in this context by redefining these groups as “immi-
grant” or “aboriginal” (ibid.: 12).
In 1994, the ICCPR Committee on Human Rights adopted General
Comment No. 23 on Article 27 of the Covenant (CCPR, 1994). Paragraph
3.2 says that, “Enjoyment of rights under Article 27 ‘does not prejudice
the sovereignty and territorial integrity of a State party.’ Nonetheless,
the aspects of rights of individuals protected under this article, such as
enjoyment of a particular culture, ‘may consist of a way of life which is
closely associated with territory,’ particularly for members of the indi-
genous communities” (Steiner and Alston, 2000: 1292). Paragraph 6.2
says that, although the rights are individual, they depend on the ability of
the minority group to maintain its culture. “Accordingly, positive measures
by States may also be necessary to protect the identity of a minority”
and the rights of its members (ibid.). Paragraph 7 says that cultural rights
under Article 27 extend to ways of life “associated with the use of land
resources, especially in the case of indigenous peoples.... The enjoyment
of those rights may require positive legal measures of protection and
measures to ensure the effective participation of members of minority
communities in decisions which affect them” (ibid.).
The post-colonial states in Latin America, Africa, and Asia generally
assumed that the absence of minority rights was more conducive to state
success defined in terms of territorial integrity and internal political
stability (Preece, 2001: 12). So it is not quite surprising to note that the
American Convention on Human Rights, 1969, reiterates almost all of
the rights included in the ICCPR although it does not include any
reference whatsoever, to minority rights along the lines of Article 27
(ibid.). This absence of explicit minority provisions is also apparent in
the Additional Protocol to the American Convention on Human Rights
in the Area of Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights (Protocol of San
Salvador), 1988 (ibid.). The African Charter on Human and People’s
Rights, 1981, incorporates a people’s right to self-determination. But,
here “people” has been identified with the already existing African states
and not the various tribal groups within them (ibid.).
Similarly, the Association of Commonwealth States emphasized its
commitment to individual human rights and racial equality but said virtu-
ally nothing specific about the circumstances of the minorities by will
and their desire for protection against unwarranted policies of assimila-
tion or oppression. Although the Singapore Declaration of the Common-
wealth Principles of 1971 affirms “equal rights for all citizens regardless
of race, colour, creed or political belief,” and recognizes “racial prejudice
as a dangerous sickness,” “self-determination” is mentioned only in the
context of “non-racialism” and in opposition to “all forms of colonial

domination” (Preece, 2001: 13). There is no reference at all to minority
rights as distinct from equal citizenship (ibid.). While the 1979 Lusaka
Declaration of the Commonwealth on Racism and Racial Prejudice ac-
knowledges that “everyone is free to retain pluralism in his or her culture
and lifestyle,” this statement is made only in the context of such pluralism
being no justification for “the perpetuation of racial prejudice or racially
discriminatory practices” (ibid.). Moreover, there is no mention of what
actions, if any, a state ought to take to promote pluralism of culture and
lifestyles within its jurisdiction or whether these might include provisions
that would help perpetuate the minorities by will (ibid.).
Even within Europe, where international minority rights had been
recognized under the League system, there was no revival of special min-
ority guarantees till 1989. Even the Council of Europe (COE), the creator
of one of the most successful regional human rights systems in the
world, was quite hesitant to pursue a specific minority rights proto-
col to the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR), 1950
(ibid.: 13). But, outside the auspices of the COE, a few member states
entered into minority agreements to resolve the outstanding minority
questions.2
On another plane, the Helsinki Final Act, establishing the Conference
for Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), specifically mentions
minorities in three different parts of the document—the Declaration
on Principles, Principle VII, and in the section entitled Cooperation
in Humanitarian and Other Fields (ibid). But, the initial interest in
minority issues was not sustained in the various “CSCE Follow-up
Meetings” that took place between 1975 and 1989 (ibid.). Instead, these
meetings were dominated by a concern for the violation of the individual
human rights—particularly those civil and political liberties associated
with the movement towards human rights and democracy in the com-
munist states (Mastny, 1992: 13–14). Therefore, once again, “legitimate”
minority interests did not include any rights in cultural, educational,
religious, and linguistic matters over and above those of equal citizen-
ship (Preece, 2001: 14). So, it has been argued that the international
actors by and large ignored the question of minorities during the Cold
War due to the widespread conviction that the continued existence of
such groups posed a threat to the territorial integrity and social cohesion
of existing states and also to the order and stability within the states
system (Preece, 2001).
Rights of the Indigenous People
Indigenous peoples assert that they should not be treated as minorities

but as a discrete group-entity within international law. Nevertheless, there
is nothing to stop them from benefiting from minority rights guarantees,
although the converse is not true vis-à-vis minority groups. The change
in tenor of the ILO Conventions on Indigenous Peoples between No. 107
of 1957 and No. 169 of 1989 is noteworthy as regards recognition of the
collectivity.
The earlier convention was concerned with the assimilation into the
rest of the population of individual members of indigenous groups as
they “became civilized,” whereas No. 169 seeks to preserve the “integrity
and identity of those communities. Hence the ‘individualistic’ approach
has made way for a ‘collectivist’ approach which gives priority to the
preservation of the traditional group identity.” Moreover, the UN Draft
Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples provides for an
independent right to autonomy, defined for these purposes as self-
government.3
Autonomy for indigenous peoples, in general, is less contested than
for other groups (Ghai, 2000: 7). Still, the incorporation of territorial
and cultural autonomy for indigenous peoples has posed various diffi-
culties. They invariably create asymmetry and are hard to fit within the
national norms of human rights. This is because the autonomy they seek
preserves customary law and practices which imply unequal rights or
discrimination against outsiders as well as insiders. Their demands can
have a major effect on other federal arrangements—the “aboriginals” in
Quebec, a minority within a minority, have resisted the Quebecan inde-
pendence (ibid.: 7–8). They can also raise difficult sovereignty issues—
just as the Canadian Francophones want an acknowledgment of their
“distinct society,” indigenous peoples want a recognition of their prior
sovereignty. Yet, the exercise of this sovereignty is difficult in the modern
context, not only for the reasons mentioned above but also because of
the lack of technical resources and expertise and the size of the territory
(ibid.: 7).
Globalizing Fragmentation
With the end of the US–Soviet Cold War, ethnic conflict appears to be
re-emerging as sub-national groups fight to be heard and represented.
Imperatives of globalization make the daily practice of political accom-
modation difficult and subject it to universalized constitutional practices
that push the political-ethical task of accommodation to the margins of
political rule (Samaddar, 2001b: 12). Economic integration creates new
ghettos, therefore new exiles, new selves, and a declining legitimacy of
the political rule (ibid.: 13). In others words, globalization is not unidirec-
tional. In its latest avatar, it has led to a continuous de-territorialization
and re-territorialization of social and power relations in the new global
economy.
Globalization, on the one hand, has undermined the national state,
not only by shrinking the resources under national control for shaping
economic and social outcomes, but also by reducing government’s
legitimacy and authority in the eyes of the public. By destroying national
control over information flows, it has weakened a government’s ability
to influence its public. Internationalization of the media, the marketing
and export of Western popular culture, and the deregulation of informa-
tion have all combined to weaken national values and, in so doing, dry
up the springs of support for national action. The effects of changes in
the international economy are experienced through the national political
leaders’ diminished control both over the material determinants of a
country’s prosperity and over the vehicles for reaching common public
understandings of national well being. But, the dominant spatial para-
digm of territoriality still determines whether we treat some identities
and attachments as authentic or not.
The term “post-national” has been deployed to describe the new archi-
tecture of international law under globalization. Individuals no longer
identify themselves primarily with a state, or at least not nearly to the
extent that they have in the recent past. But the binding force of inter-
national law and legal status is still in question. The international com-
munity, instead of a community governed by law, appears to be nothing
else than a collection of states and other entities with certain international
powers, living in a state of nature, where the most powerful are free to
impose their own rules. In the international community of states, there
is an ultimate rule of recognition composed of a rule pacta sunt servanda
and of the obligation to comply with the rules of customary international

law. These two rules should respect the community’s basic public policy
of jus cogens.
In standard textbooks, international law is described as the law that
governs the relations between states. New international legal subjects
emerged during the 20th century—international organizations and indi-
viduals. Nevertheless, states still are the principal actors in the international
legal system retaining a great measure of control over international law
making processes. International organizations can hardly be said to have
changed the situation. Indeed, international organizations are made of
states and they adopt decisions only. Hence, the states lead international
law making in the context of international organizations. The contem-
porary international legal experiences on autonomy may be assessed
against this backdrop.
Since 1989, the previous international response to pluralism within
states has come under growing criticism challenging the liberal theory of
state and power. New configurations of power, fresh claims for recognition,
and imaginative “layerings” of territories constantly press against
established principles and practice, offering accommodation to identity
claims within the interstices of the state threatening to break it apart
(Ghai, 2000: 2). Therefore, recently the liberals have modified the idea
of democracy so that it does not appear to be simply “majoritarian” any
more. The democratic assumptions so far tended to discredit the minority
claims for special rights in addition to those of equal citizenship. More-
over, the changed global context and growing public pressure have resulted
in a greater willingness of the Western democracies to interfere in the
domestic jurisdictions of “non-democracies” in eastern Europe. Minority
rights have also started featuring in these attempts (Preece, 2001: 15).
The international actors have now begun to realize that the only way to
successfully resolve the “problem” of pluralism is to create circumstances
in which minorities and majorities can flourish side by side (ibid.).
Against this backdrop, a major development in the global standards
on minority rights took place in 1992, when the UN Declaration on the
Rights of Persons Belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious, and Lingu-
istic Minorities was officially proclaimed by the UN General Assembly.
Persons belonging to minorities were recognized in this Declaration
as having rights to existence, identity, and the enjoyment of culture, re-
ligion, language, social affairs, the economy, and public life. These basic
provisions were supplemented by special minority rights to participate

in the relevant national and regional decisions, to establish and main-
tain associations, and to have contacts both within and across national
frontiers.
Moreover, the 1992 UN Declaration reinforced a certain collective
element by acknowledging that these rights could be exercised individually
as well as in community with other members of the group. It also
remedied the 1966 failure to specify state measures to promote minority
rights. Henceforth, the states were required to adopt provisions for minor-
ity language instruction and the promotion of knowledge concerning
minority cultures and languages amongst the majority population. At the
same time, minority concerns were to be taken into consideration in both
domestic programs and international cooperation (Preece, 2001: 16). But,
the 1992 Declaration reiterated that minority rights were not intended
as vehicles to further minority secession. Therefore, sovereignty remains
the cornerstone of the international system in the foreseeable future and
modifications of sovereign jurisdictions, except by constitutional means
and with the consent of all concerned, will not be recognized or en-
couraged (ibid.: 17).
The European regional organizations have also recognized the
need for multilateral minority rights standard setting and enforcement.
These include the Copenhagen Document, 1990, as well as the Char-
ter of Paris for a New Europe, 1990, the Geneva Report on National
Minorities, 1991, the Moscow Document, 1991, the Helsinki Docu-
ment, 1992, and the Budapest Document, 1994. Moreover, in Decem-
ber 1992, the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe
(OSCE) created the Office of the High Commissioner for National
Minorities (HCNM) to assist in the member states’ implementation of
international minority standards and to help resolve ethnic conflicts
(ibid.: 18).
While most OSCE and COE provisions for minority rights augment
the post-1945 human rights regime and the global minimum standard
outlined in the 1992 UN Declaration on Minorities, the 1990s European
regional response to this problem also reveals both an important re-
appraisal of the League of Nations linguistic and cultural guarantees,
and the nascent formulation of rules with no clear precedent in the
international agreements. The COE’s Charter for Regional or Minority
Languages, 1992, for example, contained far more extensive provisions
for the use of minority languages than did the UN Declaration on

Minorities (Preece, 2001: 18–19).
However, the Copenhagen Document went beyond the international
status quo in this regard. It clearly stated that, “persons belonging to
national minorities have the right freely to express, preserve and develop
their ethnic, cultural, linguistic or religious identity … free of any attempts
at assimilation against their will.” Paragraph 30 of the Document says
that, “the questions relating to national minorities can only be satisfactorily
resolved in a democratic political framework based on the rule of law,
with a functioning independent judiciary.” Similarly, the Convention of
National Minorities specified that states shall refrain from both “practices
aimed at the assimilation of persons belonging to minorities against their
will” and “from measures which modify the proportions of the population
in areas inhabited by persons belonging to national minorities.”4
But, the Copenhagen Document identified autonomy as only one of
the possible means to achieve the promotion of minority identities and
acknowledged that all such measures must be in accordance with the
policies of the state concerned. Nevertheless, quite significantly, the
inherited political beliefs and prejudices of the 19th century are now
being challenged within the European organizations (ibid.: 20–21).
However, the regional organizations in other parts of the world have
not yet addressed the issues raised by the minority at will, in any signifi-
cant way. Both the Commonwealth’s 1991 Harare Declaration and the
1995 Millbrook Action Program make special reference to “equal rights
for all citizens,” “racial prejudice and intolerance,” and “problems of
migration and refugees,” but say nothing with respect to minorities at
will and their desire for, among others, minority language rights and
freedom from forced assimilation. The proposed American Declaration
on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, 1997, definitely extends recognition
to both indigenous peoples and “peoples whose social, cultural and eco-
nomic conditions distinguish them from the majority,” but adds the
requirement that such peoples must have a status which is regulated
“wholly or in part by their own customs, or traditions or by special law
and regulations.” The African and Asian organizations are similarly
reticent on this pressing issue (ibid.: 21).
In fact, the fear of secession clouds the relationship between the state
and the minority group. Nevertheless, autonomy is increasingly viewed
as a proper response to meeting the needs of a group within a state, as

evidenced by the 1998 Northern Ireland Peace Agreement and the estab-
lishment of Nunavat in Canada in 1999. After 20 years of negotiations,
Canada established a new province, Nunavut on 1 April 1999, giving
self-government to 25,000 people, 85 per cent of whom are Inuits. But
autonomy is also seen as less drastic than secession, the true measure of
last resort. Therefore, Canada established Nunavut, but refused Quebec
secession. Similar instances are found in France, Italy, Finland, and the
UK.5 In all these cases, territorial autonomy enables national minorities
to establish and govern their own language, including schools, univer-
sities, courts, and regional parliaments. Despite these initiatives, there is
no explicit right to autonomy in international law for groups within states.
But, the presence or absence of an entitlement in either international
or national law to autonomy, as well as provisions limiting its scope, can
play an important role in the conduct of negotiations and the relative
bargaining position of parties, especially when there is international or
third party mediation (Ghai, 2000: 3). The case for autonomy rests on
three major principles: minority rights, indigenous rights and, more
controversially, the right to self-determination (ibid.).
In some cases, the treaties provided for special rights for a particular
minority population, including territorial autonomy. The Dayton Agree-
ment of 1995 reasserted the sovereign status of the Republic of Bosnia
and Herzegovina in Article 1 of the General Framework Agreement for
Peace, but created two autonomous entities, the Federation of Bosnia
and Herzegovina, and Republika Srpska. The Dayton Agreement shows
that minority rights may, in the eyes of the international community,
require autonomous self-government.
Dimensions of Autonomy—Territorial
and Non-territorial
Autonomy is a device to allow ethnic and other groups claiming a distinct

identity to exercise direct control over affairs of special concern to them,
while allowing the larger entity those powers which cover common
interests. Autonomy can be granted under different legal forms. There is
no uniform use of terms for the different kinds of arrangements for
autonomy (Ghai, 2000: 8). Yash Ghai, on the basis of different experi-
ences of autonomy, has identified a few features:
1. The prospects of establishing autonomy arrangements are strongest

when the state undergoes a regime change.
2. Autonomy arrangements are likely to be established if the inter-
national community becomes involved in conflict resolution.
3. Autonomy arrangements are most likely to succeed in states with
established traditions of democracy and the rule of law.
4. Autonomy is easier to concede and likely to succeed when there is
no dispute about sovereignty.
5. Autonomy is more likely to be negotiated and to succeed if there
are several ethnic groups rather than two.
6. Autonomy arrangements, which have been negotiated in a demo-
cratic and participatory way, have a better chance of success than
those, which are imposed.
7. An independent dispute settlement mechanism is essential to long-
term success.
8. Careful design of institutional structures is essential for the success
of autonomy.
9. Autonomy does not promote secession; on the contrary, true
autonomy prevents secession (ibid.: 14–23).
The federal model of autonomy may be regarded as unnecessary if the

need is to accommodate only one or two minority groups. In these
situations, special powers may be devolved only to that part of the country
where the minority constitutes a majority; these powers are exercised by
regional institutions. Normally very significant powers are devolved and
the region, unlike in a federation, plays relatively little role in national
government and institutions. This kind of autonomy is referred to as
“regional autonomy” (ibid.: 9). By its nature, regional autonomy is asym-
metrical (ibid.). But, both federalism and regional autonomy are
characterized by constitutional entrenchment of autonomy. When ter-
ritorial devolution of powers is not constitutionally protected, or not
sufficiently protected, the arrangements are sometimes referred to as
“regionalism” or “decentralization” (ibid.). But the contemporary world
strongly emphasizes the notion of sovereignty and the majority of the
scholars are unwilling to imagine a conceptualization of sovereignty apart
from the state as its exclusive locus. These together complicate the legal
position of autonomy to a considerable extent (Zumbansen, 2004: 207).
Participation encompasses the idea of power sharing within the
state. Power sharing might be reflected in a federated state through self-
government of a region where the group is in a majority or through
participation in the political process and the right for the group to run its
own affairs. Whereas political autonomy is usually understood as self-
government of a region of a state, participatory autonomy embraces this
and other forms as well. It has the dual aspect of providing the group
with the political means to preserve its own culture and identity whilst
bringing it within the political processes of the state.
For instance, the United Kingdom is going through a process of
extending participatory autonomy. One example is to be found in the
Northern Ireland Peace Agreement of April 1998. Given that the nation-
alist and unionist populations could not have separate administrations
within the province, autonomy is granted to the province as a whole
with participation and control for both communities provided through
various mechanisms. The Agreement provided not only for an assembly
elected by proportional representation that is to be inclusive in its
membership and operate with due regard to both traditions, requiring
cross-community support for “key decisions,” but also for avenues for
the Republic of Ireland to influence developments directly. There is the
North-South Ministerial Council to discuss issues of concern to Belfast
and Dublin and a British-Irish Intergovernmental Conference. Territorial
autonomy has also been given to the people of Scotland through the
Scotland Act 1998.
In many ways, cultural autonomy is the most important right of groups
within the state that has drawn considerable attention within Europe in
the 1990s. The Hague Recommendations Regarding Minority Education
Rights deals mainly with mother tongue education, but also expects states
to ensure the teaching to all, the histories, cultures, and traditions of
national minorities. Beyond schooling, a minority cannot preserve its
identity and culture if it is not permitted to use its own language, the
topic addressed in the Foundation on Inter-Ethnic Relations’ Oslo
Recommendations of February 1998.
Finally, the need for financial autonomy cannot be denied. It is a
necessary prerequisite to participatory and cultural autonomy although
it is often the most difficult to achieve. Common Article 1.2 of the two
Covenants provided that, “All peoples may, for their own ends, freely dis-
pose of their natural wealth and resources without prejudice to any obliga-
tions arising out of international economic cooperation, based upon the
principle of mutual benefit, and international law. In no case may a people
be deprived of its own means of subsistence.” Under Article 31 of the 1994
Declaration on Indigenous Peoples, such peoples were to be provided
with autonomous government along with “ways and means for financing
these autonomous functions.”
Having said this, we need to consider that the notion of territorial
autonomy faces some serious problems. As many different national com-
munities can claim almost any given territory that could form a viable
state, a universal principle of territorial self-determination for nations
may easily be considered as a recipe for endless war (Gellner, 1983: 1).
Under the circumstances, many experts have argued in favor of non-
territorial autonomy also.
Most advocates of non-territorial solutions do not regard them as fully
replacing territorially based politics, but envisage instead a dual form of
self-governance where individuals would be both citizens of territorial
states and members of autonomous non-territorial communities. Nations
could thus no longer aspire to sovereignty, which is just as well, because
such downgrading of their claims is probably conducive to more peaceful
relations between them (Baubock, 2001: 4).
The idea of non-territorial cultural autonomy was first systematically
developed by Karl Renner (in 1902) and Otto Bauer (in 1907) who saw it
as a way of overcoming conflicts that paralyzed the socialist movement
within the late Habsburg Empire. Later authors have occasionally hinted
at the desirability of non-territorial solutions as a remedy for endemic
violence in nationality conflicts. Gidon Gottlieb, for example, suggests a
functional approach to the territorial disputes that avoids the all-or-
nothing features of territorial sovereignty and “involves the demarcation
of different layers of lines for different purposes” (Gottlieb, 1993: 47). In
a later commentary he goes far beyond this modest proposal by advocat-
ing “the eventual extension of the system of states to include alongside
it a system of nations and peoples that are not organized territorially
into independent states at all” (quoted in Baubock, 2001: 5).
The idea of non-territorial solutions to national conflicts is prima facie
attractive and plausible. However, many have argued that all national
conflicts are driven by a desire for self-government. While cultural liberties
and protection can and should be offered on a non-territorial basis, the

desire for self-government has always a territorial component that must
not be ignored in the design of institutions and settlements that are meant
to prevent the escalation of these conflicts (Baubock, 2001: 5).
According to Hurst Hannum there are many advantages to “auto-
nomy” as a solution to ethnic conflicts. Perhaps the most obvious is the
flexibility of the term. For instance, autonomous entities in Bosnia and
Herzegovina have a broad range of independent authority, although
autonomy in that instance was designed to maintain the façade of a
unified state, rather than to integrate a new territory into an existing
state. Autonomy in Belgium and the Aland Islands is expressed through
territorially based powers over language, education, culture, and, in the
latter case, residence (Hannum, 2001: 1).
Hannum argues that autonomy may also respond to concerns about
minority rights, particularly when minorities are territorially concentrated
in significant numbers. Territorial autonomy is mentioned as a possible
option in the Copenhagen Document, although its formulation is fairly
minimal and reflects the sensitive nature of such proposals.6 Territorial
autonomy has also discussed in some detail in the Lund Recommenda-
tions on Effective Participation by National Minorities in Political Life,
which were adopted in 1999 in conjunction with the office of the OSCE’s
High Commissioner on National Minorities (Lund Recommendations,
1999). In this discussion, functions that might fall under the non-territorial
arrangements include education, culture, use of minority language, envir-
onment, local planning, natural resources, economic development, local
policing functions, and housing, health, and other social services (ibid.:
para 20). The Recommendations noted that all democracies have arrange-
ments for governance at different territorial levels, but urged states to
“favourably consider” territorial arrangements “where it would improve
the opportunities of minorities to exercise authority over matters affecting
them” (ibid.: para 19). The Lund Recommendations also specify that
territorial self-governance institutions should be based on democratic
principles rather than ethnic criteria and should respect the human rights
of all persons within their jurisdiction, including minorities (ibid.: paras
16 and 21).
Moreover, autonomy maintains the territorial integrity of the existing
states. Even comparatively more powerful autonomous units are not
sovereign on the international level and remain ultimately subject, in
varying degrees, to the jurisdiction of the state in which they are found.
This is obviously attractive to the states concerned who fear the destabil-
izing effect of the proliferation of even smaller, ethnically defined states.
Therefore, Hurst Hannum argues that autonomy contributes to the
stability of the existing international order (Hannum, 2001: 2). A strong
commitment to autonomy solutions within states also obviates the need
to develop criteria for secession, since secession (except by mutual con-
sent) is simply not available as an internationally sanctioned outcome
(ibid.: 3). Since autonomy is potentially responsive to both majority
concerns—providing the integrity of the state—and minority demands—
exercising a meaningful degree of self-government—it is often seen as
inherently feasible politically and therefore useful as a means of halting
conflict (ibid.).
But, in some cases, pre-existing forms of minority autonomy were
scrapped. Serbia revoked the autonomy of Kosovo/Vojvodina. Georgia
revoked the autonomy of Abkhazia and Ossetia. Azerbaijan revoked
the autonomy of Ngorno-Karabakh. Indeed, the revoking of minority
autonomy was often one of the first things that these countries chose to
do with their new found freedom after the collapse of communism.7
Indeed, as Hannum has pointed out what may appear to one observer
as desirable flexibility, may lead others to criticize the very vagueness of
autonomy as unlikely to encourage a meaningful dialogue. To him, since
neither minorities nor states understand exactly what autonomy com-
prises, autonomy itself may end up being little more than a slogan, used
by one side or the other to substitute for other, equally vague, slogans,
such as sovereignty and self-determination. Demands for autonomy may
therefore make it more difficult to identify the actual interests of the
parties, such as linguistic or educational rights or a greater share in
economic life (ibid.).
But, the state-centric position discourages necessary thinking about
what the criteria should be for statehood and secession, precisely when
such thinking should be in the forefront of international attempts to deal
with internal ethnic conflicts. Hannum points out that states resist wide-
ranging autonomy that has the effect of removing a part of the country
from the effective control of the central government and psychologically
dividing rather than integrating the country’s population (ibid.: 5).
In Hannum’s opinion, therefore, autonomy should neither be seen as
a panacea nor as a provocation. Autonomy will not necessarily lead to a
permanent solution that will end all ethnic tensions, nor will it inevitably
encourage demands for even greater political power and eventually
independence. Instead, autonomy is simply one tool in the arsenal of
constitutional drafters, politicians, and diplomats that must be suited to
the particular task at hand (Hannum, 2001: 5). In brief, autonomy is a
means, not an end (ibid.).
After all, the morality/politics binary helps to define the dominant
discourse on autonomy. The dominant discourse on autonomy in an
era of globalization and in the latest phase of global capitalism risks
assimilating and/or silencing different groups of people including
women, thus reproducing the same oppressive politics as the liberal and
patriarchal mainstream in which morality operates as a mask for power.
Therefore, while examining the issue of autonomy in the contemporary
global context, there is a need to move beyond the assimilationism of
liberalism, in which differences of power, culture, and identity are
bracketed out of the dialogic context through assumptions of formal
civil and political equality.
When minority issues are securitized the space for moral argument
and democratic debate is drastically shrunk. After all, democracy comes
principally on the basis of rights and not justice, though they are closely
inter-connected. But the discourse of rights does not address the grave
issue of justice in its complexities (Samaddar, 2001b: 13). And, laws can
help codify the notion of justice at least minimally and thus facilitate
politics in addressing the issue of self and the recognition of self (ibid.).
Notes
1. Three other UN Conventions are in varying degrees relevant to the national

minorities—the 1948 Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime
of Genocide, the 1957 ILO Convention Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Popu-
lations, and the UNESCO Convention against Discrimination in Education.
2. In this context, one can refer to the De Gasperi–Gruber Agreement of 1946
between Austria and Italy giving various rights to the German-speaking minority
by Bolzano and Trento. On the basis of this Agreement, the Italian government
provided primary and secondary education to the members of these national
minority communities in Germany and ensured parity of the German and Italian
in public affairs. The 1955 Agreement between Denmark and the Federal Republic
of Germany guaranteed the German minority in Denmark and the Danish
minority in Germany equality before the law. Therefore, they both had the right
to establish their educational institutions, the right to maintain cross-border
religious, cultural and professional relations, the right to an appropriate share of
public broadcasting facilities, and the use of Danish or German in the law courts
and public offices of either state. The Austrian State Treaty of 1955 recognized
Slovene and Croatian as official languages alongside German in Carinthia,
Burgenland, and Styria, and gave minority language education rights to these
communities. Similarly, the 1954 Special Statute for the Territory of Trieste gave
a number of special privileges to the Slovene and Croatian minorities in the Italian
administered zone, especially in the context of the minority language education.
Consult Preece (2001) for further details.
3. Article 31 of this Declaration says, “Indigenous peoples, as a specific form of
exercising their right to self-determination, have the right to autonomy or self-
government in matters relating to their internal and local affairs including culture,
religion, education, information, media, health, housing, employment, social
welfare, economic activities, land and resources management, environment and
entry by non-members, as well as ways and means for financing these autonomous
functions.”
4. The Copenhagen Declaration also made reference to “appropriate local or auto-
nomous administrations corresponding to the specific historical and territorial
circumstances of … minorities.” Article 11 of the Draft Minorities Protocol put
forward by the Parliamentary Assembly of the COE in 1993 recognized the right
of persons belonging to minorities to have at their disposal appropriate local or
autonomous authorities or a special status matching the specific historical and
territorial situation. See Preece (2001), for further detail.
5. France set in motion a process to accord Corsica limited powers to run its own
affairs. While Italy and Finland are not federations, they have adopted special
forms of territorial autonomy for the Austrians in South Tyrol, and for the Swedes
in the Aland Islands, respectively. In the UK, various degrees of autonomy were
accorded to Northern Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Recently a quasi-federal system
of devolution has been adopted for Scotland, and Wales, which now have their
legislative assemblies.
6. See Document of the Copenhagen Meeting of the Conference on the Human
Dimension of the CSCE (Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe),
adopted on 29 June 1990.
7. In other cases, requests to restore historic forms of autonomy were rejected. For
example, Romania refused to restore autonomy to Transylvania which had been
revoked in 1956. In some other cases, requests to create new forms of autonomy
were dismissed. Estonia rejected a referendum supporting autonomy for the
Russian-dominated Narva. Kazakhstan rejected autonomy for ethnic Russians in
the north. Ukraine rejected a referendum supporting autonomy for the ethnic
Romanian areas. Lithuania rejected requests for autonomy by the ethnic Poles.
Macedonia rejected a referendum for autonomy for the Albanian-dominated
Western Macedonia in 1992. In yet other cases, countries have redrawn boundaries
to make it impossible for autonomy to be adopted in future. Slovakia redrew its
internal boundaries so that ethnic Hungarians would not form a majority within
any one of the internal administrative districts, and would have no platform to
claim autonomy. Croatia redrew internal boundaries in Krajina and West Slovenia
to dilute the Serbian-populated areas.
PART II
Practices of Autonomy
6
THE ETHNO AND THE GEO: A NEW LOOK

INTO THE ISSUE OF KASHMIR’S AUTONOMY
Sanjay Chaturvedi
Whether the state withdraws or is re-imagined, the reinforcement of identities

is often at stake. The new trans-national economic reality seems not to diminish
the need for a local or national political discourse. The essential question is
whether the resulting geopolitical visions and discourses will interface with the
new trans-national economic “reality” or remain just a rhetoric accompaniment
that serves essentially to boost pride and diminish pain.... It requires much
optimism to believe that international relations in the future will remain free
from the ideological perspectives of particular groups. The end of history has
not yet arrived. (Dijkink, 1996)
Introduction
A pparently, growing contestations over the question of autonomy

relate to the complex interplay between the ethno-cultural moorings
of an individual or group identity and a rather seductive appeal of geo-
political reductionism and territoriality. Territoriality, as pointed out by
Robert Sack “… is the attempt by an individual or group to affect, influ-
ence, or control people, phenomena, and relationships, by delimiting and
asserting control over a geographical area …” (Sack, 1986: 19–20, 216).
140 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI
The geographical concentration of a group is generally considered essen-

tial to territorial autonomy. The same consideration, however, becomes
highly problematic in places characterized by heterogeneity.
Yash Ghai has defined autonomy as “a device to allow ethnic or other
groups claiming a distinct identity to exercise direct control over affairs
of special concern to them, while allowing the larger entity those powers
which cover common interests” (Ghai, 2000: 8). It is needless to say per-
haps, that the success of this device for conflict management would re-
quire some consensus on what constitutes “common” interests among
the actors concerned. However, despite its universal appeal, the concept
of autonomy remains controversial, both in terms of understanding and
operationalization.
This study tries to map the key guiding principles of what I would like
to describe, both in a generic sense and in the specific context of Jammu
and Kashmir, as “Autonomy of autonomies.” Such principles, I will argue
and illustrate, relentlessly question the assumption that bordered state
sovereignties are the fulfillment of a historical destiny, rather than a par-
ticular, and in some quarters, historically contingent and controversial
phenomenon. I would critically examine various representations and
discourses of autonomy, both past and present, in and about Jammu and
Kashmir in the light of these principles. Drawing upon the insights offered
by critical geo-politics, I would argue further that the experience(s) of
autonomy in regard to Jammu and Kashmir have been deeply influenced
by the two dominant geo-political visions of India’s “national” identity
(though not entirely exhausted by them): the secular-nationalist and the
Hindu-nationalist.
More specifically, the intention behind this chapter is two fold. First,
to expose the partiality of a territorialized geo-political vision, a hostage
to colonial-imperial ethnographic mapping practices and the resultant
“categories” rooted in governmentality.1 Second, while critiquing the man-
ner in which various competing, often colliding, definitions of autonomy
continue to be imprisoned by such categories (related to religion, ethnicity,
caste, color, creed, and gender), this chapter intends to show that auto-
nomy is not something that is determined, dictated, and driven structurally
from above by the intellectuals and institutions of statecraft. On the con-
trary it is, or at least ought to be, integral to a process of democratization,
enabling people to make as well as realize choices of their own without
compromising their legitimate moral and political claims to human
dignity and diverse socio-cultural identifications, as citizens practicing
without fear or favor the norms of reciprocal civility.
The Ethno and the Geo: Kashmir / 141
Critical Geo-political Perspectives

on Autonomy
Critiques of the field of geo-politics attempt to bring to light, the com-

plexities of the ways in which power relations are periodically asserted
to normalize the structures of nation states. Increasingly being questioned
are concepts of fixity, domination, and entrenchment, to be replaced by
notions of fluidity and hybridity. An attempt to portray the world as
inherently heterogeneous and amorphous requires nothing short of a
“paradigm” shift in the geo-political imagination from place to mobility,
while recognizing social organization as essentially unfinished, in
transition, or in motion towards a perpetually receding horizon.
This process of decolonization of the conventional cartographies of
the subcontinent produces reasons to change the character of colonial
boundaries rather than their physical appearance. Through a critical
analysis2 of the ethno-geo-political dualism of the autonomy question, I
would examine the policy manifestations of both the “hardening” and
“softening” of the borderlands and the discourses which support them.
It is important, however, not to lose sight of a rather intricate inter-
section of power and space, which demands a sustained engagement
with both the discursive and the material. Many conceptualizations of
autonomy are themselves products of diverging, contested discourses,
discourses that are a part of the process of place-making. Consequently,
it may be worthwhile to explore how various conceptualizations of auton-
omy are embedded in everyday practices of life and of collective, contested
identity narratives. At the same time, we should not be oblivious to stub-
born fixities and the complex interlocking of continuity and change. Enough
space needs to be created for the study of localized geo-political narratives
and their critical engagement with a politicized and politicizing agenda
of top down projects of autonomy at a variety of geographical scales.
Whereas it could be misleading to overgeneralize experiences of auto-
nomy globally, the “local” or “place-specific” characteristics of Jammu
and Kashmir’s experimentation(s) in search of autonomy need to be
examined with reference to certain “universal” features. What appear to
be of general applicability are the territoriality-dominance-mutuality alter-
natives. The ethno-geo-political contestations over autonomy in places
as diverse as Andorra in the eastern Pyrennes in south western Europe,
South Tyrol, Hong Kong, Tibet, the Nunavut in Canada, Catalonia,
Scotland, Quebec, Northern Ireland, Basque, Palestine, and the Xinjian-
Uighur Autonomous Region of China, illuminate three of the most
fundamental choices in considering the puzzle of autonomy: whether it

can be resolved or regulation is a more realistic objective; whether ethnic
minorities should be assimilated into the general culture, or their differ-
ences recognized through pluralistic institutions; and whether minority
aspirations can be better satisfied by secession or by internal constitutional
reform. A critical examination of the autonomy question in Jammu and
Kashmir should be grounded, therefore, in a geo-historical assessment
of how the various autonomy choices in case of Jammu and Kashmir
were molded by historically determined geo-political readings and re-
presentations of space and identities.
Geo-political Visions and India’s “National”

Identity: Secular-Nationalists versus
the Hindu-Nationalists
A geo-political vision may be defined as, “any idea concerning the relation
between one’s own and other places, involving feelings of (in)security
or (dis)advantages (and/or) invoking ideas about a collective mission or
foreign policy strategy” (Dijkink, 1996: 11). The state may at times be
perceived as an “external” source of insecurity by some of its citizens,
who continue to live within its territorial borders but do not subscribe to
the reasons of the state. There might also be alterative geo-political visions
within a nation state. A geo-political vision may or may not require a
Them-and-Us distinction, but it does invariably refer to an emotional
attachment to a place; a motherland, fatherland, and/or a holyland
(Figure 6.1). Whether an analysis of geo-political visions can be separated
from a meticulous treatment of national identity, with several defining
features such as a historic territory, common myths and historic memories,
a mass culture, a common economy, and common legal rights and duties
for all members, is more difficult to answer. It is equally difficult to imagine
a national identity without the feelings of trauma and pride that involve
some reference to “external” entities or relations. In this respect, feelings
of national identity and geo-political visions are intricately intertwined,
and thus difficult to separate for the purposes of “granting” autonomy to
the subordinate parts of the dominant whole. Moreover, the fact that geo-
political visions are, more often than not, the concrete translations of
such feelings into various debates on autonomy is seldom acknowledged.
Figure 6.1
Mother India implanted on the map of India
A geo-political vision includes the representation of a country’s

(a people’s) territorial limits. The experiences of autonomy in the border
states of the Indian Union, including Jammu and Kashmir cannot,
therefore, be entirely divorced from predominant constructions of the
geo-body3 of an “Indian” nation. Since territory is only one of the necessary
conditions of the nation state, it follows that “borderlands” are far more
complex than often assumed. Since the dawn of the modern era, states
have adopted various spatial strategies to forge a homogenous nation
from the disparate cultural and regional groupings within their domains.
The processes of nation-building and state-building are thus two parallel,
but not necessarily twin, tracks in the construction of a “nation state.”
Despite meticulously conceived constitutional engineering, a precise fit
between nation and state may not occur. More so, as Satish Deshpande
puts it, “even after it has been successfully produced, this sense of nation-
ness needs to be continually nurtured, partly through efforts to ensure that
ideology and geography stay in synchrony with each other” (Deshpande,
2004: 75).
Consequently, a state’s borders never function precisely according to
the model outlined above. As pointed out by Paula Banerjee (2001: 299)
“By designing a line on the map a border cannot be made or stabilized….
But once demarcated a border can become ideologically sacrosanct even
while remaining politically unstable, thereby containing seeds of dis-
sensions, conflict and change … this is what has happened to the Line of
Control in Kashmir.”4
I further wish to emphasize that the process of designating a line on the
map as boundary/border is invariably implicated in the dominant geo-
political vision(s) of the country concerned. Whereas each geo-political
vision gives the impression that it is based upon a “true” geographical
knowledge, in reality there is no such thing as the geographical knowledge
of autonomy. On the contrary, there are several geographical knowledges
produced by various actors at multiple sites and for different reasons.
David Harvey describes the “supposed neutrality of geographical
knowledge” as at best a “beguiling fiction” and at worst “a downright
fraud.”5
However, Harvey acknowledges that the “facts” of geography can also
be used to promote humanitarianism and cosmopolitanism. Significant
in this regard is the need to overcome what Yves Lacoste describes as a
“lack of knowledge about conflicting conceptions, unexpressed mutual
fears and above all the ignorance of those who, confident of their rights,
are unaware or refuse to accept that an opposite opinion to their own
might exist, in equally good faith” (Lacoste, 2000: 121).
In post-colonial, post-Partition India, two principal geo-political visions
are in contest, namely the secular-nationalist and the Hindu-nationalist.
Aiming to achieve a fit between the nation and the state, both construct
and propagate a particular geographical knowledge about the geo-body

of India, her identity, and unity. It is important to note, however, that for
both, the defining principle of national identity is territory. In the “secular-
nationalist” version for 2,500 years, since the times of the Mahabharata,
the territory of India has been of a land stretching from the Himalayas in
the north to Kanyakumari (Cape Comorin) in the south, from the Arabian
Sea in the west to the Bay of Bengal in the east, where the uniqueness of
the civilization lies in the virtues of syncretism, pluralism, and tolerance
reflected in the cultural expression: Sarva Dharma Sambhava (equal respect
for all religions). One good example of the secular nationalist construction
of India’s national identity is Jawaharlal Nehru’s The Discovery of India
(1946).6
Nehru’s secular-nationalist construction of India stands in sharp
contrast to the religious notion of India as originally the land of Hindus,
and it is the only land which the Hindus can call their own (Pattanaik,
1998: 43–50). The Indian landscape is united by the sacred geography
of Hindu holy places (Benaras, Tirupati, Rameswaram, Puri, Haridwar,
Amarnath, Badrinath, Kedarnath, and now Ayodhya) and the holy rivers
(Kaveri, Ganga, Yamuna, and the confluence of the last two in Prayag).
This map of pilgrimage is another kind of religious map based on a par-
ticular belief system of relationship of sacred shrines in various places.
The term Hindutva was coined by Vinayak Damodar Savarkar to both
indicate and vindicate its distinctiveness from Hinduism. Hindutva to
Savarkar was both the lifestyle and the destiny of a great race. It was not
simply a term but an entire history, encompassing the religious, cultural,
and racial identities of the Hindus. The basic tenets of Hindutva were
refined and propagated by Savarkar, who, in this sense, represents the
high-water mark of ideology driven towards the establishment of a Hindu
nation (Sharma, 2003: 7).
In the geo-political vision of Hindutva, one finds a systematic con-
struction of Hindu identity in the service of Indian nationalism (Jaffrelot
and Hansen, 2004). The first and the most important feature of the
Hindutva project remains the transformation of Hinduism into a
regimented, codified, monochromatic order with little scope or space for
diversity of opinions, practices, rituals, observances, and individual
choices. The Hindu nation is to be founded and united on the basis of
racial and doctrinal purity. The understandings related to inclusions/
insiders and exclusions/outsiders of this unity, however, varied. Savarkar
was willing to include the Sikhs, Jains, and the Buddhists in his definition
of Hindu. But Christians and Muslims could not qualify as Hindus since
they had potentially “extraterritorial loyalties,” and their “holy lands”
were outside the territory of India.
A project of controlling the popular imagination through rewriting
of history and manipulation of memories (Thapar, 2004) is always chal-
lenged by a multitude of alternative imaginations and hence forever
incomplete. Hindutva’s rewriting of history intentionally undermines
the long standing patterns of peaceful coexistence of differences in India.
There were (and are) aspects of life in which religion was an identifier
but there were (and are) also many other aspects in which more broad
based cultural expressions, evolved over time through an admixture of
various elements, gave an identity to a social group. These processes are
never recognized in the discourse of Hindutva. Savarkar’s writings, for
example, are replete with images of the Muslims as aggressors and
expressions such as “pratishodh” and “pratikar,” all synonyms for revenge,
retribution, and retaliation.7
In India, Hindu nationalism has grown from an apparently minor com-
munal presence to being the party of the government over a short time.
Despite loss of power at the center in the recently held elections, the
Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) continues to maintain its hold in a number
of states of the Indian Union. The 1998 manifesto of the BJP said: “Our
nationalist vision is not merely bound by the geographical or political
identity of Bharat, but it is referred by our timeless cultural heritage, this
cultural heritage which is central to all religions, regions and languages,
is a civilizational identity and constitutes the cultural nationalism of India
which is the core of Hindutva. This we believe is the identity of our
ancient nation ‘Bharatvarsh’…” (cited in Noorani, 2004).
It is important to note that the boundaries of India, as suggested by
the secular-nationalist, are coterminous with the “sacred geography”
of the Hindu-nationalist. Hallowed pilgrimage sites mark off essentially
the same boundaries of the country, although the Hindu-nationalist
would go much further into mythic history than two and a half millennia
to date the origin of these sites.8
As a result, both the secular-nationalist and the Hindu-nationalist geo-
political visions share what Sankaran Krishna has termed “cartographic
anxiety” (Krishna, 1996: 193–216). Such anxiety, surrounding questions
of national identity and survival, reaches its zenith in the borderlands.
According to Krishna, the term “cartography” implies more than the tech-
nical and scientific mapping of the country; it refers to the “representa-
tional practices that in various ways have attempted to inscribe something
called India and endow that entity with a content, history, a meaning and
a trajectory” (Krishna, 1996). More recently, Krishna has argued that,
“the nation-building efforts of the era of decolonization, especially in
societies such as India, emphasized pluralism, multi-ethnicity and,
despite limitations, an incipient critique of capitalism. Contemporary
postcolonial nation-alism in the era of globalization is marked by ethnic
or religious major-itarianism, an aggressively competitive attitude towards
‘others’ in an anarchic international milieu, and a reconstitution of the
model citizen primarily as middle-class consumer in a national/global
capital space” (ibid.: 310).
It is in the border states of the Northeast and Jammu and Kashmir that
cartographic anxieties are vociferous and expressed violently at times.
It is not surprising, therefore, that the question of autonomy, depending
upon the text as well as context of a particular demand, appears simultan-
eously appealing and appalling to various actors and institutions con-
cerned. Could we then argue that the search for “common grounds”
among allegedly diverse demands for autonomy is at best an exercise in
futility or at worst a non-starter?
Yash Ghai has argued that “autonomy” as a conflict-defusing mech-
anism is a double-edged instrument and could also be (ab)used by the
powers that be to fragment, pigeonhole, and divide communities and
the so called “regions.” Moreover, points out Ghai, “sometimes, in order
to preserve the integuments of a state, autonomy is so structured that it
is difficult to find the common ground on which the communities can
find a moral and political basis for co-existence.”9
This point demands, in my view, further critical attention, especially
with regard to the constructed nature of ethnic commonalities and differ-
ences, among categorically framed “communities” and “regions” in the
dominant discourses on autonomy in Jammu and Kashmir. How does
one negotiate the disjuncture between the commonality and the differ-
ences expressed, defended, and even contested through dominant ethno-
graphic categories that, along with power, were transferred by the
departing colonial power to the post-colonial states of South Asia?
The state of Jammu and Kashmir began its life under Indian rule with
substantial, even radical, autonomy. The basis for its autonomous status
was explicitly acknowledged in the early days of dispute with Pakistan
over Kashmir as the conditional nature of the state’s accession to India
as well as in the unique status granted to the state under Article 370 of
the 1950 Indian Constitution. By the middle of the 1950s, however, any
substantive autonomy Kashmir had managed to carry over from its earlier
princely statehood, had more or less evaporated, leaving in its wake, a
strong memory among Kashmiris themselves of the state’s beginning
with a conspicuously strong package of autonomy.
The recent rejuvenation of the issue of autonomy for Jammu and
Kashmir could be attributed to the electoral victory of the National Con-
ference (NC) Party in September 1996, which had, as the centerpiece of
its manifesto and campaign, the restoration of the state’s autonomy. Soon
after coming into power, Farooq Abdullah appointed two state-level
committees to examine the issue of autonomy—one, the State Autonomy
Committee (SAC), entrusted with the issue of inter-state or “external”
aspect (the relationship between the central government and the state of
Jammu and Kashmir), the other, the Regional Autonomy Committee
(RAC), responsible for its intra-state or “internal” aspect (the relationship
among the three ethno-religiously polyglot regions, Jammu, Ladakh, and
Kashmir Valley).
The discussion to follow shows how the two Committees (SAC and
RAC) set up by the National Conference government were concerned,
by and large, with access to power and institutions of governance. Both
failed to conceive autonomy as a continuum and to acknowledge that it
is the people at the grassroots who are asking for space to meaningfully
participate in the decision-making processes which affect their lives and
livelihoods on a daily basis. In short, both the committees appear to have
lacked a broad transformative agenda, being more inclined towards a
politics of positional change rather than a reform of principles and struc-
tures of governance.
The State Autonomy Committee Report:

