Coronavirus and Racism

epw.in/journal/2020/12/letters/coronavirus-and-racism.html

March 20,
2020

This is in response to the editorial “On the Brink of a Pandemic” (EPW, 7 March 2020). It
has properly pointed out the necessity of developed medical and political infrastructure
to resist the spread of the coronavirus. However, there is another dimension to the
discourse that has somehow been undermined, if not missed, which is social
infrastructure.

Coronavirus and its spread have become the new instruments for racism. Several
incidents have already been reported across the world pertaining to how the Chinese
and other South Asian students are facing racist slurs and xenophobia as a result of this
pandemic. In India as well we have found similar complaints from different places.

These events can be understood through the (im)moral forces that sustain racism. At a
time when we are witnessing multiple supremacist regimes throughout the globe, racism
and othering are no more sublimed. Hate speeches and propaganda spread at an
extensive speed (far more than that of the coronavirus). So, now the only thing that the
supremacists seek is any (im)moral ground to assert supremacy. Through this process,
they produce the immediate “others” who may or may not be all-time enemies, but have
been a continuous anathema to the supremacists’ dream of homogeneity.

The spread of coronavirus has certainly opened a pandora’s box. The presumptions of
supremacists to homogenise any religious, linguistic, or ethnic groups of people have
made them believe that anybody and everybody from the North East is related to China
and carrying the coronavirus. This goes back to deep-seated prejudices and lack of
knowledge regarding the people of the north-eastern part of the country. So, not only
does the government need to politically and medically deal with the spread of
an endemic, they must also come up with proper social infrastructure to safeguard the
north-eastern students from being harassed due to their geographical proximity with
China. The politics of quarantining must not reproduce and sharpen untouchability and
racism that have been the part and parcel of the Indian social.

Abhik Bhattacharya

New Delhi

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Fathoming the NMC Act
epw.in/journal/2020/12/letters/fathoming-nmc-act.html

March 20,
2020

This is in response to the article “National Medical Commission Act: A Cure Worse than
the Malady” (EPW, 29 February 2020) by Vikas Bajpai. We accept many points mentioned
in the article with a few differences.

We want to highlight that the NEET (National Eligibility cum Entrance Test) is being
conducted since 2016, and that has no connection with the National Medical
Commission (NMC) Act. While the NMC Act was passed by Parliament in 2019, NEET for
undergraduate courses has already been conducted four times successively. As the title
of the article is NMC Act, some readers may (wrongly) believe—or start to believe—that
NEET is being conducted as per the statutes of the act. Why does the author bring to the
fore something (the eligibility test) under the title of an act, which is not a part of its rule
book, we fail to understand.

There is another example in support of this parochial and partisan approach. While a
Tamil student can join a super-speciality course in Delhi and at the end of three years,
return to their native village, the reverse is not true. That means that a Delhiite student
cannot simply go to Tamil Nadu, complete their course and return. The Tamil Nadu
government wants them to stay there for an additional “short” duration of just 10 years,
which passes by in a blink! The author may be bewildered by the knowledge of this new
rule, if not already. The real explanation is that if the Tamil Nadu government plainly
refuses an “outsider” student to enter its “territory,” it may face backlash. So, they have
devised a new rule of such enormous/harsh magnitude that hardly anybody can dare to
fulfil the condition. And, one of the casualties of this “war” is that scores of
superspeciality seats are going vacant regularly.

And, the author leaves certain pertinent points which deserve our further attention.
About five months ago, the union health ministry announced the selection of 25
members of the NMC by lottery. On what basis these selections are made remains a
mystery. The universities from which these members are chosen, employ hundreds of
faculty members at each one. Therefore, on what basis one-among-the-thousands is
selected to run the NMC is a matter of speculation. So, we demand our government to
inform us about all the achievements, honours and above all, the distinguishing features
if any, of the selected members of the upcoming NMC.

Why select members for this important job in this funny and impugned way, we wonder.

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Although the media widely reported the appointment of 25 members for the job of NMC,
we fail to find a news item to fathom its reason. So, we observe that the media does not
raise questions where it should and, in the name of news, brings us something
“sensational” to increase its saleability. If the author still does not see through this bare
reality, we rapidly run the risk of getting lost in the mist.

Sunil Kumar Verma, Harish Gupta

Vapi, Lucknow

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Endangering Women
epw.in/journal/2020/12/letters/endangering-women.html

March 20,
2020

Given that the updation of the National Population Register (NPR) is scheduled to begin
from 1 April 2020 along with house listing for the Census of India 2021, prominent
women’s rights activists, including Annie Raja, Farah Naqvi, Anjali Bhardwaj, Vani
Subramanian, Meera Sanghmitra, Mariam Dhawle, and Poonam Kaushik released a
letter at Delhi’s Press Club that was sent to every chief minister in the country by over
1,000 signatories. The signatories include activists, writers, academics, lawyers, doctors,
farmers, professionals, anganwadi workers and women from all walks of life from more
than 20 states.