Centripetal or Centrifugal?
The Report of the State Autonomy Committee (SAC) was formally accepted
by the National Conference government in January 2000. In the ensuing
heated debate, the twin issues concerning the autonomy of the state of
Jammu and Kashmir within India and of the regions within the state
surfaced for scrutiny. In many respects, it was a “reflection on the present
political climate of Jammu and Kashmir that such a debate should
degenerate into polemics” (Puri, 2000, 2004). The nationalist media
expressed a concern that granting autonomy would mean a serious threat

to the integrity of the country with the possibility of balkanization
(Kumar, 2000).
A critical geo-historical perspective on the SAC and its Report shows
how its architects selectively produced a geographical-historical know-
ledge about the places comprising the state of Jammu and Kashmir.
It narrates, at some length, the history of the center’s relationship with
Kashmir from partition onwards, highlighting how this “history” was
one of nearly ruthless and remorseless assault by the center on the genuinely
autonomous status with which the state of Jammu and Kashmir began
its career within the Indian Union. The central argument of the SAC re-
volves around the demand for the “restoration” of the “lost” autonomy
and its recommendations are numerous, highly specific, and broad in
coverage, urging maximum autonomy (demanding that the center’s writ
in the state be confined to the three subjects of defense, foreign affairs,
and communications) similar to the one that prevailed in the period prior
to 1953.
It could well be that by forming the two committees, the then Chief
Minister, Farooq Abdullah, wanted to simultaneously address two
different constituencies. Whereas the State Autonomy Committee (SAC)
Report demands the maximalist version of the secular demand for au-
tonomy for Jammu and Kashmir as a whole vis-à-vis Delhi, the Regional
Autonomy Committee (RAC) Report advocates the reorganization of
the state into eight new “provinces,” whose boundaries are defined on
ethno-religious lines, framing it more in terms of a “grant” of autonomy
rather than “demands” for autonomy.
After Karan Singh’s resignation from the SAC as its first Chairman on
31 July 1997, the State Assembly’s strong support of the Report in June
2000 produced a loud opposition. Perceiving that the status of Jammu
and Ladakh would be further marginalized in the new ethno-geo-political
order, the “representatives” of the state’s Hindu and Buddhist minorities
demanded an absolute rejection of the Report. On 4 July 2000, the BJP-
led Union Cabinet termed the State Assembly’s so called autonomy re-
solution “unacceptable.” While the Cabinet reaffirmed its commitment
to “devolution of power” to the states of the Indian Union, it argued
that, “the acceptance of this resolution will set the clock back and reverse
the natural process of harmonizing the aspirations of the people of
Jammu and Kashmir with the integrity of the nation” (The Tribune
[Chandigarh, 5 July 2000]; The Hindu [Delhi, 5 July 2000]). On 30 June
2000, the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council unanimously

passed a resolution at its general council meeting demanding “separation”
from Jammu and Kashmir and the status of a Union Territory.
Regional Autonomy Committee Report: Realities,

Categories, and Contestations
Is the place inscribed on the map of India as Jammu and Kashmir one
“region” or a “region of regions,” and/or a “region of sub-regions and
communities?” Apparently, the central idea underlying diverse geo-
political definitions of Jammu and Kashmir is that there is some con-
tiguous space that has the character of an “entity” of some sort defined
by special attributes. David Harvey says, “... it is important to recognize
that regions are ‘made’ or ‘constructed’ as much in imagination as in
material form and that though entity-like, regions crystallize out as a
distinctive form from some mix of material, social and mental processes.”
(Harvey, 2001: 225). Since the scale problem also enters in, with a hier-
archy of labels often inscribed beginning with neighborhood, locality,
and place and proceeding to the broader scale of region, territory, nation
state and globe, the “Region” then becomes territorialized at a certain
geographical scale.
Harvey’s insights lead me to critically examine both the context and
the texts of autonomy as conceptualized and advocated by the Regional
Autonomy Committee (RAC). The RAC Report, 1999, begins by outlining
“approaches to Regional Autonomy” and concludes by pointing out that,
“there can be more than one approach to autonomy, self-rule and decen-
tralized development. A great caution has to be observed that the social
cohesion and territorial solidarity is not put under strain in pursuit of
realizing the objectives of regional autonomy” (Report of the Regional
Autonomy Committee, 1999: v).
It is significant to note that the RAC Report does not look at autonomy
as a continuum. It is rather obvious that the issue of “regional” autonomy
is being seen as an exclusive domain of the government of Jammu and
Kashmir. In other words, there is a tacit acknowledgment of the “fact”
that diverse regions/provinces of the state of Jammu and Kashmir have
to negotiate their understandings and demands of “autonomy” with the
center of power located in the valley. Some critics have also accused the
RAC Report of turning a blind eye to the “regional” political sensibilities
of Jammu and Ladakh. Rather than using the term “Region” for defining
the political status of Jammu and Ladakh, or for that matter Kashmir, it
chose to deploy categories such as “Provinces” or “Divisions.” The RAC
came to the conclusion that,
… a sharp sense of neglect and discrimination among the diverse ethnic groups
of the regions of the State exists. This sense of discrimination is sharper in the
regions of Jammu province particularly in the hilly and far flung areas of the
province. There is an urgency in demarcating the regions in the State for the
purposes of political and economic decentralization of power…. The memoran-
dums submitted by people from Doda, Rajouri and Poonch indicated that these
groups perceive themselves belonging to different regions. The history of these
regions and their particular ethnic profiles substantiate their claims of belonging
to different regions. (Report of the Regional Autonomy Committee, 1999: 8)
The central argument of the Report, ironically, revolved around the logic
of counteracting the existing understanding of the regions. It did not use
the term “Region” to define the political status of Jammu or Ladakh or for
that matter even Kashmir. Defining them as “Provinces” or “Divisions”
for administrative convenience, the Report called the earlier attempts to
define these as “distinct regions” as erroneous in nature (ibid.). The
Committee came to the conclusion that the administrative classification
of the provinces should be recognized as the authentic classification of
the regions (ibid.).
Reading between the lines, one finds a deliberate, yet, subtle attempt
to redraw the “internal” map of the state of Jammu and Kashmir but
without any meaningful departure from the predominant, territorialized
governmentality. The “regions” of yesteryears, such as Jammu, are being
discursively transformed into provinces, allegedly composed of various
“regions.” There is much more behind the manipulation of “scale” than
meets the eye. The human-cultural mobility and intercourse of centuries
is subjected to the geo-political reductionism of territoriality with the
aid of a “new” reading and interpretation of the “history” of newly dis-
covered “regions” of Doda, Rajouri, and Poonch, which, we are told,
“existed as small kingdoms independently or have been parts of Kashmir
Kingdom.” The RAC thus went on to conclude that, “the histories of
these regions and their particular ethnic profiles substantiate their claims
of belonging to different regions of the State” (ibid.).
The RAC Report has been criticized by a number of analysts on
account of its strategic deployment of the so called “regional” territorial
Figure 6.2
Map provided in the Regional Autonomy Report
identities on the geopolitical chessboard by the state elite (Chowdhary

and Kumar, 2000; Engineer, 2000; Kumar, 2002; Wirsing, 2003).
According to Robert Wirsing,
The RAC report is painstakingly (and, in its critics’ eyes, disingenuously) drafted
to define the project of redrawing internal boundaries entirely in terms of “ethnic
diversity” and what it calls “ethno-cultural-linguistic groups”… it denies that
religious identity either motivates the demand for restructuring the state’s bound-
aries or seriously figures in the restructuring plan. The report manages somehow
to discuss Kashmir’s ethnography for thirty-odd pages, in fact, while only once
employing the word Muslim and not even once the words Hindu and Buddhists.
(Wirsing, 2003: 205)
It has also been argued that, “this discourse was perceived to be ‘Kashmir-
centric’” (Chowdhary, 2000: 39). A critique of the RAC Report needs to
be placed, therefore, in the larger context of an “alternative” discourse
on “regional interests,” “internal coherence,” and “internal reconciliation”
(Puri, 2004). To quote Puri, one of the leading and relentless voices from
Jammu on the “regional” dimensions of the autonomy debate in Jammu
and Kashmir, “The Delhi Agreement on the autonomy of the state in 1952,
with overwhelming popular support of the people of Kashmir valley, it
may be recalled, was wrecked, not by the Government of India, but by
massive opposition to it by the people of Jammu…. The only alternative
is to split the state, which inevitably would tend to be on religious lines”
(ibid.).
A Homeland for Kashmiri (Hindu?) Pandits:

Imaginations of the Displaced
The mental as well as physical odds and hardships faced by the displaced
Kashmiri Pandits are well documented. What, however, has not received
adequate critical attention is the manner in which the debate on autonomy
has been approached by those who claim to represent the plight and the
rights of the displaced. Drawing extensively upon the website “Kashmir
Pandit Diaspora worldwide,” (the term “Diaspora” reminds us of its
Jewish connotation, underpinned by the dismemberment and displacement
of a victimized “scattered” nation), I wish to offer in this section, a rather
sketchy account of the Panun Pandit homeland discourse, paying special
attention to the categories that the discourse deploys in order to represent
the “Self ” as well as resist the “Other.” The narrative runs as follows:
Kashmiri Hindus (Pandits) have been in exile since early 1990 after
Islamic religious fundamentalists in the valley of Kashmir took to
terrorism and drove them out of their centuries old habitat. Hundreds of
thousands of Kashmiri Pandits who were forced to leave their sacred land
must now live in despicable conditions in their own country and are on
the verge of extinction as a race. Called “migrants” by the administration,
the Kashmiri Pandits are in fact refugees in their own country due to total
failure of the Indian State to provide security and safety to them when they
were ruthlessly persecuted, threatened, tortured and murdered by the
Islamic terrorists. PANUN KASHMIR (meaning our own Kashmir) is a
struggle to re-conquer that Kashmir which is almost lost. PANUN
KASHMIR is an effort to Save Kashmiri Pandits to Save Kashmir to Save
India. Besides being a struggle for survival as a cultural entity and an
ancient race, PANUN KASHMIR is described as a movement for the
political survival of over 700,000 Kashmiri Pandits in their birthland.
A visitor to the cyberspace of “invisible refugees”—a website that claims

to provide a “complete repository of information on Kashmiri Hindus”—
is exposed at the outset, to four expressions: Culture, Heritage, Traditions,
and Religion. We are told that during 1989–91, as many as 400,000
Kashmiri Pandits were forced to flee their homeland after a combination
of violence and explicit threats by Islamic terrorists aided and inspired
by Pakistan. This is yet another example of fear-driven discourse rooted
in the following premise: “It is clear that the return of the nearly half a
million Kashmiri Pandits to their native land will not be facilitated simply
by the end of Pakistani-inspired terrorism in the state. While a cessation of
the targeting of Pandits by Islamic terrorists in the state is the essential first step,
an end to the oppression by majority Muslims would be the next essential step to
enable the Pandits to return as equal citizens” (http://www.ikashmir.org/
Refugees/) (emphasis mine).
Maps are visual narratives interweaving history, territory, and identity,
and are powerful instruments of both representation and resistance. The
map of the Panun Pandit Homeland (Figure 6.3) is a good example of
how the resistance of the silenced and displaced gets framed and articu-
lated in terms of those very ethno-geo-political categories of which the
Kashmiri Pandits are a victim in the first place. The cartographic silences
of the map also speak loudly about the manner in which the demand for
a Union Territory status is expressed through religious symbols and
idioms. There are good reasons to believe that the geo-political vision
behind the Panun Pandit Homeland is deeply implicated in the Hindu-
nationalist vision of India and Indianness. It is not surprising, therefore,
that the map highlights only “Hindu” places of worship.
Excluded from the ethno-political categories mentioned above are
people internally displaced due to mining, shelling, and militarized border
landscapes. These are people, one might argue, who suffer from geo-
politics, while not having the privilege of having a geo-political vision of
their own. Once it is acknowledged that borderlands too are homelands
where Indian citizens, similar to those who live in hinterlands, have a right
to live a dignified life without fear, the anxieties and sufferings of these
bordered communities become easier to appreciate. Some of the heavily
mined areas include Hiranagar, Ramgargh, Samba, R. S. Pora, Akhnoor,
Pallanwala, Chicken Neck, Nowshehra, Laam, Sunderbani, Bhawani,
Kalal, Hangargh, Chingus, Kerni, Balakote, Krishengangi, Bhimbergali,
and Mighla.
Figure 6.3
Map of the Panun Pandit Homeland
Source: http://www.panunkashmir.org/.
According to the findings of an 11 member Parliamentary Standing

Committee on Defence (PSCD), led by Madan Lal Khurana, that visited
Jammu and Kashmir in March 2002, over 200 villages of Jammu, Kathua,
Rajouri, and Poonch districts have been affected by the build-up on the
borders in general and laying of mines in particular. According to Khurana,
after the terrorist attack on the Indian Parliament, the army took over
70,100 acres of land in the border areas of which 23,000 acres have sprawl-
ing minefields (The Tribune, 4 March 2002). It was pointed out by the
Committee that the loss suffered by border villagers in Jammu, Kathua,

Poonch, and Rajouri districts, owing to the military build-up, was to the
tune of Rs 120.52 million.
Whether resorted to by the counter insurgency forces, including the
army and para military, to bring down the suspected hideouts of militants
and “securitize” the borderlands, or deployed by the militants themselves
as a cheap and easily available weapon against the security forces, mine
explosions are constantly adding to the population of the crippled and
maimed in Jammu and Kashmir. In many areas landmines have been laid
in agricultural and pastoral lands and civilians have been displaced from
these areas. Apart from a large number of civilian casualties, deaths of
livestock in large numbers on both sides of the border have also been
reported, adversely affecting both agricultural and pastoral communities
in India and Pakistan. Armed groups in Jammu and Kashmir indiscrim-
inately use landmines on public highways and thoroughfares to ambush
army convoys and injure hundreds of civilians in grenade attacks. Some
of the worst affected in such cases are the Gujjars (The Daily Excelsior, 22
July 2004). The displacement of border villagers has been a common
phe-nomenon since 1947 due to shelling and military build up along the
Line of Control (LoC) and the border areas.
Whereas the displacement of Kashmiri Pandits (with a large number
still braving the hardships of the camps) is better known and relatively well
documented, there is not enough awareness about other kinds of conflict-
induced displacements. Each war, like Kargil, or even the fear of war, has
dislocated people, many of whom await rehabilitation while living in
places like Devipur. Those living in the Beli Charana camps are the ones
displaced due to militancy in the upper ridges and otherwise difficult
hilly terrains. Apart from these, “there are numerous others whose dis-
placement has remained invisible as they do not want to be identified for
a variety of political reasons” (Chowdhary, 2004: 1). The displaced, espe-
cially women, are seldom allowed a right to live in peace with dignity and
be heard (Butalia, 2002). In most cases, “state policies refuse to accept that
the displaced population is largely a feminine population and so often
rehabilitation programmes are couched in gender-neutral terms thereby
creating greater problems for women.... When human rights groups
criticize state policies regarding the displaced it becomes easier for the
state machinery to invoke the rationale of national security thereby divert-
ing attention from the plight of displaced women, as in the case of the
displaced in the LoC between India and Pakistan” (Banerjee, 2004: 306).
The Trifurcation Plan:

Towards Internal Partitions!
The proposal of the Kashmir Studies Group for a trifurcation of the main
regions of the state, namely Jammu, Kashmir, and Ladakh, into separate
administrative units has been favorably received by certain ideological
groups in India as an imaginative solution. If conceded, this territorial
reordering could result in violent social disruptions throughout the state,
further strengthening the ongoing communal polarization and cause irre-
versible damage to the cultural and social fabric of the state. Such internal
partitions are bound to have serious consequences for communal har-
mony in the rest of India and even beyond. In addition, trifurcation would
forever end the possibilities of reviving the plural traditions of communal
harmony in the state that had once made it a symbol of the very core of
India’s image of itself: unity in diversity. It is not surprising that not every-
one will agree with such an assessment.
The Kashmir Study Group proposal has its supporters too. In the
opinion of those who strongly supported the trifurcation plan in mid-
1990s, time was “running out” and there was and is no logic in maintaining
the state as a single political unit (Om, 1995). The people of Jammu and
Ladakh, we are told, do not feel any more that they belong to Kashmir
and those who had some immovable property anywhere in Kashmir have
already sold it and settled down permanently in Jammu and Ladakh.
A few employees from Jammu and Ladakh, who once held positions in
the Government and semi-Govemment departments in Kashmir prior
to the militancy there, too have either got themselves transferred to Jammu
and Ladakh or have resigned. If there are some officials from Jammu and
Ladakh still in the Valley, their number is almost insignificant.
What is the solution then to the alleged separation and polarization?
The trifurcation of the state, it is argued, “would remove all negative
trends, and promote in each region sound politics based on purely demo-
cratic and economic issues. In such a situation, the Kashmiri Muslims
would become less vulnerable to the ‘syncretic’ pulls of fundamentalism
from Pakistan. R. Venkataraman, former President of India, it may be
recalled, had in 1983 urged the then Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi, to
make Ladakh a ‘Union Territory as demanded by the local people,’ confer
the status of ‘statehood’ on Jammu and deal with the Valley as a ‘separate
entity’” (ibid.).
The demand for a division of the state is not new. The UN mediator,
Sir Owen Dixon, had recommended a partition of the state in 1950, and
elements within the Praja Parishad agitation of the early 1950s had also
sought that Ladakh and Jammu be detached from the Valley if full inte-
gration of the state was not achieved quickly. But, behind its more recent
reincarnation, several factors and forces have coalesced to generate poten-
tially centrifugal forces. Most obvious is the widespread feeling of depriv-
ation and discrimination at the hands of politicians from Kashmir within
Jammu and Leh. While this perception of neglect and deprivation may
have some grounds, it is being politicized by sectarian political groups
demanding separate statehood for Jammu and Union Territory status
for Ladakh. They argue that separation from Kashmir would not only
result in better governance, greater economic opportunities and a larger
share of political power, but Jammu and Ladakh will also be able to dis-
tance themselves from militancy. In its most aggressive form, the demand
is being expressed in highly nationalist terms. We are told that it is in
national interest to limit the “area of operations” of the security forces
to the valley of Kashmir, and such disciplining would ensure that only
one-sixth of the state remains in the vortex of violence.
At a time when the National Conference was demanding the restor-
ation of pre-1953 constitutional status, the VHP countered it by demand-
ing a vivisection of the state having a provision for a separate homeland
for displaced Kashmiri Pandits within the valley, a demand first voiced
by Panun Kashmir as early as 1996 (The Tribune, 2 July 2002). The demand
for a separate homeland set many political analysts and intellectuals, not
only in India but also in several foreign countries, rethinking the matter.
The RSS too lent its support for the trifurcation of the state, though it
chose to remain silent on the demand for a separate homeland for Kashmiri
Pandits. The state unit of the BJP appeared shy of making its stand on
the trifurcation known. Outwardly, following the line adopted by the
central BJP leadership, its leadership had been opposing it, but inwardly
it appeared that it was in favor of statehood for the Jammu region. The
Congress, like the National Conference, was opposed to the demand for
trifurcation of the state on the ground that it would promote disintegra-
tion of the state and division on communal lines. The National Confer-
ence leadership too opposed the plan of trifurcation. The then National
Conference President, Mr Omar Abdullah, is reported to have said that
trifurcation would amount to handing over of Kashmir to Pakistan.
Dr Farooq Abdullah had earlier stated that Kashmir, Jammu, and Ladakh
continuing as one entity would continue to frustrate the Pakistani game
plan of seeking the valley’s incorporation with Pakistan on the basis of
Kashmir being a Muslim-dominated area.
But the VHP and Bajrang Dal leaders, besides senior functionaries
of the RSS, argued that the demand for the trifurcation of Jammu and
Kashmir took roots after the National Conference started campaigning
for the restoration of greater autonomy to the state. They said those in
Jammu and Ladakh, besides the Kashmiri Hindus, had become skeptical
of the National Conference plan of securing restoration of pre-1953
status.
Those who support the trifurcation, which includes the Mukti Morcha,
argued that this is the only way to end the discrimination suffered by
people in the Jammu region. They have been dishing out figures in support
of their contention that Jammuites had been given a raw deal in governent
services, in professional colleges, and in public sector undertakings. The
supporters of the theory favoring the division of the state put forward
the following geo-historical reasoning in support of their arguments:
1. Historically, the present conglomeration of three heterogenous

regions of Jammu, Kashmir, and Ladakh was never an organic
political entity.
2. There are inherent inter-regional contradictions in terms of history,
physiography, ethnicity, language, and culture.
3. This sharp inter-regional contradiction has a “spillover” in the
political perception of the three dominant communities of the re-
spective regions and integration is absent.
4. Political domination of Kashmiri Muslims and their discrimination
against Jammu and Ladakh kept the latter feeling neglected.
Ladakh has persistently raised the issue of Islamic domination.
5. The Hindus and Buddhists of the state are apprehensive of the
likely demographic change in their respective regions due to large-
scale Muslim influx from the Kashmir Valley. The Doda district,
for example, has changed from a Hindu majority to a Muslim
majority district.
One stunning example of a highly territorialized geo-political reasoning

with regard to Jammu and Kashmir, is the following. This quotation, in
my view, deserves critical attention for several reasons. It glorifies internal

partition as the most durable and “final” solution to what it perceives as
an inherently irreconciliable divide between the people categorized as
the “Hindus” and the “Muslims.” It revives the two-nation theory, also
in support of the contention that the 1947 partition is not yet complete.
Indeed, within the Kashmir Study Group proposal for the communal trifur-
cation of Kashmir lie the seeds for a final solution to the Hindu-Muslim problem
all across south Asia. Perhaps the Hindus may wish to set aside 12 per cent of
the territory of the Indian Union for the Muslims, who form 12 per cent of the
population and hence could claim to have a “right” to 12 per cent of the land.
This land would sensibly comprise the already Muslim-dominated and his-
torically Islamicised regions of northern UP (Rohilkhand, North Oudh) and
northern Bihar (Seemanchal), where Hindus already live in fear of Muslims.
There are numerous advantages for both sides in this solution. For the
Muslims, these regions would then be free to join Bangladesh and Pakistan,
leading to a resurrection of the territorial limits of the Mughal Empire. It is
proposed that this region be named “Mughalstan,” and it is hoped that this new
nation would experience a cultural efflorescence as the glorious Mughal civil-
isation is restored. For the Hindus, their faith and culture would be safe in the
remaining 88 per cent of the Indian union as the Muslims would have left
these regions for Mughalstan. This would be effectively a “Hindu Rashtra” ...
Most importantly, the all-pervading blood-shed and constant loss of lives would
stop as no Muslims would be living in this Hindu Rashtra.... This is of greater
importance for Hindus, since the total casualties amongst this community are
likely to be much higher in case of a full-blown jihad. State law would protect
Hindu religion, and legislation could be enacted preventing conversions from
Hinduism so that the present fear of a “Muslim takeover” by out-breeding
and/or conversion would be permanently set at rest. (Abbas, 2000)
According to such a reasoning, the history of Jammu and Kashmir is

full of heterogeneity, contradictions, dominations, and apprehensions.
Consequently, it is futile to look for commonality, synthesis, pluralism,
tolerance, and reconciliation among communities with a back-to-back
relationship.10 Regional harmony, it should be clear from experience,
cannot be ensured through partitions, but through decentralization and
devolution of financial and economic power that will treat the panchayat
as the primary unit of governance. It is rightly observed that, “Jammu
and Kashmir is not Assam or Uttar Pradesh where the carving of smaller
states will provide for better governance; it is a recipe for disaster” (Mattoo,
2000).
The Borderlands of Autonomy Discourse:

“Voices” of the Gujjars
Beyond territorially fixed, categorically demarcated, and defended “official

identities,” are certain social identities, which do not seem to have made
any meaningful difference to the dominant discourses on autonomy in
Jammu and Kashmir. As the dominant ethno-political categories compete
and clash with one another for greater political salience and power shar-
ing, they continue to exclude, in a rather callous fashion, voices and faces
that are yet to matter politically. A question worth raising in my view is:
who gains/loses what, when, where, and how from territorial restructur-
ing/reshuffling as various groups negotiate demands in terms of their
respective geo-political visions of autonomy?
The “Muslim” Gujjars of Jammu and Kashmir, equally entitled to
fundamental rights enshrined in the Indian Constitution as citizens of
India, continue to suffer from educational, social, and economic back-
wardness. Categorized as Baniharas or Dodhi Gujjars, and Bakerwals, a
vast majority of these “tribal” people continue to live with poverty and
deprivation, and are conveniently, but not unknowingly, left out of in-
creasingly communalized, binary geographies of the “Hindus” and the
“Muslims” underpinning the dominant discourses on autonomy. Accord-
ing to estimates provided by the Jammu and Kashmir Gujjars United
Front, “about 20 lakh [two million] Gujjars and Bakerwals have been
crying for the benefits they are entitled to for being Scheduled Tribe since
April 1991 when the status of the ST was given to them but the successive
governments have not initiated any step in this regard so far” (Daily Excelsior,
12 December 2003). It has also been pointed out that about half a million
Gujjars and Bakerwals have no homes or hearths of their own and several
of them live in temporary huts (ibid.).
For most part of the year, these Baniharas or Bakerwals are on the
move from lower to higher or higher to lower altitudes in search of greener
pastures and grazing grounds. Even a vast majority of those Gujjars
who do not move physically stand “displaced” in terms of their social-
cultural spaces. Refusing to take to guns and genuinely reluctant to get
implicated in the “law and order problem discourse” or for that matter
the practices of trans border terrorism, the Gujjar communities demand
and deserve autonomy, at least to an extent that enables them to adapt to
circumstances much beyond their making as well as control (Chowdhary,
2004).
It is important to note that neither the Commission on State Autonomy

nor the Regional Autonomy Commission paid any serious and systematic
attention to the plight of the Gujjars, especially the nomadic communities.
According to Navnita Chadha Behera “Gujjars were first politicized in the
1970s when Prime Minister Indira Gandhi cultivated them and propped
them up as a possible counter weight to the Valley Muslims. The first step
in this direction was the recognition of the Gojri language and allocation
of time on J&K radio for its programs. The Gujjars’ quest for a Sche-
duled Tribe status under the Indian Constitution, which provides recog-
nition and some privileges, however, took a long time to achieve and was
finally granted only by the Chandra Shekhar government, in 1991” (Behera,
1996). Is this enough?
It goes to the credit of Balraj Puri (who felt compelled to resign as the
Working Chairman of the Regional Autonomy Committee but decided
to publish, what in his view was the original version of the Committee’s
Report, as a book) to have forcefully argued that cultural autonomy of
various ethnic identities, which transcend the boundaries of the districts
and regions, cannot find full expression through political institutions
alone. What is needed, therefore, are institutions of cultural autonomy
and development, such as cultural academies. The Committee strongly
recommended that, “Gojri should be included in the 6th schedule of the
State Constitution and efforts should be made to get it recognized by the
Sahitya Academy” (ibid.: 35).
The Gurjar Desh Charitable Trust, a voluntary organization committed
to speedy upliftment of the Gujjars, remains at the forefront of a campaign
to realize due recognition to Gojri language and persistent in its protest
against the non inclusion of the language in the Eighth Schedule of the
Indian Constitution. According to its mouthpiece magazine called Awaz-
e-Gurjar (January 2004: 4), the main demands of the Gujjars include,
“political reservations in the high democratic institutions of the country,
launching of massive program for educational development, providing
adequate loans, subsidies and incentives for reorientation of their trad-
itional vocations, a speedy drive for their employment both in the Army,
Police and Civil Sectors, promotion of Gojri language and its inclusion
in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution and raising of special
colonies for the Gujjars.”
The role of civil society in providing voices to the voiceless remains
crucial. In the current context in Jammu and Kashmir, where Gujjars
have been marginalized in the political sphere, the role that civil society
can play in providing the necessary space for them to articulate their
needs is particularly relevant. Hence it is critical that civil society re-

examines its current understandings of minority rights by going beyond
the dominant categories of “minorities” to focus on issues of inequality
and identity, placing minority communities within a web of socio-
economic structures, opportunities, and denials. While moving away from
the current emphasis on identity and cultural difference towards a more
nuanced understanding of minority rights, the civil society will have to
pay greater attention to insightful questions raised by Mohapatra (Awaz-
e-Gurjar, January 2004) who strongly argues that a critical engagement
with minority rights must begin with the proverbial billion dollar
question(s): Who are the minorities? How are they differentiated from
other groups? What is their numerical strength? Who shapes, articulates,
or constructs the discourses on minorities? What are the best ways to
defend and justify minority rights? How does one unpack the questions
of minority rights in practice and recommend different ways of protecting
their interests?
These are the questions that need to be asked for the Gujjars of Jammu
and Kashmir, sooner the better, in view of their status as a minority within
a minority. Deprived of a geo-political vision of their own, located at the
border and periphery of the modern nation state, the voices of the Gujjars
often problematize nationalist and/or regionalist hegemonic narratives
of history and identity. They also remind us, as pertinently reminded by
Jayadeva Uyangoda, that “without constitutional protection, local and
cultural minorities that are not resourceful enough ... would suffer in-
security, discrimination and even oppression” (Mohapatra, 2003).
Militarized Imaginations and

the Geographies of Fear
The partitioned state of Jammu and Kashmir has entered the 21st century
in a climate of all-pervasive fear. The post-Cold War geo-graphical
imaginations about Jammu and Kashmir, including “nuclear flash point,”
and “most dangerous place on earth,” “unfinished agenda of partition,”
etc., are much more than sensational rhetoric. They carry far reaching
implications for conflict resolution and various pursuits for autonomy.
Equally consequential are the meta-geo-political narratives such as “clash
of civilizations” propounded by Samuel P. Huntington (1996, 2004),
powerfully propagated by the like-minded in various parts of the world,
and ruthlessly pursued by the neo conservative intellectuals of statecraft

under the Bush administration. Wirsing raises some interesting questions:
Is either India or Pakistan—or are both of them—heading into an era of

increased religious nationalism, in which the sectarian identities of the people
of the region will play an ever important role than at present? Are the civiliza-
tional fault lines that transect Kashmir currently deepening, so that the parties
to the Kashmir “dispute” will soon have even greater incentive to exploit the
susceptibilities to communal rivalry and violence that presumably deepen with
them? Is cultural militancy of the religious kind on its way in the region? Or on
the way out? (Wirsing, 2003: 191–92)
Be that as it may, it is more likely than not, that Kashmir will continue
to figure in the kind of “high geopolitics” that has been popularized by
Zbigniew Brzezinski (Brzezinski, 1997). Examining the central role of
the United States in the international system, especially in the Eurasian
Grand Chessboard, “high geopolitics” is highly speculative. It tends to
be dismissive of the populations that inhabit places, is motivated by trad-
itional military security concerns, and looks at the world through a zero-
sum lens—although exactly who are the opponents today is less clear
than in the Cold War period. The map (Figure 6.4) reproduced from
Brzezinski’s book, “The Grand Chessboard,” 1997, illustrates how
Kashmir is being discursively transformed into a “flash point” on the so
called “Eurasian Balkans” and “Global Zone of Percolating Violence.”
The US administration has already moved a long way from the ter-
ritorial conceptualization of geo-politics, characteristic of US policy
making since the World War II (Toal, 1999: 20–21). This trend is par-
ticularly visible with reference to “deterritorialized threats” and “global
dangers” which figure prominently in public pronouncements of the intel-
lectuals and institutions of statecraft. Such threats include regional or
state-centered threats, terrorism, international drug trade, proliferation of
weapons of mass destruction, and climate change. It is in the light of such
a broad and deep context that we might take a look at the observation made
by Robert W. Bradnock, which, in my view, needs to be taken seriously
by those interested in the autonomy question for Jammu and Kashmir,
… two factors will undoubtedly keep the United States and its European,
Japanese allies deeply concerned to find a workable resolution. India’s decision
to adopt an explicitly nuclear policy with its nuclear detonation in May 1998
has drawn the USA into closer concern with Indian developments. Kashmir
also scores more directly in the list of deterritorialized threats: it is close to one
Figure 6.4
Map from Brzezinski’s book, The Grand Chessboard
Source: Brzezinski, Z. 1997. The Grand Chessboard: American Primacy and its Geostrategic
Imperatives. New York: Basic Books.
of the world’s major sources of drugs, and continues to be a home for armed
militants. However, much India would like to keep the Kashmir dispute from
the international agenda, these three elements have given Kashmir a new
international, and indeed, global, significance. (Bradnock, 1998: 26)
The ground reality in Jammu and Kashmir is definitely far more com-
plex than the descriptions offered by the Western geo-strategic discourses
on Kashmir. It is a clash of a kind no doubt, but not among civilizations.
It is a clash of categories, identifications and, diverse notions of security.11
More recently, President Pervez Musharraf of Pakistan has expressed
his willingness to move away from the United Nations resolutions on
Kashmir, while emphasizing the demilitarization of Jammu and Kashmir.
India has responded by pointing out that the issue of autonomy is a
matter of discussion in India and there is no question of changing the
external status of the state. While the exact nature of such proposals and
counter proposals is not clear at this stage, it appears that the debate on
issues related to autonomy has entered a new phase of politicization. It
has been reported in certain sections of the Indian press, that Musharraf ’s
views have generated some fear in the Kashmir Valley among a section
of Kashmiri Muslims who have over the years established flourishing
business in the state and other parts of India (The Tribune, 2 November
2004). Many of them have started thinking of reducing their business
interests in Jammu, Delhi, Bangalore, and Kolkata. The specter of “the
division of the state into either two parts, one to remain with India and
the other especially the valley, to be part of Pakistan or divide it into seven
regions” (ibid.), has also scared businessmen who have invested in
business in the border areas of Poonch, Rajouri, and Kargil. It is further
reported that, “General Musharraf ’s proposal has given sleepless nights
to those living in the Doda district because the majority of people in this
district do not want to remain part of the Kashmir valley. They have
fears about their bleak future if the Dixon plan, in a new form, is
implemented under which Doda will face a division with two sub-
divisions, Doda and Kishtwar going on one side, and the third sub-
division of Bhaderwah being kept on the other side” (ibid.).
Rethinking Identities and Sovereignty:

Towards the Autonomy of Autonomies?
Is it inevitable that the ultimate destiny of all territories must be submitted

to the discourse of state-centric sovereignty, and the practices that flow
from it? It needs to be acknowledged that the role of international bound-
aries in the 21st century is bound to change as dependence on traditional
state sovereignty erodes and territorial expressions of political power
diversify. Globalization, as John O’Loughlin argues, “has been simultan-
eously reworking the nature of inter-state relations, the character of the
world and local regions and indeed nature of places” (O’Loughlin, 2000:
131). These changes will inevitably produce major challenges for the
cartographic depictions so critical in shaping and defining our mental
perceptions of geo-political space. Major trends that are explored here
include the expanding maritime “territoriality” of coastal states, the dimin-
ishing functions of international boundaries with economic and military
integration or supra-state political unions, and the growing tendency for
devolution of political power and local autonomy. We need to explore,

therefore, various possibilities of bi-national territories, the uncertainties
associated with anomalous quasi-national political units, and the prospect
of an increased number of leasing arrangements or territorial servitudes.
Such changes in political management of space will require very imagin-
ative and flexible cartographic depictions to match our mental perceptions
of an increasingly complex global geo-political structure.
The notion of autonomy of autonomies needs to be approached both
ontologically and epistemologically. In the former sense, what ought to
be at the center of projects designing accountable institutions are people
with multiple identifications, and not categorically fixed ethno-religious
identities. Equally critical is to ensure that we move from principles to
practices/institutions and not vice versa. One of the cardinal principles on
which the notion of autonomy of autonomies rest relates to a paradigm
shift from domination to non-domination as the fundamental principle of
governance at all levels. Consequently, critical attention is also drawn
towards how different jurisdictional scales, as deployed by the dominant
discourses on autonomy, are harnessed by powerful vested interests to
their own purposes.
Epistemologically, the autonomy of autonomies compels an acknow-
ledgment of the fact that there is not one but several geographical know-
ledges of autonomy, produced at various sites. The challenge is to ensure
that none of these geographical knowledges, especially the one produced
at the official sites, acquires the hegemonic and homogenizing status of
an unchallengeable regime of truth.
Autonomy of autonomies is also based on the assumption that while
providing enough room for the representation of diverse understandings
of autonomy, it is equally vital to ensure that spaces for resistance are
not erased or discredited. The spaces, such as those occupied by the dis-
persed nomadic Gujjars of Jammu and Kashmir may not inherently be
invested with the symbols and rituals of territoriality. They might, there-
fore, fail to qualify as a “place” that matters in the dominant discourse on
autonomy. Nor is the spread and scope of such spaces of mobility always
constrained by the conventional social and political constructions of geo-
graphical scale, which, as pointed out earlier, are often deployed to mobilize
social networks, political institutions, economic resources, and territorial
rights. Consequently, a group—for example, the “Muslim” Gujjars of
Jammu and Kashmir—that claims representativeness without a concrete
network of relationships constituting a geographical scale of “region”
or “state” will soon find itself criticized as discredited in the communities.
The space(s) needed for the principles and practices of autonomy of

autonomies might be lost in case the fears and the fantasies of religious
fundamentalism of any kind are allowed a free hand in deciding the
“rights” and “obligations” of communities concerned. Marketing a par-
ticular understanding of autonomy by exploiting religion-informed
cultural symbols will most likely be counterproductive in the long run. It
is worth pursuing the agenda of a cosmopolitan autonomy; not cosmo-
politanism of an abstract kind based on a pseudo scientific “view from
nowhere” but a cosmopolitanism visualized and practiced through inter-
cultural dialogue embedded in the argumentative tradition on the
subcontinent.
Is it inevitable that the ethno-political objectives of autonomy be
realized through territorial (in both its symbolic and material-resource
dimensions) autonomy? In other words, the “sense of place” (which con-
notes an array of ideas and processes that link people to place) can also
be imagined and expressed through reasoning other than a “sense of
territory”—a logic that insists that territories must be precisely delimited—
and senses of territory are therefore inevitably linked to the legitimization
of specific territorial constructs. It is equally feasible as well as desirable
to reconceptualize autonomy within a total-systems context as a dynamic
process involving multi-spatial, multi-temporal, and multi-system inter-
actions. It is vital to ensure that the geo-political anatomy of a particular
understanding or a particular blue print of autonomy remains embedded
in a spatial structure of peace and dialogue.
It appears that the autonomy project for Jammu and Kashmir, in its
various avatars, has been a result of interplay among three broad factors
(a) specific power relations, (b) the material existence of geo-political
realities, and (c) the democratic yearnings and possibilities for self-rule.
Kashmir surely shows the fascinating connection between history, geo-
politics, and democracy that can exist only in the form of “current” history.
For the purposes of this chapter, what constitutes the “critical” in critical
geo-politics of “autonomy” has been a modest attempt to account for the
persistent tension between the democratic impulses/aspirations emanat-
ing from socio-economic diversities/disparities, and the relentless under-
mining of cultural pluralism by the geo-political reductionism inherent
in the reasons of “sovereign-territorial” nationalizing state. Having said
that, the chapter has also tried to expose the extent to which the construc-
tion of “peoplehood” in various conceptualizations of autonomy has been
pursued so far in the context of a territorial ambition or the extent to
which such movements continue to operate within the context of the

dominant geo-political visions of their respective nation states.
A critical analytical engagement in this chapter with various discourses
on “autonomy” has further revealed a rather stubborn persistence of the
legacies of British imperial mapping of the mega human-cultural diver-
sity on the subcontinent. These categories continue to be used as instru-
ments of power while negotiating identity and territory in the ongoing
debates on who gets what, when, where, and how from a particular blue
print of autonomy. These categories force historically mobile, mixed,
multicultural, and hybrid communities to reinvent themselves in terms
of biological, cultural, and territorial purity. From the standpoint of auton-
omy of autonomies, it is important, therefore, to evolve alternative carto-
graphic practices that not only counteract a monolithic construction of
religious communities but revision of the map itself as the expression of
a shifting ground.
In other words, the map of autonomy of autonomies appears to be an
open construct rather than one that by definition insists upon contain-
ment. It allows for more possibilities of “indigenous” voices and visions
to shape alternative strategies to de-territorialize the spaces of autonomy.
Also, that, “territoriality is to an increasing degree turning into a con-
tinuum of practices and discourses of territoriality which may be, to some
extent, overlapping and conflicting” (legal and physical boundaries
between places transcending scales). “They may be linked or networked
partly with the past, partly with the present and partly with a utopian
imaginary of the future forms of territoriality” (Paasi, 2003: 120).
The inevitable daily tension of such an arrangement—one that acknow-
ledges hybridity, impurity, intermingling—is a price worth paying for
the sake of desirability as well as durability of such a state of politics. The
failure to do so is likely to result in manipulation of autonomies from the
top by a highly centralized power system. Such a system serves, reasons
of statecraft, a majoritarian, undifferentiated conception of both nation-
hood and citizenship, and the tyranny of artificially imposed, categoric-
ally pronounced, and authoritatively imposed “official” categories.
Notes
1. Such a governmentality is not necessarily restricted to intellectuals and institutions

of statecraft. It can also be found among non-state, politically motivated, ideological
groups, actively engaged in the pursuit of primacy through the exclusion of the
“Other” and the “Alien.” Ironically enough, it might also happen that those who
choose to resist dominant discourses on autonomy might eventually land up de-
ploying those very categories to which they are opposed in principle.
2. Such an analysis is to be informed by new thinking about boundaries and borders
in Geo-politics as well as other disciplines, while debating alternative ways of looking
at the future of hitherto colonially inscribed boundaries in South Asia.
3. Thongchai Winichakul provides us with the idea of a nation as an imagined
community: “Geographically speaking, the geo-body of a nation occupies a certain
portion of earth’s surface which can be objectively identified. It seems to be concrete
to the eyes and having a long history as if it were natural, and independent from
technology or any cultural and social construction. Unfortunately, that is not the
case ... the geo-body of a nation is merely the effect of modern geographical know-
ledge and as technology of representation, a map. The geo-body, the territoriality
of a nation as well as its attributes such as sovereignty and boundary, are not only
political but also cultural constructs. They were formulated on the soil where the
indigenous spatial discourse had existed long before.” See Winichakul (1996:
69–70).
4. Also see Wilson and Donnan (1998: 9–10).
5. “The supposed neutrality of geographical knowledge has at best proven to be a
beguiling fiction and at worst a downright fraud. Geographical knowledge have
always internalized strong ideological content.... Geography has often cultivated
parochialist and ethnocentric perspectives on that diversity. It has often been, and
still is, captive to special interests and, hence, a formidable, though often covert,
weapon in political and social struggle. It has been an active vehicle for the
transmission of doctrines of racial, cultural, sexual, or national superiority. Cold
War rhetoric, fears of ‘orientalism,’ or some demonic ‘other’ that threatens the
existing order have become pervasive and persuasive in relation to political action.
Geographical information can be presented in such a way as to prey upon fears
and feed hostility (the abuse of cartography is of particular note in this regard).
The ‘facts’ of geography presented as ‘facts of nature’ have been used to justify
imperialism, neo-colonialism, expansionism, and geopolitical strategies for dom-
inance.” Quoted from Harvey (2001: 231–32).
6. In Nehru’s construction of India, syncretism, pluralism, and tolerance are the
main themes. For Nehru, “some kind of a dream of unity has occupied the mind
of India since the dawn of civilization.” He “discovers” India’s unity as lying in
culture and not religion—hence no notion of a “holyland” in his mental map of
the country. For him the heroes of India’s history—Ashoka, Kabir, Guru Nanak,
Amir Khusro, Akbar, and Gandhi—subscribe to a variety of Indian faiths and it
is Aurangzeb, the intolerant Moghul, who “puts the clock back.” India’s geography
was sacred to Nehru not literally but metaphorically. For further discussion of
this issue, see Varshney (1993).
7. Neera Chandhoke puts it forcefully: “Expectedly, even as the majority group tries
to monopolize the symbols and the vocabularies of suffering, as it eagerly rushes
to claim the status of victim, and as narratives of victimhood dominate civil

society, political in the sphere has become completely self-centered. But there is
more: resentment articulates, sharpens and ultimately translates perhaps un-
acknowledged prejudice into communal actions, by constructing the subject as
the historical victimizer. Unravel the story told by the Hindutva brigade and we
shall see immediately how the targeted community is depicted as a proximate
and corporeal threat to the identity, to the dignity, and to the traditions of the
members of the community that is host to this construction. That all this leads to
the politics of what has been termed the ‘new tribalism’—the politics of violence,
vendetta and attrition—is predictable.” See Chandhoke (2004: 513).
8. Varshney (1993: 238) remarks: “Since the territorial principle is drawn from a
belief in ancient heritage, encapsulated in the notion of ‘sacred geography,’ and
it also figures in both imaginations [secularists and nationalists] it has acquired
political hegemony over time. It is the only thing common between the two com-
peting nationalist imaginations. Therefore, just as America’s most passionate
political moment concerns freedom and equality, India’s most explosive mo-
ments concern its ‘sacred geography,’ the 1947 partition being the most obvious
example. Whenever the threat of another break-up, another ‘partition’ looms
large, the moment unleashes remarkable passions in politics. Politics based on
this imagination is quite different from what was seen when Malaysia and
Singapore split from each other, or when the Czech or Slovak republics separated.
Territory not being such an inalienable part of their national identity, these
territorial divorces were not desecrations. In India, they become desecrations of
the sacred geography.”
9. To quote Ghai (2000: 24–25): “Autonomy, particularly federal autonomy, is built
around the notion that the people of a state are best served through a balance
between the common and the particular. If the emphasis is so much on the par-
ticular, then separation may be the better option, notwithstanding the proliferation
of states. The secret of autonomy is the recognition of the common; certainly it
seems to be the condition for its success. Perhaps about thirty years ago, too
much emphasis was placed on the ‘common’ and for this reason autonomy was
narrow and contingent. Today we may be placing too much emphasis on the
particular. It may be necessary to consider devices that stress the common bonds
and construct the institutions that hold people together ... to promote broad inter-
regional support, to counter the tendency towards disassociating that comes with
disaggregating ethnic autonomy. Autonomy should be chosen not because of
some notion of preserving ‘sovereignty’ but in order to enable different ethnic
groups to live together, to define a common public space.”
10. According to Mattoo (2000), this logic is dangerous for at least four reasons.
First, trifurcation will destroy the composite identity of the state, which has existed
as one unit since 1846, and send a dangerous message to the whole nation. If
Hindus, Muslims, and Buddhists cannot live together in one state, can they do so
in a larger entity? Second, it will most probably lead to a transfer of Muslims
from various parts of Jammu, including not only parts of the city but also Doda,
Rajouri, and Poonch, assuming that the entire province is made into a separate
state. Finally, it will lead to such deep communal polarization that bloody com-
munal riots will inevitably follow.
11. To quote Humra Quraishi: “Religion has become more visible in recent past. It is
undeniable that a certain rigidity has crept in; there is something less traditionally
Kashmiri, less attractive about religious attitudes now. It is not just about men
wearing skull-caps, women pulling their dupattas tight over their heads and round
their torsos, and thousands rushing to the mosque, so much so that on Fridays
the namaazis spill out onto the roads. It is more about a worrying number of
people doubting your sincerity unless you wear your Islamic identity on your
sleeve; it is about some militant outfit threatening girls with death and disfigure-
ment unless they cover themselves up with burqas; it is about fiery young students
defending the Taliban and everything about Saddam Hussain for no reason other
than their shared faith and what they see as the valour of these men. One sad
result of the growing ‘Arabization’ of Islamic faith in the Valley is that the present
generation of Kashmiris do not seem to attach much importance to the unique
Sufi tradition of the Valley” (2004: 136, 141).
7
SILENCE UNDER FREEDOM: THE STRANGE

STORY OF DEMOCRACY IN THE DARJEELING HILLS
Subhas Ranjan Chakrabarty
T his chapter takes a close look at the working of the autonomy granted
to the Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council (renamed Darjeeling Gorkha
Autonomous Hill Council, and changed again to DGHC) in 1988. It
follows the history of the district starting from 1835 when Darjeeling
was transferred to the East India Company by the Raja of Sikkim to
trace how this event led to the growth of the town and the district in the
context of British commercial and strategic interests, the flow of migra-
tion into the area, and the evolution of the administrative structure of
the district. The developments inevitably encouraged the emergence and
articulation of a distinct identity among the peoples of Darjeeling, which
in its turn led to demands for a separate and distinct structure for the
district. The demands grew more vociferous and took an overtly political
turn after 1947. The chapter concludes with the working of the autonomy
over the last decade and a half.
The Early History of Darjeeling District
The district of Darjeeling evolved through different stages. In 1835,

Darjeeling was ceded to the English East India Company by the Raja of
174 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY
Sikkim. Darjeeling meant all land “south of the Great Rungeet river,
east of Balasun, Kahail and Little Rungeet rivers, and the west of the
Rungnoo and Mahanadi rivers”1 (O’Malley, 1985: 19–34). Relations with
Sikkim did not always remain peaceful thereafter and two further ex-
peditions were led by the British in 1850 and 1861. A treaty concluded
with the prince of Sikkim at Tumlung confirmed the British possession
of Darjeeling. The war with Bhutan in 1865 led to the acquisition of
Kalimpong and territories to the east of the Teesta. Thus the contours of
the district of Darjeeling were formed.
Developments: Commerce, Migration,

and Administration
The British decided to adopt Darjeeling as a sanatorium. Under the

guidance of Dr Campbell, the Superintendent of Darjeeling from 1839,
Darjeeling started to grow and quite a number of settlers gradually arrived
from Nepal, Sikkim, Bhutan and the plains. Around 1850, Darjeeling
had a population of about 10,000 (O’Malley, 1985: 22), while the popu-
lation of the district was around 46,000 in 1852. At the turn of the century,
the population rose to about 249,117 (ibid.: 36).
Apart from being set up as a sanatorium, Darjeeling had obvious
attractions for the British for both commercial and strategic reasons.
Darjeeling could emerge as the entrepot of the trans-Himalayan trade,
surrounded as it was by Nepal, Sikkim, Bhutan, and Tibet (Sen, 1989:
21–69). The introduction of tea plantation was another stimulus to
growth. In 1872, the number of tea estates in Darjeeling was only 74,
but by 1901 the number rose to 170 (O’Malley, 1985: 36). The valor of the
Gorkhas as soldiers was established during the Nepal war. “The Anglo-
Nepal war of 1814–16 is a critical reference point for … it was during
this war that the British officially ‘discovered’ the Gurkhas” (Caplan,
1991: 571–97). Naturally, the “Gurkhas” became a target group as possible
recruits to the army. The opportunities of employment in the tea plant-
ations and recruitment to the army encouraged immigration into the
district.
It was now necessary to provide a regular administrative set up for
Darjeeling. The district remained under the non-regulation scheme of
administration before the passing of the Indian Council’s Act of 1861.
Silence under Freedom: Darjeeling Hills / 175
Though the Act abolished the distinction between the regulated and non-
regulated districts, an Act of 1870 restored the pre-1861 status and only
the Governor General and the Lt Governors were empowered to legislate
by means of executive order for the less developed areas. Darjeeling was
placed under the scheme for non-regulated districts. An Act of 1874 made
Darjeeling a scheduled district (Chakraborty, 1988: 6–20). This status
continued till 1919 when the nomenclature was changed from “scheduled
district” to “backward tract.” Under the Act of 1935, Darjeeling became
a “partially excluded area” within the province of Bengal (ibid.: 14).
This brief outline will show that the British experimented with the status
to be accorded to Darjeeling, especially its relationship to the province
of Bengal. However, the repeated changes do show an anxiety to preserve
for Darjeeling, a separate status, and thus acknowledge the distinction
between the predominant “pahariyas” and the “madheshis” (plainsmen).
Emergence and Articulation of Identity
The tea gardens, the army, trade and commerce, and sundry employment
opportunities attracted settlers to the district, not only from Nepal but
also from the Terai region and the plains of Bengal and Bihar. Clearing
of forests and reclamation of land for agriculture provided additional
scope for settlement. The various Nepali tribes proved to be particularly
enterprising so far as the development of agriculture was concerned.
Through large-scale immigration from eastern Nepal in particular, the
Nepalese soon outnumbered the Lepchas and the Bhutias.2 These settlers
slowly evolved a community structured by their separate identity. What
is interesting is the gradual shedding of tribal identities in favor of an
overarching and inclusive Nepali identity. A major cementing factor was
the Nepali language which increasingly superseded tribal languages/
dialects to emerge as the lingua franca for the entire Himalayan region.3
The early history of education in Darjeeling relates to the needs of the
children of the European residents in Darjeeling and the children of the
Europeans serving in areas without adequate facilities for education. The
missionaries took the lead in this matter. But later there were attempts to
open schools exclusively for the local people, particularly the hill people.
The Report on the State of the Police in Darjeeling for 1860 noted that 49
boys attended the vernacular and English school, but indicated a decline
in the number in 1861 and 1862. The desire for English tuition, the Report
of 1860 mentioned, continued (Index India and Bengal Despatches,

XXV: 960–68, XXVI: 192). German missionaries made an effort to educate
the local boys as early as the 1860s. In course of time an educated local
elite emerged. What started as the agonized cry of discrimination and
exploitation of a largely immigrant population was transformed into an
articulated demand for recognition of the separateness of the hill people.
As a corollary, they demanded protection of their identity and rights, which,
they argued, could best be preserved by the right of self-determination
for the people of the hills.
Another issue that helped mobilize people, was language. Parasmani
Pradhan, Surya Bikram Ghewali, Dharanidhar Sharma, and others set
up the Nepali Sahitya Sammelan to develop Nepali language and litera-
ture. They also demanded the inclusion of Nepali in the syllabi for the
matriculation examination conducted by the University of Calcutta. In
1930, the government of Bengal also permitted the adoption of Nepali as
the medium of instruction up to the middle school level. Yet, what these
leading Nepali academics were seeking was a more comprehensive socio-
cultural identity, not just a separate administrative set up (Pradhan, 1991).
In 1907, a memorandum was presented on behalf of the hill people of
Darjeeling to the government demanding “a separate administrative unit”
for the district. The meaning of the term “separate administrative unit”
was, however, not spelt out and the details remained quite vague (Memo-
randum to GOI and Parliament, 1957). The hill people referred to the
Nepalis, Bhutias, and Lepchas (Nebula). T. B. Subba is “inclined to believe
that forty-one years of interaction (1866–1907) between the three hill
communities and between them and plainsmen (mainly the Bengalis)
had more to do with the above demand than anything else” (Subba, 1992:
76). This opinion, which has not been worked upon any further, would
run counter to early ideas that the backdrop of this demand could be the
anti-partition and swadeshi agitation in Bengal. A definite conclusion is,
however, difficult to offer. In 1917, “the humble memorial of the repre-
sentatives of the Darjeeling district” was submitted to the Chief Secretary
to the Government of Bengal by some prominent Lepcha, Bhutia, and
Nepalese citizens of Darjeeling. In the memorandum, the signatories
clearly stated that they did not have “any feeling of discontent and dis-
satisfaction with the present system of government” and that they “have
treated the movement for Home Rule with neglect and even disfavour.
But now that the British government has definitely stated that Home
Rule is the ultimate goal ... this district should be excluded from [Bengal]
and the evolution of our political life should be towards a distinct local
government of our own on such lines as may be approved by the British
government” (Moktan, 2004: 90). The memorandum, however (italics
mine) added that “the government should aim at the creation of separate
unit comprising the present Darjeeling district with the portion of
Jalpaiguri district which was annexed from Bhutan in 1865” (ibid.: 91).
The memorandum emphasized the importance of the district as a frontier.
It showed awareness of the development potential of the area when it
spoke of it as a source of hydroelectric power. It also mooted the idea of
a North Eastern Frontier Province that would in addition to the district
include the “Assam Dooars and the hill territories which lie to the East
of Bhutan and whose peoples have affinities with our people” (ibid.: 92).
This memorandum, apart from being the handiwork of a section of the
elite of the hill people, had the blessings of the European planters. In 1930,
a fresh memorandum was submitted to Sir Samuel Hoare, the Secretary
of State of India. It was interestingly entitled “the humble memorial of
the Gurkhas settled and domiciled in British India.” The memorial was
signed by H. P. Pradhan, President of the Hillmen’s Association, N. B.
Gurung, and P. P. Pradhan, respective Secretaries of the Kalimpong and
Darjeeling Branches of the Hillmen’s Association, Lt. G. Gurung,
President, Gurkha Officers’ Association and P. M. Sundar, Secretary,
Kurseong Gurkha Library (ibid.: 95). It is significant that the demand
for separate status was now related to an ethno-linguistic group living in
different parts of India. It noted that these Gurkhas domiciled in India
numbered about three million. The memorandum betrayed an anxiety
that in the event of constitutional changes in the future, the Gurkhas might
find it difficult to preserve their own customs and traditions, unless a
guarantee was given by the colonial state. It referred to a proposal sub-
mitted earlier by the Gurkha League at Dehradun regarding matters
which vitally affected the Gurkhas in India. An outline of a scheme for
the separate administrative status of the district was suggested. “The
district of Darjeeling … should be excluded from Bengal and be treated
as an independent administrative unit with the Deputy Commissioner
as an Administrator vested with much more power than that of a District
Magistrate assisted by a small Executive Council (like the Provincial
Governor’s Executive Council), representative of all interests, in the
administration of the area” (ibid.: 94). Further, all recruitments to gov-
ernment service should be from among the local people. The adminis-
trative unit of Darjeeling should be placed directly under the Government
of India. “All legislation passed by the central legislature should not be

applicable to the administered area, without the same being certified
by the Administrator and the Council that it should be extended to
Darjeeling.” Finally, the signatories reminded the Secretary of State of
the Gurkhas’ “past service and sacrifice for the Empire” and hoped that
their request for the recognition of their separate and distinct identity
would be granted (Moktan, 2004: 95). It is noteworthy that these appeals
to the colonial state were not backed by popular movements. In 1934,
the Hillmen’s Association submitted a fresh memorandum entitled
“the humble memorial of the Hillmen’s Association of the District of
Darjeeling in the province of Bengal,” (ibid.: 96) signed by Laden La,
the President, G. Gurung, the Vice-President and Madan Thapa, the
Secretary of the Hillmen’s Association. It is to be noted that the memorial,
unlike the earlier one in 1930, was now submitted in the name of the
Darjeeling district only. Having briefly traced the evolution of the district
in the 19th century, the memorial sought to reiterate the separateness of
the Gurkhas living in Darjeeling. It noted that “the frontier district has
hitherto remained as an Excluded Area directly under the Governor of
Bengal ... as a result so far all culturable land, excepting the tea garden
areas, has remained an exclusive reserve for the hill people, who have
also enjoyed preferential treatment in the Government services as well
in the district ... and the hill people by their unquestionable loyalty and
devotion to the British Crown have amply justified the trust reposed on
them” (ibid.: 96). The Association expressed an apprehension that, in
the context of constitutional reforms being considered, the interests
of the hill people may not be adequately safeguarded by the provincial
legislature.4 They thus demanded an independent administrative status
on the lines suggested in the earlier memorandum of 1930. The Hillmen’s
Association, it would appear, wished to depend on the goodwill of the
colonial state to protect the interests of the hill people. They feared, in
plain terms, that some amount of self-rule given to the provinces may,
in fact, act to the prejudice of the people in the hills. In this context, an
independent status became an absolute necessity. To what extent this
anxiety of the members of the Hillmen’s Association was shared by the
common people is difficult to ascertain. There is, however, no evidence
of a groundswell of popular discontent in the district. In 1935, Laden
La, representing the Association demanded total exclusion from the
province of Bengal.5
In 1943, the All India Gorkha League (AIGL) was formed under the
leadership of D. S. Gurung. It was hoped that in course of time the AIGL
would emerge as the representative political party of the Gorkhas living

all over India. There was as yet no definite blueprint for the separate status
of Darjeeling. D. S. Gurung toyed with the idea of merging with Assam,
but later raised the demand of a new state called Uttarakhand. Subhas
Chandra Bose, in a letter to Gurung on 8 August 1938 noted: “I was glad
to have a discussion with you regarding the grievances of the Hill people
of the district of Darjeeling. The grievances as jotted down by you are
just and legitimate, and I think it is the duty of the government to remedy
them. So far as the Congress Party is concerned, I can assure you that
we will do our best to remove these grievances as early as possible .... We
should also give special attention to the Hillmen in the District of
Darjeeling .... The Congress party ... will also see that a special committee
is appointed to investigate the special problems of the Hillmen and report
as to how these problems should be solved” (Gurung, 1971: 16–17). This
is the first reference to a national leader addressing the problem of
Darjeeling. Clearly, the methods Gurung chose to follow differed from
those followed by the Hillmen’s Association and others earlier. Instead
of just appealing to the good sense of the colonial state, Gurung wished
to connect the problem of Darjeeling to the wider nationalist politics in
India. A different approach is noticeable.
The Politics of Identity and

Demand for Autonomy
The people of Darjeeling were drawn into the freedom struggle as well.
The non cooperation movement found strong echoes in different parts
of Darjeeling and the Congress-led freedom movement had a substantial
following in Darjeeling. The Communists also succeeded in mobilizing
the workers in the tea plantations (De and Ray, 1979; Majumdar, 1983).
Understandably, these political parties had to take a stance with regard
to the question of a separate administrative structure for the district,
particularly after the transfer of power in 1947. The Constituent Assembly
constituted an Advisory Committee on Excluded and Partially Excluded
Areas and the Committee noted, in its Report, that the Simon Commis-
sion put forward two alternatives with regard to the district: (a) constitu-
tional amalgamation with the rest of the province, and (b) exclusion from
Bengal and the placing of the district under the administrative authority
of the Government of India, the Governor of Bengal acting as its agent.
The Provincial Government did not favor the second alternative. “In their
opinion Darjeeling had always been an integral part of Bengal, the whole
administrative machine was linked up with that of Bengal, officers were
interchangeable and local problems were familiar to the Secretariat. From
an administrative point of view therefore the difficulties of exclusion
were enormous.”6 (Report of the Constituent Assembly of India Advisory
Committee: 60). The Committee noted the position of Darjeeling after
the introduction of provincial autonomy in 1937. It remained a “partially
excluded area,” with the executive authority of the province extending
to it, but federal or provincial laws could be applied only after the public
notification of the governor to that effect. Darjeeling also had represent-
ation to the provincial legislature.
In April 1947, the District Committee of the Communist Party of India
(CPI) submitted a memorandum to the Constituent Assembly. The docu-
ment was signed by Ratanlal Brahmin, the MLA and Ganeshlal Subba
on behalf of the District Committee and copies were sent to Jawaharlal
Nehru and Liaqat Ali Khan. The memorandum asserted that “the Gorkhas
living in Darjeeling District, the adjoining areas of Sikkim and the so-
called independent state of Nepal ... constitute a distinct nationality.”
“The Communist Party of India, therefore, demands that after making
necessary revisions in the existing boundaries, the three contiguous areas
of Darjeeling District, Southern Sikkim and Nepal be formed into one
single zone to be called ‘Gorkhastan.’ On the basis of adult suffrage a
plebiscite may be held in all these areas on this issue.” The CPI document
guaranteed the rights of all other minorities living within the proposed
new state. But the Party vehemently opposed what it called the “imperialist
plan” of “excluding the district from the rest of India and its constitution
into a separate Chief Commissioner’s Province as has been put forward
by the Darjeeling Hillmen’s Association .... This Association presents
none but the local agents of British imperialism” (Moktan, 1986: 31–36;
2004: 99–105). This was a scathing attack on the leaders of the Hillmen’s
Association.
It is important to note that immediately after the transfer of power in
August 1947, a public meeting was held in Darjeeling, sponsored by the
leaders of virtually all the major communities living in Darjeeling, sup-
porting the demand for autonomy. The AIGL submitted a Memorandum
to the Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, in Kalimpong in April 1952,
detailing the attempts by various groups to secure a separate administra-
tive status for Darjeeling since 1907. It proposed three alternatives to the
government: (a) a separate district administrative unit to be administered
by the center, (b) a separate province comprising Darjeeling and neigh-

bouring areas, and (c) Darjeeling, along with a part of Jalpaiguri, viz.,
the Dooars to be included in Assam (Moktan, 1986: 11–15).
In the first elections in 1952, the AIGL returned four and the CPI one
MLA to the West Bengal Assembly which could now become a battle-
ground for the issue of “autonomy,” though the actual term was still to
be used. In August 1952, Sankar Prasad Mitra moved a private bill to
“increase the area of West Bengal,” presumably to accommodate the huge
influx of refugees from East Pakistan. Biren Banerjee brought an amend-
ment seeking “to provide regional autonomy within the West Bengal State
for Nepalese speaking people” (Gurung, 1971: 19–20). This is the first
time that the term “regional autonomy” would appear to have been used.
The Chief Minister opposed the idea though. The demand of West Bengal
before the States Reorganization Committee to include the Bengali-
speaking areas of Bihar into West Bengal understandably made the issue
of the status of Nepali-speaking areas more urgent. In the debate in the
Assembly, Dr Ranen Sen of the CPI supported the demand for “regional
autonomy” of Darjeeling “within the state of West Bengal” (ibid.: 25).
In 1955, N. B. Gurung, an independent MLA from the district
submitted in the Assembly, that the government of West Bengal and the
Congress Party had adopted an unfriendly attitude towards the people
of Darjeeling. He noted that the Congress Party in a supplementary
memorandum to the States Reorganization Committee, when it visited
Darjeeling stated that “Nepali-speaking population was 20%, Bengali-
speaking 14.3%, Hindi-speaking 6.8%. Lepchas and Bhutias being 4%,
the total comes to 45.1%. It is not understood who constituted the rest
of the population, viz., 54.9%. I hope they are not Chinese” (Gurung,
1971: 27–34). He also quoted from the Report of the States Reorgan-
ization Committee that if an area within a state had more than 70 per
cent people belonging to one ethnic or linguistic group, then they would
constitute a minority within the province and the language of that
minority group should be the official language in that area.
The focus now shifted to the demand for the recognition of Nepali as
the official language for the hills. When in March 1958 an unofficial bill
proposed legislation for adopting Bengali as the official and administrative
language for the state, B. B. Hamal of the CPI moved an amendment to
include Nepali as the official language for the hills. Apart from Hamal,
N. B. Gurung also forcefully argued for the case of Nepali. Finally, after
a lot of persuasion and considerable agitation in Darjeeling, the Official
Language Bill proposed the recognition of Nepali as the official language
for the three hill sub-divisions of Darjeeling. After long wait, this rec-
ognition was one victory at last. What happened to the question of
autonomy?
The quest for autonomy, however, was frustrated. The Congress, in
power from 1947 to 1967, failed to meet the demand to which they were
also a party. The AIGL and the CPI had already submitted proposals for
a separate identity, in different forms, to the Constituent Assembly. Even
the district committee of the Congress Party, in a resolution passed on
15 May 1955, elaborated the demand for autonomy by asking for a Dis-
trict Council, with statutory recognition, to be formed to aid and advise
the government on matters of administration. In 1967, Dr Maitreyee
Bose, the member of Lok Sabha from Darjeeling brought a private bill
for the inclusion of Nepali in the Eighth Schedule of the Constitution.
When the Home Minister requested the withdrawal of the bill, she sub-
mitted a memorandum to the Prime Minister forcefully arguing the case
once more (Bose, 1967). In August 1968, the Darjeeling District Committee
of the Congress Party adopted a resolution reiterating the long standing
demand for an autonomous administrative set up for the district including
an outline of the proposed autonomy. The three hill sub-divisions of
Darjeeling would form a separate district, while Siliguri and adjoining
areas were to form a new district. The autonomous district was to have a
Hill Area Council of not more than 21 members and was to have legisla-
tive powers. There should be a separate “area budget” for the council. No
change was proposed in the “existing system of judiciary.” The executive
authority should be in the hands of a cabinet minister in charge of the hill
areas, to be assisted by junior ministers. There should be a separate depart-
ment of Hill Areas in the West Bengal Secretariat. The subjects to be
brought under the purview of the Council were also detailed. This was the
first detailed proposal for “Hill Autonomy” (District Congress Committee,
1968). The District Congress Committee requested the Pradesh Congress
Committee to include this demand as a program of the Congress Party.
The West Bengal Pradesh Congress Committee adopted a resolution in
September 1968. It simply noted the special problems “pertaining to the
Hill Areas of the District of Darjeeling,” and resolved that “positive
measures will have to be taken to solve these problems.” The United Front
governments of 1967 and 1969 also failed to do anything about the
demand as neither could last the full term. It is important to note that
the AIGL leader, D. P. Rai was a minister in these governments. The
second United Front ministry in 1969 included autonomy for Darjeeling
in its 32-point program.
In 1973, the CPI(M) and the AIGL circulated a document entitled

“Programme and Demand of Autonomy” (Programme and Demand
for Autonomy, 1973). It noted that the demand for autonomy was not a
new demand and indeed had been supported by all political parties over
the last several decades. But even after more than a quarter century of
independence, the aspirations of the people of Darjeeling had not been
satisfied. The creation of new states out of Assam obviously emboldened
the agitators in Darjeeling to make a fresh bid for autonomy (ibid.: 2).
They rued the fact that non-Hillmen still constituted the majority of
administrative personnel in the district and the area was obviously un-
developed. They came to the conclusion that autonomy was the only
solution7 (ibid.: 3–6). The document noted: “it is crystal clear that there
is a deep undercurrent of dissatisfaction with the existing administrative
set up. It is only by granting the rights of autonomy that the vexed problem
of this district can be solved” (ibid.: 60). The outline for autonomy called
for the creation of an Autonomous District Council with one member for
every 10,000 people, an Executive Council to run the administration,
power of legislation over 44 subjects and power to impose taxation in
certain cases. It added that the laws passed by the Council “shall be obliga-
tory to the state government.” They also guaranteed the rights of the
minorities living in the district. It may be mentioned in this context, that
Professor Hiren Mukerjee, the eminent left parliamentarian from West
Bengal, had in 1969 told the Lok Sabha : “In West Bengal, as far as the
Gorkha speaking areas are concerned, the State Congress had once agreed
with the United Front in asking for some sort of an autonomous right
in regard ... to the Darjeeling District. Very probably, a remedy, similar
to what has been applied in Assam, may be necessary” (Gurung, 1971:
109–10).
S. S. Ray, the Chief Minister from 1972 to 1977, had the habit of
donning a Nepali cap whenever he was in Darjeeling and set up a Hill
Development Council. In an extraordinary issue, The Calcutta Gazette,
dated 3 May 1976, printed ‘The Darjeeling Hill Areas Development
Council Act, 1976’. The Council would be constituted with officials and
17 nominated members, and would advise the government “in formu-
lating integrated development plans for Darjeeling and in the implement-
ation of the schemes and programmes in the hills.” This, however, failed
to satisfy the democratic aspirations of the people, though it must be
noted that this was the first official constitution of an institutional
framework for the hill areas.
After the Left Front government came to power, the old arrangement
continued. There were, however, signs that the people were becoming
restive. In April 1980, the Prantiya Morcha, and in September 1980, the
Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF) memoranda to the Prime
Minister demanded the state of Gorkhaland. In April 1981, the AIGL
submitted a memorandum to Zail Singh, the Union Home Minister.
Tracing the old history of the demand for autonomy, the memorandum
demanded the constitution of a separate state outside of West Bengal.
The creation of Sikkim as the 22nd state was mentioned to buttress the
demand, while reiterating the demand for the inclusion of Nepali in the
Eighth Schedule of the Constitution. The Gorkha League also fulminated
against the rule of the Left Front. Again, in September 1981 Pranta
Parishad, a new political formation, in a memorandum to Indira Gandhi
demanded “the formation of the State of Darjeeling comprising the
Nepali speaking region of North Bengal.” The demand was repeated in
a memorandum to Rajiv Gandhi, the next Prime Minister, in December
1984. Even the DCC in May 1986 urged Rajiv Gandhi to grant a separate
state to the people of Darjeeling warning that “present maladies now
fast developing in a wrong direction should not at all be viewed as a pas-
sing phase.”8 In view of the rising demand for a separate state, which the
Left Front in West Bengal dubbed as “separatist,” the CPI(M) MP, Anand
Pathak moved a private bill in the Parliament in 1985, seeking to amend
the Constitution to “create an autonomous region comprising areas ...
of the district of Darjeeling.” It asked for the empowerment of the District
Autonomous Council to legislate (Moktan, 1986: 37–44). The Bill was
defeated.
In 1980, GNLF and the Pranta Parishad were set up as new political
formations, but the first demand for a separate state carved out of the
state of West Bengal was made by the Pranta Parishad. The demand did
not make an immediate impact, but gradually found a responsive chord
in the people of Darjeeling. The GNLF, led by Subash Ghising, stole the
thunder and by 1986 the movement became a violent one throwing the
hills into a turmoil not experienced before. Two years of unprecedented
violence and substantial loss of lives were followed by the agreement of
1988 whereby the union and state governments and the GNLF agreed
to set up DGHC (now DGAHC).
The role of the Akhil Bharatiya Nepali Bhasa Samiti in mobilizing
public opinion must be noted briefly. The association spearheaded the
movement for the inclusion of Nepali in the Eighth Schedule of the Con-
stitution. They were able to take the movement not only to the remote
villages, but adopted an all India perspective. The GNLF, it may be

suggested, used the mobilization a lot more effectively.
Working of Autonomy
The Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council (DGHC Act, 1988), set up by the agree-
ment of 1988, is now more than 15 years old. The GNLF swept the first
three elections and the fourth elections were due in 2004. The elections
were, however, postponed to March 2005 and then, through an amend-
ment of the Act, postponed for another six months. The Chairman was
allowed to continue as the caretaker Chairman for the intervening period.
I will take stock of the working of the council at this point. This can be
worked out from two different perspectives: (a) the achievements of the
council in developmental work, and (b) the perception of the DGHC as
the embodiment of aspirations for autonomy.
The structure and the powers of the DGHC have some obvious limits.
The DGHC Act provided the institutional framework for the exercise
of regional autonomy by abolishing the Zilla Parishad and creating a
separate Mahakuma Parishad for Siliguri. The municipalities and the
panchayats (one tier only) were kept under the general supervision of
the DGHC. The Act, many feel, has not quite provided a framework of
true autonomy. For example, the Council does not have any legislative
powers which the autonomous district councils under the Sixth Schedule
enjoy and enjoys very limited resource generating powers. In the ultimate
analysis, the Council is dependent on the central and state governments
for funds. The presence of nominated members constituting one-third of
the Council is also seen as anomalous to the democratic process. Areas
of friction between the Council and the state government emerged after
the DGHC started working. Though the rough edges were smoothened
out through dialogues between the Chairman and the state government,
all the problems could not be solved (Sarkar and Bhaumik, 2000: 47–178).
A powerful committee in 1999 decided to change the name of the
DGHC into the Darjeeling Gorkha Autonomous Hill Council. (The term
“autonomous” was dropped through the amendment of 2005 at the in-
sistence of GNLF.) There is a constant complaint about lack of adequate
resources as well as about the Council’s lack of power to generate its own
resources. The two most lucrative sources of revenue, tea and timber, remain
outside the ambit of the Council. While the forests are under the Council,
the state retains its control of the reserved forests. Conflicts of jurisdiction
in the sphere of Panchayati Raj too often led to an impasse. Devolution
of powers for the Panchayati Raj institutions within the DGAHC is on a
single tier, i.e. the Gram Panchayat level only. The DGAHC handles
the development schemes, while the district administration handles
institutional aspects. This is a very complex working arrangement that
impedes smooth functioning of the concept of autonomy at the grass
roots level.
I quote from a Report prepared by an NGO (Darjeeling NGO Network)
on the working of the Panchayati Raj system:
An important factor for development is the ownership of asset whether it is

individual or community asset. Within the Darjeeling scenario more than 40%
of the land is under forests and more than 20% of the land is under tea. In both
the cases the ownership of the land and its resources is not in the community.
True that today tea garden workers and forest village[rs] individual[ly] par-
ticipate in the Panchayati Raj institution, but their participation remains limited
as they do not own the land and its resources. Thus only less than 40% of land
is in individual or community ownership within the Panchyati Raj Institution
which would ensure real community planning for development. A majority of
this land area would fall under the Kalimpong sub-division. This is because
the British introduced tea in the Darjeeling and Kurseong Sub-Divisions as
Kalimpong already had settled agriculture and reserve forests.... But there is a
clear demarcation between forests and rural communities. Both have been made
exclusive of each other with the community having no access to the forest re-
sources and its management. True, we have forest villages but this too is limited
in definition as the user group of the forests is much larger than those demarc-
ated within forest villages. Thus even with the introduction of Joint Forest Man-
agement and formation of Forest Protection Committees and Eco-Development
Committees the total user groups do not participate in the management of
forest resources.
The issue of ownership and community participation becomes more accentu-
ated in tea gardens where the labour community has no access to ownership of
the tea garden. Thus, even with their inclusion in the Panchayati Raj Institution
community participation in the management of resources can never be achieved.
Many of the developmental schemes through the Panchayat depend on the
ownership of land. Since the community has no access to land these schemes
can never be implemented properly. (Panchayati Raj and Development, 2004)
Gram Samsads are ideal places to discuss issues on agriculture, water-

shed development, community based disaster preparedness, economic
development, and social justice issue. The Darjeeling Hills have a poor
track record in this. No concrete quantitative data are available but

experience shows that most Gram Samsads end up as adjourned closed-
door meetings, ruining the spirit of Gram Samsads (Panchayati Raj and
Development, 2004).
Thus the question of autonomy percolating to the grassroots level has
engaged some groups in Darjeeling. The picture here is not encouraging
either.
The absence of translation of the 73rd Amendment into action can be
attributed to several reasons. The notion of participatory planning and
implementation is a dramatic paradigm shift from the centralized top
down approach. The ramifications of this shift are tremendous and need
to be seen at all levels. ‘Years of top down approach have eroded the cap-
acity at the community level to come together, plan and implement
[adopted programs]. The community has become passive recipients of
development aid.... The elected members have little capacity to facili-
tate participatory planning’ (ibid.).
The NGO came up with some suggestions:
1. Greater role clarity and proactive and collaborative participation

among Panchayats, DGAHC, and the district administration.
2. Greater community participation through Gram Samsads.
3. Capacity building towards participatory development processes at
all levels of community, elected members, and administration.
4. More in-depth study of tea plantation areas and forest areas with
respect to the 73rd Amendment and formulation of a plan of action
pertinent to these areas.
5. Involvement of civil society and NGOs in planning and capacity
building sessions (ibid.).
In personal conversation, some members of the NGO noted that in some

areas, such as networking of roads in the rural area and rural electrifi-
cation, there had been considerable improvement over the last decade
and a half. It is, however, difficult to quantify the extent to which perman-
ent assets have been created. The NGO talk about coordination which
seems conspicuous by its absence. A major obstacle is lack of information.
Two or three issues of the Gorkha Samachar, brought out by the Council
starting in January 1992, described Subash Ghising as “bhavishya drashta
Yugapurush” and promised to keep the people of Darjeeling informed
about the developmental work undertaken by the Council. It apparently
did not keep the promise (Gorkha Samachar, 1992). All the publications
of the Council so far deal with the Gorkhaland movement, but no pub-
lished record of the development achieved so far is available. It is, therefore,
difficult to quantify if autonomy has resulted in substantial transfor-
mation in the hills. Plainly, some changes are obvious. Power relations
in the district are apparently different. The Chairman and the Executive
Councillors enjoy all the frills of cars/jeeps with red lights, etc., enjoyed
by ministers in West Bengal and elsewhere. The Council is seen to be the
governing agency in the district with control over most of the departments
except, of course, the police. There is some satisfaction among the people
that the Councillors as well as the Executive Councillors are more easily
available for personal contact.
The GNLF has won three elections with an overwhelming majority.
The opposition appears to be in disarray. The next election, due in Novem-
ber 2004, has now been postponed to September 2005. The Akhil Bharatiya
Gorkha League is trying to regroup itself. In August 2005, it submitted a
long memorandum to the Chief Minister detailing its observations about
the functioning, or non-functioning, of the Council. Conversations with a
cross-section of the people of Darjeeling give us some insight into the
perceptions about the working of the autonomy under the Council.9
The high officials of the DGAHC, of course, talk about achievements
in road building, construction, the bridge at Rellikhola, tourism and
development of parks and other sites as new spots of tourist attraction,
the huge opera house coming up near the Chowrasta, etc., but, as we have
noted earlier, there is no record of the achievements in the crucial sectors.
Lack of information and possibly a certain lack of transparency charac-
terize the working of the Council. A correspondent of a national daily
complained that no press conferences are held either by the Chairman or
other Executive Councillors or officials. A former teacher of a local college
made a very important point about the absence of institution building.
The Act could have been the entry point for a tiny experiment, but unfor-
tunately there has been a failure to appreciate the significance of the legal-
constitutional experiment. There has been a tendency to equate the DGHC
with the GNLF—without adequate follow up measures to make auton-
omy meaningful. There is a certain lack of debate at every level, preventing
the evolution of a consensus so necessary in a democracy. There is also a
certain lack of accountability. The opposition parties have now gone on
record about this lack of accountability. For example, the Council has
not met since October 2001, though the Act says that the Council “shall
meet at least once in three months.” Nor is there any budget prepared or
passed by the Council. A journalist talked of the inexperience of the
Councillors and their support staff attributing it to the agitators suddenly

turning administrators. Most of the agitators did not have enough political
experience either. But, after more than 15 years, this argument does not
hold much water. Yet, this has been mentioned by several correspond-
ents. A story circulates about a Councillor who is the local Robin Hood.
He collects toll from every car that passes through a major road in his
constituency. The money thus collected has been used to repair damaged
bridges and maintain the roads, with some spent to provide temporary
employment to the unemployed youth. He even made appointments of
teachers in the primary and junior schools in his constituency (Ananda
Bazaar Patrika, 4 July 2004). If the story is true, the DGHC and the state
government suffer this plainly irregular act.
Another journalist was more critical of the Executive Councillors using
their assigned constituencies as fiefdoms, with accountability only towards
the Chairman and supported by subtle propaganda keeping a psychology
of fear alive. He is even more critical of the state government which, he
says, buys peace by abdicating its constitutional obligations. He explains
these limitations as the result of a faulty Act. He recalls a comment of
Ghising, questioning the reality of autonomy.10 Yet, the GNLF does not
make these issues public but uses the issue of Gorkhaland at opportune
moments to twist the arms of the state government. (The Amendment
of 2005, to provide for further postponement of the elections is yet another
illustration of the point).
One correspondent pointed out, that even after a decade and a half, no
blueprint of an economic agenda has been prepared. With no following
up of the constitution of the DGHC, basic civic amenities in Darjeeling
deteriorated and the hill areas became chronically underdeveloped.
Though women and the GNWO played a very crucial part during the
GNLF movement, except for two or three women Councillors, not many
women have played any important part in the running of the DGAHC.
The question of women’s empowerment is a non-issue so far as the
working of autonomy is concerned.
There is thus an appreciation of what the DGHC has done, but that is
outweighed by the critique of what it has not done. The main point of
the critics is the lack of a dialogue among the various groups. Extreme
views, subtly hinted at rather than articulated, indicate both disappoint-
ment and an atmosphere of fear. Such an atmosphere may, and perhaps
does, breed distrust in the system, leading to advocacy of more extreme
alternatives. Though local editions are brought out by most national
newspapers, news about the hills is usually confined to the special pages
meant for north Bengal and Sikkim. This prevents outsiders from keeping
a tab on such news. Newspapers generally highlight references to the
issue of Gorkhaland and attempts by the opposition to unite against the
GNLF. The issues of development are not given the prominence they
deserve. The crisis in February/March 2005 made the national news-
papers restore Darjeeling once again to the front pages.
We are giving a sample of reports from the major newspapers to support
this point. The leader of the Gorkha Apex Committee of Sikkim said a
separate homeland for the Gorkhas was a need of the hour and urged
the Sikkim Chief Minister to lead the movement for the demand (The
Telegraph, 9 January 2004). The Peoples’ Democratic Front said that
history would remember Ghising as a betrayer of the Gorkhas and
Gorkhaland (The Telegraph, 4 January 2004). A report of a meeting of the
opposition parties mentioned the leakage of the budget of the DGHC,
prepared by the Hill Affairs Department, Government of West Bengal
(The Statesman, 17 December 2003). We give now a few headlines: Increase
in the number of the unemployed, DGHC fails to prevent it (Sunchari,
21 January 2004); Darjeeling Forward Block calls for Gorkhaland (The
Statesman, 23 February 2004); ABGL to demand an explanation regarding
the extension of the tenure of the DGHC by eight months (The Telegraph,
18 March 2004); Madan Tamang, the President of ABGL, accuses Ghising
of accepting commission from the owners of the tea gardens (The States-
man, 22 February 2004). This issue occupied the attention of the papers
for some time. But as far as I have been able to see, the Chairman is not
on record challenging this, though the Party leaders strongly condemned
the allegation. One report, carried by several papers, noted that Asok
Bhattacharya, the Minister in charge of Hill Affairs, gave a clean chit to
DGAHC, saying that there were no irregularities in the working of the
Council (The Statesman, 6 March 2004). Some other reports: GNLF(C)
raises Gorkhaland issue (The Statesman, 2 March 2004), DGAHC denies
mid-day meal scam (The Statesman, 17 March 2004) Ghising says hill
water crisis is minor (The Telegraph, 22 March 2004). During the visit of
the Chief Minister another report quoted Madan Tamang as saying: “We
cannot call Buddhadeb our CM” as he failed to meet the local people
and met only Ghising (Sunchari, 28 March 2004). Again, a Nepali
language newspaper reported GNLF(C)’s demand for Gorkhaland and
CPRM’s opposition to the postponement of the DGAHC elections. At a
meeting in Mirik, the PDF leaders claimed that Ghising with 65 per cent
support failed to give Gorkhaland, they would give it if they were given
51 per cent support (Sunchari, 2, 17, 23 March 2004). In April, there were
reports of protests against scarcity of water, while another item reported

the freeze of funds to junior high schools under Operation Black Board
by the DGHC (The Telegraph, 3, 5, 14 April 2003). In April and May, the
papers were full of news about the Lok Sabha elections. After the elections
and the success of the Congress candidate, the accent of reporting was
on what he should now do. On 15 May, three newspapers highlighted
Norbu La’s comment that he had no intention of raising the issue of
Gorkhaland in Parliament (Ananda Bazaar Patrika, Sambad Pratidin and
Sunchari). Yet, a day before, Nanda Hankim wrote in the Sunchari, “we
have to wait and see how the new MP raises the issue of Gorkhaland.”
There is an occasional return to DGAHC. “The ABGL meets the gover-
nor to demand the dissolution of the Council. It also demands enquiry
into the irregularities” (The Telegraph, 22 May 2004). In June, the municipal
elections monopolized attention. The GNLF retained control of Darjeeling
and Kalimpong, but in Kurseong they won 10 out of 20 seats. Occasion-
ally correspondents raised questions about the powers of the DGAHC.
Krishna Pradhan asked, “Why can’t DGAHC appoint teachers? What is
the meaning of autonomy then?” (Sunchari, 27 May 2004). This sampling
of newspaper reports does not reveal a debate either about autonomy or
about the proper functioning of the DGAHC. Let us continue with the
sampling.
Some news items refer to the Chairman’s natural inclination to ob-
serve and encourage religious rituals. One headline in a Bengali daily
read: “Indifferent Ghising is now interested in religion” (Sambad Pratidin,
20 March 2004). The Telegraph reported the observation of Jhakri
Purnima with the headline: “Superstition slur on hill Shaman show.”
Opposition leaders accused him of superstition. The occasion is annually
celebrated with a competition among the witch doctors and shamans,
the best among them awarded with cash prizes. The Statesman referred,
in a signed article by its correspondent, to the new Nightingale Park at
the shrubbery behind the Raj Bhavan, where artificial birds and water-
falls provide the ambience with a huge statue of Shiva. The article noted,
with tongue firmly in cheek, that the Chief Minister met Ghising in public
for the first time to have tea at his invitation. The Lok Sabha elections
were, of course, in the offing and Ghising had not yet announced his
support for the Congress. The correspondent issued a warning, “the CM
cannot ... refuse to see the all round degradation of the hills. Otherwise
once again this place will erupt.” The newspapers recently reported the
dropping of the word “Autonomous” from the Council’s name after two
years. This prompted, as reported by the media, Madan Tamang of the
ABGL to comment that the word “Autonomous” cannot be inserted

without the amendment of Article 244 of the Constitution. Another
report in July mentions that Prem Lama of the Dooars Gorkha Kalyan
Samiti, criticized (The Statesman, 20 August 2004) the DGAHC for
neglecting the aspirations of the Gorkhas in Dooars.
The leading Nepali newspaper of Siliguri carried a few articles which
addressed the question of autonomy vis-à-vis Gorkhaland (Sunchari, 13,
14 September 2004). Tirthaman Rai writes that the Council, in its 16 years
of existence, has become a den of corruption and nepotism and has indeed
served the creamy layer in the hills. The major problems relating to
drinking water, roads, hospitals, schools and colleges, and unemploy-
ment have not only not been solved, they have become worse. In another
piece entitled “How far, how near is Gorkhaland,” R. D. Rai describes
the Council as unconstitutional. Its administrative powers are described
as inadequate, fit only to cater to small developmental work. The Council,
he avers, is incapable of providing freedom to the people of Darjeeling.
C. D. Sinha addresses a few practical issues relating to the demand of
Gorkhaland. He writes that people expect the newly elected MP, Dawa
Norbula, to raise the demand for Gorkhaland in the Parliament. Norbula
has also promised to do so when the issue of Telengana is raised. But,
Sinha says that TRS has 25 MLAs and five MPs. How can a lone member
be as effective as they are likely to be? R. Moktan is more forthcoming:
“From Gorkhasthan to Gorkhaland, from Dambar Singh to Ghising,
the people of Darjeeling have not tasted freedom.” One thought that the
issue was settled in 1988, but before the Lok Sabha elections in 2004,
Ghising said that the issue of Gorkhaland was still alive. All other political
parties in the hills, except the CPI(M), also support the cause. His con-
clusion is that politics thrives on issues; “if Gorkhaland is the right issue,
then the Council is not.” All the parties, in his opinion, must unite to ask
for Gorkhaland. This is not possible so long as the Council continues to
exist.
In June, Sunchari asked readers to put forward their suggestions about
what the new MP should do in the Parliament, for its column, Jana
Bichar. The response was huge and was carried in the paper for several
days. It is important to note that of about 30 correspondents, only seven
did not mention the demand of Gorkhaland. Others felt that one of the
primary obligations of the MP is to raise the issue of Gorkhaland. One
correspondent felt that his first duty should be to secure constitutional
guarantee for the DGAHC. Others apparently did not even bring up the
Council. It is curious, for nearly every participant in the discussion seems
sensitive to the real needs of the hills. They raised the issues of the mis-
erable state of the tea gardens and the cinchona plantations. They drew
attention to the crying need of more drinking water, more power, better
roads, development of tourism infrastructure, proper utilization of the
botanical wealth in the hills, better opportunities for both school and
college education, the need for a university for the hills, and, of course,
the increasing problem of unemployment. There was an underlying
assumption that these problems can be addressed only by a separate state.
How far the Council, even with its limited resources, has been able to
address these, or has even attempted to address these problems, is not
raised at all. Thus the Council, as the embodiment of autonomy, was
not even under the scanner. For eight decades, autonomy was seen as
essential for development. Now even the question as to what extent the
autonomy, even in a limited way, has been exercised is not asked.
Does this mean that Darjeeling now lives in a vacuum, with the DGHC
as a phantom institution? We need not come to such a conclusion yet.
There is, it would appear, a lot of faith in the efficacy of an autonomous
Council among the people. Many felt that the Council would be an experi-
ment, but, one fears, the experiment had not been given a fair run. This
is the source of many a problem. What strikes an observer is the silence.
People talk privately, but not in public. People are seized of the major
problems, as the Jana Bichar columns of Sunchari would indicate. But
do they also ask the Councillors to address these problems? Have people
discussed which problems could be solved by the Council, at least partly,
given its limited resources? Which problems require the active cooper-
ation of the state and union governments? What are the obstacles? How
have the state and the union governments refused to cooperate, if they
have? The debate, as we have noted earlier, is absent. It is this politics of
silence that threatens to take the substance out of the autonomy debate.
The DGAHC has become an end in itself; the GNLF raises the demand
of Gorkhaland from time to time. Routine administrative, and to an
extent, developmental work, continue. The government of West Bengal
turns a deaf ear and shuts its eyes. The consensus is that the present
arrangement preserves peace in the hills. This is true. Peace prevails. But
the problems remain. And this may, in the end, again threaten peace.
Those who believe that the mechanism of autonomy must be given
a fair trial want the Act to be redrafted. Autonomy needs to be clearly
defined and the powers of the Council established in terms of Consti-
tutional sanction. This includes the power to legislate and to raise internal
resources. What is essential is an open and frank debate involving all the
parties concerned. The debate and the experience of the earlier decades
may lead to a better understanding of what autonomy really means. The
Act may be changed, even a possible amendment of the Constitution,
considered. But the main point to ponder is, whether the Council, as the
embodiment of the autonomy, should be given a fair trial.
Finally, one may want to touch upon the problem of the equation
between identity and autonomy. It is ironical that while the first century
and half of Darjeeling’s existence witnessed the evolution of an inclusive
Nepali identity, based to a large extent, on the Nepali language, there has
emerged, over the last decade or so, a quest for the roots of one’s “tribal”/
caste identity, which includes specific languages/dialects. How is this to
be fitted with the Gorkha/Nepali identity? What about the aspirations
of minority groups like the Lepchas, the autochthons of the area, about
their language, culture, and separate status? What bearings these may
have on the future administrative-political developments in Darjeeling
would be very keenly watched.
Notes
I gratefully acknowledge the help, assistance, and warm hospitality I have always re-
ceived from Dipankar Basu, Kumkum and Amar Rai, Menuka and Anjan Bhattacharya,
U. M. Pradhan, S. Chakravarti and all other friends, colleagues, and former students
in Darjeeling.
1. See Gurung (1971: 1–4); Pradhan (1982: 1–5, 1991, 2002: Part III); Sen (1989);
Wangyal (2002).
2. In the Census of 1891, it was found that no less than 88,000 persons resident in the
district were born in Nepal (O’Malley, 1985: 36). Also see Caplan (1970); Pradhan
(1982, 1991); Regmi (1968).
3. “There was the Nepali language to express themselves with each other and lay
the foundation of ‘hill ethnicity’” (Subba, 1992: 77).
4. “Your memorialists have reasons to fear that adequate funds for carrying on the
administration in the district may not be voted by the new legislatures and the
local services in the hills may also be swamped by the people from the plains for
want of adequate representation of the hill people in the legislature” (Moktan,
2004: 97).
5. Does one notice in these repeated demands, a basic lack of trust in the nationalists
in the plains into whose hands power might devolve following constitutional
reforms? Some commentators, however, feel that by now one section of the elite
in Darjeeling was not averse to the idea of remaining with Bengal. These demands,
however, generally drew a blank. On the other hand, under the Act of 1935, which
provided for one member in the Bengal Provincial Legislature from Darjeeling,
Dambar Singh Gurung was elected to the Provincial Legislature. But the President
of the Hillmen’s Association noted in 1938, that “the hill people as a minority in
the province under the new constitution have not failed to realize the drawbacks
and disadvantages of the present arrangement and they are now apprehensive
that their social solidarity and their very existence as a community is being threat-
ened ... their welfare is now dependent on the exigencies of party politics in the
Bengal Assembly.” He raised the old demand of a North East Frontier Province
comprising “the sub-Himalayan regions from the eastern frontier of Nepal to
Assam.... This will form a formidable bulwark … for the protection of India.”
See Chakraborty (2001: 260–64); Gurung (1971: 7–13); Kar (date not known);
Subba (1992: 77–83); Wangyal (2002: 171–80).
6. Interestingly, the Advisory Committee noted: “The dangers apprehended from
inclusion within the Provincial Administration by the Darjeeling Planters’
Association that their peculiar and minority needs could never be adequately
represented nor the district’s natural aptitudes be given scope for expression were
not real. On the other hand the advantages to be gained from inclusion are con-
siderable. The educated portion of the local community resented being treated
differently from the educated community in other parts of Bengal and they
considered that their interests had not been duly considered owing to the fact
that they were unable to raise questions concerning them in the Provincial
Legislative Council…. They hoped that if the district were given representation
in the Provincial Council, they would stand a chance of having these needs
attended to” (Report of the Constituent Assembly: 61).
7. “The chauvinism of the advanced community … produced its reaction: the growth
of local chauvinism in the minority community expressing itself in separatist
demands. This is the vicious circle in which we find ourselves today. And we feel
the only way out of the vicious circle is the immediate granting of autonomy.”
8. For this section, see Chakraborty (2001); Lama (1996); Moktan (1986); Sarkar
and Bhaumik (2000); Subba (1992).
9. The following section is based on my conversations with a cross-section of the
people of Darjeeling. Understandably, most of them would prefer anonymity.
10. “How autonomous is autonomy?” Ghising supposedly asked.
8
AUTONOMY IN THE NORTHEAST:

THE FRONTIERS OF CENTRALIZED POLITICS
Sanjay Barbora
M ovements for ethnic autonomy have marked the political discourse

in Assam for the last decade. While some have resolutely expressed
the need for more autonomy within the present administrative set-up,
other movements have evolved more militant, secessionist ideas of polit-
ical and geographical demarcation of territory. The autonomous districts
in Assam, formed under the auspices of the Sixth Schedule of the Indian
Constitution, are a showpiece for the state’s capacity to address indigen-
ous ethnic aspirations in the Northeast. On the face of it, these (autono-
mous district) councils are meant to devolve judicial, legislative, and
executive powers to those upon whom it is conferred. The genesis of the
Sixth Schedule is itself a question that needs special attention. The choices
of the field area(s) are not coincidental. Both Karbi Anglong and the
recently created Bodoland Territorial Council offer a longitudinal con-
trast in the application of the Sixth Schedule to specific territories and
people. At the same time, the administrative logic that decreed the creation
of these “autonomous” entities/territories, shows an almost naïve faith
in resolving complex (and contentious) issues centered on identity.
This article focuses on (a) the construction of frontiers, (b) negotiation
for political space within these frontiers, and (c) the ability to redefine
sovereignty, citizens, and subjects in an “autonomous” space like Karbi
Northeast: Centralized Politics / 197
Anglong and to an extent, Bodoland Territorial Council. Karbi Anglong

and Bodoland Territorial Council are in Northeast India, that truculent
triangle beyond the populated Gangetic plains. Sanjib Baruah sees the
work of colonial and commercial enterprise in the conversion of the
area into one administrative unit (Baruah, 1999: 35–43). In a sense, this
is almost taken for granted when one discusses the Northeast. However,
there are important considerations involved in the construction of frontiers
that need to be broadened.
In the 1980s, Bodo agitators painted the words “Autonomy or death”
on their bodies. This dramatic position has been the product of years of
systematic mobilization of political resources of the community to inter-
pret its marginalization as a failure of institutions of representation and
participation. In 2001, the government of Assam signed a cease-fire agree-
ment with the Bodo Liberation Tiger Force (BLTF), one of the factions
of the armed groups. Subsequently, the cease-fire agreement culminated
in the signing of the Memorandum of Settlement of the Bodo Territorial
Council in 2003. The treaty was meant to have been a centerpiece in the
conflict resolution techniques of the Indian state. Unfortunately, it has
only added to ethnic polarization in the region rather than reduce
violence.
The Bodo (or Boro) are classified as a “plains tribe” who are now
demanding territories in western Assam as their separate homeland.
The territory in question is also home to various other ethnic groups,
each with its own claim of being “indigenous” to the area. In addition,
there are others who trace their place of origin to central India; the sub-
Himalayan foothills of Nepal and Bhutan, the Gangetic plains, and
neighboring parts of Bengal (including Bangladesh). Given such a
complex ethnic composition, the demand for autonomy for the Bodo
community is bound to initiate debate on the construction of adversaries
of a movement that speaks for a significant ethnic minority, which par-
ticipates in the political processes of a larger nation state.
Karbi Anglong was created as a district in 1951. A year later it was
granted the status of an Autonomous District Council. Its hilly terrain
kept the region partially excluded from direct administrative control of
the British government in the 19th and 20th centuries. Rather than pav-
ing the way for a successful experience of institutional autonomy for the
indigenous people of the hills, this arrangement was gradually challenged
by the emerging educated classes. The challenge resulted in sporadic
outbursts of anger against the arrogance of the valley-based caste Hindu
power brokers.
198 / SANJAY BARBORA
In the 1980s, the Karbi, who constitute a shaky majority among the
indigenous peoples in the territory (of the present district), the Dimasa
(an indigenous group that is dominant in neighboring North Cachar
Hills), and other scheduled tribes1 began agitating for greater auton-
omy. The agitation, once peaceful and led by a faction of the Communist
Party of India (Marxist–Leninist) soon gave way to an armed struggle,
which predictably underwent “splits” in the late 1980s. Political issues
aside, these splits, though couched in the political language of faction-
alism, have resulted in numerous incidents of ethnic clashes between the
Karbi and those perceived to be “encroachers” into their territory. The
armed ethnic militia as well as the more moderate mainstream are how-
ever united in their desire to recreate a more pristine homeland that not
only challenges the limits of the autonomy arrangement currently in place,
but also seeks to find radical solutions beyond the purview of constitu-
tional means.
The Construction of “Frontiers”
Ethno-nationalist identities are important categories of identity formation

in Northeast India. They constitute a peculiar version of a process that
Benedict Anderson terms as an “imagining” of constituent members of a
political collective (Anderson, 1991: 5–9). This process, however, is bound
to be a contested by the modern nation states which see the persistence
of ethnicity, though sometimes a vital link to the nation-building process,
as a strategy of resistance to the control of the state. One of the reasons
for the formation of such identities is the geo-political construction
of “frontiers” in the 19th century and the manner in which the “frontiers”
were incorporated within post-colonial nation states.
The 19th century was in fact the era of expansion of capital to hitherto
untrammelled landscapes such as Assam, where growth and colonization
were predicated upon the movement of populations (Hobsbawm, 1995:
202–07), and creating “frontiers” became a condition peculiar to the type
of economy introduced. With it, there was a visible move towards what
Rumley and Minghi call the “consideration of border landscapes as a set
of cultural, economic and political interactions and processes occurring
in space” (Rumley and Minghi, 1991: 4). Those inhabiting regions that
were not earmarked for expansion of capital and colonial administra-
tion were subjected to a position of marginality precisely because they
constituted a new periphery. It is in this interplay between spaces and

peoples that ethnicity becomes an important factor in defining subjects.
The Bodo are an ethnic community comprising a number of groups
speaking a more or less common language and claiming a common an-
cestry. They have been referred to as Kachari in the pre-colonial historio-
graphy of Assam and controlled much of present day Assam until the
12th century. Though there is some dispute as to how many sub-groups
actually constitute the larger Bodo group, it is widely accepted that 18
different groups are part of the larger family mentioned above (Pulloppillil,
1997: 1–3). The homogeneity of their identity is widely contested by
ethnographers and administrators alike. A census conducted by the
colonial British government in 1881 listed 12 sub-groups who were
collectively termed as “Bodo speaking groups,” whereas others like Endle
(1883) counted as many as 15 such sub-groups.
It is generally believed that these groups inhabited the fertile plains
of the Luit (Brahmaputra) River in the 12th century. They moved to Karbi
and North Cachar Hills in the 16th Century due to frequent skirmishes
with waves of migrating groups of people, like the Tai-Ahom from the
east and Indo-Aryan speaking groups from the west. According to Nath,
the Aryanization of these groups began in the royal houses but did not
hold much sway among the masses after the 16th century (Nath, 1986:
256). The acceptance of Hinduization by certain sections of the pre-
dominantly swidden agricultural society did create some degrees of
difference among the people, the traces of which survive even today.2
Using a mix of anthropology and probabilities arising out of myths and
oral history, Ajay Roy says that following “… intelligent guess work [one]
does find some physiognomic and temperamental similarities between
the Bodos and the present Kham tribes of Tibet” (Roy, 1995: 2). Similar
refrains about the possible origin of Bodo people leads to further con-
fusion, typical of any myth of origin that sees the Bodo as mongoloid
aborigines of the Luit Valley (Swargiary, 1997: 78–80). While confusing,
the multiplicity of the “origin myths” is comprehensible as an outcome
of criss-crossing migration of people of different cultures in the region
known as Assam today. These groups moved constantly between South
Asia, Southeast Asia, and inner Asia (Saikia, 1997). It was important
for these groups—of which the Bodo-speaking are one—to imagine a
geography of resource use.
Similarly, the present day hill district of Karbi Anglong was home to
various peoples who practiced a mix of swidden and settled agriculture.
During the pre-colonial reign of the Ahom kings, the Mikir Hills (as the
region was known prior to being renamed) region offered refuge to dis-
sidents. Since the hill regions could not support an intensive multiple-
crop agricultural system, most of these people practiced swidden
agriculture and supplemented it with hunting and gathering, and seasonal
farming in the flood plains. Scarcity of labor and surplus pushed these
groups into raiding areas where surplus was being produced which hap-
pened to be where the subjects paid taxes to the Tai-Ahom sovereign. In
order to regulate these raids, the Tai-Ahom government constituted a
series of grants (of land, labor, and forest resources), which served to
regulate the entry and movement of the raiders on the sovereign’s domains
(Devi, 1968: 35–37).
In 1838 and 1854, Karbi Anglong (Mikir Hills) and North Cachar
Hills came under British rule and given the topography, were clubbed
together as related administrative units.3 In 1880, the territory was placed
under the “Frontier Tracts” and thereafter changed to “Backward Tracts”
in 1919. In 1936, it fell under the Excluded and Partially Excluded Areas
Act. Given the new administrative set-up under British colonial authority,
this fluid space—the hills of Karbi Anglong as well as the flood plains
and foothills hugging the Luit (Brahmaputra) River—was transformed
into a landscape where imaginary lines were drawn to prevent the move-
ment of people. In the flood plains, a dubious “line system” allowed land-
less peasants from Bengal to settle on the lands inhabited by the Bodos
(Guha, 1977: 40–45). The construction of the “frontier” was carried out
simply because the colonial administration could afford to. While re-
stricting the expansion of its influence to probable contested zones that
would bring the British into conflict with the French in Indo China and
the Chinese empire, British colonialism also managed to create conditions
for extended ethnic conflicts.
The colonial encounter transformed the social and political structures
of the region. Trade routes into Southeast Asia and China were closed
and new routes opened. In order to monitor and regulate the trade activ-
ities in the region, the colonial authorities constructed an all-weather
road from Mangaldoi to Udalguri and moved some troops to Udalguri.
In addition to these measures, they also began to accord obligatory rights
to the hill tribal chiefs to maintain some degree of law and order along the
trade route. Hence, seven hill chiefs, known as Sath Rajahs (seven kings)
were to be paid an annual amount in return for their service as surveillance
agents of the state (Moffatt Mills, 1984: 171). With the establishment of
law and order, traders started making inroads into the region. Soon, barter
gave way to monetary transactions and balance of trade favored those
who used the currency of the British administration. Unlike the older
generation of traders, the new traders were from different parts of the
subcontinent and belonged to communities whose access to and use of
capital was much higher. They started to control the wholesale trade in
the Udalguri mart.
Bodo and Karbi societies now underwent a profound change. Pushed
out of agriculture and trading, the Bodo peasants were led to utilize the
vast grasslands adjacent to the thickly forested areas north of Udalguri,
and became substantially dependent on the forest and grasslands. This
survival strategy worked for a while, as the Bodo-speaking farmers traded
small quantities of lac and rubber obtained from the forests. However,
the northward push of the merchants threatened even the livelihood from
small-scale dependence on the forests. By the time the authorities began
getting revenue from the forests, merchants from north India had taken
control over what had become a lucrative timber trade. The Bodo-speaking
peasants were thereafter barred from felling trees and extracting any re-
sources from the vast forest region north of the river (Roy, 1995: 27–28).
The Karbi, once reputed to be a mobile people who traversed the course
of Southeast Asia, were sandwiched between the Doyang River and the
Shillong plateau. Much of their traditional land along the Kopili and
Kollong rivers was converted into tea plantations. Needless to add, the
Karbi were excluded from the production process in the plantations.
Culturally, the “frontier” offered great possibilities for proselytizing.
Missionaries translated the Bible into Karbi and an emerging educated
class among both the Karbi and the Bodo converted to Christianity
(Anam, 2000: 101). With such changes, the need was also felt to establish
some political space. In 1928, as the rest of the subcontinent boycotted
the Simon Committee on constitutional reforms, the tribal peoples of the
Northeast felt it was necessary to present their case to the Commission
(Dutta, 1993: 9). Hence, during the moment of transfer of power, two
simultaneous processes were seen to be working among the Karbi and
Bodo peoples of the region. First, both societies were poised at the brink
of tremendous change. Education and social reform had created enough
aspirations for democratic rule. Many Karbi and Bodo intellectuals
sympathized with the anti-colonial struggle. Second, both societies were
relatively weakly positioned with respect to the aggressive decolonizing
nationalist ethos prevalent at the time. This meant that while a section
of Karbi and Bodo society was optimistic about the changes that were
to come, it was still a matter of concern as to just how they would be able
to negotiate their place in the post-colonial sun and to seek coherence as
communities within a (new) nation state.
Negotiating for Space within the “Frontiers”
In Assam, the colonial state “captured” its rural subjects by a combination

of tenancy agreements and more importantly, through strict regulation of
their traditional resource base. Some relations whereby a “subject,” as
opposed to a “citizen,” is reproduced, continued well into the period of
consolidation of the post-British Indian state. The Bodo and Karbi people
had been sufficiently alienated from the major decision making processes
that were to shape the course of the post-1947 state in the region.
Following the transfer of power in 1947, the Interim Government of
India appointed a sub-committee of the Constituent Assembly called the
North-East Frontier (Assam) Tribal and Excluded Areas Sub-committee
under the chairmanship of the Assamese political leader, Gopinath
Bordoloi. Ostensibly this came about as the leaders of the anti-colonial
struggle were sensitive to the need for adequate understanding of the
situation in the Northeast, especially with regard to the growing aspir-
ations of the tribal people. The Sub-committee, also known as the Bordoloi
Committee, sought to “... reconcile the aspirations of the hill people for
political autonomy with the Assam government’s drive to integrate them
with the plains” (Sarmah, 2002: 91).4 The instrument of this integrative
devolution of powers was embodied in the concept of the “Autonomous
District Councils” designed by the Committee. This instrument was there-
after passed by the Constituent Assembly with certain modifications and
it now constitutes the Sixth Schedule of the Constitution of India. Origin-
ally, the Sixth Schedule was to apply to the “tribal,” essentially, hill areas
of Assam. On 25 January 1950, the Indian Constitution came into force.
As would be expected from such an ambitious nation-building project,
the Constitution tried to build in some safeguards for the marginalized
groups in the country. For the people of the Northeast frontier, this safe-
guard came in the form of the Sixth Schedule of the Constitution. The
provisions in the Sixth Schedule dealt mainly with the issue of safeguard-
ing the land and customs of the hill tribes of the region. It drew upon the
erstwhile “excluded and partially excluded areas” legislation of the colonial
state. Yet again, the Bodo people and others were left outside the ambit
of constitutional protection. The Karbi did get a semblance of a territory
but the Sixth Schedule was not equipped to handle immigration. As

cultural and social hegemony of dominant ethnic groups continued to
eat into the fabric of political discourse in Assam, the tribal people were
led into yet another long series of confrontations with not just the state
but also the dominant groups associated with the state.
The notion of “backward tribes” in the hills is a residue of the colonial
notion where subjects were categorized as “primitive.” Even if one grants
the committee the proverbial “benefit-of-doubt” for this, the Committee
is still responsible for not addressing the issue of who constitute “tribal”
groups. Implicit in this problem are marginalization and impoverishment
as well as the working through of a cultural dynamic in a region where
identity is a matter of life, death, and most importantly, livelihood. Hence,
the persistence of a policy constituting the governed subject as something
less than a citizen, struck the first discordant notes in the nation-building
process in India. The effect that this has on political mobilization is quite
interesting. In the numerous memoranda demanding separation from
forced union, Karbi, Dimasa, and Bodo leaders have come up with images
of a collective self that does not have a similar resonance in mainstream
politics.5
Similarly, the Bodo educated youth had already begun to feel the need
for more say in the political and economic distribution than being refer-
red to as these “belts” and “blocks.” As early as 1933, when the All Assam
Plains Tribal League was formed under the initiative of the Bodo leader
Rupnath Brahma and his counterpart Bhimbor Deori, the need to reassess
the condition of the Bodo-speaking peoples in the region was urgently
felt. Continuing with this urge to form a consolidated political collective,
the Bodo Sahitya Sabha (Bodo Literary Forum) was formed in 1952.
The Forum’s main activities were to promote and protect Bodo culture
and identity against the growing threat to their survival and the Bodos
as a people. It also aimed to devise a “standard Bodo language” to link all
the Bodo-speaking peoples in the region.6 In 1967, the educated Bodo
youth also formed a student body known as the All Bodo Students Union
(ABSU). In the years to come, these civic organizations would try to steer
Bodo political discourse against severe threats from both internal and
external forces.
Similar to the memorandum submitted to the Prime Minister by the
leaders of Mikir and North Cachar Hills, the Plains Tribal Council of
Assam (PTCA), a body representing the various tribes living in the plains,
including the Bodo, sent a memorandum to the President of India in
1967.7 The main demand of the PTCA was the federal reorganization of
Assam. Symbolic of the fact that the decision to rationally allow for
democratic federalism could not be taken by the denizens of the region,
the central government in Delhi rejected the plan submitted to it. Over
the next few years, this demand took a concrete shape in the agitation
for a homeland for the plains tribes of Assam. This homeland was called
“Udayachal.” Almost immediately, the Koch-Rajbongshi community,
which shared the same spaces with the plains tribes, struck a discordant
note and opposed the demand for a separate state for the scheduled tribes,
in this case the Bodo and the Mishing. The Koch-Rajbongshi community
was not among the scheduled tribe list and the fact that it had been Hindu-
ized seemed to weigh against it. Soon after, dissent among the PTCA
leaders saw a split in the movement, with one section renaming itself the
Plains Tribal Council of Assam (Progressive) with a broader position on
who ought to be considered the indigenous communities in such a pro-
posed state.
Here it is interesting to also note the differences and similarities of
political mobilization in the two cases. It is a matter of concern for most
Bodo academics and activists that the Bordoloi Commission chose to
leave the Bodo inhabited areas outside the purview of the Sixth Schedule,
choosing instead to implement the ineffectual “tribal belts or blocks” for
the plains tribes of Assam (Swargiary, 1997: 80). This moment of betrayal
is played out in subsequent demands for separate institutional arrange-
ments among the Bodo people. The language movement, as it is called
today, started in the 1950s, when the Bodo Sahitya Sabha (BSS) submitted
a memorandum to the then Chief Minister of Assam, Bishnuram Medhi,
demanding the introduction of Bodo language in the primary schools in
Bodo populated areas. The government’s efforts at designing a textbook
in the Bodo language were rejected by the BSS as it had a disproportion-
ately large number of Assamese words in it. In 1963, the government of
Assam recognized the use of Bodo language in the Bodo dominated areas,
albeit with a catch that after a particular age, Bodo would give way to
Assamese as the medium of instruction for primary school students. In
a play of positions, the BSS demanded that Bodo be taught at least till
the middle school level. In 1968, the state government recognized Bodo
as a medium of instruction at the secondary (middle) school level. As if
occurring on a parallel stage, the political movement also underwent a
split with a dissident PTCA leader announcing the formation of a militant
political organization that would speak for the Bodo community and also
represent a wider non-Bodo, tribal outlook. It was called the United Tribal
Nationalist Liberation Front (Roy, 1995: 61). However, despite the “tribal”
nomenclature in the acronym of the political formation, it actually

accepted the idea of a separate state that would be called Bodoland.
A feeling of betrayal was also prevalent in the demand for an autono-
mous state in Karbi Anglong. Time and again, the upgradation of the
Khasi, Jaintia, and Garo hills to a full-fledged state is cited as the moment
of reckoning for the people of Karbi Anglong (Ingti, 1999: 65). That the
leaders from Karbi Anglong and North Cachar Hills decided to stay away
from forming a separate state and thought it in their best interest not to
merge with Meghalaya, is often explained as prudent bargaining on their
part, by those seeking to provide the movement with a teleology. Follow-
ing a period of lull in political activities, the Autonomous State Demand
Committee (ASDC) was formed in 1986. Since its inception it was poised
as an anti-Congress formation led mainly by students who had partici-
pated in the Assam agitation and felt sidelined by the caste-Hindu student
leaders from the valley. The provisions for creating another state that
would sever Karbi Anglong and North Cachar Hills was always a possi-
bility given Article 244(A) of the Indian Constitution.8 However, political
maneuvres resulted in periodic clashes of interest between the Congress
and the Communist Party of India (Marxist-Leninist) led ASDC.
It is, therefore, interesting to quickly telescope the two cases and
compare their effect on the politics of the region. This would centrally
entail looking at the autonomy arrangements themselves and see if they
address the issue of rights that are central to the political constellations
that demand autonomy. It is of great interest to reiterate that the domin-
ant tendency in Karbi Anglong points towards the “lack of autonomy”
under the Sixth Schedule, whereas most of the political actors in the
Bodo movement are today speaking about something on the lines of
what exists in Karbi Anglong by asking for a Bodoland Territorial
Council. What is it about the institutions that are supposed to guarantee
autonomy that makes them obsolete and ineffective in one context and
allows them to assume mythical conflict resolution properties in another?
Sovereignty, Citizenship, and Subjects:

Autonomous Institutions or Governance
The Karbi comprise 63.36 per cent of the total hill (scheduled) tribe
population in Assam. The territory of the autonomous district (Karbi
Anglong) has been redefined over time. In the elections to the Executive
Council in 1989, the ASDC won as many as 22 of the 26 seats. In its

election manifesto, its leader Jayanta Rongpi stated that the object-
ive of his party and the movement it had established was to “achieve
more decentralization of ... power and restore them ... to the people of
the region through the formation of an Autonomous State” (ASDC,
1989). He further went on to assure other ethnic groups in Karbi Anglong
that the movement was not hostile to non-Karbis and promised to check
the violence among the different ethnic groups living in the territory. In
June 2000, members of the United Peoples Democratic Front—an ethnic
militia comprising militant Karbi youth—attacked Hindi-speaking agri-
culturalists in Hamren sub-division of Karbi Anglong. The settlers, armed
and aided by the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF), attacked Karbi
villages, looting and killing many Karbi farmers in retaliation (MASS,
AMSM, NPMHR, 2002). Such violence continued through 2001 and
2002. In 2003, a fresh series of ethnic conflicts erupted mainly due to the
divisions between the Kuki9 and Karbi communities around the area of
Singhason Hills. In March 2004, members of a Karbi militia allegedly
killed six Kuki ginger cultivators who had refused to pay them the taxes
they demanded. In retaliation, members of the Kuki Revolutionary Army
(a Kuki ethnic militia), raided three villages and killed as many as 30
Karbi farmers.
These events read like an indictment of the autonomy arrangement.
Under the aegis of the Sixth Schedule, a district council comprising 30
members has to be elected in any area notified as an autonomous region
by the governor of the state who also gets to select four of the members.
It should also be noticed that it is the governor who has the final say in
the creation and dissolution of the council. The district council can hardly
be seen as financially autonomous either. Apart from a meager sum from
business and commercial enterprises and land revenues, it has to finance
itself with help from the district and regional funds which are endowed
and managed by the governor. The powers of the autonomous councils
are varied, but it is in their capacity to regulate land transfer that they ex-
ercise their most interesting discretionary powers. The Sixth Schedule
follows the colonial policy of allowing land in the hills to be under “com-
munity ownership” and hence fall outside the revenue scheme. However,
by 1979, the overwhelming logic of doing away with community property
was noticed in a notification wherein private property was not only
acknowledged but also encouraged (District Council Notification, 1979).
In that sense, the councils and village chiefs have become the most likely
figures of authority to be able to grant and renew leases and land titles.
This leaves open the space for political manipulation, wherein it has been
known that village chiefs, who belong to one or the other political party,
try and push the leases (or titles) of their party members if a friendly
party dominates the executive council.
This discrepancy between formal rules of the game and informal
occurrences, and the tension between valorizing “tribal tradition and com-
munity” and undermining community by extending the logic of private
property, all contribute to violent and aggrieved reactions. In 2003, a
publication of the United Peoples Democratic Solidarity stated their
demands couched in the progressive discourse of indigenous rights and
well within the juridical limits of the Constitution.10
The demands, however, have an underlying logic of excluding people
from an imaginary pristine homeland (Hemprek) that might have existed
at the moment preceding contact with the colonizers. Today, after many
rounds of ethnic clashes and military operations affecting a great number
of people, the demand for an autonomous state seems to have lost steam
largely due to recurring splits within the movement and the obfuscation
of issues under electoral politics.
In 1999, leaders of an armed opposition group—the Bodo Liberation
Tigers (BLT)—declared a unilateral cease-fire and openness to negotiation
with the government. In response, the government agreed to create a
territorial council under the Sixth Schedule for an area demarcated in
consultation with representatives of the Bodo groups and the government
of Assam. Almost immediately, non-Bodo groups launched a massive
agitation claiming that such a move would not only encourage more
ethnic clashes, but also lead to evictions and population transfers from
the proposed area.
The story of these internal rifts, however, predates the 1999 cease-fire
announcement. In 1988, the Bodo Peoples Action Committee (BPAC)
was formed to incorporate all the different tendencies within the Bodo
movement. However, this could not stop the rupture within the ranks of
the Bodo movement. The central government intervened and initiated
a tripartite talk among the ABSU-BPAC combine, the government of
Assam, and the central government itself in 1989. In the manner of throw-
ing a bone to the Assam government, the central government said that
further division of Assam would not be carried out, but pressed upon
the Assam government to accept some of the secondary issues around
which the movement had managed to gain ground. The government of
Assam accepted the suggestion of the central government. It was the use
of, the classic divisionary tactic that sought to provide the same benefits
to other plain tribes of the state could divide the popular movements
in Assam.11
After eight rounds of talks, the government of India proposed an expert
committee in 1990, to examine and demarcate the areas of the Bodo
and other plains tribes of Assam to make recommendations on autonomy.
The Committee submitted a report with a proposal to grant maximum
autonomy to the Bodos short of a separate state within the Indian Union,
which the BPAC-ABSU leaders resolutely rejected. However, the recom-
mendations did contain some concrete points over which the leaders
could come to a compromise. The main issue remained that of the in-
clusion of a certain number of villages within the proposed homeland.
While a section of the Bodo leaders insisted on as many as 4,443 villages,
the state government offered another sop saying that it would be the
contiguity of the region that would determine the basis of the creation
of an autonomous Bodo territory, wherein villages in which Bodos con-
stituted even a mere one per cent of the tribal population would be included
within a compact territorial area. A section of the BPAC-ABSU leader-
ship debated the issue and came up with a counter demand where an
additional 1,035 villages were to be added to any proposed autonomous
territory. The issue was referred back to the central government.
In 1993, the central government brought together the Bodo leaders—
who had sent frequent feelers for an honorable resolution to the conflict—
and the government of Assam to sign on what came to be known as the
“Bodo Accord.” The Accord created the “Bodoland Autonomous
Council” (BAC) that was to comprise an area covering 2,000 villages
and 25 estates stretching from the Sakosh River to Mazbat Pasnoi on the
north bank of the river Luit (Brahmaputra), via a government of Assam
notification (Bodoland Autonomous Council Act, 1993). The area also
included reserved forests as per the guidelines laid by the Ministry of
Defence and the Ministry of Environment, Government of India. The
actual difficulty in the demarcation of the boundary continued to be the
relentless opposition of the non scheduled tribal population living in the
area. A considerable number of people residing in the said area, especially
the time-expired indentured laborers who left the tea plantations, were
classified as “scheduled tribes” outside Assam.
On the other hand, there was also an internal split of the political
discourse within the Bodo community, with an armed section declaring
the Accord to be a “sell-out” of the original goal of an ethnic homeland
for the Bodo community. A more militant armed opposition group, called
the Bodo Security Force,12 denounced the Accord and vowed to continue
what it perceived as the resistance to colonialism (Roy, 1995: 76). Import-

antly, the armed oppositional activities began to articulate the idea of
self-determination for the Bodo-speaking people including complete and
total secession from India.
The rejection of the Indian Constitution marks a paradigm shift of
sorts in the movement. Although it is difficult to assess the efficacy and
successes of such a political strategy, given the fact that it is proscribed,
one can say that this radical ethno-nationalist voice is an important sub-
text in the political discourse in the region (Baruah, 1999: 6–8). It projects
into the Bodo imagination a vicarious notion of what forms of institutions
of collective action it could reproduce.
Following the transfer of power, civic mobilization within the plains
tribes of Assam, concentrated on civil disobedience to state explicitly the
cultural basis of economic deprivation. The Bodo groups were perhaps
more organized than their other tribal counterparts. They were already
capable of using the constitutional machinery at various points of the
agitation. However, abstentions from armed opposition defined the future
scope of action. Both armed factions soundly repudiated the formation
of the BAC, though their positions were considerably different. The
National Democratic Front of Bodoland (NDFB) had an ideological
problem with the idea of a “deal” that diluted the movement for self-
determination. Since the year 1996, the BLTF and NDFB had been
engaged in a series of internecine wars where they targeted each other’s
cadre and sympathizers. In 1996, the BLTF killed a prominent woman
activist claiming that her organization was working as a front for the
NDFB.13 This sent a message to the other group that such acts of violence
could be justified. It also brought about a flurry of accusations and counter
accusations about the role of the state in arming the BLTF to annihilate
the supporters of the other armed opposition group (Dainik Janambhoomi,
25 November 1998). The faultlines between the two groups spilled over
into the public sphere as well. It was obvious that a section of Bodo pol-
itical opinion, especially the students and the literary bodies, favored a
settlement brokered by the central government where they would gain
more resources and control the ethnic competition with other groups.
Indeed, one of the most disturbing aspects of the armed struggle for any
variety of autonomy in the Bodo inhabited areas is, the fact that successive
episodes of violence make it look like a campaign for ethnic cleansing of
the area. The debate on what constitutes the historically demarcated Bodo
areas and the contemporary demographic realities continues unabated.
This adds a potentially intractable angle to the question of who “belongs”

to a particular version of the “national space.”14
Echoing a concern along these lines, Biswas and Bhattacharjee state
that “(ethnic) movements in the Northeast can be understood in terms of
a contest over greater social, political and cultural spaces, the spaces in
which the ethnic communities were not hitherto represented. This non-
representation is further explained within the contexts of rights, power
and authority, which cause ethnocentric concerns to find their expression
in contestations in many possible ways” (Biswas and Bhattacharjee, 1994:
232–45). Here, contestation of the Other assumes the form of character-
izing it in terms of an undifferentiated constitutional concept of citizen-
ship where the Constitution does not recognize the claims of an identity
in separation from others as represented within the nation and the state.
This contrast between the statist view and collective aspirations is sharp-
ened through a number of mediating steps undertaken by the state that
apparently negotiate the variegated representations between communities
in spaces within the concept of the nation. The ethnic polarization in the
Bodo areas can be located in the lack of a mediating measure that can
accommodate the different positions. Splits within the movement are a
prime example of the ad hoc policies of the state. The persistence of co-
lonial tones in the political structures in the region accounts for one aspect
of the ends towards which the government strives, that of political and
territorial unity. In the process, the Indian state’s propensity to carve out
states to satisfy the political elite might suggest that it is more “tolerant”
of ethnic aspirations. However, the fact that it has a definite “ethnic
agenda” of its own, one that is shaped by policy machines that are not
“ethnically neutral,” is a condition that negates the provisional safeguards
in its Constitution.15
It is also interesting to note that the persistence of ethnic identity, as a
part of (or parallel to) the growth of modern institutions such as literary
bodies and students associations, is not peculiar to the Northeast. In the
case of the Bodo and Karbi struggle, an important tendency accompany-
ing the cultural revivalist and economic deprivation tendencies was the
use of physical force.16 As some theorists argue, rather than decrease
ethnic heterogeneity, modernization tends to increase it in many ways
(Olzak and Nagel, 1986: 1–14). However, in the Northeast, this process
follows a set pattern where groups consolidate around issues of cultural
unity, engage with the state for some concessions, and the outcome is
often intractability and violence (Barbora, 2002: 1287). This is woven in

with the hard realities of fighting for political and, as the case shows,
geographical space within contested territories such as “frontiers.”
There, thus, appears a pattern to ethno-nationalist demands for
autonomy in the Northeast, and a lack of institutional ability to handle
these demands. Most political demands for self-determination are cen-
trally linked to the idea of a distinct identity of an ethnic group. The
manner in which this identity consciousness is articulated has been
the subject of discussion. Against this backdrop, much of what appear
to be guarantees of autonomy compatible with the aspirations of given
groups of people within the framework of the Constitution, or even within
international law, can actually be seen as a condensed body of intricate
political negotiation. In essence, these negotiations are supposed to appear
as processes that lead to further democratization of society and politics.
In the Indian context, this idea was supposed to form the core of the
federal ethos of the republican tradition. Hence, provisions like the Sixth
Schedule, Article 371A and even the recent Panchayati Raj Bill are seen
as efforts to ensure the devolution of powers of administration and gov-
ernance to the grassroots. Yet, in the manner in which power filters down,
it leaves more questions than answers in its wake. One senses in all this,
the overwhelming concerns of the centralized state in losing its locus as
the sovereign fount of law and administrative processes. Indian democ-
racy is defined by its Constitution inasmuch as by a particular notion of
the rule of the “majority.” On the one hand, a “Statist” view asserted that
it was the individual citizen, rather than amorphous collectives, who
was the backbone of the state. This view that the individual’s loyalties
as a citizen of the state supersede her or his loyalty to other identities is
constantly being challenged by a second discourse that is articulated
against the backdrop of inadequate representation in matter of govern-
ance and administration. It would be tempting to see the persistence of
primordial identities in the shaping of demands for autonomy in such a
situation. However, it would help to see some political leverage at work
here. The definition of an indigenous collective self is meant to challenge
a “settler” nation state. In both cases, indigenous cultures within post-
colonial societies find themselves excluded from the decision-making
processes that are central to the state. Their subsequent declaration of
separation from a “mother body” based on an implicit declaration of people-
hood based on genealogy and descent ties functions “not only as other
sub-national units do in, say, the assertion of ethnicity, but point to the
history of pre-contact and raise questions about legal and moral legit-
imacy of the present national formation” (Murray, 1997: 1). In this
significant development, one sees that ethnicity and notions of ethnic
contiguities begin to change almost as soon as the community sees itself
as the purveyor of a smaller national space. In just a matter of two or
three decades, the organic solidarity of the groups classified as plains
tribes as opposed to caste Assamese society changed to one of mutual
distrust and competition between groups who are placed on the same
social and economic plane.
Central to both discourses are certain principles that govern the quest
for autonomy. Autonomy and autonomous institutions have not delivered
justice. Hence, it is rare to find an instance where autonomy has sought to
work on the principle of restitution, by acknowledging that an injustice
has been committed, or that some form of reconciliation is called for.
Moreover, autonomy, as framed within a statist discourse, does not
address the issue of control of resources, finances, and costs of running
autonomous territories in a comprehensive manner. When it does, as in
the Sixth Schedule, it seems ineffectual and laden with contradictions
that make the principle of custodianship appear more like a managerial
policy. As long as autonomy arrangements are seen as a tool to manage
the political demands of people in the region, there will always be prob-
lems with their implementation. For every instance where an ethnic
group is promised autonomy, there will remain others who will claim to
be aggrieved by that arrangement. As one has seen in the case of Karbi
Anglong, where an autonomous council already exists, it is hardly a
guarantee that such models can be upgraded to include other ethnic
groups and/or economic and political developments. If anything, it is
seen as an impediment and a “Trojan Horse” that leads to further loss of
lands for the indigenous people. For example, in a bid to solve an imme-
diate crisis arising out of ethnic conflicts, political and public opinion
waste no time in calling for armed intervention by the army and the
police. This is self-defeating, to say the least. Where these autonomy
arrangements are bestowed as a “peace measure” as in Bodoland, they
have only worsened the ethnic and political relations between Bodos and
others who share the same space. Academic concerns have to take these
factors into consideration if any intervention or mitigation strategies are
to be thought of.
Notes
The chapter draws in part on an earlier work which was supported by the Swiss
National Centre of Competence in Research (NCCR) North–South: Research
Partnerships for Mitigating Syndromes of Global Change.
1. “Scheduled tribes” are those that appear in the scheduled tribe list of the Indian
Constitution. This rather fixed categorization seems at odds with the dynamic
process of recreation of identities in the hills of Northeast India. Groups once
classified with generic appellations with one tribe during colonial times, today
vehemently claim their distance from those they were arbitrarily linked with.
Hence, the embarrassing colonial categorization of the “Kuki-Naga” today stands
in stark opposition to “Kuki” and “Naga” identities.
2. Hence one sees the dominant Bodo students’ organization—All Bodo Students
Union (ABSU)—delineate those who it considers to be of the same racial stock
but not among the ethnic claimants of a Bodo territory because they “have com-
pletely forgotten the language” (ABSU, 1987: 11–15). ABSU is referring to the
Rajbongshi ethnic group who inhabit parts of north Bengal and western Assam.
The Rajbongshi say that they belong to the Hindu fold, whereas the Bodos cannot
make such an unambiguous claim.
3. It mattered a great deal that the hills were clubbed together for administrative
purposes. This becomes an important political consideration when autonomy, or
separate state arrangements are being worked out in the post-colonial milieu. The
political logic of creating new states and autonomous districts seems to favor an
arrangement wherein a people are seen to “naturally” inhabit a given space, like a
hill range. So, while the clubbing together of the two hill districts might have
given the Karbi (and Dimasa) a relative advantage, it is only expected that the
Bodos (who lived in mixed populated areas along the plains) would feel appro-
priately bitter in the years to come.
4. Sarmah’s assessment of the constitutional safeguards and the context in which
they evolved are comprehensive but they do not deal with the dynamics of social
movements within such regimes.
5. In a petition to the Prime Minister of India in 1973, leaders of the Mikir and
North Cachar Hills stated: “… there is an indisputable case for constitution of a
separate state for Mikir and North Cachar Hills together with the contiguous tribal
areas. Only by this means they (we) will be able to exist unhampered, preserve
and develop their (our) entities, languages, cultures and ways of life and at the
same time be in tune with the mainstream of national life, to sail the wide ocean
that is India and not be restricted to the backwaters of the Brahmaputra valley.”
The memorandum demanding a separate state comprising the Mikir Hills, North
Cachar Hills, and the Contiguous Tribal Areas in Assam, was signed by P. K.
Gorlosa and S. R. Thaosen, Secretary and President respectively, of an action
committee of the Mikir and North Cachar Hills Leaders’ Conference in Haflong
in June 1973.
6. Bodo-speaking peoples are dispersed all over the region. The Dimasa, speak a
variant of Bodo as do the indigenous peoples of Twipra (Tripura). Rather than
suggest a pan-Bodo identity, the BSS move seems to suggest that Bodo-speaking
people traversed the course of the region at different points in time. There is an
implicit agreement that the geographical and political boundaries of a Bodo
homeland are limited to western Assam.
7. The memorandam stated: “… the bitter experience of the last 20 years of
independence has given rise to a firm conviction among the tribals of Assam
that the Assam government is not interested in giving adequate protection to
tribal land. It has deliberately rehabilitated refugees from East Pakistan in tribal
Belts and Blocks areas, given settlement to the non-tribal encroachers … (in)
gross violation of provisions of the Belts and Blocks.” The Plains Tribals’ Council
of Assam was formed to articulate the demands of the tribal people living in the
“tribal belts and blocks” in the Luit Valley. This memorandum was addressed to
the then President of India, Zakir Hussain, on 20 May 1967. Biruchan Doley,
Samar Brahma Choudhury, Charan Narzary, Praful Bhabara, and Ajit Basumatary
were office bearers of the organization and signed the said memorandum in
Kokrajhar town in Assam.
8. Article 244(A) recognizes that some states can be created by upgrading existing
autonomous districts and councils. This was true especially in the case of the
formation of the state of Meghalaya and has been retained exclusively for Karbi
Anglong and North Cachar Hills.
9. Some political commentators say that the Kuki were actually “invited” to settle
in Karbi Anglong by politicians following ethnic conflict between Naga and Kuki
peoples in Manipur in 1992. The idea was to use the Kuki as a “vote bank” during
Council elections.
10. To quote: “… (therefore) our substantive demands are: 1). Full restoration of
land rights to the tribal traditional authority—namely the sarthe, 2). Full political
security to the indigenous tribes and complete disfranchisement of non-tribal infiltrators
who have settled within the territory after 1951, 3). Complete control over law,
order and justice, 4). Complete control over natural and human resources of the
territory and 5). Complete authority over all financial and developmental matters
(and) direct access to the financial and economic authorities of India.” Excerpt taken
from: UPDS, 2003.
11. One cannot expect this to be a magnanimous and enlightened gesture on the
part of the Assam government, given the fact that it was probably aware that
the discursive politics of ethnic homelands in the region had already become
exclusionary.
12. This organization was later renamed the National Democratic Front of Bodoland
and continues its armed activities against the state.
13. The activist, Ms Golapi Basumatary, was a well known and respected activist
who was the General Secretary of the Bodo Women’s Justice Forum and was
a known figure not only in the Bodo areas but in other parts of Assam as well.
The killing of human rights activists, trade union leaders, and others who try to
use democratic spaces to articulate dissent, is a deliberate state policy in Assam,
according to reports of voluntary human rights groups (MASS, 1999).
14. Analyzing the exigencies of a “white nation(al)” space, Ghassan Hage points to
the incongruous similarities between a white supremacist fantasy about what
and who controls a particular political landscape in the contested terrain of
Australian politics. Although the context is entirely different in Bodoland, the
process of systematic creation of a well-worn political path that precludes other
ethnic groups in a multi-ethnic social milieu, has some uncanny resonance in
Bodo political discourse. See Hage (1998: 16–28).
15. This view is often reinforced by the support that settlers receive in areas where
the potential and realities of ethnic conflict are common occurrences. For many
indigenous rights activists in the Northeast, the Sixth Schedule seems like a
“Trojan Horse” for greater centralization that would allow the state to fill up the
lands (belonging to indigenous persons) with ethnically acceptable groups (MASS,
ASMS, NPMHR, 2002). Also see the “Introduction” in Brown and Ganguly
(1997: 7–19).
16. Conflict managers often say that there is a political nexus between student
associations, armed opposition groups, and cultural and political organizations.
This diversionary rhetoric does not take into consideration the absurdity of a
group of small, albeit militant, youth posing a national security threat, when all
such display of militancy actually seems to be aimed at protecting a small com-
munity against domination.
9
AUTONOMY IN THE NORTHEAST:

THE HILLS OF TRIPURA AND MIZORAM
Subir Bhaumik and Jayanta Bhattacharya
T ripura and Mizoram are neighboring states located in the far

southern corner of India’s troubled Northeast, that have little in
common. Mizoram’s terrain is almost wholly hilly, but for a small stretch
of plains bordering Assam. Tripura has a large hill region but one that is
encircled on three sides by very fertile plains that merge into the flat low-
lands of neighboring Bangladesh. The valleys located between its moun-
tain ranges are also very fertile and control over the surplus produced
there and in the flatlands of neighboring Chakla-Roshanabad (now in
Bangladesh) gave Tripura’s kings the economic sinews for supporting an
army and an administration needed to run their small empire.
Tripura’s Manikya royal house was one of the oldest royal families in
eastern India. Mizoram, formerly Lushai or Mizo Hills, was a land of
small tribal chieftains and could never boast of anything like a royalty.
Its polity was dominated by chiefs who practiced head-hunting up until
the end of the 19th century. Bengali was the official language of the Tripura
court and Rabindranath Tagore was a close friend of the state’s royal
family—something that influenced Tripura’s cultural evolution in sharp
contrast to much of the rest of the Northeast. Politically, Tripura remained
an independent princely state, while the Lushai Hills were conquered by
the British and made part of their all-India empire.
Northeast: Hills of Tripura and Mizoram / 217
Mizoram’s modern culture is largely influenced by the West and the

Church. Tribalism dominates Mizoram’s politics, with smaller tribes like
the Lais, the Maras, the Chakmas, and the Brus pitted against the domin-
ant Lushais or Mizos. Three of these tribes—Lais, Maras, and Chakmas—
have autonomous district councils named after the tribe. Other tribes
such as the Hmars and the Brus (Reangs in Tripura) are demanding the
creation of similar autonomous councils for themselves. Thus, Mizoram
is a case of smaller tribes struggling to preserve their distinct way of life
against one big tribe.
Tripura’s politics has been largely dominated by the battle of ideologies
between the Congress and the Left until the late 1960s when ethnicity
began to influence it. But instead of promoting splintered tribal identities,
the marginalized tribespeople of Tripura, faced with the ever-increasing
Bengali transmigrant population, have projected a wider generic identity
that is a contradiction in terms with the limited boundary of the tribe
and the clan. “Upajati” means tribe or subrace, but the use of the word
by regional parties or the autonomous council established in the 1980s
did not undermine the projection of a generic identity by the tribespeople
of Tripura.
The Tripura Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council seeks to address
“tribals” as an overarching identity, not limited by the ethnic boundary
of the individual tribes. Regional parties and rebel groups in Tripura are
aggressively promoting the “Borok” (man) as a post-tribal identity
opposed to the “Upajati” (tribal) identity and they demand that the Au-
tonomous Council be renamed as Borok Areas Territorial Council. The
now dominant Bengali settlers address the “tribals” as “Upajati” but in
the self perception of a tribal, or many of them, he or she is a “Borok” as
against a Bengali. In the process, the language and culture of the
dominant Tripuri tribe that gave the state its ruling clan for centuries is
emerging as the bedrock of the “Borok” identity, submerging smaller
identities like those of the Reangs or the Halams. This has led to some
tensions but one that is subsumed by the larger contradiction between
the Bengali and the tribespeople.
So, in a way, the situation in Tripura is much more akin to the neigh-
boring Chittagong Hill tracts of Bangladesh than the neighboring state
of Mizoram. In the Chittagong Hill tracts, more than two decades of in-
surgency followed by a continuous struggle to protect tribal lands and
identity against constant inflow and settlement of Bengali populations
has led to the emergence of the “Jumma” identity, one that subsumes the
218 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA
distinct identity of the Chakmas, Marmas, or the Tripuris. The ethnic

divide exists, but the Jumma identity has largely managed to integrate it.
There is hardly any Bengali influx that the tribespeople of Mizoram
have to worry about. Unlike in Tripura or Chittagong Hill tracts, where the
valleys between the mountain ranges provide for huge flat lowlands—a
perpetual attraction for the Bengali peasant—Mizoram’s terrain is suited
for tribes practicing slash and burn agriculture (jhum in local parlance)
rather than Bengali farmers who prefer low wetlands. The prime concern
of the smaller tribes is either to protect their autonomy and make it more
meaningful to ward off hegemonic tendencies of the dominant Mizo
tribe, or, as in the case of the Brus and the Hmars, to secure an autonomy
like the one enjoyed by the Lais, the Maras, and the Chakmas.
This chapter traces the distinctive evolution of the institutional and
administrative structure of autonomy in Tripura and Mizoram, and exam-
ines the difference in the nature of autonomy in place in the two states,
the problems faced by the autonomous councils, the key issues involved
in the exercise of autonomy and the way in which the “autonomy ques-
tion” is influencing the politics of the respective states.
Mizoram: Autonomy, Statehood,

and Autonomy
The Lushai Hills District (now Mizoram) was administered as an

Excluded Area under the Government of India Act, 1935. The Assam
Governor was the ultimate authority in administering the Lushai Hills
District but the Superintendent of the District ran the day-to-day admin-
istration. As the prospect of British withdrawal from the subcontinent
drew near, a small but articulate neo-literate middle class—largely the
product of missionary education—became increasingly assertive in the
Lushai Hills. On 9 April 1946, they formed the Mizo Union as a political
organization with the avowed objective of curbing the huge influence of
the Mizo chiefs.
The Bordoloi Committee, in the course of drawing up its recommen-
dations for the administration of the hill areas of Northeast India, visited
Aizawl in April 1947. It solicited the views of a cross-section of Mizo
society—Chiefs, Mizo Union leaders, church leaders, government offi-
cials, and ex-soldiers—on the future administrative arrangement of the
Lushai Hills District. Since the Mizos had no representation in the Indian
Constituent Assembly, the Bordoloi Committee co-opted two Mizo Union

leaders, Khawtinkhuma and Saprawanga . Though a large section of the
Mizo chiefs was interested in merging the Lushai Hills with Burma, the
Mizo middle class was clearly interested in staying in India with an
autonomous arrangement that would give them a role to run their own
affairs. “The keen desire of the Mizos to link up their political life with
Assam on the one hand and the fear of being submerged on the other
could be reconciled within the framework of autonomous existence under
the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution” (Prasad, 1987).
After the Indian Constitution became operative in 1950, the Assam
government initially set up some interim tribal advisory councils, one
for each of the hill districts of the province. The Lushai Hills District
Advisory Council had a strength of 35 elected members. This Advisory
Council provided the Mizos the first exposure to self-governance. But
Gopinath Bordoloi was quick to realize that while the Mizos were keen
on autonomy within Assam, the smaller tribes in the Lushai Hills were
keen on some kind of self-rule as well because they resented Mizo
domination.
So, in 1951, the Assam government set up the Pawi-Lakher Regional
Advisory Council to placate the Pawis (now Lais), the Lakhers (now
Maras), and other smaller tribes like the Chakmas. The advisory councils
were later abolished after the Assam government promulgated the Sixth
Schedule by framing the Assam Autonomous District (Constitution
of District Councils) Rules 1951 and the Pawi-Lakher (Constitution of
Regional Councils) Rules 1952. The Mizo Hill District Council was con-
stituted on 25 April 1952 and the Pawi-Lakher Regional Council was set
up exactly a year later. This was the only region in India’s Northeast
where the experiment of a two-tier autonomy structure was tried out.
Gopinath Bordoloi and other members of his Constituent Assembly
Sub-committee had a fairly clear idea of the big tribe/small tribes divide,
which is why they worked on providing the smaller tribes like the Pawis
and the Lakhers the regional council as a distinct entity but one that was
cleverly entwined with the Mizo Hills District Council. This became the
administrative and autonomy model for the Mizo Hills. Later, when the
Mizo District Council was upgraded to the status of an Union Territory
under the Northeast Reorganization in 1972, the Pawis, the Lakhers, and
the Chakmas were provided with three separate district councils. Since
Mizoram was made a full state of the Indian Union in 1987, the Pawis
(Lais), Lakhers (Maras), and the Chakmas have demanded that the Indian
government should create a Union Territory by merging the three district
councils. They have formed a Union Territory Demands Committee to

press for the demand (Memorandum to Indian Prime Minister, 2000).
So Mizoram presents a unique example of a district council graduating
to a full-fledged state of the Indian Union and regional councils meant
for smaller tribes becoming autonomous District Councils. The evolution
of autonomy in Mizoram has been based on the simple quid pro quo that
was brilliantly elucidated by the late Indian Prime Minister, Rajiv Gandhi:
“If as a tiny minority, Mizos expect justice from India, they should be
prepared to be fair and just to smaller minorities like the Chakmas”
(Gandhi, 1987). But the autonomy arrangement clearly did not satisfy
the Mizo’s aspirations for self-rule. Long after the Mizo Hills District
Council had been created, the middle class in the hill district was clearly
dissatisfied with the extent of powers the Council enjoyed. The Mizo
Union which held power in the District Council for more than 18 years
complained in a memorandum to the Indian government of the “step-
motherly treatment meted out to the Mizo Hills” which, it said “was
responsible for the unfortunate feeling of discontent that we are being
treated as second-class citizens.” The memorandum made it clear that
“it would be impossible to remove this feeling unless the political aspir-
ations of the Mizo people are fulfilled through the early creation of the
Mizo state” (Mizo Union memorandum, 1965).
The discontent snowballed into a major groundswell of anger during
the Mautam (Great Rat Famine) in the mid-1960s. The Assam govern-
ment did not heed the warnings of the Mizo elders about the impending
famine caused by the abnormal growth of rodent population every 50
years which destroyed the food stocks and the farms all across the Mizo
Hills. The weak-to-indolent response of the Assam government convinced
most Mizos that the autonomy arrangement meant little during a crisis
such as the Rat Famine. The Mizo National Front (MNF) capitalized
on the anguish of the people to draw recruits for its armed wing. On the
last day of February 1966, the MNF started its armed campaign for
independence. For 20 years, the MNF took the center-stage of Mizo
politics, eclipsing the moderates of the Mizo Union who were upset with
Assam but still argued for continued union with India. To blunt the
MNF’s separatist campaign, the Indian government unleashed a powerful
counter insurgency campaign.
The liberation of Bangladesh deprived the MNF of its trans-border
bases and considerably weakened the movement. On the political front,
Delhi decided to further weaken the MNF movement and reinforce the
position of the Mizo moderates by elevating the Mizo Hills District to
a Union Territory through the North-Eastern Areas (Reorganization)

Act 1971. In January 1972, Mizoram became a Union Territory with its
own 33-member legislature, finally severed from Assam. The Mizo Hills
District Council was abolished. The Commissioner of Mizoram passed
a number of orders transferring the assets and liabilities of the District
Council to the Union Territory government. Provisions were also made
for the continued effect of the laws made by the District Council.
The elevation of Mizoram to a Union Territory prompted the Pawis
(Lais), Lakhers (Maras), and the Chakmas to demand greater autonomy
for their areas. On 7 September 1971, the leaders of the three tribes sub-
mitted a memorandum to the Indian government demanding the creation
of a Union Territory for their areas. Though this was rejected by the Indian
government, Delhi agreed to create three Autonomous District Councils
under the Sixth Schedule. Accordingly, three autonomous councils for
the Pawis (Lais), Lakhers (Maras), and the Chakmas were created on
2 April 1972. Under Paragraph 205 of the Sixth Schedule, the three au-
tonomous councils superseded the Pawi-Lakher Regional Council. The
Chakma Autonomous District Council was a new creation with head-
quarters at Chawngte, the Pawi one was headquartered at Lawngtlai,
and the Lakher one was located at Saiha.
The Lieutenant Governor of the Union Territory of Mizoram specified
the strength of the three councils. The Pawi (Lai) Autonomous District
Council would have 14 members, 12 elected and 2 nominated; the
Lakher (Mara) 10 members, 9 elected and 1 nominated; and the Chakma
9 members, 8 elected and 1 nominated. The names of the Pawi and the
Lakher Autonomous District Councils were changed to Lai and Mara
Autonomous District Councils respectively, through a Constitutional
Amendment in 1988, after Mizoram became a full state of the Indian
Union.
Constituted under the Sixth Schedule, the three district councils have
substantial executive, legislative, financial, and judicial powers. They can
make laws regarding (a) allotment, occupation, and use or setting apart
of land other than land in reserved forests, for the purpose of agriculture
or grazing or residential purposes or for non-agricultural purposes or
any other purpose likely to promote the interests of villages or towns,
(b) management of any forest, not being a reserved forest, within the
autonomous council area, (c) use of any canal or water course for the pur-
pose of agriculture, (d) regulation of the practice of jhum (shifting
cultivation) or any other form of shifting cultivation, (e) establishment of
village and town committees or councils and the regulation of any other
matter relating to village or town administration, ( f ) running the village

or town police, (g) matters of public health and sanitation and main-
tenance of facilities, (h) regulation of inheritance of property, marriage,
divorce, and social customs, (i) constitution of village councils or courts
for trial of suits and cases between parties (but only those belonging to
Scheduled Tribes), ( j ) establishment, construction, and management of
primary schools, dispensaries, markets, cattle sheds, ferries, fisheries,
roads, road transport, and waterways, and (k) assessment and collection
of land revenue. With a view to encourage local participation in develop-
ment, the Mizoram government has also entrusted 20 additional functions
to the district councils for execution.
The autonomous district councils can also prescribe the medium of
instruction in the primary schools. They can set up village council courts,
subordinate district council courts, and district council courts in the au-
tonomous areas for the adjudication or trial of cases under customary
laws. But customary laws will only apply if both parties are tribals. The
district council courts are courts of appeal for all cases tried at the village
council courts or the subordinate district council courts. Only the High
Court and the Supreme Court have jurisdiction over suits and cases tried
by the district council courts.
The district councils are authorized to create their own funds and frame
rules for their management with the approval of the governor. They enjoy
mutually exclusive powers to collect land revenue, levy and collect taxes
on land holdings, shops, goods at the point of entering into markets and
through various forms of tolls. The district councils have concurrent
powers to collect tax on professions, trade, callings, employment, animals,
vehicles, huts, passengers and goods carried in ferries, and a few other
heads. But in Mizoram, the district councils have come under criticism for
failing to exercise their powers in enacting laws on all subjects assigned
to them. Yet, the district councils in Mizoram have provided a structure
of autonomy in a dynamic polity, and played the role of “shock absorber”
in the intricate ethnic power-sharing arrangement of contemporary post
statehood Mizoram. They have failed, unfortunately, to serve their key
intended role of being catalysts for economic development.
The autonomy arrangement in the Mizo Hills has come a long way.
There is now the full state of Mizoram and the three autonomous district
councils for the smaller tribes. But this has created an additional load
of aspirations and expectations. The Brus (Reangs) and the Hmars now
want the same kind of autonomous district council under the Sixth
Schedule of the Indian Constitution as the Chakmas, Lais, and Maras

enjoy, while the Lais, Maras, and Chakmas want to combine their districts
into a self-governing Union Territory. The reverse discrimination principle
so freely applied in India’s participatory democracy is often an undesirable
economic baggage, but an attractive proposition for smaller minorities
(particularly their elites), seeking representation and power-sharing
arrangements. The district councils have partially fulfilled those aspir-
ations and partly fuelled a desire for a more comprehensive package.
Tripura: Kingdom, State, and Autonomy
Tripura is Northeast India’s smallest state, even smaller than Mizoram.

But this was not always so. Maharaj Bijoy Manikya, one of Tripura’s
kings of yore, is said to have bathed in seven large rivers of East Bengal,
which means he controlled a large swathe of land between Tipperah hill
and Bangladesh’s present capital, Dhaka.The Manikyas controlled much
of east Bengal’s Comilla region during medieval times. Unlike the chaotic
primordial polity of the pre-British Mizo Hills, where might was right
and clan war fought by fierce head-hunting chiefs was the order of the
day, the kings of Tripura developed a culture of quality governance that
was marked by subtle management of ethnic aspirations. With royal pat-
ronage, tolerance and multiculturalism flourished in an area divided by
ethnicity and religion. Not surprisingly therefore, as late as 2000, and in
a state where Bengali settlers have become a decisive majority, readers
of the Tripura Observer (an Agartala based English daily) declared
Maharaja Bir Bikram as “Tripura’s Man of the Millennium” in preference
to those who have led the state since the end of the royal order in 1949.
Even after the advent of the British, when the Tripura kingdom was
restricted to its present hill confines, Bengalis and indigenous tribes
people lived in peace. If the Manikyas welcomed Bengali professionals
or peasants to modernize their administration or increase their land re-
venue through the spread of settled wet rice agriculture, they also created
the Tribal Reserve, that, in many ways, is the precursor of the Tripura
Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council. The Maharaja’s 2,050 sq. miles
Tribal Reserve, meant for the Tripuri, Reang, Halam, and Noatia tribes,
is surprisingly coterminous in location and size with the present Tribal
Autonomous Council. It was an effective attempt to create an enclave
where tribal lands, and their numbers, would be protected.
Partition unleashed a wave of migration from East Pakistan to Tripura

and other states on its borders. Though the indigenous tribespeople in
the state were never a decisive majority, like in the neighboring Chittagong
Hill tracts or the Mizo Hills, they accounted for anything between 50 to
60 per cent of the total population. In the three decades after partition,
the indigenous tribespeople were reduced to below 30 per cent of the
state’s population which left them completely marginalized in politics
and the economy, on land and in the professions. The influx intensified
the land alienation of the tribespeople and added to their collective sense
of loss and marginalization (Law Research Institute, 1990).
Land alienation of tribals emerged as a major problem with independ-
ence and the merger of princely Tripura with the Indian Union. Between
1947 and 1971, 609,998 Bengalis displaced from East Pakistan came to
Tripura for rehabilitation and resettlement. Since the total population of
the state in 1951 was 645,707, it is not difficult to gauge the enormous
population pressure created on tiny Tripura by the partition. During this
period, the state government primarily resettled the refugees on land under
different schemes, some enabling them to settle down with financial
assistance and some just helping them buy land.
The operation of these schemes accelerated the process of large-scale
loss of tribal lands. The pauperization of the tribals can also be discerned
from the growing number of tribal agricultural laborers in three decades
since the partition. In 1951, cultivators constituted 62.94 per cent of the
total tribal workforce in the state, while only 8.93 per cent was in the cat-
egory of agricultural laborers. But in 1981, only 43.57 per cent of the
tribal workforce was cultivators and the number of agricultural laborers
had risen to 23.91 per cent. The growing land alienation has remained a
recurrent theme in tribal militancy since it first surfaced with the “Sengkrak”
(Clenched Fist) movement in the mid-1960s.1 The opening up of much
of the Tribal Reserve Area for refugee resettlement by the Congress
government of post-princely Tripura added to the tribal concerns.
As early as 1952, the legendary Communist leader Dasarath Deb, then
a Member of Parliament, drew the attention of the Indian Prime Minister
to the continuous population inflow from East Pakistan and dwelt on
the need to reserve some areas of Tripura for the tribals. In 1955, the
Indian Home Minister, Govind Ballabh Pant, expressed a similar opinion.
In 1960, the Chief Commissioner of Tripura, N. M. Patnaik, represented
before the U. N. Dhebar Commission, that some specific areas of the
state should be declared as reserves for the tribals under the Fifth Schedule
of the Indian Constitution. But the Dhebar Commission suggested that
tribal development blocks in tribal compact areas be created first, failing

which the Fifth Schedule could be given a try.
But little was done to protect the tribal lands. To consolidate its refugee
vote bank, the Congress government continued to encourage the settlement
of migrants from East Pakistan. In some areas of Tripura, the refugees
formed cooperatives like the Swasti Samity and took to extensive land
grabbing in tribal compact areas. Before Tripura became a state, the Com-
munists had won most of the Parliament seats in the state. They held
sway in the tribal areas and advocated limited autonomy and the creation
of a tribal reserve to protect tribal lands. But the state unit of the Congress,
dominated by Bengali refugees, was determined to take advantage of
Tripura’s changing demography and ride to power on the strength of its
newly acquired refugee vote banks. In 1967, the Communists for the first
time lost both the Parliament seats to the Congress in Tripura. That year,
a tribal political party “Tripura Upajati Juba Samity” (Tripura Tribal Youth
League) or the TUJS was formed. And the same year, the first tribal
insurgent group, Sengkrak, surfaced in North Tripura.
Four years later, around the time Bangladesh was liberated, Tripura
became a full state of the Indian Union along with Manipur under the
process of reorganization of the Northeastern areas. The movement for
tribal autonomy gained momentum for three reasons: (a) since 1967,
ethnicity began to shape Tripura’s politics in a more pronounced manner
than ever before as the TUJS and the Sengkrak began to emphasize the
marginalization of the tribals as their major political theme, (b) the Com-
munists, challenged by the TUJS in their tribal strongholds and accused
of failing the indigenous tribespeople, became more pronounced in their
demand for tribal autonomy, and (c) Delhi saw the grant of autonomy
as a way out to control tribal militancy in Tripura and the rest of the
Northeast.
Reflecting national political trends, the Congress was voted out of
power in 1978 and the Communists, now more acceptable amongst
Bengalis than amongst the tribespeople, came to power in the state as-
sembly for the first time with a thumping majority. Strangely, in December
1978, the remnants of the now-defunct Sengkrak and the militant elem-
ents of the TUJS ganged up to form the underground Tribal National
Volunteers (TNV) to fight for “Swadhin Tripura” (independent Tripura).
The extremist challenge and the growing pressure of the TUJS prompted
the Communists to push for tribal autonomy with backing from the new
dispensation in Delhi. The Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council
was created by an Act in 1979, and brought under the Seventh Schedule
of the Indian Constitution. But soon after, in June 1980, Tripura was
rocked by unprecedented ethnic riots, disrupting the whole process of
implementing the autonomy provisions. It was only in January 1982,
that the elections to the newly formed Council could be held and the
Council constituted.
But the Seventh Schedule did not satisfy the tribal parties and the TNV
militancy increased sharply all across the state. The Communists returned
to power in 1983 and took the initiative to provide more autonomy for
the Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council. The TUJS had joined the
Congress in an electoral alliance in 1983, despite much resistance from
the state Congress Chief, Asok Bhattacharya, and its newfound accept-
ance in Delhi helped it to lobby more effectively for greater autonomy.
In April 1985, the Tripura Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council
(TTAADC) was finally brought under the Sixth Schedule. Elections were
held in June and a new Council was constituted in July 1985.
The TTAADC’s area of 7,132 sq. km was almost two-thirds of Tripura’s
total land area, but its population was one-third of the state’s total.
It left out the fertile plains and most of the urban settlements along
Tripura’s western border with Bangladesh. The Council of the TTAADC
comprises 30 members, of which 28 are elected directly through adult
franchise and two nominated by the Governor. Initially, seven seats were
reserved for non tribals in the TTAADC, but now the reservation for the
non tribals has been brought down to three seats. In the present Council,
there is only one Executive Member. The TTAADC is vested with both
legislative and executive powers. It is headed by a Chairman who conducts
the business of the Council with the help of its own secretariat. The
Secretary to the TTAADC is appointed by the Governor. The executive
functions are the prerogative of the Chief Executive Member supported
by the Executive Committee. The procedure of the state legislative assem-
bly is followed to conduct the business of the Council.
It is difficult to explain why it took the Indian government so long to
enforce the Sixth Schedule provisions in Tripura and create an autono-
mous council for the tribals when it had been implemented in neighboring
Mizo Hills and other hill areas of Assam immediately after independence.
Tripura was a princely state with a majority tribal population, and yet
the Bordoloi Committee did not feel it necessary to cover it with the pro-
visions of the Sixth Schedule or even visit it. Its perception of tribal auton-
omy was largely influenced by the situation in the hill areas of Assam.
There was no strong demand for tribal autonomy until the impact of the
changing demography was felt, but it took Delhi several years to fully
appreciate the need to cover Tripura’s tribal areas with the provisions of
the Sixth Schedule.
The Communists in Tripura resorted to armed insurrection in 1948–50,
much before the Nagas took to arms. Unlike the Nagas, the Tripura Com-
munists did not fight for sovereignty but for tribal rights and protection.
But even they did not demand Sixth Schedule autonomy for the tribal
areas in explicit terms, and once they joined Indian electoral politics,
their options to aggressively pursue the tribal autonomy question were
rather limited. So, while the Mizo Hills and other hill areas of Assam
got Sixth Schedule autonomy within a few years of decolonization and
the Mizos got a full state after 20 years of armed insurgency, the tribals
of Tripura, reduced to a minority in their own homeland, had to wait for
nearly 40 years to secure an autonomous council under the Sixth
Schedule.
Though the TTAADC enjoys powers similar to other district councils
operating under the Sixth Schedule regime, unlike most other autono-
mous district councils in the rest of India’s Northeast, it is built on the
acceptance of the tribal as a generic and a composite entity, a council for
“Tribal Areas” rather than focused on a single tribe. Smaller tribes in
Tripura have occasionally demanded a regional council on the early Mizo
Hills model. A few thousand Mizos raised the demand for a regional
council for the state’s northern orange-growing Jampui Hill region
bordering Mizoram, to “preserve our distinct customs, language and way
of life, so different from the tribals of Tripura and since early times”
(Memorandum of Jampui Mizo Association, 1987). The Tripura tribals
strove for greater autonomy within the state, but were strongly opposed
to the regional council demand of the Mizos for two reasons. One is that
many of them, like TUJS (now INPT) leader Shyama Charan Tripura,
suspect the “regional council demand of the Mizos as a possible precur-
sor to attempted merger with Mizoram, rather a conspiracy for Greater
Mizoram.”2 The other is that tribal leaders saw it as the beginning of
“tribal disunity, that could only help those who oppose tribal autonomy.”3
Smaller tribes like the Reangs, however, complain of “imposition of
Tripuri language and way of life” in the practice of tribal autonomy and
attempts to rename the council as Borok Areas Autonomous District
Council.4 This is inevitable because the language, customs, and way of
life of a dominant tribe tend to shape the formation of a generic identity
where promotion of tribal diversity cannot help the process. In areas
such as Tripura (or Nagaland), the social process influencing the evolution
of a generic identity out of a motley collection of tribes has inevitably
influenced the political and administrative practice of tribal autonomy.
It is only in this context of a dual tension, intra-tribal and between tribes
and nationalities, that the schisms affecting the relations between the
district councils and the state government can be properly understood.
District Councils and State Governments:

Uneasy Co-existence
The autonomous district councils have had an uneasy relationship with

the state governments right from the inception. The funds meant for the
councils are routed through the state government and more often than
not, the councils complain that they have not been released in full or
released after great delays, many times at the end of the financial year
when they cannot be properly and gainfully spent. There are areas of
conflicting jurisdiction like primary education, and state governments
have often delayed, even denied, transfer of jurisdiction to the autono-
mous councils as is appropriate under the Sixth Schedule. State govern-
ments have often tried to subvert the autonomy structure at the grassroots
by dissolving village councils and running them through nominated
bodies.
The Mizo Hill district leaders complained of “Assamese domination”
and “step-motherly attitude towards the Mizo Hills” by the Assam bur-
eaucracy and political leadership. The callousness with which the Assam
government tackled the Rat Famine totally alienated the Mizos from
Assam, and for a while, even from India. But the Assam government,
regardless of political dispensation, did not ever try to subvert the Council
or conspire to scuttle it. After Mizoram became a state, the MNF, when-
ever in power, has conspired to scuttle and abrogate the Chakma District
Council. Between 1986 and 2000, in the 15 years that followed the end of
insurgency and return of peace in Mizoram, there have been 21 private
members’ resolutions submitted in the Mizoram legislative assembly by
Mizo legislators, mostly belonging to the MNF, calling for the abolition
of the Chakma Autonomous District Council. Seven of these private
members’ resolutions were rejected, 14 were admitted of which two were
discussed and finally negated because of stiff opposition by the Congress
Party. Both Laldenga and Zoramthanga, as MNF Chief Ministers, have

openly advocated the abrogation of the Chakma District Council.
The Chakmas are seen by the MNF and hardline Mizos as the “enemy
tribe.” The MNF, during its days in the underground, was repeatedly
attacked in its covert bases in Bangladesh by Chakma guerrillas of the
Shanti Bahini (who were supported by India and were fighting Bangladesh
security forces). The hardline Mizos see them as “infiltrators” from
Bangladesh’s Chittagong Hill tracts, which most Chakmas of Mizoram
are not. Their ancestors lived in the western border region of the Lushai
Hills. Even Chakma legislators have found their names deleted from the
Mizoram electoral rolls after having been elected to the Mizoram legis-
lature more than once. So, it is not surprising that the MNF would try to
abrogate the Chakma District Council to appease hardline Mizo groups
and settle an old score. But other minorities, like the Lais and the Maras,
feel threatened by the MNF’s attempts to abolish the Chakma District
Council and fear similar actions against their own councils in future. A
private members resolution, seeking the whole of Mizoram to be declared
as a Tribal Area under Para 20 of the Sixth Schedule, moved by Mizo
legislator Lalthankunga on 7 April 2000, was seen as a threat to the other
district councils since that would negate the district councils and the
autonomy arrangements that went with them. This was seen as a
“conspiracy” to ultimately do away with all the three autonomous district
councils of Mizoram.
In Tripura, as in Mizoram, the district council authorities perpetually
complain of late release or withholding of funds and demand direct fund-
ing from the center. In 1988, when the Congress-TUJS coalition gov-
ernment came to power, all elected panchayats, including those in the
TTAADC areas, were dissolved and run by nominated bodies, which
considerably undermined the spirit of the council and the panchayat
system. Whenever the district council has been controlled by a party
other than the one controlling the state government in Tripura, tensions
have surfaced over fund transfer and a host of other issues including the
redrawing of boundaries of the TTAADC. In 2000, the Indigenous
Nationalist Party of Tripura (INPT) won the TTAADC elections amidst
Left allegations that the Indigenous Nationalist Party of Tripura (INPT)
had used the underground National Liberation Front of Tripura (NLFT)
to terrorize voters and Left candidates. Now the INPT alleges that the
Left has split its ranks and supported the breakaway group headed by
Hirendra Tripura to take over the District Council. But Tripura’s Left
government has not dissolved the legally constituted executive committees

of the district councils, as has often happened in Mizoram. In view of
this, it becomes necessary to examine why the autonomous district
councils in Tripura have failed to deliver and fulfill the objectives with
which they were set up.
In Tripura there is a widely held perception amongst the tribals from
all walks of life that the TTAADC has failed to fulfill their aspirations.
Sukhendu Debbarma, noted tribal scholar and university professor, has
summed up (Debbarma, 1999) why:
1. There is a gap between the powers, functions, and the aspirations

of the indigenous people. It was thought earlier that the powers
and functions of the TTAADC were sufficient to deal with the
purpose for which it has been established. But it has been realized
with time that the TTAADC cannot function effectively until and
unless more autonomy in the form of functioning and finance is
given to it.
2. The TTAADC has been created solely to protect the indigenous
people. In such a set-up, the question of keeping certain seats re-
served for the Bengali non tribals does not arise when two seats
already exist for nomination by the Governor. In reality, however,
there are three Bengali non tribals among the members, thus
contradicting the spirit of the Sixth Schedule. In no other autono-
mous district council constituted under the Sixth Schedule have
non tribals got any representation, except in the Tribal Autonomous
Council in Tripura.
3. In the running of the administration, the TTAADC is fully depend-
ent on the state government. The state government officers and
employees are sent on deputation to the TTAADC. Even after al-
most 20 years, no proper recruitment or service rules have been
framed for the employees of the Council. The running of the ad-
ministration with retired officers and employees makes the Council
slacker and slower as such people have experience but lack the
drive and commitment for working towards the welfare of the
tribespeople.
4. The foundation of running the administration lies in the villages,
and so elections must be held and village councils set up. Unfortu-
nately, in all of 19 years, the TTAADC could not hold elections
for setting up the Village Council which is still functioning with
nominated bodies. There are 432 Panchayats under the juris-

diction of the Council and there is a Panchayat Secretary who is
accountable to the Block Developmental Officer (BDO) who is
again under the control of the state government. The Council does
not have any say or control in the developmental work in such
villages. Thus there is a conflict between the Council and state
government at the village level also.
5. The Council has not been able to uplift the indigenous tribal people
economically. The Jhumia Rehabilitation Scheme undertaken by
the state government has also been undertaken by the Council.
This Scheme did not and is not expected to bring any improvement
as the system itself is faulty.
6. As per the Sixth Schedule, the TTAADC is also the custodian for
the preservation of the society and culture of the indigenous people
within its territorial jurisdiction. But even after 19 years, the
customary laws have not been codified.
7. The TTAADC is completely dependent on the state government
for funds. The Council has so far failed to devise methods for col-
lection of taxes and revenues. No development scheme taken up
by the TTAADC will work unless the funds are made available by
the state government. There is a large gap between the approved
budget and the flow of funds from the state government (for details
see Table 9.1). Thus many of the schemes formulated for the
development of the indigenous people by the Council cannot be
implemented due to lack of funds. The matter of finance is a major
source of tension between the Council and the state government
and any kind of autonomy with the best intention will not function
in the absence of financial autonomy. The TTAADC can fulfill its
objectives only if it can evolve a system of direct funding from the
center.
8. The state government feels that the TTAADC is within the jur-
isdiction of the state; so laws, rules, and regulations should be
implemented within the Council without any modifications.
Towards the end of the last decade, the Kokborok Tei Hukumu Mission
of Agartala initiated a study on the performance of the TTAADC which
concluded that “the formation of the TTAADC has failed on all fronts
to induct any change in the standard of living of the tribal people”
(Debbarma, 1999).5
Table 9.1
Statement showing Receipt of Fund from Government of Tripura as per Tripura Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council
Budget w.e.f. 1981–82 to 31st July 2002
(in million rupees)

Approved Council Budget Fund Received from Govt.
Plan Own Transferred Plan Own Transferred
Sl No Year Fund Fund Fund Total Fund Fund Fund Total Difference Remarks
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
1 1981–82 – – – – 0.25 Nil Nil 0.25
2 1982–83 – – – – 9.35 Nil 0.05 9.40 –
3 1983–84 – – – – 35.56 Nil 23.80 59.36 –
4 1984–85 – – – – 20.00 Nil 82.69 102.69 –
5 1985–86 70.00 12.20 160.92 243.12 46.50 12.60 75.85 134.95 108.17
6 1986–87 70.00 17.77 162.34 250.11 70.00 20.46 168.57 259.03 –8.92
7 1987–88 92.50 31.30 216.34 340.14 92.50 31.28 224.07 347.85 –7.71
8 1988–89 105.00 59.44 260.39 424.83 105.00 36.34 218.20 359.54 65.29
9 1989–90 125.00 65.50 292.50 483.00 125.00 36.32 138.20 299.52 183.48
10 1990–91 135.80 40.00 362.23 538.03 135.80 35.37 191.13 362.30 175.73
11 1991–92 152.50 40.10 248.44 441.04 152.50 26.48 227.93 406.91 34.13
12 1992–93 190.00 29.73 274.14 493.87 174.90 29.73 189.73 394.36 99.51
(Table 9.1 contd)
(Table 9.1 contd)
Approved Council Budget Fund Received from Govt.

Plan Own Transferred Plan Own Transferred
Sl No Year Fund Fund Fund Total Fund Fund Fund Total Difference Remarks
13 1993–94 198.50 37.64 210.50 446.64 198.00 37.64 132.25 367.89 78.75
14 1994–95 198.00 50.20 172.54 420.74 198.00 50.20 129.29 377.49 43.25
15 1995–96 220.00 50.20 173.73 443.93 213.40 50.20 164.56 428.16 15.77
16 1996–97 213.40 50.20 198.39 461.99 213.40 50.20 222.66 486.26 –24.27
17 1997–98 275.00 110.20 560.00 945.20 233.40 56.40 242.65 532.45 412.75
18 1998–99 275.00 141.16 557.97 974.13 233.40 50.05 269.28 552.73 421.40
19 1999–2000 233.40 50.05 387.24 670.69 233.40 50.05 283.36 566.81 103.88
20 2000–2001 395.30 50.05 403.96 849.31 246.85 61.31 321.05 629.21 220.10
21 2001–02 534.57 67.41 692.00 1,293.98 292.99 60.67 406.41 760.07 533.91
21.63 Award of 11th Finance Commission 27.04 Award of 11th Finance Commission
22 2002–03 1,008.87 67.41 737.00 1,813.28 146.50 45.88 125.03 317.41 1,495.87
21.63 Award of 11th Finance Commission Upto
July 2002
Grand Total 4,492.84 1,013.82 6,070.63 11,534.03 3,176.70 768.22 3,836.76 7,781.68 3,752.35
The Lais, Maras, and Chakmas have similar complaints about the
district autonomy arrangements. They allege constant discrimination by
the Mizo-dominated state government and voice their need for financial
autonomy. Even politicians and district council members from these com-
munities who are in the Mizo National Front (MNF) are upset with the
attitude of the state government. T. Nokiaua, Secretary of the Lawngtlai
District Committee of the MNF, told us in a recent interview:
Our main problem is money. The Lai Autonomous District Council is receiving
the same quantam of [sic] funds since 1998 and its plan budget remains the
same. Prices are rising, employees have to be given higher dearness allowance
but the funds remain the same. Though Mizoram is one of the leading states as
far as literacy is concerned, our areas is low in literacy due to poor infrastructure
of education. Road communication in our area is very bad and the work of the
state PWD is not at all satisfactory. There is not a single hospital in our district,
only a community health center, and people have to go to Lunglei or Aizawl
for treatment.6
Despite being a member of the MNF, Mr Nokiaua was quick to support

the growing demand for the formation of a separate union territory by
merging the Lai, the Mara, and the Chakma District Councils, a demand
that has gained ground during the last four years and is beginning to
gain support of tribal leaders cutting across political lines.
B. Thanchunga, the Chief Executive Member of the Lai Autonomous
District Council, argues that the Indian Planning Commission should
directly fund the autonomous district councils. For 10 years since its
inception, the Lai Autonomous District Council (LADC) got a mere
Rs 3.70 million a year. In 1985, Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi promised
Rs 40.50 million for the three District Councils of Mizoram—so the
LADC got Rs 10.50 million in 1986. In 2003–04, the LADC alone got
Rs 70.50 million, but B. Thangchunga says since there is so much to do
in terms of infrastructure, the funds are not enough. Like in Tripura, the
school dropout rates in the three district council areas are high, un-
like the Mizo areas of the state. Mizoram is the most literate state in the
country, but the literacy rate is only 56 per cent in the LADC area.7
The Chakma Autonomous District Council (CADC), always threatened
with abolition whenever a Mizo regional party has come to power in
Mizoram, has similar complaints of fund shortages and poor infrastruc-
ture but its main grouse is that more than two-thirds of the Chakma population
in Mizoram lives outside the CADC area.8 This is a legacy of the reorgan-
ization of territories of the district councils after Mizoram became a Union
Territory. The CADC was created by carving out Chakma-dominated

areas of the erstwhile Pawi-Lakher Regional Council, but the Chakma
areas of the erstwhile Mizo Hills District Council were not included in
the CADC. So, CADC leaders have persistently lobbied for adding some,
if not all, of the Chakma-compact areas of Mizoram that are outside the
district councils. The Chakma leaders are particularly upset because there is
not a single branch of a bank or a treasury at Kamalanagar (Chawngte), head-
quarters of the CADC.
The officials of all the three district councils in Mizoram constantly
complain of fund shortages.9 In December 1999, representatives of the
nine district councils in Northeast India, including those in Mizoram
and Tripura, handed over a memorandum to Prime Minister Atal Bihari
Vajpayee and Home Minister L. K. Advani, demanding direct funding
from the Planning Commision on “needs basis” and not on population
basis (Combined Memorandum, 1999). This is seen as the only way to
ensure meaningful financial autonomy for the district councils.
But the leaders of the three district councils in Mizoram say that they
are not given funds even on the basis of their population. The plan budget
of Mizoram for 2003–04 was Rs 4.75 billion. The population of the three
district councils is one-seventh of Mizoram’s total population. So, going
by population, the three district councils should be getting Rs 670 million.
But they got only Rs 180.90 million in the plan budget. So it comes to
less than one-third of what they should have got. The union Planning
Commission designed the Chhimtuipui sub-plan (for three district council
areas) in 1976. It suggested that 20 per cent of the state plan fund should
be spent in the three district council areas and there should be a 20 per
cent job reservation for the people of the area in the Mizoram government.
None of them has been implemented.
In Tripura, the TTAADC remains entirely dependent on the state
government. It has complained that out of its approved budget of
Rs 210.33 million between 1985–86 and 1993–94, the TTAADC has
received only Rs 150.63 million, giving rise to allegations of an “economic
blockade” against the TTAADC.
Allocation of Funds to the Three District Councils

in Mizoram during 1998–99 to 2003–04
The government of Mizoram makes funds available to each district

council every year out of the total allocation under Plan and Non-Plan.
Also, DONER has sanctioned some funds during 2001–02 and 2002–03
to Lai and Mara District Councils. Funds under Centrally Sponsored
Schemes also flow to all the three district councils each year. In addition,
district councils generate their own resources through levying taxes. The
taxes levied by the councils are meager and were to the order of Rs 3 mil-
lion, Rs 3 million and Rs 2 million in Lai, Mara, and Chakma Councils
respectively, during 2003–04.
The status of allocation of funds under Plan and Non-Plan by the
Government of Mizoram during 1998–99 to 2003–04 is shown in
Table 9.2.
Table 9.2
Allocation of Funds by Government of Mizoram to Autonomous
District Councils (1998–99 to 2003–04)
(in million rupees)

Name of Autonomous Allocation of Fund
Year District Council Plan Non-Plan Total
1998–99 LADC 66.50 71.60 138.10

MADC 57.90 65.80 123.70
CADC 41.20 31.30 72.50
Total 165.60 168.70 334.30
1999–2000 LADC 71.20 100.30 171.56
MADC 61.70 87.20 148.95
CADC 43.40 43.42 86.82
Total 176.30 230.92 407.33
2000–2001 LADC 71.50 115.20 186.70
MADC 64.90 103.04 167.94
CADC 46.50 54.06 100.56
Total 182.90 272.30 455.20
2001–02 LADC 72.50 127.59 200.09
MADC 62.90 114.06 176.96
CADC 47.50 60.84 108.34
Total 182.90 302.49 485.39
2002–03 LADC 74.82 140.10 214.92
MADC 64.75 126.70 191.45
CADC 49.50 66.70 116.20
Total 189.07 333.50 522.57
2003–04 LADC 75.00 144.30 219.30
MADC 65.10 130.40 195.50
CADC 47.00 68.70 115.70
Total 187.10 343.40 530.50
The grievances of the three autonomous district councils in Mizoram

and the one for the tribals in Tripura should be seen in the overall context
of ethnic relations and the real or perceived fear of domination by bigger
tribes or nationalities. In Tripura, the demographic changes in the last
half century and its consequent impact on electoral politics has left the
tribals in perpetual fear of Bengali domination. The tribal parties continue
to demand (a) more reservation of seats in the state legislature for the
tribals, (b) protection of customs and traditional way of life and promotion
of their language, (c) strengthening of autonomy arrangements by con-
verting the TTAADC into an autonomous state under Article 244 (A)
of the Constitution. While the demand for the autonomous state is made,
tribal parties like the Indigenous Nationalist Party of Tripura (INPT)
say they would at least like to get greater autonomy by converting the
TTAADC into something like the newly established Bodoland Territorial
Council (BTC).
The TTAADC, under INPT control between 2000 and 2005, has
demanded transfer of additional subjects to it by the state government.
The subjects specified for transfer are: (a) rural housing, (b) rural electrifi-
cation, (c) management of all types of forests including reserve forests
that fall within its areas, (d) maintenance of law and order in the TTAADC
area, and (e) higher education. The TTAADC has also voiced its strong
protest against the rather sweeping powers of land acquisition of the
state government and said that no land in the TTAADC area should be
acquired without its prior permission. It has said that the strength of
the Council should be retained at 30, and 4 members from the elected
representatives of the village councils and 2 members from the elected
representatives of the Municipal Councils should be added to it. It has
also asked for reservation for women in the TTAADC to 15 per cent of
the elected strength, the introduction of Inner Line Permit system in the
TTAADC areas to prevent further influx of outsiders (read Bengalis)
into tribal compact areas and an amendment of Article 280 to put the
Finance Commission under obligation to suggest measures to augment
the state’s Consolidated Fund to supplement the resources of the
TTAADC (Reang, 2001).
So, the tribal parties in Tripura have adopted a dual strategy of (a) de-
manding a new and more powerful autonomy arrangement for better
representation of the tribals and more protection to their lands, customs,
language, and way of life, and (b) at the same time demanding more
powers and funds to strengthen the existing autonomy arrangements until
something like an autonomous state comes into existence. The ruling
Left Front, led by the CPI(M) which has a considerable popular base in
the tribal areas, supports more powers to the TTAADC but not the
demand for an autonomous state. Its position on the demand to extend
Inner Line Permit system to the TTAADC areas remains ambivalent—
it supported the demand when out of power between 1988 and 1993 but
is silent on it now. With its mass base amongst the Bengali settlers, now
more than 70 per cent of the state’s population and key to its source of
power in Tripura, the Left Front may not adopt a stance that will be seen
as too pro-tribal.
But in Mizoram, right from 1972 when it became a Union Territory,
the Lais, Maras, and Chakmas have demanded that their areas be merged
to form a separate Union Territory. They argue for a parity of treatment
arguing that if the Mizo District Council could be upgraded to a union
territory, they see no reason why their areas should not get similar status.
Unlike Tripura tribals who see the state as their own (it was ruled by
their kings until 1949), the smaller tribes of Mizoram see the state as an
“evolved creation” that has only benefited the Mizos. They allege Mizo
domination in every sphere from imposition of Mizo culture to cornering
of government jobs by Mizos (they have a much higher literacy than the
minorities), to choking off funds for the district councils, to making Mizo
the official language of the whole state including the district council areas.
So they see no way of fulfilling their aspirations for “genuine autonomy”
without a Union Territory (Memorandum to Indian Prime Minister, 2000).
Unlike the TTAADC which demands more powers for itself and more
subjects, the district councils in Mizoram are seeking to surrender some
subjects because of inadequacy of funding at a time when all across
the Northeast, the Karbi Anglong District Council in Assam, that handles
30 subjects, is seen as a role model for all autonomous arrangements. But
while those tribes who have autonomous districts in Mizoram want a
Union Territory, tribes like the Hmars and the Brus demand autonomous
district councils. The Hmars allege that such an arrangement is denied
to them despite an accord the Hmar Peoples Convention (HPC) signed
with the state government after ending their militant activities. The Brus
have formed an armed group, the Bru National Liberation Front (BNLF),
to pursue the demand. So while the Lais, the Maras, and the Chakmas
have stuck to democratic politics to pursue their demands, the Hmars
and the Brus have chosen the path of armed struggle in a repeat of the
Mizo experience. Though the armed groups of the Brus and the Hmars
have now signed cease-fire deals with the Mizoram government, this
may not be the last time these groups have used violence to pursue their
objectives.
Power Sharing, Protection, or Development
The Sixth Schedule was conceived as both a power sharing mechanism to

provide tribals a sense of participation in self-governance, a constitutional
safeguard to protect their lands, customs, language, and way of life and
as a catalyst for development. So, the autonomy arrangement it offers to
tribal areas should be viewed in its totality. The operation of the Sixth
Schedule arrangements in Tripura and Mizoram has been a mixed bag
of partial success and unfulfilled aspirations and objectives. It has largely
failed as a catalyst for development in (a) creating worthwhile infrastruc-
ture in the tribal areas, (b) implementing schemes that ensure food security
for the tribals, (c) weaning the tribals away from traditional agricultural
practices to relatively modern forms of agriculture, (d) attracting invest-
ments for industry or promoting trade, and (e) promoting education and
skill generation amongst tribals.
The land laws in the district councils of the two states and in the rest
of Northeast act as a dampener to investments. For instance, motivated
by the region’s horticultural output (like Tripura pineapples), food pro-
cessing industries see the land laws as detrimental to developing large-
scale captive plantations capable of providing a lot of employment to
the tribals. Other industries entertain similar fears. The poor road network
in the district councils of Mizoram and Tripura, the pitiable plight of
primary education in these areas marked by high dropout rates, the regu-
lar starvation deaths and crops failures in the TTAADC areas of Tripura,
the continued practice of jhum in tribal areas of both Tripura and
Mizoram, all testify to the observations made earlier.
The bureaucracy that runs the autonomous councils in the two states
is as or more inefficient than that running state governments. Since their
resources are much less than those of the state government, the councils
do not have the motivated political leadership and a small but efficient
bureaucracy they need. Our research has revealed that more than 50 to
60 per cent of the funds marked for the council go into payment of salaries
and allowances or maintaining other administrative requirements like
vehicles and offices. Close to 30 per cent go into projects that have no
“carryover benefits.” Only about 20 per cent of the funds are spent in
development projects that matter. Even in the implementation of these
projects there is much siphoning due to endemic corruption.
The autonomy arrangements under the Sixth Schedule have also not
fulfilled the political aspirations of the tribals. After their implementation,
both Mizoram and Tripura have witnessed phases of large-scale militancy.
The MNF’s underground movement started 14 years after the Mizo Hills
District Council was created. Tribal insurgency in Tripura has intensified
after the extension of the Sixth Schedule to the TTAADC in 1985. The
return of the Tribal National Volunteers (TNV) to normal life in 1988
had less to do with the extension of the Sixth Schedule than with the
political calculations of its Chief, B. K. Hrangkhawl, who saw a great
opportunity for him emerging with the defeat of the Left Front and the
coming to power by the Congress–TUJS coalition. So its value as a power
sharing mechanism has also proved to be limited. Analysts have argued
that fear of tribal militancy rather than the restrictive arrangements of
land transfer have protected tribal lands in post-1985 Tripura. In Mizoram,
a large number of Brus and Chakmas have been driven off their lands by
Mizo radical groups.
But it is undeniable that the provisions of the Sixth Schedule have
provided a basis for tribal autonomy that can only be improved upon
but not abrogated. It is, however, true, that the Sixth Schedule autonomy
arrangements have often been seen as a halfway house to ultimate state-
hood or Union Territory status by the tribal elite running the councils.
So, they have only fuelled demands for more autonomy and separation
from the parent state.
Notes
1. For a detailed account of the Sengkrak movement, see Bhaumik (1996).

2. Shyama Charan Tripura. Interview with author, 16 May 1987.
3. INPT leader, Debabrata Koloi. Interview with author, 23 September 2001.
4. Dhananjoy Reang, former NLFT Chairman. Interview with author, 21 May 2000.
5. This is what it had to say about the TTAADC’s perfomance: “Since the formation
of the TTAADC, two decades have already passed but now questions arise how far
the TTAADC has been successful in satisfying the aspirations and expectations
of the tribal people. The present socio-economic and educational scenario of the
tribal people shows a very gloomy picture. The percentage of failure of the tribal
students in Board examinations is very very high. The school dropout at primary
level is as high as seventy-six percent .... More than eighty percent of the tribal
people are living below poverty line. The number of landless tribal, instead of
reduction, is increasing day by day. The health care system, electrification, road
communication, setting up of industry, providing safe drinking water is non-
existent in most of the tribal areas ….”
6. T. Nokiaua. Interview with Jayanta Bhattacharya in Lawngtlai, 25 August 2004.
7. Says B. Thanchunga: “The state government has given us teachers but no fund to
develop the infrastructure. School buildings are makeshift, old and tormented by
weather, but there is no money for school building and furniture. So we are not able
to take care of 55 middle-level schools. If the state government does not give us
enough funds, they should take back the education department in their hand.”
B. Thanchunga. Interview with Jayanta Bhattacharya in Lawngtlai, 26 August 2004.
8. Former Mizoram minister, Nirupam Chakma. Interview with Jayanta Bhattacharya,
22 August 2004.
9. Says Lengduna, officiating Chief Executive Member of the Mara Autonomous
District Council (MADC): “Our main problem is money. In 1994, eighteen depart-
ments were handed over to us. Funds to meet salaries of employees were given,
but no establishment costs or development funds were placed at our disposal.”
Interview with Jayanta Bhattacharya, 27 August 2004.
10
RESOURCES FOR AUTONOMY:

FINANCING THE LOCAL BODIES
Ratan Khasnabis
Introduction:
Decentralization and Development
D ecentralized governance is believed to ensure efficiency in the

functioning of the state in a civil society. The modern state, which
is basically a centralized seat of power, can function efficiently, as the
wisdom goes, only by transferring certain responsibilities to local bodies
so that the alienation of the citizens from the state is minimized. The
regulatory functions of the state are not supposed to be decentralized
much to the grassroots level. But, contemporary political wisdom is that
a government should try to devolve the issues of state sponsored welfare
measures to local bodies inasmuch as such a devolution fosters greater
responsiveness of the policy makers to the will of the citizens, and thereby,
a closer congruence between public preferences and state policies might
be achieved. The other argument is that such a measure of decentraliza-
tion creates a proper condition for honoring the diversity in public choices
in a better way so as to help the choice mechanism function more effect-
ively. Some researchers have observed that decentralization also promotes
innovation through recognition of local knowledge and wisdom in imple-
menting a program for development. Above all, decentralization is
Resources for Autonomy: Financing the Local Bodies / 243
accepted as a better choice because it is supposed to enhance democratic

values which should be the basis of a modern society1.
Recent literature on decentralization, however, highlights the fact that
decentralization has a powerful economic advantage. It has been argued
that a decentralized structure maximizes allocational efficiency. Difficulty
of a centralized delivery system is that it has a tendency to provide uni-
form services across all regions irrespective of differences in the needs
and conditions of the public (Smoke, 1994). Consequently, it gives rise
to inefficiency in allocation of resources. If local diversities are to be
taken care of, the delivery system has to be decentralized.
The other economic advantage of a decentralized system is that it might
ensure better production efficiency. The argument (supported by experi-
ence) is that a decentralized system ensures the scrutiny of the local people
in local projects, thus enhancing the productive efficiency of local public
goods and services. Again, there may be diseconomies of scale in a central-
ized delivery system for local public goods (such as water supply, solid
waste management, public transport), that can be eliminated if the project
is designed by a local authority taking care of the needs of the local
people with proper knowledge of local specifities. It is also argued that
the positive externality of public goods produced at the local level might
be higher because it promotes innovation which might generate greater
diversity in local public goods.2 Researchers have also pointed out that
the advantage of informational economies would be realized more
efficiently in a decentralized structure.3
Decentralization is not, however, taken as an unmixed blessing in
economic literature. It may be pointed out that decentralization might
cause a loss in efficiency through the neglect of control and coordination
that results out of its emphasis on autonomy in planning and execution
of projects. Votaries of decentralization some-times ignore this point.
Though it is argued that decentralization better captures the economy
of scale for certain types of projects, the logic of the economy of scale
might work against decentralization as well. If the technical requirement
of a project is such that it should maintain a critical minimum level that
cannot be ensured in a decentralized set up, then the project should not be
executed under a decentralized authority. Critics also point out that de-
centralization often suffers from the problem of externality where local
projects get chosen to optimize local benefits without giving due consid-
eration to how these local benefits might affect agents external to the
locality. For example, local authorities are often found to give priority to
244 / RATAN KHASNABIS
local roads neglecting the major thoroughfares that might serve inter-
locality movement in a better way.
A major component of decentralization is fiscal decentralization
attained by devolution of financial power to the local governments. The
merits of financial devolution need not be discussed at length. No devo-
lution is effective unless the local bodies are empowered to mobilize funds
for implementing the developmental schemes. The local bodies should
have enough power to raise tax and non-tax revenues ensuring fiscal
autonomy. However, under financial devolution, local authorities often
fail to mobilize tax revenue from local sources in a satisfactory way. This
is so because the local authorities are found to have a tendency to shift
the burden of taxes to non-locals which usually works as a softer option.
Moreover, inter-regional disparities in resource base can only be min-
imized through inter-regional transfer of resources and such decisions
can be made and implemented only by a centralized authority.4
To sum up, there is always a trade off between benefits of centralization
(in the form of equity in inter-regional transfer of resources and efficiency
and externality of the centrally sponsored projects) and those of decen-
tralization. While arguing for decentralization, this particular point
should be taken into consideration.
Decentralized Governance in India
In the Indian context, the debate on the advantages and disadvantages

of decentralized governance hardly had any practical relevance before
the 73rd and the 74th Constitutional Amendment Acts, 1992 were passed
in the Parliament. The said Acts have for the first time specified some
functions of the state which, with the approval of the concerned state
governments, might be devolved to the local bodies.5 With the Constitu-
tional mandate for devolving some functions of the state to the local
bodies, the issue of decentralized governance came into sharp focus in
the politics and economics of Indian society.
Following the 73rd Constitution Amendment Act, 1992, a new gen-
eration of Panchayati Raj Institutions (PRI) came into being in rural
India. This Act recognized that due to reasons like the absence of regular
elections, insufficient representation of the weaker sections, including
women, and above all, inadequate devolution of power and lack of finan-
cial resources, the Panchayats in India had not been able to acquire the
status of viable peoples’ bodies. The Amendment Act introduced a new
section in the Constitution of India (Part IX, Section 243), which provided
for a Gram Sabha (Gram Sansad) for the adults in a village or a part of
a village (as in West Bengal) or for a group of villages. This was conceived
as the basic forum for democratic functioning of the PRI at the grassroots
level. The Act also recognized Panchayats at the village and the inter-
mediate levels. All the representatives would be for a fixed tenure of five
years and the representative nature of these bodies would be maintained
by holding elections after the tenure is over. Reservation for women and
members of scheduled caste (SC) and scheduled tribe (ST) communities
was also assured. The Act also made it mandatory to make the posts of
the Sabhapati, Sabhadhipati, and Pradhan (Chairpersons at respective tiers)
as elected posts for a fixed tenure of five years.
The most significant parts of the Amended Act are 243G, 243H, and
243I wherein the powers, authorities, and responsibilities along with the
mechanism by which the funds will be devolved to the PRI at various
tiers have been discussed. Briefly, the Act creates a provision (not man-
datory) for devolution, by the state legislature, of powers and responsi-
bilities upon the Panchayats with respect to the preparation of plans for
economic development and social justice and for the implementation of
development schemes. Provisions have also been made so that funds can
be secured for the PRI by securing authorization from state legislatures
for grant-in-aid to the Panchayats from the Consolidated Fund of the
State, as assignment to or appropriation by the Panchayats of the revenues
of designated taxes, duties, fees, and tolls. The Constitution also makes
it mandatory to set up a Finance Commission for the State (SFC) within
one year of the notification of the Act and thereafter, to review the finan-
cial position of the Panchayats every five years and provide financial
awards to the local bodies from the Consolidated Fund of the State for
the next five years.
A suitable amendment in Section 280 (Finance Commission) of the
Constitution of India was introduced so that “the measures needed to
augment the Consolidated Fund of a State to supplement the resources
of the Panchayats in the State on the basis of recommendations made
by the Finance Commission of the State” can be taken. In 280C of the
Constitution, the same provision was made for the municipalities as well.
Following such amendments a constitutional basis has been created so
that the PRI and the Urban Local Bodies can now expect to get regular
untied funds for implementing programs of economic development at
their own initiative. A new Eleventh Schedule was appended to the
Constitution of India listing out 29 functions concerning issues of rural
development on which the powers and authorities of the Panchayats

can be created by the state governments. The Amended Act also created
a provision for setting up a Committee for District Planning so that such
functions can be carried out by the PRI in a planned manner.
With respect to the Urban Local Bodies, the same exercise has been
performed in the 74th Constitution Amendment Act, 1992, so that the
urban bodies may also function as institutions of self-government
(Part IXA, The Municipalities, Constitution of India). In order to make
the constitutional provisions effective, the Twelfth Schedule of the
Constitution specifies 18 areas in which the legislature of a state may by
law endow “the performance of functions and the implementation of
schemes” (243[w], Constitution of India) to Urban Local Bodies. How-
ever, as in case of the Rural Local Bodies, these are to be assigned by the
respective state governments.
Following the introduction of the Constitutional (73rd and 74th)
Amendment Acts and the follow up by state level Conformatory Acts,
the scenario has admittedly changed for the better. One point should,
however, be mentioned in this context. The new acts have definitely
created a basis for decentralization in the functioning of the Indian state.
But then, the spirit of Article 40 of the Constitution, which wishes the
local bodies to function as units of self-government, is yet to be honored
by the policy makers of the country. The Indian state is yet to take such
steps as will endow the local bodies with “such power and authority as
may be necessary to enable them to function as units of self-government.”
Consider, for example, the nature of power and authority that the local
bodies enjoy even after the said amendments of the Constitution. With
respect to the much publicized power of the local bodies in the realm of
economic development and social justice, there is a structural limitation
that stems from the Constitution itself. The Amendment Acts of the
Constitution have listed the subjects on which the third tier of the gov-
ernment can exercise power and enjoy authority, but unlike the autonomy
that the provincial governments enjoy in regard to List II of the Seventh
Schedule of the Constitution, the local bodies have no such authority
outside of the discretion of the concerned state government over any subject
listed in the Eleventh and the Twelfth Schedules.
The basic limitation is that the local bodies have very little regulatory
power. They are still viewed as agencies of local development under the
control of the higher level authority. Even after the Amendment Acts
defining Panchayats and Urban Local Bodies as institutions of self-
government, in reality, such powers have been vested with respect to
preparation and implementation of plans for economic development and

social justice only and that also to the extent such authority is assigned
to them by the concerned state governments.
The fact is that the local bodies cannot have any say over the regulatory
functions of the state. The reality in most cases is that the Panchayats have
no administrative control even over the staff that serves the Panchayats.
As a result, devolution of power and authority for local development
following the 73rd Amendment fails to achieve the desired goal of demo-
cratic decentralization. As it has been observed:
The business of government is vertically arranged with departmental hierarchies

stretching from the Minister-in-charge of a particular portfolio at the top to the
lowest departmental functionary at ground level. The Panchayats are horizontal
interventions in the vertical jungles of administration. Any hope that they would
be able to secure horizontal co-ordination was doomed because the vertical
hierarchies were well entrenched and the Panchayats did not have even min-
imum administrative weaponry to bring them within the coordinating discipline.
(Mukarji and Bandyapadhyay, 1992: 9)
Even after the 73rd and 74th Amendments, the Constitution keeps
Panchayats and urban local bodies confined to developmental activities
and that too with very little power over their functions and functionaries.
The reality is that the local bodies do not constitute a tier of the state6 in
the true sense of the term. While evaluating the performance of the local
bodies, this limitation, which may be considered as a structural limitation,
must be taken into consideration.
Fiscal Devolution: The Background
The issue of financial autonomy of the local bodies, however, is more

complex. One cannot hold outright that the performance of Indian dem-
ocracy is poor in this regard. At the same time, as the relevant literature
on the subject indicates, the act of devolution has several limitations
that put constraints on the functioning of the local bodies even as agencies
of local development.
It is true that the 73rd and the 74th Amendments of the Constitution
have not ignored the issue of fiscal devolution. They have incorporated
relevant changes in Article 280 of the Constitution so that the issue of
fiscal devolution to the local bodies from the Consolidated Fund of the
State can be given due consideration.7 One immediate benefit of the

constitutional mandate is that the issue of local finance is now getting
better attention from the Government of India. The first Union Finance
Commission that had to adhere to the new provision of the Constitution
was the Tenth Finance Commission (1995–2000). The commission did
not have the opportunity to take up an in-depth study of the problems of
local finance but even then it met the constitutional obligation by making
an ad hoc provision for the local bodies.8 That the constitutional mandate
has to be taken care of was further revealed in the deliberations of the
next, i.e., the Eleventh Finance Commission (EFC). The EFC (2000–
2005) made a more comprehensive discussion of the problems and con-
straints of financial devolution in India.9 Following a comprehensive
review of the issue, the EFC made a recommendation which made it
mandatory for the union government to devolve a sum of Rs 16 billion
for PRI (and Rs 4 billion for Urban Local Bodies) for the period 2000–
2005. While setting the norm for disbursement of such funds among the
states, the EFC had also taken care of the extent of decentralization
that a state has achieved. For this, the EFC had set an index on the basis
of 10 indicators, called the index of decentralization.10 The percentage
share of various states following this index is reproduced from the EFC
Report in Appendix 1 of this chapter. Admittedly, the index did not favor
states such as Kerala, where decentralization did make some progress,
while it favored states like Bihar where there had been the least
devolution.11Again, the total fund allotted to the so called third tier of
the state is abysmally poor. But then, the fact that the EFC has honored
the constitutional obligation by making a recommendation for the local
bodies on the basis of a norm, as it did in the case of the second tier of
the government, indicates that the issue of fiscal devolution following
the Constitutional Amendment is getting serious attention of the central
government.
One difficulty with the finance of the local bodies is that there is hardly
any reliable information on the existing financial condition of these
bodies. The anomaly in the inter-state variation in the EFC awards for
the local bodies, following the index value of decentralization, is largely
due to this limitation in information. There are 224,838 village- and
5,811 intermediate-level Panchayats along with 3,537 Urban Local Bodies
in India. The village Panchayats hardly have the requisite number of
personnel for maintaining the records. The state finance commissions
also fail to garner sufficient information from the line departments of
the respective state governments so that a reliable database could be
developed. The first serious efforts in this regard came from the EFC
which appointed two research organizations for carrying out an in-depth
study on the status of local government finance in India. Based on this
research, the EFC had two background papers12 and a data set on local
finance in India for the period 1990–91 to 1998–99. The summary of
findings of these studies is given in Section 8 of the EFC Report and the
state level data on the finance of Panchayats and Urban Local Bodies is
given in Appendix VIII.2 of the Report. Based on the data provided by
the Eleventh Finance Commission, a set of literature has come up which
provides insightful analyses on local finance in India (Oommen, 2000;
Rajaraman et al., 1996). The other important service that the EFC has
provided is, that it has earmarked a sum to be spent on monitoring the
accounts and another amount for creating a database relating to the
finance of local bodies in India. It is expected that in the near future, a
solid database would be created on the basis of reliable information on
the financial accounts of local bodies, thanks to these EFC grants, so that
the future SFC reports would contain more reliable information that
would help researchers and policy makers better understand the financial
problems of local bodies.13
Fiscal Devolution:
An Analysis of the EFC Data
The revenues of the local bodies fall into two major categories, (A) own
revenue, and (B) inter-governmental transfer. Own revenues are classified
into (a) non-tax revenues such as income from properties, fees, receipts,
user charges, etc., and (b) tax revenues which can be classified further as
(i) own tax revenues assigned and collected by local bodies and assigned
but collected by the state government and given to local bodies, and
(ii) revenues from shared taxes entirely collected by the state government
but subsequently shared with the local bodies. The second category con-
sists of revenue under inter-governmental transfers. Most of these trans-
fers are grants by the center either directly or through the states, frequently
with small additional funding by the individual states.14 Till now, the
second category is the most important source of revenue for the local
bodies. As regards the expenditure items, the major expenditure of the
local bodies is on account of (a) general administrative services, (b) discre-
tionary and obligatory services, and (c) expenditure on developmental
activities, mostly under schemes sponsored by the higher tiers of the

government.
Research on the finance of local bodies indicates that PRIs and urban
local bodies (ULBs) are now spending more funds compared to what
they used to spend before the Constitutional Amendment. As the EFC
has observed (Report of the EFC) the total expenditure at the PRI and
ULBs level, as a percentage of GDP was 12.24 per cent in 1997–98; the
comparable figure for 1992–93 had been only 5.53 per cent. This infor-
mation, along with the fact that the total expenditure/GDP ratio of the
union government and the provincial governments taken together was
15.2 per cent in 1997–98, indicates that the local level revenue expenditure
is now playing an important role in the public finance of the economy.
It does not, however, indicate that the local bodies are spending the
funds more out of their own revenue sources. In fact, the dependence of
such bodies on the respective state governments (and also on central
government) in financial matters seems to remain as strong as before the
Constitutional Amendments. Tax revenue of the local bodies (PRI and
ULBs) as percentage of the tax revenue of the states had been only 3.11
per cent in 1992–93. By 1997–98, as stated by the EFC, the ratio had
increased, but even then it was only 5.01 per cent (Oommen, 2000).
Research on the fiscal situation, at the level of the local bodies on the
basis of the EFC data15 does indicate16 (Oommen, 2000) that the fiscal
basis of autonomy for local bodies in India is indeed very weak. The
local tax/GDP ratio for the local bodies had been as low as 0.45 per cent
in 1997–98. The revenue from other sources (such as non-tax items) had
also been abysmally poor. Inter-state variations notwithstanding, the
overall scenario is that the PRI and the ULBs depend mostly on inter-
governmental transfers. As observed by Oommen (2000), the financial
autonomy ratio (the percentage of locally raised revenue to total local
expenditure) had been as low as 4.81 per cent in 1997–98 for 15 major
states in India. There is inter-state variation in this regard. For example,
in Punjab, the financial autonomy ratio had been as high as 88.66 per cent
in 1997–98. But there are states like Karnataka where the ratio had been
as low as 4.65 per cent for the same reference year. An observable variation
does exist between the Urban Local Bodies and Rural Local Bodies. For
example, in Orissa, the financial autonomy ratio for the rural bodies had
been as low as 6.81 per cent in 1997–98. In the same year, the financial
autonomy ratio for the urban bodies of the state had been 57.09 per
cent. The scenario in each of the 15 major states in India, as worked out
by Oommen (2000), is given in Appendix 2 of this chapter. The results

indicate that iner-state variation notwithstanding, internal revenue
mobilization plays a very limited role in the finance of local bodies in
the states of India.17
There is a strong opinion that the PRI and the ULBs fail to mobilize
much resources from internal sources largely because they fail to raise
revenue by way of the levy of taxes as assigned to them by the respect-
ive state governments. Among the reasons for the failure, “the general
reluctance on the part of the Panchayats to levy taxes for fear of erosion
in the vote base, lack of necessary administrative machinery to collect
taxes and limited capacity to pay tax in the villages, specially in drought
hit and other disaster hit villages” (Rangarajan, 2004), are considered
important.
While it is true that the local bodies do not perform well in mobilizing
local resources, some researchers have argued that there are structural
reasons for a low revenue compliance of the local bodies. The own levy
rights of Panchayats are mainly on buildings and non-agricultural land;
taxes on entertainment and motorized vehicles is another important
source of local revenue for some tiers of Panchayats. These have the least
tax buoyancy.18 Professional tax, which is a constitutionally sanctioned
local duty with much revenue potentiality, is not assigned to local bodies
in any state (except in Kerala). User fees and charges are the sources of
revenue in almost every tier of the local bodies. But these are the areas
where tax compliance is low.
The PRI in India cannot expand the own revenue base because the
assigned items of tax revenue for the local bodies have least tax buoyancy.
Again, tax compliance is weak at the village level. A somewhat better tax
compliance scenario exists in the intermediate tier of the PRI. But then,
the revenue base for the intermediate tiers of the PRI is rather narrow.
Roughly about 80 per cent of the Panchayats’ own revenues are collected
by the Gram Panchayats, a pattern that remained unchanged between
1990–91 and 1997–98. (Exceptions are Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan
where higher tiers have a substantial share in collection). According to
Rajaraman, the revenue potential of the local bodies can improve if
a crop-specific levy on agricultural land is imposed in rural areas 19
(Rajaraman, 2003 and 2004).
We should add that the present scenario regarding the collection
of revenue from own sources is not as bleak for the local bodies as it is
projected to be. Following the Constitutional Amendments, the local
bodies started functioning better. In many states, with some devolution
of functions and functionaries, the mobilization of internal revenue im-

proved in a noteworthy way. It may be pointed out that between 1990–91
and 1997–98, there was a doubling of the average per capita collection
across all states aggregating across all tiers of the Panchayat (Rajaraman,
2004).19
Fiscal Devolution:
Inter-Governmental Transfer
While it is true that the performance of the local bodies in mobilizing

resources from their own sources has improved in the recent years, the
fact remains, that till now the major source of funds for the local bodies
is inter-governmental transfer of financial resources. Under the consti-
tutional mandate, the Central Finance Commissions would devolve a
sum to the local bodies.20 Again, following the Constitutional Amend-
ment Acts, the PRI and the ULBs are supposed to get a devolved fund
from the Consolidated Fund of the State from the state governments as
well (revenues of designated taxes, duties, fees, and tolls collected by the
state governments). The devolution of financial resources to these bodies
from state governments is supposed to be ensured through periodic
constitution of the State Finance Commissions that are required to make
recommendations on the sharing and assignment of various taxes, duties,
tolls, fees, etc. and on the grants-in-aid to these bodies from the Consolid-
ated Fund of the states. These provisions are closely related to Articles
243G and 243W of the Constitution.
It is argued that the performance of the local bodies in mobilizing
revenue from own sources has not been satisfactory. But what about the
role of state governments in executing the provision of inter-governmental
transfers to the local bodies? As the EFC has observed, in most of the
states in India, devolution through inter-governmental transfer has
remained poor. The SFC reports which are supposed to serve as the basis
for financial devolution are often prepared in a perfunctory way. Also,
the SFC reports do not follow a uniform pattern and consequently
the Central Finance Commission can hardly utilize these reports while
suggesting measures for augmenting the financial resource base of the
local bodies. Again, in many cases, the SFC reports do not specify
the sources from which the shared revenue would devolve to the local
bodies. Even when such reports are placed before the state governments,
in some cases, the concerned authorities do not take any step for imple-
menting the recommendations of the SFCs.21
The basic reason for poor financial devolution is that the Conform-
atory Acts, in most cases, are weak. For example, there are states such as
West Bengal in which the Conformatory Act did not specify the ways
and means for achieving financial (and administrative) autonomy. The
Haryana Act, specifically states that the objective of the PRI is to “make
arrangement” for administering the rural areas better (UNDP. n.d.: 15).
Admittedly, there are states, such as Kerala, where 44 state laws were
amended following the Conformatory Act to broaden the entitlement of
the local bodies. But, these are exceptions to what prevails in the states
of India.
Apparently, the problem can be met by appreciating the fact that the
local bodies are perceived by the Constitution (Article 40 in the Directive
Principles of the State) as a tier of the government. A tier of the government
should have a concomitant revenue base. If the third tier gets the authority
to take up the Constitution sanctioned duties (as in the Eleventh and the
Twelfth Schedules), it is logical, that it would automatically get a con-
comitant resource from the Consolidated Fund of the State. Often this
logical consequence of the Constitutional Amendment Acts is not appre-
ciated by the state governments in India.
The EFC noted this point while mentioning in its report that a financial
devolution for the local bodies does not need a measure to augment the
Consolidated Fund of the State, per se. Devolution from the existing
Consolidated Fund of the State is possible to the extent the act of trans-
ferring the duties and functions listed in the Eleventh and the Twelfth
Schedules of the Constitution is performed by the concerned state. It
does not involve the augmentation of resources because the transfer of
such duties and functions should involve concomitant transfers of staff
and resources from the line departments of state government, a measure
that does not entail any extra financial burden on the state. As there is a
provision for direct devolution from the central government to the state
governments, as per the recommendation of the Central Finance Com-
mission, the local bodies should also get a devolved fund from the
Consolidated Fund of the State, following the recommendation of the
State Finance Commission, as the functions and functionaries are trans-
ferred to the local bodies. The process of transfer should be as automatic
as in the case of the second tier of the state of India.
To what extent has such devolution taken place in India? This is the
central issue pertaining to financial devolution to local bodies. To what
extent the state governments have addressed this issue can be discussed
by considering the relevant data from the Reserve Bank of India’s (RBI)
yearly publication State Finances: Study of State Budgets. There are five
broad divisions in the yearly statement of the state budget in which the
revenue expenditure of the state governments is placed. These are Devel-
opment Expenditure, Non-development Expenditure, Grants-in-aid and
Contributions, Reserve with Finance Department, and finally, Compen-
sation and Assignments to Local Bodies and Panchayati Raj Institutions.
The last mentioned head contains quantitative information on inter-
governmental transfers to the local bodies from the Consolidated Fund
of a state. Such compensation and assignments are supposed to be untied
funds devolved to the local bodies, but the state budgets mostly transfer
project-tied funds under this head in order to put on paper, that statutory
devolution to the local bodies has been honored.
Be that as it may, the RBI data on compensation and assignments
to local bodies does provide rich information on the extent of inter-
governmental transfer to the local bodies in India. In the remaining part
of this chapter, we would analyze this data for the period 1992–93 to
2002–03. The trend of financial devolution over time and the extent of
inter-state variation in this regard might be discussed on the basis of this
data set.
We shall first consider the scenario with respect to the per capita
compensation and assignments to the local bodies from the state bud-
gets, as derived from the RBI data. The detailed information is given in
Table 10.1.22 At the very outset, it should be pointed out that the average
per capita revenue expenditure (at constant price) by the local bodies,
due to inter-governmental transfers from the state budgets, for 16 major
states23 of India, taken as a whole, had been increasing steadily over the
period (Table 10.1, last row). Even then there is reason to believe that the
extent of devolution, as inter-governmental transfers, to the local bodies
remained poor. This becomes apparent as we consider the state fund
devolved to the local bodies as percentage of total revenue expenditure
(Table 10.2). In 1992–93, the revenue expenditure on compensation and
assignments to local bodies as percentage of total revenue expenditure
of the states had been 1.34 per cent. The situation did not improve much
even after the introduction of the Conformatory Acts. The relevant
percentage was just 1.87 in 2002–03.24
Table 10.1
Per Capita Revenue Expenditure (at constant price) of 16 Major States: Compensation and Assignments to Local Bodies
and Panchayati Raj Institutions
(in rupees)
State 1992–93 1993–94 1994–95 1995–96 1996–97 1997–98 1998–99 1999–2000 2000–2001 2001–02 2002–03
Andhra Pradesh 9.70 10.12 9.93 9.11 10.71 13.42 14.66 11.75 14.11 22.88 20.91
Assam 3.03 4.09 2.20 3.27 1.31 2.18 2.84 1.77 2.17 0.90 2.78
Bihar∗ 0.34 0.30 0.26 0.16 0.16 0.15 0.15 0.17 0.13 0.18 0.17
Gujarat 6.88 5.99 7.05 7.36 7.96 8.48 7.62 7.04 6.43 6.86 12.73
Haryana 7.33 3.38 3.28 4.03 3.14 0.20 0.18 0.16 4.66 9.03 4.72
Himachal Pradesh 7.74 6.85 5.99 6.24 6.53 14.85 18.13 22.35 21.92 21.22 53.99
Karnataka 29.56 26.69 27.69 19.76 31.28 41.83 47.00 56.02 65.78 66.31 64.48
Kerala 14.74 20.24 19.39 20.48 30.04 31.58 11.51 17.23 11.21 13.05 12.75
Madhya Pradesh∗ 19.43 21.24 19.66 27.95 32.71 31.50 36.38 54.16 44.30 37.08 40.57
Maharashtra 7.94 5.31 4.82 4.51 7.82 12.25 13.73 41.55 46.92 34.52 51.90
Orissa 4.54 6.10 1.32 3.15 3.63 5.99 4.81 3.98 26.53 25.26 24.22
Punjab 17.39 27.17 19.82 24.29 23.59 23.42 22.64 14.80 23.91 42.44 27.70
Rajasthan 2.81 2.52 2.72 3.07 2.85 2.73 3.87 2.31 2.01 2.04 0.02
Tamil Nadu 56.01 22.78 20.54 29.99 44.36 105.06 122.32 116.08 102.32 71.57 150.23
Uttar Pradesh∗ 18.48 15.55 14.18 14.79 15.04 29.18 38.11 35.54 42.40 35.24 43.81
West Bengal 26.51 24.83 25.53 20.88 19.00 20.42 19.11 21.53 17.95 20.19 20.74
Avg. for 16 major states 14.53 12.70 11.52 12.44 15.01 21.45 22.69 25.40 27.05 25.55 33.23
Source: Compiled from RBI data (State Finances: Study of State Budgets, various years) deflated by wholesale price index (base 1993–94) and the State
population data∗∗ for various years.
Notes: ∗We have combined the data for Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, and Uttaranchal with Madhya Pradesh, Bihar, and Uttar Pradesh respectively.
We have dropped Delhi. The number of states is thus 16.
∗∗The state population for each year (except 2001–02) is on the basis of the estimated growth rate of population between 1991 and 2001. For
2001–02, the Census (2001) Population data has been used.
Table 10.2
Compensation and Assignments to Local Bodies as Percentage to Total Revenue Expenditure of the State (1992–93 to
2002–03): 16 Major States in India
State 1992–93 1993–94 1994–95 1995–96 1996–97 1997–98 1998–99 1999–2000 2000–2001 2001–02 2002–03 (RE)
Andhra Pradesh 0.84 0.86 0.81 0.73 0.67 0.88 0.89 0.70 0.71 1.13 0.98
Assam 0.26 0.33 0.18 0.27 0.11 0.00 0.23 0.11 0.14 0.06 0.14
Bihar∗ 0.04 0.04 0.04 0.02 0.02 0.02 0.02 0.02 0.02 0.02 0.02
Gujarat 0.43 0.37 0.46 0.46 0.45 0.43 0.33 0.28 0.23 0.25 0.47
Haryana 0.48 0.17 0.10 0.17 0.11 0.01 0.01 0.01 0.21 0.35 0.17
Himachal Pradesh 0.33 0.27 0.23 0.22 0.22 0.42 0.44 0.50 0.47 0.45 0.99
Karnataka 2.23 2.00 2.02 1.36 1.90 2.52 2.67 2.73 3.19 3.03 2.83
Kerala 1.09 1.40 1.29 1.29 1.71 1.56 0.54 0.68 0.46 0.57 0.51
Madhya Pradesh∗ 2.19 2.15 2.18 2.91 2.87 2.86 2.92 4.01 3.53 2.60 2.65
Maharashtra 0.51 0.33 0.31 0.27 0.42 0.63 0.69 1.90 1.85 1.41 2.04
Orissa 0.44 0.57 0.12 0.27 0.31 0.50 0.35 0.24 1.69 1.51 1.38
Punjab 0.97 1.41 0.79 1.14 0.96 0.90 0.87 0.49 0.76 1.31 0.74
Rajasthan 0.23 0.20 0.22 0.22 0.21 0.21 0.25 0.13 0.11 0.12 0.00
Tamil Nadu 3.42 1.48 1.38 1.95 2.54 5.55 5.85 4.95 4.50 3.32 5.91
Uttar Pradesh∗ 1.91 1.70 1.54 1.56 1.55 2.78 3.35 2.99 3.50 2.92 3.16
West Bengal 2.99 2.53 2.69 2.14 1.72 1.80 1.44 1.25 1.00 1.12 1.12
All states 1.34 1.12 1.06 1.11 1.20 1.67 1.69 1.84 1.79 1.56 1.87
Source: Study of State Budgets (Reserve Bank of India, various years).

Notes: RE = Revised Estimate.
∗We have combined the data for Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, and Uttaranchal with Madhya Pradesh, Bihar, and Uttar Pradesh respectivley. We
have dropped Delhi. The number of states is thus 16.
This is not to say that the Constitutional Amendments did not have
any effect. The state governments did make efforts to honor the consti-
tutional provision and the extent of devolution did increase during this
period. The per capita assignment to local bodies at constant price
had been Rs 14.53 for 16 major states in India. By 2002–03, the per capita
revenue expenditure by the local bodies has increased to Rs 33.33
(Table 10.1).
A further analysis of the data, however, indicates that there exists wide
variation among the states with respect to inter-governmental transfer to
local bodies. The other indication is that there is much volatility in the
disbursements of funds to the local bodies in many states of India. On
the basis of the data contained in Table 10.1 and Table 10.2, the chapter
attempts to analyze these phenomena below.
The Conformatory Acts were passed in all states by April 1994. The
consequential change in the disbursement of the Consolidated Fund of
the States should be effective at least by the financial year of 1996–97.
We take this factor into consideration and check whether a change for
the better has taken place in the post-Conformatory Act regime. A dummy
incorporated regression analysis considered in Table 10.3 does indicate
that the all India data on per capita compensation and assignments to
local bodies does not rule out the possibility that the overall scenario has
changed for the better for the Local Bodies in post-1995–96 years.25
To what extent has the scenario changed in the post-constitutional
reforms period in the states of India? Table 10.4 considers this issue.
Table 10.3
A Dummy Variable-incorporated Regression Analysis of Inter-
temporal Behavior of Per Capita Devolution to Local Bodies (All
India@)
Regression Coefficients Per Capita Revenue Expenditure
b0 7.987∗
b1 1.924∗
b2 0.960
Source: Same as Table 10.1.

Notes: The Model:
YI = b0 + b1t + b2D1t + ui, where, D1 = 1 for period 1996–97 & above
= 0, otherwise
∗ = Significant at 1 per cent level.
@
= 16 major states in India.
The average per capita devolution for the period 1992–93 to 1995–96
(Period One) in 16 major states in India had been Rs 14.44. The average
for the period 1996–97 to 2002–03 (Period Two) was Rs 28.70, i.e., about
double the amount recorded in the previous period. Evidently, the scen-
ario has changed for the better, on an aggregate, in the post-Constitutional
reforms period, just as Table 10.3 suggested.
The state level data indicates that in both the periods, average per capita
devolution was the highest in Tamil Nadu and the lowest in Bihar. The
difference in per capita devolution to local bodies was as high as Rs 32.06
in Period One and Rs 101.65 in Period Two between the best and the worst
performers (Table 10.4). The differences among some other performers
were also quite high. The other important feature is that the performance
was not consistent over years for some of the states. Thus, the average
per capita devolution in West Bengal, the state which is considered as
the pioneer in developing the PRI of the new era, had in fact declined in
Period Two (the period after the Conformatory Act had been introduced).
Table 10.4
Average Per Capita Devolution (at constant price) to Local Bodies:
16 Major States in India
(in rupees)
Average Average Average for the
State (1992–93 to 1995–96) (1996–97 to 2002–03) Entire Period
Andhra Pradesh 9.72 15.49 13.39
Assam 3.15 1.99 2.41
Bihar∗ 0.27 0.16 0.20
Gujarat 6.82 8.16 7.67
Haryana 4.51 3.16 3.65
Himachal Pradesh 6.71 22.71 16.89
Karnataka 25.92 53.24 43.31
Kerala 18.71 18.20 18.38
Madhya Pradesh∗ 22.07 39.53 33.18
Maharashtra 5.65 29.81 21.03
Orissa 3.78 13.49 9.96
Punjab 22.17 25.50 24.29
Rajasthan 2.78 2.26 2.45
Tamil Nadu 32.33 101.71 76.48
Uttar Pradesh∗ 15.75 34.19 27.48
West Bengal 24.44 19.85 21.52
All states 14.44 28.70 23.51
Note: Same as Table 10.1.
Haryana and Assam are the other states where the average per capita de-
volution had declined in Period Two. With reference to Kerala, the other
states which introduced radical measures for decentralized development
by peoples’ planning, the per capita devolution remained almost un-
changed in Period Two.26 Stagnation at a low level of per capita devolution
had been observed in states like Rajasthan and Bihar. In some states,
such as Maharashtra and Uttar Pradesh, the tempo of devolution acceler-
ated greatly following the Constitutional Amendments.
Apparently, there is much volatility in per capita devolution in almost
every major state of India. The average value of per capita devolution
for a particular period might not therefore indicate much about what is
really happening in the states. A better measure, particularly for studying
the relative performance, would be the rank of the states according to
the average rank scores on per capita devolution for the period under
study. We, therefore, rank the states in terms of per capita devolution for
each year and find the average rank score for a state for a given period.
The states are then ranked again in terms of their average rank scores for
Period One, Period Two, and also for the Entire Period. The results have
been recorded in Table 10.5.
Ranks of the states in two periods, calculated on the basis of average
rank scores, indicate that Karnataka and not Tamil Nadu had been the
best performer in Period One. In fact, Karnataka was followed by Tamil
Nadu, Madhya Pradesh, and West Bengal (all having the same rank).
Bihar, Rajasthan, and Assam had been at the other end of the distribution
of states according to the average rank scores. As Table 10.5 indicates,
the ranks of the states according to average rank scores for two different
periods did not differ much in case of the majority of the states. However,
the rank of West Bengal declined sharply (from Rank two to Rank eight).
For Kerala too, there was deterioration in rank after 1995–96. Among
the states which have improved their relative positions after 1995–96 are,
Uttar Pradesh (Rank seven to Rank four) and Maharashtra (Rank eleven
to Rank six). The scenario remained almost the same for Orissa and
Haryana; Bihar holds the last position in both the periods.
Considering the Entire Period, we observe that Tamil Nadu is the best
performer (the distinction that it obtained not in Period One, but in Period
Two) and the next best is Karnataka. Among the 16 major states, the
position of West Bengal and Kerala are sixth and seventh respectively.
The worst is the performance of Bihar. Rajasthan, Assam and Haryana are
the other states in which the per capita devolution from the Consolidated
Fund of the State did not register a noteworthy progress (Table 10.5).
Table 10.5
Ranks of States according to Average Rank Scores on Per Capita
Revenue Expenditure Devolved to the Local Bodies
Average Average Average

Rank Score Rank Score Rank Score
of Period of Period for Entire Grand
State One Rank 1 Two Rank 2 Period Rank
Andhra Pradesh 8.0 8 8.86 10 8.55 10
Assam 13.5 14 14.43 15 14.09 14
Bihar∗ 16.0 16 15.71 16 15.82 16
Gujarat 10.25 10 11.29 12 10.91 11
Haryana 12.25 12 13.71 13 13.18 13
Himachal Pradesh 9.75 9 7.43 7 8.27 9
Karnataka 2.75 1 2.29 2 2.45 2
Kerala 6.0 6 8.43 9 7.55 7
Madhya Pradesh∗ 3.0 2 3.43 3 3.27 3
Maharashtra 10.75 11 6.57 6 8.09 8
Orissa 13.0 13 9.86 11 11.0 12
Punjab 3.75 5 6.00 5 5.18 4
Rajasthan 14.5 15 14.00 14 14.18 15
Tamil Nadu 3.0 2 1.00 1 1.73 1
Uttar Pradesh∗ 6.5 7 5.14 4 5.64 5
West Bengal 3.0 2 7.86 8 6.09 6

Notes: Period One = 1992–93 to 1995–96.
Period Two = 1996–97 to 2002–03.
Entire Period = 1992–93 to 2002–03.
Grand Rank = Rank according to the Average Rank Score for the Entire Period.
∗ Same as Table 10.1.
With respect to the 16 major states, the extent of volatility in the yearly
per capita devolution to local bodies has been reported in Table 10.6.
Noting that a low coefficient of variation would indicate that the state
has a high temporal consistency in per capita devolution to the local
bodies, we observe that for the Entire Period, the performance of West
Bengal was the best in terms of this indicator. Gujarat and Punjab are
the other two states in which the overall ranks with respect to variation
in per capita revenue expenditure are second and third respectively. The
most volatile was the scenario in Orissa and Maharashtra where the
coefficient of variation had been as high as 100.2 per cent and 88.79 per
cent respectively. In pre-Conformatory Act years, the least volatile had
been the performance of Andhra Pradesh, which was followed by

Rajasthan and Gujarat. The highest volatility had been registered in
Orissa. Bihar and Haryana had been the two other states where volatility
had been very high. It is interesting to note that Tamil Nadu, the state
which ranked very high in terms of per capita devolution, had also been
the state where volatility had been the highest in Period One and very
high (Rank nine) in Period Two. West Bengal was the state in which the
variation was the least (6.15 per cent) in post 1995–96 period, Haryana
being the state where the volatility had been the second highest in this
period. As we see from Table 10.6, the overall volatility was higher in the
period when the states were devolving funds under the constitutional
mandate.
The presence of high volatility does not indicate that the per capita
devolution had been very low in the concerned state. Thus, in Tamil Nadu
where the coefficient of variation in per capita devolution had been as high
as 50.39 per cent in Period One, the per capita devolution, as Table 10.4
indicates, had been the highest (Rs 32.33). On the other hand, Rajasthan
which ranked second in terms of the extent of absence of volatility in
Period One, had an average per capita devolution of Rs 2.78 only.
The performance of a state should not be measured only by the amount
of funds that it devolves, on an average, to the local bodies, nor should it
be measured by the indicator of consistency in the act of devolution
alone. What we need is a measure by which we can capture the perform-
ance of a state in terms of both average per capita devolution and the
extent of consistency in it. In a measure that considers both these attri-
butes, the relative performance of a state can be assessed in a balanced
manner. A state which ranks very high in terms of per capita devolution
and at the same time has a low value of coefficient of variation (indicating
a high level of temporal consistency) would be a good performer.
We would now consider the performance of the states in terms of this
twin measure. Based on the information contained in Table 10.6 we clas-
sify the states in four groups, separately in terms of rank in average per
capita devolution and the rank with respect to coefficient of variation in
per capita devolution for a given period. Groups are arranged in descend-
ing order of performance, namely, I (Rank 1–4), II (Rank 5–8), III (Rank
9–12), and IV (Rank 13–16).27 We then find the combination of ranks
with respect to per capita devolution and the associated coefficient of
variation for each state for the periods under study. Evidently, there would
be 16 combinations out of which the combination (I, I) would indicate
the best, i.e., a state with very high per capita devolution with low level
Table 10.6
Ranks of States according to the Coefficient of Variation (CV) and Year-wise Rank of Average of Per Capita Revenue
Expenditure Devolved to the Local Bodies
Rank Accord- Rank Accord- Grand Rank Accord-

State ARE1 CV1 ing to CV1 ARE2 CV2 ing to CV2 ARE CV ing to CV
Andhra Pradesh 8 4.52 1 10 29.77 7 10 34.46 5
Assam 14 24.67 11 15 36.08 10 14 37.76 7
Bihar∗ 16 28.02 13 16 9.48 2 16 35.56 6
Gujarat 10 8.62 3 12 26.12 5 11 23.62 2
Haryana 12 42.45 14 13 104.93 16 13 78.24 13
Himachal Pradesh 9 11.67 5 7 65.45 14 9 83.30 14
Karnataka 1 16.51 8 2 25.59 4 2 40.44 10
Kerala 6 14.38 7 9 48.64 11 7 38.17 8
Madhya Pradesh∗ 2 18.13 9 3 19.72 3 3 32.86 4
Maharashtra 11 27.74 12 6 61.10 13 8 88.79 15
Orissa 13 53.83 16 11 82.50 15 12 100.20 16
Punjab 5 19.81 10 5 33.01 8 4 29.44 3
Rajasthan 15 8.20 2 14 52.02 12 15 39.03 9
Tamil Nadu 2 50.39 15 1 34.05 9 1 58.83 12
Uttar Pradesh∗ 7 12.09 6 4 28.51 6 5 43.76 11
West Bengal 2 10.11 4 8 6.15 1 6 13.21 1
All states X 9.83 X X 22.94 X X 36.18 X
Source: Compiled from Table 10.1.
Notes: CV1 = Coefficient of variation for 1992–93 to 1995–96.
CV2 = Coefficient of variation for 1996–97 to 2002–03.
CV = Coefficient of variation for 1992–93 to 2002–03.
ARE = Rank According to Average Rank Score of Per capita Revenue Expenditure (as in Table 10.5).
of variation in devolution for the period under study. Similarly, the

combination (IV, IV) would indicate the group of worst performers. The
results of this exercise are described graphically in Figures 10.1, 10.2,
and 10.3 of this chapter.
Figure 10.1
Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Per Capita
Devolution to Local Bodies and its Coefficient of Variation
(1992–93 to 1995–96)
Notes: arei : Rank according to Average Rank Score in Period One.
rcvi : Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Period One.
As we see from Figure 10.1, in Period One, West Bengal had been the
only state in Group (I, I). This state which was ranked first in terms of
per capita devolution and ranked fourth with respect to CV appears
to be the best performer in this period. In the worst group are Orissa,
Haryana, and Bihar. Kerala, Uttar Pradesh, and Himachal Pradesh had
Figure 10.2
Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Per Capita
(1996–97 to 2002–03)
Notes: areii : Rank according to Average Rank Score in Period Two.
rcvii : Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Period Two.
been moderate performers in the pre-Conformatory Act period. The

scenario changed in the post-Conformatory Act period. Karnataka and
Madhya Pradesh now belonged to the group of best performers.
Rajasthan, Orissa, and Haryana were, however, in the worst group. Bihar
had not been included in this group. This is because the state maintained
a low profile both in terms of per capita devolution and its dispersion
over time consistently over this period. The overall scenario (for the entire
period) is that Madhya Pradesh and Punjab are the best performers;
they have high per capita devolution with a low level of volatility. West
Bengal failed to attain this distinction as it had been ranked sixth in terms
of per capita devolution to its local bodies. In the group of worst perform-
ers, are Orissa and Haryana, as Figure 10.3 points out. Bihar was excluded
because its rank according to coefficient of variation had been found to

be the sixth while considering its performance over the period of 11 years
from 1992–93 onwards.
The analysis of per capita devolution lays bare the following features
of financial devolution to local bodies in Indian states. In the first place,
compared to what a state government spends in a year as its own revenue
expenditure, the amount of per capita devolution to local bodies is very
low even in the post-reforms period. Nevertheless, there had been some
improvement in the scenario in the post-Conformatory Act days, as indi-
cated by the regression analysis on the all India data on per capita devolu-
tion to local bodies. Among the 16 major states, the performance had
been commendable for states like Tamil Nadu, Madhya Pradesh, Punjab,
and Karnataka. The worst performers were states like Bihar, Rajasthan,
Figure 10.3
Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to
Per Capita Devolution to Local Bodies and its
Coefficient of Variation (1992–93 to 2002–03)
Notes: are : Rank according to Average Rank Score in Entire Period.
rcv : Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Entire Period.
Haryana, and Assam. Data also indicates that there is much volatility in
the performance of the states. Considering both per capita devolution
and the volatility in the act of devolution by states over years, it appears
that Madhya Pradesh and Punjab were the best in meeting the twin re-
quirements of a high per capita devolution and a low variation in the
funds devolved to the local bodies. They could thus be called the best
among the 16 major states in India for the entire period of 11 years under
study. West Bengal and Kerala did not perform well, particularly in the
post-Conformatory Act years. While Kerala might be considered to have
a better devolution, given that the state has already widened the own tax
base of the local bodies, the case of West Bengal remains problematic.
The state has enacted a large number of State Acts for facilitating de-
centralization, but, as the RBI data indicates, it has not done much for
ensuring financial decentralization at the level of the local bodies.
To what extent financial devolution at the level of local bodies has
been attained can also be measured by considering the share of compen-
sation and assignments to local bodies in the total revenue expenditure
of a state. Such a measure would be a better indicator of the relative im-
portance of the local bodies in the disbursement of funds from the
respective state governments. For 16 major states in India, we performed
this exercise on the basis of the RBI data for a period of 11 years from
1992–93. Table 10.2 contains the state specific information pertaining to
this measure for the above mentioned period.
While the per capita devolution in constant prices has increased
substantially during this period, as Table 10.1 indicates, the information
contained in Table 10.2 suggests that the percentage of state funds
devolving to the local bodies did not increase much during this period.
For the 16 major states, taken together, the percentage of state funds
devolved to the local bodies had been 1.34 in 1992–93. Following the
Constitutional reforms, the ratio has increased. But then, the compen-
sation and assignments to local bodies as percentage to total revenue
expenditure of the states has increased only to 1.87 per cent in 2002–03.
On an average, the ratio had been 1.48 per cent during this period. In no
way could the extent of devolution be noted as impressive.
One should not, however, ignore the fact that the Constitutional
reforms did have a positive effect on the finance of the Local Bodies. In
Period One, i.e. in the pre-Constitutional reforms period, the percentage
of state funds devolved had been 1.16. In the post-reforms period, the
combined average for the 16 states had been 1.66 per cent (Table 10.7).
Admittedly, the share of the local bodies has increased after the reforms,
although not at a very high rate. Moreover, the percentage of devolved

funds had an upward leap following the Constitutional Amendments
(73rd and 74th). As we see from Table 10.8, there is a clear indication
that the trend of the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies
should have a break in 1996–97. The dummy incorporated regression
model on the all India data indicates that the hypothesis of no trend
break in 1996–97 is rejected at 1% level of significance. Furthermore, a
positive value for intercept term (b0) indicates that the post reforms period
percentages should be located at higher values.
A further analysis of the data, however, indicates that over the period
of 11 years, the growth rates per annum, in the share of local bodies in
the state budgets of 16 major states of India, were converging (beta
convergence) over time. The possibility of having growth convergence
Table 10.7
Average Devolution to Local Bodies as Percentage to Total Revenue
Expenditure of the State: 16 Major States in India

State Period One Period Two Entire Period
Andhra Pradesh 0.81 0.85 0.84

Assam 0.26 0.14 0.18
Bihar 0.03 0.02 0.02
Gujarat 0.43 0.35 0.38
Haryana 0.23 0.12 0.16
Himachal Pradesh 0.26 0.50 0.41
Karnataka 1.90 2.69 2.41
Kerala 1.27 0.86 1.01
Madhya Pradesh 2.36 3.06 2.80
Maharashtra 0.36 1.28 0.94
Orissa 0.35 0.85 0.67
Punjab 1.08 0.86 0.94
Rajasthan 0.22 0.15 0.17
Tamil Nadu 2.06 4.66 3.71
Uttar Pradesh 1.68 2.89 2.45
West Bengal 2.59 1.35 1.80
All states 1.16 1.66 1.48

Notes: Period One = 1992–93 to 1995–96.
Period Two = 1996–97 to 2002–03.
Entire Period = 1992–93 to 2002–03.
Table 10.8
A Dummy Variable-incorporated Regression Analysis of Inter-
temporal Behavior of Devolution to Local Bodies as Percentage
of Total Revenue Expenditure (all Statesa)
Percentage of Local Point to Point Growth

Regression to Total Revenue Rate of Local to Total
Coefficients Expenditure Revenue Expenditure
b0 1.025∗ 0.006
b1 0.038 –0.016
b2 0.271 0.205
Notes: The Model:

YI = b0 + b1t + b2D1t + ui, where, D1 = 1 for period 1996–97 and above.
= 0, otherwise.
a
= 16 major states of India.
∗ = Significant at 1% level.
was calculated on the basis of the growth rates of the first five years so
that the change in growth behavior following constitutional reforms could
be incorporated in studying the growth convergence. The (log) linear
regression on growth rates, as given in Figure 10.4, does indicate that
the slope of the regression is negative, being significant at 5 per cent level
of significance. However, the rate of convergence is very low, as the value
of b1 indicates. The other interesting feature is that dispersion across the
states in terms of percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies
has in fact a tendency to diverge over time (Figure 10.5). The tendency
of divergence is quite strong as the value of the slope of regression, which
is significant at 5 per cent level, indicates. The implication is that, follow-
ing the Constitutional reforms, the bad performing states are catching up
with the good performers in terms of growth in financial devolution to
the local bodies, although the rate at which the “catching up” takes place
is very low. At the same time, the variation among the states in honoring
the constitutional mandate does remain quite powerful possibly due to
huge initial differences on which the growth convergence is taking place.
One would, however, hope that with a convergence in the growth rates,
the inter-state variation in devolution to local bodies would reduce further
in future.
Before 1996–97, the per cent devolution to local bodies from the state
budget, averaged over 1992–93 to 1995–96, had been the highest in West
Bengal. In the next period, the relative performance of West Bengal
Slope Coefficient is negative implying Beta Convergence
Interactive Graph
Figure 10.4
Growth (Beta) Convergence among States with respect to Percent-
age of State Revenue Expenditure Devolved to the Local Bodies
Time Coefficient is positive implying Sigma Divergence
Figure: 10.5
Dispersion (Sigma) Divergence among States with respect to
Percentage of State Revenue Expenditure Devolved
to the Local Bodies
deteriorated. States such as Tamil Nadu, Madhya Pradesh, and Uttar Pradesh
performed better, as Table 10.7 indicates. In fact, Tamil Nadu was now
the best performer, recording an average devolution of 4.66 per cent from
the state budget to its local bodies. This is consistent with the earlier
observation that the per capita devolution was the highest in Tamil Nadu
during 1996–97 to 2002–03. Karnataka and Madhya Pradesh retained
their respective positions in Period Two as the leading states to honor

the mandate of the Constitution. Maharashtra improved its position in
post 1995–96 period, so also did Orissa. Andhra Pradesh, Kerala, and
Punjab had been moderate performers in Period One (1992–93 to
1995–96). They retained their positions in Period Two, as well.28 The
worst performer, in both the periods had been Bihar. Assam along with
Himachal Pradesh had been the other states where the performance had
not been good.
What transpires is that the nature of inter-state difference in percentage
of state funds devolved to the local bodies was more or less the same, as
it happened to be in the case of per capita devolution. The implication is
that the bad performers were performing badly because they were
devolving proportionately less from the Consolidated Fund of the State
than the good performers; the results indicate that the per capita devo-
lution was less for the bad performers despite a higher rate of transfer to
the local bodies.
If we consider the performance of the states in two different periods
in terms of the average rank scores on percentage of state funds devolved
to the local bodies in a given period, it appears that the performance of
West Bengal had been the best in the pre-reforms period (Table 10.9).
Following the reforms, the position of West Bengal relegated to Rank
five. The worst performer, i.e., Bihar ranked 16th among 16 major states
in the post-reforms period as well. The consistency in rank was observed
in the case of Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Madhya Pradesh, and Punjab.
The impact of Constitutional reforms was very strong in Maharashtra.
The rank of Maharashtra had been 10 in the pre-reforms period. After the
Conformatory Act had been introduced, the Maharashtra government
devolved a large proportion of the state funds to the local bodies. Conse-
quently, the relative position of Maharashtra changed for the better. Its
rank in the post-reforms period improved to six.
Comparing with the results contained in Table 10.5, it appears that
the rank according to per capita devolution to local bodies had been
consistently better than the rank according to the percentage of funds
devolved from the state budget for some of the states (Karnataka,
Himachal Pradesh, and Punjab). It was consistently worse in case of
Orissa and Uttar Pradesh. Rank according to per capita devolution almost
matched with that according to percentage of state funds devolved to
the local bodies in case of Tamil Nadu, Madhya Pradesh, and Karnataka
among the good performers. In general, rank consistency was also
observed in the case of states with low rank positions.
Table 10.9
Ranks of States according to Average Rank Scores on Devolution to
Local Bodies as Percentage of Total Revenue Expenditure of the State:
16 Major States of India

Rank Score Rank Score Rank Score
of Period of Period for Entire Grand
State One Rank 1 Two Rank 2 Period Rank
Andhra Pradesh 7.75 8 7.71 8 7.73 7

Assam 12.0 12 14.14 15 13.36 13
Bihar 16.0 16 15.57 16 15.73 16
Gujarat 10.0 9 11.57 12 11.00 11
Haryana 13.75 14 13.57 13 13.64 14
Himachal Pradesh 12.5 13 11.29 11 11.73 12
Karnataka 3.5 3 3.43 4 3.45 3
Kerala 6.25 6 8.71 10 7.82 8
Madhya Pradesh 2.25 2 2.71 2 2.55 2
Maharashtra 10.5 10 7.29 6 8.45 9
Orissa 11.5 11 8.57 9 9.64 10
Punjab 7.0 7 7.57 7 7.36 6
Rajasthan 13.75 14 13.71 14 13.73 15
Tamil Nadu 3.5 3 1.14 1 2.00 1
Uttar Pradesh 4.25 5 3.00 3 3.45 3
West Bengal 1.5 1 6.00 5 4.36 5
Source: Compiled from Table 10.2.

Notes: Grand Rank = Rank according to the Average Rank Score for the Entire Period.
Period One = 1992–93 to 1995–96.
Period Two = 1996–97 to 2002–03.
The volatility of states in the matter of fiscal devolution can be captured

by considering the coefficient of variation of the devolution percentages.
This exercise is performed in Table 10.10. As evident from Table 10.10,
the least volatile had been the scenario in Andhra, if the dispersion for
the entire period is considered. The most volatile had been the scenario
in Haryana. West Bengal along with Uttar Pradesh, Punjab, and Bihar
had been the states where the volatility had been moderate. In the pre-
reforms period, the most volatile was the situation in Haryana and the
least volatile situation was in Rajasthan.29 In the post-reforms period,
wide yearly variation in the percentage of state funds devolved to the
local bodies was observed in Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, and Himachal Pradesh.
The volatility was the least in Madhya Pradesh, followed by Karnataka.
Table 10.10
Ranks according to Coefficient of Variation and Average Rank Scores of Revenue Expenditure Devolved to Local Bodies
as Percentage of Total Revenue Expenditure of the State: 16 Major States of India
State ARE1 CV1 Rank 1 ARE2 CV2 Rank 2 ARE CV Rank

Andhra Pradesh 8 7.02 2 8 19.87 10 7 16.28 1
Assam 12 23.58 10 15 38.56 12 13 44.89 10
Bihar 16 24.29 11 16 19.94 15 16 40.28 8
Gujarat 9 9.63 3 12 29.35 4 11 24.40 4
Haryana 14 73.31 16 13 106.32 6 14 90.94 16
Himachal Pradesh 13 19.15 8 11 47.28 14 12 53.34 13
Karnataka 3 19.85 9 4 15.41 2 3 23.00 3
Kerala 6 10.01 4 10 61.91 9 8 46.18 11
Madhya Pradesh 2 15.60 7 2 16.60 1 2 20.19 2
Maharashtra 10 29.83 13 6 53.74 13 9 75.18 14
Orissa 11 55.62 15 9 75.06 5 10 84.55 15
Punjab 7 24.61 12 7 28.86 8 6 28.16 5
Rajasthan 14 6.93 1 14 56.26 3 15 42.60 9
Tamil Nadu 3 45.60 14 1 27.90 7 1 46.66 12
Uttar Pradesh 5 10.18 5 3 22.40 16 3 32.53 6
West Bengal 1 13.70 6 5 23.29 11 5 38.80 7
All states X 10.75 X X 13.82 X X 21.46 X
Notes: ARE1 = Average Rank Score according to Devolved Revenue Expenditure for Period One.
ARE2 = Average Rank Score according to Devolved Revenue Expenditure for Period Two.
ARE = Average Rank Score according to Devolved Revenue Expenditure for the Entire Period.
CV1 = Coefficient of variation for Period One.
CV2 = Coefficient of variation for Period Two.
CV = Coefficient of variation for the Entire Period.
Comparing the variation in percentage of devolved funds with that in

per capita devolution, a somewhat consistency was observable in every
period for Gujarat, Karnataka, Maharashtra, and Madhya Pradesh where
the volatility in per capita devolution was very near to the volatility in the
percentage of devolved funds over the years. Rank according to coefficient
of variation in percentage of devolved funds differed widely from the
rank according to coefficient of variation in per capita devolution in post-
reforms period in case of Bihar, Orissa, Rajasthan, and Uttar Pradesh.
Over the entire period of 11 years, the most consistent behavior was found
in Tamil Nadu, Rajasthan, Orissa, and Himachal Pradesh. In West
Bengal, the volatility in per capita devolution was the least, but the state
ranked seventh in terms of the coefficient of variation in the percentage
of state funds devolved to the local bodies.
We pointed out, while analyzing the data on per capita devolution,
that a better measure for consistency in the behavior of a state in imple-
menting the Constitutional provision for financial devolution is the
performance of the state in terms of both the average behavior and the
dispersion over a specified period pertaining to the indicator that we
adopt. We also argued, that the performance of a state should be con-
sidered as the best if it belongs to a group in which the rank in terms of
average rank scored for a period is between one and four, (Category I)
and at the same time, the rank according to coefficient of variation is in
the same category. The worst performer would be the state belonging to
Category IV with respect to both the average and the coefficient of
variation in the given period. While considering the performance of the
states with respect to the percentage of state funds devolved to the local
bodies, we may analyze the data of Table 10.10 following this approach.
In Figure 10.6, Figure 10.7 and Figure 10.8, we describe the results of this
exercise for Period One, Period Two, and the Entire Period (of 11 years),
respectively. As it appears from Figure 10.6, no state can be considered
belong to the category of best following this criterion. In the group of
the worst states, in Period One, the only state that met this criterion has
been Haryana (14 in rank according to ARE1, and 16 in rank according
to CV1). This highlights the fact that the average of the per cent de-
volved to the Local Bodies for various states did not maintain consistency
except in case of Haryana, which had been a poor performer in the pre-
reforms years. In the post-constitutional reforms period (Period Two),
the states belonging to Category I on both the counts are Madhya Pradesh
Figure 10.6
Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Share
of Devolution to Local Bodies and its Coefficient of Variation
(1992–93 to 1995–96)
Notes: arei: Rank according to Average Rank Score in Period One.
rcvi: Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Period One.
(2 in ARE2 and 1in CV2) and Karnataka (4 in ARE 2 and 2 in CV2). In

the group of worst performers, are Assam and Bihar. The other states
for which rank in per cent devolved had not been consistent with the
rank according to the measure of variation of the fund devolved during
this period, are Uttar Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, Rajasthan, and Haryana
(Figure 10.7). If we consider the overall scenario (Figure 10.8), it appears
that Karnataka and Madhya Pradesh have been the best performers and
Haryana has been the only state in the group of worst performers.
Figure 10.7
Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Share
of Devolution to Local Bodies and its Coefficient of Variation
(1996–97 to 2002–03)
Notes: areii: Rank according to Average Rank Score in Period Two.
acvii: Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Period Two.
Considering the performance of the states with respect to both average

per capita devolution in a period and percentage of state funds devolved
to the local bodies, what transpires is that, on the basis of the performance
of the states over the Entire Period, Madhya Pradesh should be considered
the “best” among the 16 major states in India, in the act of devolving
state funds to local bodies. It was the state in which the rank according
to per capita devolution among the 16 major states had been three and
the rank according to coefficient of variation of the per capita devolution
had been four. On the basis of the other criterion, namely, the percentage
of state funds devolved to the local bodies, the rank of Madhya Pradesh
for the Eentire Period was two and the rank in terms of coefficient of
Figure 10.8
Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Share of
(1992–93 to 2002–03)
Notes: are: Rank according to Average Rank Score in Entire Period.
rcv: Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Entire Period.
variation in the state funds devolved to the local bodies was also two.
The state thus belonged to Category I on both the measures of relative
performance of states in the act of financial devolution to the local bodies.
Tamil Nadu, which apparently is the best performer had, in fact, been
the state in which the coefficient of variation in both per capita devolution
and the devolved state funds had been very high (ranked 12th in both the
cases). West Bengal was the state in which the coefficient of variation
had been at the median level for the percentage of state funds devolved;
in terms of average per capita devolution, the variation in the state had
been the smallest (Rank 1). However, the state ranked sixth among the
16 major states when we consider the average per capita devolution that
took place during the period of 11 years. The other states did not perform
as well as Madhya Pradesh did.
Concluding Observations
The local bodies in India function with the limitation that they are not
endowed with such power and authority that can enable them to function
as the third tier of the government. However, following the Constitutional
reforms, the issue of fiscal autonomy of the local bodies is getting more
attention from the concerned authorities of the state. The research on
the basis of the EFC data on the fiscal situation in the local bodies indi-
cates that the fiscal basis of autonomy is indeed very weak for the local
bodies. The PRI and the ULBs fail to realize much resources from their
own sources, largely because the local bodies operate on a very weak
revenue base. The assigned items of tax revenue for the local bodies are
very few in number and these have least tax buoyancy. The revenue poten-
tial of the local bodies can improve if the tax base is widened empowering
them with professional taxes and the authority to levy a crop-specific tax
on agricultural income.
What the chapter highlights is that local bodies can function better if
devolution from the Consolidated Fund of the State, following the Consti-
tutional provision, is ensured by the state governments as and when the
functions of the state, as outlined in the Eleventh and Twelfth Schedules
of the Constitution, are devolved to these local bodies at a greater scale.
It does not involve the augmentation of the existing resources. Local
bodies can take up these devolved responsibilities, even without strength-
ening their own revenue bases any further, only if a concomitant devolu-
tion takes place from the Consolidated Fund of the State. The chapter
argues that this is not being done at the required level by the state govern-
ments. The chapter analyzes the state specific data on Compensation and
Assignments to the local bodies and concludes that both the average per
capita devolution and the percentage of state funds devolved to the local
bodies remained abysmally poor during the period 1992–93 to 2002–03.
The average per capita devolution in 16 major states of India taken as a
whole, had been only Rs 23.51. The percentage of state funds devolved
to these bodies had been 1.48 on an average, over the years.
Further analysis of the data indicates that the Constitutional Amend-

ments did have a positive impact on the act of financial devolution to the
local bodies. A trend break in the data is discernible in 1996–97 in case of
both per capita devolution and the share of the local bodies in the
Consolidated Fund of the State. The data also indicate that the state-
specific growth rates in the share of the local bodies have a tendency to
converge (weak but statistically significant). A tendency of divergence in
the dispersion of these shares has also been observed at the same time. It
seems that following the Conformatory State Acts the inter-state variation
in the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies, which is
very high, did not decline. However, the growth rates in the share of the
devolved funds have developed a tendency of convergence. Although
the tendency is still weak, it has a significance that should not be ignored.
In the next few years, the magnitude of year-wise inter-state variation in
devolution to local bodies is likely to be reduced, if the growth rates
come still closer to one another.
But the contemporary reality is that there exists wide inter-state
variation both in per capita devolution and in the percentage of state
funds devolved to the local bodies. The RBI data on state budgets reveal
this phenomenon. There are states like Tamil Nadu, where the average
per capita devolution is as high as Rs 76.48. At the other extreme, there
are states like Bihar (which includes Jharkhand), in which the per capita
devolution is as low as Re 0.20. The RBI data also indicates that dis-
persions, over years, in both average per capita devolution and the per-
centage of funds devolved to the local bodies, vary widely among the states.
There are states like Orissa and Maharashtra, in which the coefficients
of variation have been as high as 100.2 per cent and 88.79 per cent, re-
spectively, in average per capita devolution over 11 years. There are also
states like West Bengal and Gujarat, where the dispersions have been
low (13.21 per cent and 23.62 per cent, respectively).
Considering both the average per capita devolution and its coefficient
of variation along with the average of the percentages devolved to the
local bodies over the entire period of 11 years and their coefficient of vari-
ation, we observe that the best performer had been the state of Madhya
Pradesh. Other good performers are Karnataka and Punjab. Bihar,
Haryana, Assam, and Orissa are states where the local bodies were not
getting the benefits of the Constitutional mandate in the way the other
states were receiving. There might be state specific reasons for variation
in the act of financial devolution which should be analyzed. But such an
analysis is outside the scope of this chapter.
Notes
The research support of MCRG is gratefully acknowledged. Thanks are due to

Ms Tania Chatterjee for her able research assistance in preparing the chapter .
1. For a detailed discussion on political advantages of decentralization, see Wolman

(1990).
2. In this context, one may refer to the innovative exercises which were taken up by
Calcutta Municipal Corporation in developing a solid waste management
technique by utilizing the wetlands in the eastern part of the city. Such a device
has created much positive externality, as evidenced by the economy of the east
Calcutta wetlands.
3. Any organization faces a core difficulty in keeping its members informed of each
other’s activities. As the number of members rises arithmetically, the number of
potential nodes for information exchange rises accordingly. The number of nodes
in a centralized delivery system is likely to be higher and consequently there might
develop inefficiency in maintaining the informational network in a centralized
delivery system. See Helm and Smith (1987).
4. For a review of literature on fiscal decentralization, see Saöbab. As Saöbab ob-
serves: “decentralization has political and administrative advantages. It is also
argued that allocative efficiency is maximized under highly decentralized political
structures. However, it has disadvantages. The main potential disadvantages of
decentralization are that it can work against the internalization of externalities
and equalization through centrally provided mechanisms.”
5. Following the Amendment Acts, which came into force in 1993, the provincial
governments in India had introduced the Conformatory Acts to incorporate the
provisions of the Constitutional Amendment Acts in the functioning of the state
governments with a third tier, i.e., the local bodies. There are state specific variations
in the Conformatory Acts. But then, by April 1994, all the state legislative assem-
blies have compiled the constitutional mandate by adopting Conformatory Acts.
6. For a critique of the Constitutional Amendment Acts (73rd and 74th), see Srinivasan
(2002). The prevailing option opinion, however, is that the Local Bodies do consti-
tute a tier of the government. See Rajaraman et al. (2000) and Rajaraman (2003).
7. Article 280(c) states that such measures are to be taken to “supplement the
resources of the Municipalities” as well.
8. An ad hoc provision of Rs 100 per person as given in 1971 Census, for each state
over a four year period. It has rightly been pointed out that the allocation for the
local bodies as decided by the Tenth Finance Commission did not follow a norm
that could ascertain equity in allocation of resources. However, one may point
out that the Tenth Finance Commission did not have the opportunity to develop
such a norm after consulting the reports of the State Finance Commissions, most
of which were yet to be submitted. In fact, the conformatory state acts that gives the
mandate for formation of SFCs were passed only by April 1994. As a result, the
Commission had to comply the constitutional mandate by making a recom-
mendation only on an ad hoc basis.
9. See Bandyopadhyay (2003) for a fair review of the performance of the EFC.
10. The index carried a 20 per cent weight in the formula used for determining state
shares of the annual provision. In addition, the formula carried a weight of 10
per cent for own revenue collections at the local level, normalized (with equal
weights) for state SDP from agriculture, as (perfectly justifiable) measures of
revenue potential. See Rajaraman (2004).
11. See Oommen (2000).
12. The background paper for rural bodies was prepared by The National Institute
of Rural Development (NIRD). The study on Urban Local Bodies was done by
National Institute of Public Finance and Policy (NIPFP). However, the quality
of the basic data in both the studies remained open to criticism.
13. One should, however, admit that the subsequent SFCs which should get the benefit
of EFC recommendations for building a reliable data base are yet to meet this
expectation. The progress with respect to second SFC reports is rather poor.
Thus, as Rajaraman observes: only seven SFC-II reports are available in the public
domain, of which one (Himachal Pradesh) has issued only the urban volume so
far, and the other (Uttaranchal) is a new state without any prior point of compari-
son. In the remaining five, the own revenue information provided is uneven and
of uncertain provenance. Some reports just projected revenue as supplied to the
EFC. See Rajaraman (2004).
14. Inter governmental transfers to the Local Bodies are often tied in nature; the
Local Bodies hardly have any flexibility in utilizing these funds.
15. Quantitative analysis on the basis of the data of the EFC has the limitation that
the latest year that could be covered in such analysis is 1997–98.
16. See also, Rajaraman (2004).
17. The internal revenue mobilization constituted only 4.17 per cent of the total of
the Panchayats at all levels in 23 states during 1990–91 to 1997–98. In a few
states like Bihar, Rajasthan, Manipur, and Sikkim internal revenue mobilization
was totally absent for the period.
18. Again, the minimum and maximum rates of such taxes are prescribed by the
states, restricting the freedom of the Local Bodies to levy such taxes.
19. The state-wise performance, as given in Rajaraman (2003), indicates that the
performance was the best in Kerala where per capita own revenue collection by
the PRI had been Rs 43.27. Among the worst performing states, there are Orissa,
Madhya Pradesh, Assam, and Tripura. Bihar, which is a major state in India,
did not collect anything as Panchayat’s own revenue.
20. This fund is devolved through the respective state governments.
21. At the time the EFC was submitting its report, Bihar, Goa, Gujarat, and Haryana
had been the four major states in which the report of the SFC 1 had not even
been submitted.
22. In order to make the RBI data comparable over a period of 11 years, where the
nominal values would be different from the real values we normalize the data on
revenue expenditure by the local bodies with the wholesale price index as the
deflector; the index had 1993–94 as the base year. The revenue expenditure as
Compensation and Assignments to Local Bodies is thus captured in terms of
constant price. The per capita Compensation and Assignments are then calculated
for each state for each year by utilizing state population data for various years.
The state population for each year (except 2001–02) was taken on the basis of
the estimated growth rate of population between 1991 and 2001. For 2001–02,
the census population data has been used.
23. This includes all the Non-Special Category states excluding Delhi and Goa;
Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, and Uttaranchal have been combined with Madhya
Pradesh, Bihar, and Uttar Pradesh respectively. From the Special Category states,
Assam has been included in this study.
24. At current prices the average per capita total revenue expenditure for the states
under study had been Rs 2,040.63 per year, for the period 1992–93 to 2002–03.
The average per capita transfer in current prices to the local bodies, on the other
hand, had been only Rs 36.75 per year (Table 10.11).
Table 10.11
Average Per Capita Total Revenue Expenditure and Per Capita
Devolution to Local Bodies in 16 Major States: 1992–93 to 2002–03
(at current price)
(in rupees)
Total Devolved to Percentage
States Revenue Local Bodies Devolved
Andhra Pradesh 2,168.68 22.03 1.02

Assam 1,873.27 3.22 0.17
Bihar∗ 1,141.92 0.29 0.03
Gujarat 2,904.30 12.00 0.41
Haryana 328.95 6.23 1.89
Himachal Pradesh 5,082.37 25.22 0.50
Karnataka 2,379.74 73.56 3.09
Kerala 2,681.95 25.81 0.96
Madhya Pradesh∗ 1,688.30 57.52 3.41
Maharashtra 2,717.92 38.27 1.41
Orissa 1,828.06 18.66 1.02
Punjab 3,631.59 38.54 1.06
Rajasthan 2,024.80 3.13 0.15
Tamil Nadu 2,630.23 133.33 5.07
Tripura 3,812.43 59.98 1.57
Uttar Pradesh∗ 1,462.35 47.09 3.22
West Bengal 1,832.19 31.20 1.70
All States 2,040.63 36.75 1.80

25. The results of the regression analysis indicate that the null hypothesis of no
trend break in 1996–97 is rejected at 1 per cent level. All the b-coefficients had
been positive in the estimated line of regression.
26. The case of Kerala should be viewed differently. In the case of Kerala, the tax
base for the PRI has widened in post Conformatory Act regime. The per capita
tax collection by the local bodies is the highest (Rs 43.27) in Kerala. Since the
tax base has been widened, the need for devolution from the Consolidated Fund
of the State might have declined there.
27. For average devolution, the rank scores follow descending order (thus, the highest
numerical value gets Rank 1) and for coefficient of variation the rank score follows
ascending order (the lowest numerical value is ranked 1, implying that the best
has the least variation in per capita Assignment).
28. Although the percentage of state budget devolved to the local bodies declined
sharply in the case of Kerala, Kerala should still be considered as a better per-
former, a fact which is not reflected in these data (see note 26).
29. In case of Rajasthan, the volatility was the least. But then Rajasthan is the state
where the revenue expenditure of the local governments as percentage of revenue
expenditure of the state was very poor. The lack of volatility was due to the fact
that Rajasthan was maintaining a low level stability during the Entire Period, as
Bihar was doing in terms of per capita devolution.
Appendices
Appendix 1
Percentage Distribution of the Share of States in Allocation for
Panchayats and Urban Local Bodies
States Panchayats ULBs
Andhra Pradesh 9.503 8.233

Arunachal Pradesh 0.348 0.034
Assam 2.918 1.077
Bihar 9.813 4.695
Goa 0.116 0.232
Gujarat 4.351 6.626
Haryana 1.839 1.832
Himachal Pradesh 0.821 0.195
Jammu and Kashmir 0.93 0.783
Karnataka 4.926 6.241
Kerala 4.12 3.762
Madhya Pradesh 8.943 7.801
Maharashtra 8.209 15.813
Manipur 0.235 0.22
Meghalaya 0.32 0.135
Mizoram 0.098 0.192
Nagaland 0.161 0.089
Orissa 4.32 1.998
Punjab 1.933 2.736
Rajasthan 6.137 4.971
Sikkim 0.066 0.01
Tamil Nadu 5.826 9.668
Tripura 0.356 0.201
Uttar Pradesh 16.489 12.582
West Bengal 7.222 9.874
Total 100.00 100.00
Source: The Eleventh Finance Commission for 2000–2005.

Note: ULB = Urban Local Bodies.
Appendix 2
Financial Autonomy Ratio of Local Bodies, Village Panchayats, Urban Local Bodies
States A B C D E F G H I
Andhra Pradesh 0.86 1.09 126.6 26.31 40.45 153.74 0.38 0.83 217.93
Bihar∗ NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA
Goa 46.46 46.46 95.68 46.66 51.91 111.25 46.39 41.13 88.65
Gujarat 22.21 26.42 118.98 63.06 53.45 84.76 78.76 85.21 108.2
Haryana 33.34 32.01 96.01 50.46 38.79 76.87 28.9 30.23 104.61
Karnataka 6.15 4.65 75.55 15.93 12.37 77.66 46.2 36.42 78.83
Kerala 43.83 21.24 48.46 28.51 22.49 78.89 62.05 41.8 67.37
Madhya Pradesh∗ 21.89 7.49 34.22 4.71 3.84 81.5 40.03 23.85 59.58
Maharashtra 19.21 3.34 17.39 15.96 19.63 122.97 23.34 3.38 14.48
Orissa 19.73 11.85 60.03 6.81 4.8 70.44 57.09 61.76 108.18
Punjab 64.08 88.66 138.37 23.73 37.23 156.89 89.38 113 126.45
Rajasthan 19.46 20.28 104.21 4.35 1.64 37.61 74.35 77.75 104.57
Tamil Nadu 31.27 39.76 127.14 10.02 10.84 108.2 41.91 52.62 125.56
Uttar Pradesh∗ 15.98 14.47 90.55 0.9 0.51 57.35 27.59 28.44 103.11
West Bengal 9.76 68.5 701.75 3.19 4.11 128.9 17.96 163.1 907.94
Total 11.41 4.81 42.11 10.61 10.6 99.9 14.35 5.02 35.01
Source: Oommen (2000).

Notes: A = Financial Autonomy Ratio of LBs 92–93, B = Financial Autonomy Ratio of LBs 97–98, C = Improvement Index*,
D = Financial Autonomy Ratio of VPs 92–93, E = Financial Autonomy Ratio of VPs 97–98, F = Improvement Index,
G = Financial Autonomy Ratio of ULBs 92–93, H = Financial Autonomy Ratio of ULBs 97–98, I = Improvement Index*.
LB = Local Bodies (PRIs + ULBs), PRI = Panchayati Raj Institutions, ULB = Urban Local Bodies, VP = Village Panchayats.
Financial Autonomy Ratio = (Locally Raised Revenue/Total Revenue Expenditure)*100.
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3. Newspapers and Periodicals
Newspapers
Ananda Bazaar Patrika

Gorkha Samachar
The Hindu
The Sentinel
The Statesman
Sunchari
The Telegraph
The Tribune
Periodicals
Frontline
Himal South Asia
Mainstream.
North-East Sun
INDEX
Numbers in boldface refer to Articles of the Indian Constitution
Abducted Persons Act, 57 All-Naga Students’ Union, Manipur,

Abducted Persons (Recovery and 90
Restoration) Bill, 56–57 All-Nyishi Students’ Union, 86
abducted women, 57 Ambedkar, 94–95
Abdullah, Farooq, 148–49, 159 American Convention on Human Rights
Abdullah, Omar, 158 (1969), 120
Abdullah, Sheikh, 76, 97, 106, 108 American Declaration on the Rights of
ABSU–BPAC, 207–8 Indigenous Peoples (1997), 126
Advisory Committee on Extended and Anandpur Sahib Resolution, 88, 103–4
Partially Excluded Areas, 179 Anderson, Benedict, 198
African Charter on Human and People’s Apunba Lup, 66,
Rights (1981), 120 Apunba Manipur Kanba Lup (AMKIL),
Age of Consent Act, 51 85
Age of Consent Bill (1892), 50–51 Archibugi, Daniele, 115–16
Ahmed, Abida, 62 Armed Forces Special Powers Act
AIADMK, 103 (AFSPA), 63–64, 66
Akali Dal, 103–4 Asom Gana Parishad (AGP), 81, 103
Akhil Bharatiya Gorkha League (ABGL), Assam Accord (1985), 80
188, 190–92 Assam Autonomous District (Constitu-
Akhil Bharatiya Nepali Bhasa Samiti, tion of District Councils) Rules 1951,
184 219
All Assam Plains Tribal League, 203 Assam movement, 72
All Bodo Students Union (ABSU), 80, association, freedom of, 35
203 Autonomous District Councils, 68
All India Akali Conference, 82 autonomous institutions, 71–91
All India Fund for Women’s Education autonomous movements, 14
(AIFWE), 52 Autonomous State Demand Commit-
All India Gorkha League (AIGL), 178, tee (ASDC), 205–6
180–84 autonomy, agency and ethical conduct,
All India Gurudwara Act, 104 43–48; as symbol of emerging pol-
All India Women’s Conference (AIWC), itical spaces, 9–11; birth of idea of,
52–53 35–48; caste and, 22–23; claims of,
All Party Hurriyat Conference (APHC), 27; as conflict-defusing mechanism,
79 147; constitutional and legal pro-
All-Assam Students’ Union (AASU), vision, 73–77, 80–81, 93–111; con-
86 stitutional history of, 19–23; defin-
All-Manipur United Clubs’ Organiza- ition of, 140; demands for, 132, 179–
tion (AMVCO), 85 84; dialogic politics and, 23–28; as
differences, 16, 73–79; dimensions Biswas, P., 211
of, 24–28, 127–33; ethno- Bodo Accord (1993), 80, 84, 88, 208
geopolitical dualism of, 141; ethno- Boro Liberation Tigers (BLT), 207
political objectives of, 168; features Bodo Liberation Tiger Force (BLTF),
of, 128; federal model of, 128; finan- 85, 197, 209
cial, 30, 129–30; geo-political per- Bodo Peoples’ Action Committee (BPAC),
spectives on, 141–42, 168; global 80, 207
standards on, 124–27; government Bodo Sahitya Sabha (BSS), 86, 204
and, 11–16, 21, 37–39, 41, 87–91; Bodo Territorial Council, 86
history of, 19–23, 27–29; ideal of, Bodoland Army, 85
46; in contemporary global context, Bodoland Autonomous Council (BAC),
114–33; in northeast India, 196–212, 84–85
216–40; in international law, 114– Bodoland Autonomous Council Act
33; justice and, 41–42; legal plural- (1993), 208
ism and, 20–22, 24; liberal theory Bodoland Territorial Council (BTC), 85,
of, 17, 40; liberalism and, 37–42; 196–97, 205
meaning of, 37–42; minority rights borderlands, autonomy discourse on,
and, 117–22; movements, 15, 109– 161–63
11 nationalism and, 20; non- Bordoloi, Gopinath, 202, 219
territorial forms of, 27, 127–33; of Bordoloi Committee, 98, 202, 204,
autonomies, 166–69; of life, 29; of 218–19, 226
women, 49–69; paradox of, 17–24; Borok Areas Autonomous District
participatory, 129–30; peace accord Council, 227
and, 15, 71–91; political struggles of, Borok Areas Territorial Council, 217
18–19; politics of, 9–31, 17; prin- Bose, Maitreyee, 182
ciple and practices of, 14, 16, 21, Bose, Subhash Chandra, 179
23–24; resources for, 242–79; self- boutique multiculturalism, 18
determination and, 115–17; self- Bradnock, Robert W., 164
government and, 10–11; territorial Brahma, Brajendra Kumar, 86
forms of, 27, 127–33, 140, 168; Brahma, Rupnath, 203
Awaz-e-Gurjar, 162 Brahmin, Ratanlal, 180
Ayyangar, M. Ananthasayanam, 54 Bru National Liberation Front (BNLF),
238
Bajpai, Rajendra Kumari, 61 Brzezinski, Zbigniew, 164
Bajrang Dal, 159 Budapest Document (1994), 125
Bakerwals, 161
Banerjee, Biren, 181 Cabinet Mission, 94
Baniharas, 161 Cartesian Individualism, 43
Basic Principles Committee of the cartographic anxieties, 146–47
Constituent Assembly, 97 caste, 22–23
Basu, Durga Das, 77 Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF), 206
Bauer, Otto, 129 Chakma Autonomous District Council,
Behera, Navnita Chadha, 162 221, 228–29, 234–36
Bhakra–Beas Management Board, 87 Chandigarh issue, 82–83
Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), 146, 158 Charter of Paris for a New Europe (1990),
Bhasin, Kamla, 56 125
Bhattacharjee, S., 211 Chattopadhyay, Kamaladevi, 52
Bhattacharya, Asok, 190, 226 citizenship, 26
Index / 303
Citizenship Act (1955), 58 247; article 306, 107; article 352, 95,
civic communities, 28 98; article 355, 106; article 356, 103,
civil society, 90 105–6; article 357, 103; article 370,
collective legitimacy, 42 19, 96–98, 106–7, 110, 148; article
Commission on Centre–State Rela- 371, 19, 96, 98, 110, 211; difference
tions, 104 moment and, 80–81
Commission on State Autonomy, 162 Constitution Review Commission, 103
communalism, 27 Copenhagen Document (1990), 125–26,
communicative rationality, 18 131
Communist Party of India, 55, 180–82, Cousins, Margaret, 52
225–26 Communist Party of Revolutionary
Communist Party of India (Marxist), Marxists (CPRM), 190
183, 192, 238 Criminal Procedure Code (1973), 60
Communist Party of India (Marxist– Culler, 44
Leninist), 198, 205 custodianship, principle of, 25
communitarianism, 45
compensation, principle of, 25 Dar Commission, 100
Conformatory Acts, 253–54, 257 Darjeeling Gorkha Autonomous Hill
Congress Party, 100, 158, 179, 181–82, Council (DGAHC), functioning of,
205, 225–26, 229, 240 185–93
Constituent Assembly, 94–95, 179, 202, Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council (DGHC),
219 see Darjeeling Gorkha Autonomous Hill
Constitution (application to Jammu Council (DGAHC)
and Kashmir) Order (1954), 106–7 Darjeeling Hill Areas Development
Constitution of India, 73rd Amend- Council Act (1976), 183
ment, 19, 62–63, 67, 105, 187, 244, Darjeeling Hills, administration of,
246–47, 267; 74th Amendment, 19, 174–75; autonomy demand in,
105, 244, 246–47, 267; 85th Amend- 179–85; commerce in, 174–75;
ment, 67–68; 5th Schedule, 19–20, democracy in, 173–94; education in,
96, 99, 224–25; 6th Schedule, 19–20, 175–76; emergence and articulation
68, 96, 98–99, 110, 162, 185, 196, of identity in, 175–79; migration to,
202–7, 211–12, 219, 221–23, 174–75; Panchayati Raj system in,
226–31, 239–40; 7th Schedule, 103, 186–87; politics of identity in, 179;
105, 225–26, 246; 8th Schedule, 162, working for autonomy in, 185–94
182, 184; 11th Schedule, 245–46, Dayton Agreement (1995), 127
253, 278; 12th Schedule, 246, 253, Dean, M., 91
278; article 14, 19–20; article 15, Deb, Dasarath, 224
19–20; article 16, 19–20; article 19, Debbarma, Sukhendu, 230
19; article 22, 20; article 23, 20; decentralization, development and,
article 25, 19–20; article 29, 19–20; 242–44; of governance, 244–47
article 26, 19; article 30, 19; article Declaration on Indigenous Peoples
31, 55; article 40, 246, 253; article (1994), 130
46, 20; article 47, 20; article 152, 97; Delhi Agreement (1952), 97, 106–7, 153
article 243, 252; article 244, 20, 98, democracy, 12, 15–16, 21–22, 26–27,
205, 237; article 246, 105; article 30–31, 41, 93
249, 95, 103, 106; article 252, 96; Deori, Bhimbor, 203
article 256, 106; article 257, 106; Derrida, Jacques, 44
article 264, 105; article 280, 237, Desai, Bhulabhai, 54
Desai, Morarji, 79 Gandhi, Indira, 83, 157, 162, 184

Deshmukh, G. V., 54 Gandhi, Mahatma, 53
Deshpande, Satish, 144 Gandhi, Rajiv, 88, 184, 220, 234
devolution, 28, 247–78 Geneva Report on National Minorities
DGHC Act (1988), 185 (1991), 125
Dhebar, U. N., 224 Ghai, Yash, 140, 147
Dhebar Commission, 224 Ghewali, Surya Bikram, 176
dialogic policies, as third dimension of Ghising, Subash, 184, 187, 189–92
autonomy, 24–28 Gojri language, 162
Dietrich, Gabriele, 69 Gool Bahadur, 52
difference, as autonomy, 16, 73–79; Gorkha Apex Committee of Sikkim, 190
constitution and, 80–81; ethnic space Gorkha League, 184
and, 81–87; moments of, 79–87; Gorkha National Liberation Front
recognition of, 79–80 (GNLF), 184–85, 188–91, 193
Discovery of India, 145 Gorkha National Women’s Organisa-
Divorce Act (1850), 51 tion (GNWO), 189
Dixon, Owen, 158 Gorkha Samachar, 187
Dixon plan, 166 Gottlieb, Gidon, 130
DMK, 103 governance/governing, art of, 12, 14;
Dodhi Gujjars, 161 decentralization of, 244–47; process
Dooars Gorkha Kalyan Samiti, 192 of, 13; science of, 14
Dowry Prohibition Act, 1961, 59 government and autonomy, 11–16
Dworkin, Gerald, 37–38 Government of India Act (1935), 218
governmentality, Foucault’s concept of,
Educational League, 52 11–16
Equal Remuneration Act (1976), 59 Gram Samsads, 186–87
ethics, 46; autonomy of, 30 Grand Chessboard, The, 164
ethnic space, 81–87 group autonomy, 29
European Charter for Regional or guarantee, principle of, 25
Minority Languages (1992), 125 Gujjars of Jammu and Kashmir, voices
European Convention on Human Rights of, 161–63, 167
(ECHR), 121 Gurjar Desh Charitable Trust, 162
Gurkha League, 177
Factory and Mines Act (1953), 59 Gurkha Officers’ Association, 177
fear, geographies of, 163–66 Gurung, D. S., 178–79
federalism, institutional features of, in Gurung, G., 177–78
India, 93–96, 103 Gurung, N. B., 177, 181
Feinberg, J., 37
feminist politics, autonomy of, 30 Habermas, J., 18, 42
Finance Commission (Eleventh), data Hague Recommendations Regarding
analysis of, 245, 248–79, 284–85 Minority Education Rights (1990),
financial autonomy, 30, 129–30 129
Foucault, Michel, 9, 11–12, 14, 43–48 Hamal, B. B., 181
free will, 37 Hankim, Nanda, 191
Freud, Sigmund, 43 Hannum, Hurst, 115, 131–33
Harare Declaration (1991), 126
Gajendragadkar Commission (1967), 108 Harvey, David, 144, 150
Galanter, Marc, 21 Hegde, Ramakrishna, 62
Index / 305
Helsinki Document (1992), 125 per capita revenue expenditure in,
Helsinki Final Act, 121 254–57; resources for autonomy in,
High Commissioner for National Min- 242–79; secular-nationalist vs Hindu-
orities (HCNM), 125 nationalists, 142–53; sovereignty,
Hill Area Council, 182 205–12; statehood, 218–28; states re-
Hill Development Council, 183 organization issue, 99–106; Tripura,
Hillmen’s Association, 176–80 223–28
Hindu identity, 145 Indian Divorce Act (1869), 51
Hindu Law Code, 57–58 Indian Marriage Act (1864), 50
Hindu Marriage Act, 1955, 58 Indigenous Nationalist Party of
Hindu nation, concept of, 145 Tripura (INPT), 227, 229, 237
Hindu nationalism, 146 indigenous people, rights of, 122
Hindu-nationalist vision, 144–53 Indira–Mujib agreement, 72
Hindu Succession Act, 57 individualism, 36
Hindu Widows Remarriage Act, 51 Inner Line Permit System, 238
Hindu Women’s Right to Divorce Bill, 53 innovation, principle of, 25
Hindutva, geo-political vision of, 145–46 Instrument of Accession, 76–77, 96, 106
Hmar Peoples Convention (HPC), 238 International Court of Justice (ICJ),
Home Rule Movement, 100 117
homelands, demand for, 27 International Covenant on Civil and
Hrangkhawl, B. K., 240 Political Rights (ICCPR), 119–20
Human Rights Commission, 20 Inter-State Council (ISC), 94, 105
Huntington, Samuel P., 163 Inter-State Trade and Commerce Com-
mission, 105
ICCPR Committee on Human Rights, International Peace and Social Ad-
119 vancement (IPSA), 85
ILO Conventions on Indigenous Peoples,
122 Jaitley, Arun, 68
India, allocation of fund to district Jammu and Kashmir, autonomy issue,
councils, 235–38; analysis of dev- 139–69; autonomy movements in,
olution to local bodies, 258–79; 109–11; cartographic anxieties, 147;
autonomous institutions, 205–12; Constitutional form of autonomy in,
citizenship, 205–12; compensation 106–9; geo-political visions, 142–53;
and assignment to local bodies, 256– Gujjars of, 161–63; homeland for
57, 278; construction of frontiers, Kashmiri (Hindu) Pandits, 153–56;
198–202; District Councils in, 228– imaginations of displaced, 153–56;
35; federal democracy in, 109–11; Indian Constitution and forms of
financing local bodies in, 242–79; autonomy in, 96–98; internal parti-
fiscal devolution in, 247–78; geo- tions, 157–60; militarized imagina-
political visions in, 142–53; govern- tions, 163–66; Regional Autonomy
ance, 205–12; institutional features Committee (RAC), 148–53; State
of federalism in, 93–96, 103; inter- Autonomy Committee (SAC), 148–
governmental transfer of funds, 50; trifurcation plan, 157–60
252–78; language movement, 204; Jammu and Kashmir Gujjars United
linguistic homeland demand in, Front, 161
99–106; Mizoram, 218–23, 235–38; Jatiya Unnayan Parishad, 72
national identity, 142–53; negotiat- jhum cultivation, 64
ing for space within frontiers, 202–5; Jhumia Rehabilitation Scheme, 231
Jumma identity, 217–18 local government, 26
justice, theory of, 41–42 local self-government, 26
JVP Committee, 100–101 Locke, 17
Longowal, Harchand Singh, 88
Kant, Immanuel, 17, 39, 41, 43 Luithui, Luingam, 90
Kantian subject, 43 Lund Recommendations on Effective
Karbi Anglong District Council, Assam, Participation by National Minorities
196–97, 200, 238 in Political Life (1999), 131
Kashmir Studies Group, 157, 160 Lusaka Declaration of the Common-
Kashmiri Pandits, homeland for, 153–56 wealth on Racism and Racial Pre-
Kashmir’s accession issue, 76–77 judice (1979), 121
Kaur, Rajkumari Amrit, 52, 56 Lushai Hills District Advisory Council,
Khan, Liaqat Ali, 180 219
Khawtinkhuma, 219
Kher Commission, 102 Mahakuma Parishad, 185
Khurana, Madan Lal, 155 Mahanta, Aparna, 56
Kishwar, Madhu, 53 Mahila Atmaraksha Samity (MARS), 55
Kokborok Tei Hukumu Mission of Maine, Henry, 51
Agartala, 231 Manikya, Bijoy, 223
Kripa Foundation of Mumbai, 65 Mara Autonomous District Council, 221,
Krishna, Sankaran, 146–47 234, 236
Kuki Revolutionary Army, 206 Marx, 43
Mathew Commission, 83
La, Laden, 178 Mathura rape case, 63
La, Norbu, 191 Medhi, Bishnuram, 204
Lacan, 44 medical ethics, autonomy of, 35
Lacoste, Yves, 144 Mehta, Hansa, 56
Ladakh Autonomous Hill Develop- Meira Paibies in Manipur, 63, 65–66
ment Council, 149–50 Memorandum of Settlement, Punjab,
Lai Autonomous District Council, 221, 82–83, 88
234, 236 Memorandum on Centre–State
Lakher Autonomous District Council, Relations, 103
221 Menon, Ritu, 56
Laldenga, 81, 229 Mill, John Stuart, 36
Lalthankunga, 229 Millbrook Action Programme (1995),
Lama, Prem, 192 126
Language Act 1963, 102 Minghi, J. V., 198
League of Nations, linguistic and cul- minimal justice, 24–26
tural guarantees, 125; minority sys- Minorities Commission, 20
tem, 118 minority rights, 28–29, 117–22, 124–27,
legal autonomy, 30 131, 163; global standards on, 124–27
Levi-Strauss, 44 Mitra, Sankar Prasad, 181
liberalism, 36 Mizo Accord (1986), 81
linguistic homeland, demand for, in Mizo Hill District Council, 219–22, 235,
Nehru era, 99–106 238, 240
Linguistic Provinces Commission, 100 Mizo National Front (MNF), 77, 81,
local bodies, financing of, 242–79, 220, 228–29, 234
284–85 Mizo Union, 78, 218–20
Index / 307
modernity, 46 nationhood, 28; imperial theory of, 25
Moktan, R., 192 Nehru, Jawaharlal, 145, 180
Monitoring Group on Territorial Integ- Nehru, Rameshwari, 56
rity of Manipur, 69 Nehru Committee Report (1928), 95,
moral responsibility, 37 100
morality, 46, 132 Nepali Sahitya Sammelan, 176
Moscow Document (1991), 125 Nietzche, Friedrich, 43
Mukerjee, Hiren, 183 Nokiaua, T., 234
Mukti Morcha, 159 Norbula, Dawa, 192
Musharraf, Pervez, 165 North-East Frontier (Assam) Tribal and
Muslim League, 95 Excluded Areas Sub-Committee,
Muslim Women’s (Protection of Rights 202
on Divorce) Act 1986, 60 North-East Sun, 65
North-Eastern Areas (Reorganization)
Naga Mother’s Association (NMA), Act 1971, 221
63–65 Northeastern states, autonomy to, 98–
Naga People’s Convention, 80 99, 109–11
Naga People’s Movement for Human Northern Ireland Peace Agreement
Rights, 90 (1998), 127, 129
Naga Reconciliation Process, 84 National Socialist Council of
Naga Student’s Federation, 64 Nagaland (Isak-Muivah) [NSCN
Naga Women’s Union of Manipur, 65, (IM)], 65, 83, 85, 88
90 National Socialist Council of Nagaland-
Naidu, Sarojini, 52 Khapland (NSCN-K), 85
Nairobi Declarations (1985), 62
Narayan, 89 O’Loughlin, John, 166
Nari Nirjatan Pratirodh Manch, Kolkata, Official Language Bill, 181
63 Operation Black Board, 191
Nath, D., 199 Organization for Security and Co-
nation state, 144 operation in Europe (OSCE), 125
National Commission to Review Oslo Recommendations (1998), 129
the Working of the Constitution
(NCRWC), 105 Panchayati Raj Bill, 211
National Committee on Women’s Edu- Panchayati Raj Institutions (PRIs), 99,
cation (1959), 58 105, 244–45, 250–53, 278, 284–85
National Conference (NC), 103, 106, Pant, Govind Ballabh, 224
148, 158–59 Panun Kashmir, 158
National Democratic Front of Bodo- Panun Pandit homeland discourse,
land (NDFB), 209 153–56
National Development Council, 72, 94, Paris Agreement (1946), 117
105 Parliamentary Standing Committee on
National Finance Commission, 19, 94 Defence (PSCD), 155
National Identity Protection Com- Pathak, Anand, 184
mittee (NIPCO), 85 Patnaik, N. M., 224
National Liberation Front of Tripura Pawi (Lai) Autonomous District Coun-
(NLFT), 229 cil, 221
nationalism, 20–21 Pawi–Lakher (Constitution of Regional
nation-building, 144 Councils) Rules 1952, 219, 235
Pawi–Lakher Regional Advisory Ray, S. S., 183

Council, 219, 221 Reddy, Muthulakshmi, 52
peace accord, 71–73; autonomy and, 15; Regional Autonomy Committee
moment of constitution of, 80–81; (RAC) report, 107–9, 148–53, 162
moment of ethnic space in, 81–87; regional political parties, 103
moment of recognition in, 79–80 relational autonomy, 37
Peoples Liberation Army (PLA), 65 religion, freedom of , 35
Peoples’ Democratic Front, 190 religious minorities, autonomy to, 19
Pettman, Jan Jindy, 57 Renner, Karl, 130
Phizo, Angami Zapu, 79 resistance, politics of, 9
Planning Commission, 94 River Boards Act (1956), 105
political autonomy, 12 Rongpi, Jayanta, 206
political spaces, autonomy as symbol Roy Burman, B. K., 89
of, 9–11 Roy, Ajoy, 199
politics of governed, 10 Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS),
postcolonial nationalism, 147 158–59
postmodernism, 45 Rumley, D., 198
Pradhan, H. P., 177 Rupachandra, Yumnam, 65
Pradhan, Krishna, 191
Pradhan, P. P., 177 Sack, Robert, 139
Pradhan, Parasmani, 176 Sanmilit Janagoshthiya Sangram Samiti
Praja Parishad, 158 (SJSS), 85
Pranta Parishad, 184 Saprawanga, 219
Prantiya Morcha, 184 Sapru Committee, 94
Preston, Meredith, 90 Sarkar, Tanika, 55
privacy, right to, 35 Sarkaria Commission (SC), 104–5
private autonomy, 42 Sassure, 44
protection, right to, 39 Sati, abolition of, 50
public justice, differential and equal Savarkar, Vinayak Damodar, 145–46
system of, 21 Secular-nationalist vision, 144–53
public legitimacy, 42 self, 43, 45–48; technologies of, 12
Punjab Accord (1985), 86 self-determination, 12, 115–17; freedom
Punjabi, Kavita, 55 of, 29; movements, 109–11; prac-
Puri, Balraj, 162 tices and principle of, 25, 28–29
self-direction, 18
Qadri Commission (1972), 108 Self-Employed Women’s Association
Quit India Movement, 53 (SEWA), 59
self-government/-governance, 18, 37–39,
Rai, D. P., 182 41, 118, 130–31; practices of, 9–10, 12
Rai, R. D., 192 self-regulation, 18
Rai, Tirthaman, 192 Sen, Ranen, 181
Rajamannar Commission (RC), 102–4 Sengkrak (clenched fist), movement,
Rajagopalachari Plan, 94 224–25
Ranade, Ramabai, 52 Shah Bano case, 60
Rashsundari, 52 Shahbuddin, Syed, 60
Rat Famine, Mizoram, 220, 228 Shanti Bahini, 229
Rawls, John, 41 Sharief, Jaffar, 62
Index / 309
Sharma, Dharanidhar, 176 Tribal National Volunteers (TNV), 225,
Sheba, Begum, 52 240
Shed No More Blood campaign, 64, 66 Tripura, Hirendra, 229
Shillong Accord (1975), 89 Tripura, Shyama Charan, 227
Shiromani Akali Dal (SAD), 82, 88, 103 Tripura, district councils and state gov-
Sikri Commission (1979), 108 ernment relations, 228–33; funds from
Simon Commission, 179, 201 government to councils, 232–33,
Singapore Declaration of the Common- 235, 237–38; history of, 216–18; in-
wealth Principles (1971), 120 stitutional and administrative struc-
Singh, Karan, 149 ture of autonomy in, 223–28; power
Singh, Zail, 184 sharing, protection and devel-
Sinha, C. D., 192 opment, 239–40
social justice, principles of, 42 Tripura Tribal Areas Autonomous Dis-
sovereignty, 13; identities and, 166–69; trict Council (TTAADC), 217, 223,
juridical theory, 24; theory of (na- 225–26, 229–33, 235, 237–40
tional), 26–28 Tripura Upajati Juba Samity (TUJS),
Special Marriage Act (1956), 58 225–27, 229, 240
State Autonomy Committee (SAC), two-nation theory, 160
106–7, 148–50
State Finances: Study of State Budgets, 254 UN Declaration on Minorities (1992),
State Reorganization Commission, 19, 125
77, 101, 181 Uniform Civil Code, 56, 59–60, 63, 67
state-building, 144 United Liberation Front of Asom
Stri Shakti Sangathan of Hyderabad, 63 (ULFA), 72, 78, 88
Subba, Ganeshlal, 180 United Naga Council, Manipur, 90
Subba, T. B., 176 United Peoples Democratic Front, 206
subjectivity, theory of, 43 United Peoples Democratic Solidarity,
subject-object duality, 43 207
subsidized cultural activities, 35 United Tribal Nationalist Liberation
Sundar, P. M., 177 Front, 204
supervision, principle of, 25 Universal Declaration of Human Rights
Swasti Samity, 225 (1948), 118
United People’s Front (UPF), 85
Tagore, Rabindranath, 216 Uyangoda, Jayadeva, 163
Tamang, Madan, 190–91
Taylor, C., 39 Vajpayee, Atal Bihari, 67
Telugu Desam Party (TDP), 103 Varna-Hindu mainstream framework,
Tebhaga movement, 55 78–79
Telengana movement, 55 Venkataraman, R., 157
Thanchunga, B., 234 VHP, 158–59
Thapa, Madan, 178 Vindication of the Rights of Woman, A, 49
Theory of Justice, 41 Vyas, Girija, 68
Tiwa Accord (1995), 85
Towards Equality Report of 1975, 59, Wazir Commission (1981), 108
61, 67 welfare cultural activities, 35
tribal and dalit women, in movement, Wirsing, Robert, 152, 164
63–66 Wollstonecraft, Mary, 49
women, autonomy, 27, 49–69; colonial dalit women in, 63–66; tribal and
discourse, 50–54; debate in Indian dalit, 63–66
Parliament on position of, 61–62; Women’s Commission, 20
movements in India, 53–69, —, in
post-colonial period, 57–63, —, late- Zilla Parishad, 185
colonial developments in, 54–57,—, Zoranithanga, 229
present position of, 66–69, tribal and
ABOUT THE EDITOR AND
CONTRIBUTORS
Editor
Ranabir Samaddar belongs to the critical school of political readings in

India. Well known for his pioneering efforts to introduce peace studies
in South Asia and his work on popular politics, he is now the Director of
the Mahanirban Calcutta Research Group, Kolkata. He has worked
extensively on issues of justice and rights in the context of conflicts in
South Asia. His particular research interests are in the areas of migration
and refugee studies, the theory and practice of dialogue, nationalism
and post-colonial statehood, and technological restructuring and new
labor regimes. His most recent works are The Politics of Dialogue (2004)
and the edited volume Peace Studies: An Introduction to the Concept, Scope,
and Themes (2004).
Contributors
All the contributors belong to the research team of the Mahanirban Calcutta
Research Group.
Paula Banerjee, an international relations specialist and a feminist

historian, teaches at the Department of South and Southeast Asian
Studies, University of Calcutta. Her areas of interest include border
studies and gender justice.
Sanjay Barbora, a scholar on social formation in India’s Northeast, is a

human rights activist based in Guwahati, and is associated with the
Manab Adhikar Sangram Samiti (MASS).
Sabyasachi Basu Ray Chaudhury teaches political science at the

Rabindra Bharati University, Kolkata. His areas of interest include forced
migration, refugees, human rights, globalization, democracy, and politics
in South Asia.
Jayanta Bhattacharya is a journalist based in Agartala, Tripura.
Subir Bhaumik is the Bureau Chief of BBC in eastern India, and has
authored books and articles on insurgency in India’s Northeast.
Pradip Kumar Bose, a leading sociologist in India, is on the faculty of

the Centre for Studies in Social Sciences, Calcutta.
Subhas Ranjan Chakrabarty teaches history at the Presidency College,

Kolkata. He specializes in European History, and the society and politics
of Darjeeling.
Sanjay Chaturvedi teaches at the Department of Political Science, Panjab

University, Chandigarh, and is the coordinator of the Centre for
Geopolitics, Panjab University. He specializes in critical geopolitics.
Samir Kumar Das teaches political science at the Department of Political

Science, University of Calcutta. His researches are on the society and
politics of India’s Northeast. He serves on the editorial board of the
South Asian Peace Studies Series.
Ratan Khasnabis, an economist and a specialist on agrarian reforms,

teaches at the Department of Business Management, University of
Calcutta.
Ashutosh Kumar is the Chair, Department of Political Science, Panjab

University, Chandigarh. He specializes in Indian constitutional and
politico-legal issues.

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THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY

THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY

First published in 2005 by

Sage Publications India Pvt Ltd

Sage Publications Inc Sage Publications Ltd

The assistance of the Ford Foundation in publication of the volume is hereby

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The politics of autonomy: Indian experiences/edited by Ranabir Samaddar.

ISBN: 0–7619–3452–9 (Hb) 81–7829–602–0 (India–Hb)

Sage Production Team: Ridhima Mehra, Ashok R. Chandran and

The Politics of Autonomy: An Introduction 9

1. The Birth of the Autonomous Subject? 35

2. Women’s Autonomy: Beyond Rights and Representations 49

3. Where Do the Autonomous Institutions Come From? 71

4 The Constitutional and Legal Routes 93

5. Autonomy’s International Legal Career 114

Part II: Practices of Autonomy

7. Silence under Freedom: The Strange Story of Democracy

8. Autonomy in the Northeast: The Frontiers of Centralized

9. Autonomy in the Northeast: The Hills of Tripura and

10. Resources for Autonomy: Financing the Local Bodies

Kolkata Ranabir Samaddar

A Symbol of Emerging Political Spaces

I n this age when political thinking is caught between neo-liberal thinking

where autonomies may be negotiated, the responsibilities that autonomies

Autonomy and Government

In order to answer these questions we must first of all explore briefly,

significant aspect of “bio politics” in which governing the body becomes

of the relation between family and economy. As he says, “To govern a

government escaped the difficulty by inventing functions that were related

Women claim autonomy, and increasingly feminism is used as a resource

a great change in the field of politics, so much so that achieving govern-

We would be criticized for having included all differences in kind within

In other words, difference is autonomous. Difference is essential, and it

The Paradox of Autonomy in India

The fact that autonomy is a meeting ground of governmentalization and

s/he does not want to be so autonomous? In an autonomous move the

for self-determination in various forms, and an unyielding and innovative

and governmentalization of the principle of autonomy and the most

It is of course true that nationalism and democracy have broadened the

principle of democracy? Also important is the question, how will that

well as differential provisions to help the disadvantaged. On the other

1. Autonomy hangs as a categorical principle between freedom and

3. yet, autonomy indicates the desire of politics to escape these rules

Dialogic Politics as the Third

As in all situations of aporia, we need as a way out, a third dimension

Barbora and Sanjay Chaturvedi discuss threadbare, form the inflammable

To conclude, understanding the contradictory history of autonomous

democracy with the norms, principles, and various forms of autonomy

is to look into conditions and dimensions of autonomy, their historical

THE BIRTH OF THE AUTONOMOUS SUBJECT?

T he idea of autonomy, addressing theoretical as well as practical public

this will to direct her/his own personal commitment as a sign of our

Autonomy and Liberalism

however, contain certain ambiguities as well: on the one hand, relational

by virtue of our being autonomous we must act only on those maxims

themselves, a free and rational pursuit of people’s own conception of

Some thinkers, like Habermas, have highlighted the connection by making

De-centering the Subject:

One of the key features of Enlightenment philosophy was to redefine

This position has destabilized the Enlightenment assertion of individual

Foucault argues that it is not enough to understand the genealogy of the

Foucault denies the possibility of a sovereign founding Subject. “The