The letter said, “We write to you as Indian women who are opposed to NPR. Women
constitute nearly 50% of India’s population, and this opposition is based on clear
evidence from our own lives.”

Speaking at the press conference, Raja said that, “Women often do not have land or
property in their names, have lower literacy rates, and leave their natal homes upon
marriage with no documents in tow. In Assam, a vast majority of the 19 lakh, left out of
the National Register of Citizens (NRC), are women. That is the reality.”

According to Farah Naqvi, “All women, irrespective of caste and religious community, will
be affected by this new NPR–Nati0nal Register of Indian Citizens (NRIC) citizenship
regime that puts our citizenship to test in a totally arbitrary and frightening manner.”
And, women and children from Adivasi communities, Dalit women, Muslim women,
migrant labourers, small farmers, the landless, domestic workers, sex workers and
transgender persons asked to “prove” citizenship will all be at grave risk of being
disenfranchised.”

Bhardwaj spoke of Section 14A of the Citizenship Act, and the accompanying 2003
Rules, which clearly provide for using NPR data to compile the NRIC, and give local
registrars the power to mark people as “doubtful citizens.” She said that the home
minister’s 12 March statement in Parliament that no one will be marked “doubtful,”
carries no legal sanctity, until the relevant statutes and rules are formally amended.

Speakers at the press conference said that to protect the sanctity of the census
operations, women from across India have asked chief ministers of every state to delink
the NPR and the census, sending enumerators out only with the census schedule. While
many states have passed resolutions in the legislative assembly opposing the Citizenship
(Amendment) Act, NRC, NPR, unless specific executive orders are issued to delink the
NPR and census which is set to be rolled out from 1 April, the resolutions will only remain
a statement of expression. Each state govern​ment must issue executive orders to de-link
NPR and census immediately, they said.
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Two states—Kerala and West Bengal— have issued executive orders, staying the roll out
of the NPR, while Rajasthan and Jharkhand have given orders only for the roll out of the
census from 1 April 2020. The speakers welcomed the action taken by these states.

The text of the letter sent to all the chief ministers and the aforementioned
orders/notification by states can be accessed at
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/17jnovR4wTYBw9p7nTLiFJIMYO-6Agh6w?
usp=sharing

Annie Raja, Farah Naqvi, Anjali Bhardwaj, Vani Subramanian, Meera Sanghmitra,
Mariam Dhawle, Poonam Kaushik

New Delhi

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Economics, Prudence, and a Pandemic
epw.in/journal/2020/12/editorials/economics-prudence-and-pandemic.html

March 20,
2020

It has been a little over a decade since the outbreak of the last global pandemic, the
H1N1 swine flu in 2009–10, that the world faces yet another threat from the “novel”
coronavirus 2019, the COVID-19. This time, however, not only is the rate of the “global”
onslaught of the virus unprecedented—with a current estimate of its mortality rate being
2% vis-à-vis the 0.02% from the H1N1—but the response of the states and their
healthcare systems to the crisis has been rather tardy.

The assiduity with which the genetic sequences of the H1N1 virus were released to the
public in 2009 could potentially be due to the global healthcare systems being better
“prepared” for the 2009 scenario, having encountered the worst H1N1 outbreak almost a
century ago during the 1918 Spanish flu. Such has not been the case for covid-19, where
there is no clarity regarding the significance of the (usual) oral–faecal route of infection,
the full breadth of symptoms is yet to be determined, and above all, it is considered
more contagious than the previous pestilence, presumably because of the dearth of
herd immunity against the infection.

While talking about the intensity of this outbreak, one should also not lose sight of the
fact that it rests on the back of a global macroeconomic understanding that can no
longer indulge in a “benign” view of economic fluctuations in output and employment
ever since the 2008 global financial crisis. Against this backdrop, when the United
Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD) comes up with an estimated
cost of $1 trillion to the global economy in 2020, due to the potential economic
slowdown caused by the covid-19 outbreak, it goes without saying that the complications
of this pandemic go much beyond just health risks.

The initial outbreak of COVID-19 in China saw choppy trading in stocks across world
markets, reflecting hope that the economic fallout might be manageable just as the
damage from the SARS (severe acute respiratory syndrome) epidemic was some two
decades ago. But, with the rapid escalation of the covid-19 outbreak to a pandemic state,
coupled with the uncertainty in public perception about some of the most basic aspects
of the virus, and consequently, how lethal it will eventually turn out to be, global financial
markets have tumbled. In this context, the apprehension that barely any country will go
unscathed by the outbreak’s economic ramifications is strengthened on several grounds.
This is so, first, considering China’s pivotal role in both the global supply chain and
consumer markets, and second, because the data available from such an economy in the
aftermath of the outbreak presents a picture more worrying than what financial and
economic analysts had predicted. Combined data for January and February 2019 shows
that industrial production, retail sales, and asset investment (including expenditure on
infrastructure, property, machinery, and equipment) had declined by 13.5%, 20.5%, and
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24.5%, respectively. Third, this should be taken as a warning for an imminent economic
meltdown at the global level, particularly in the context of the already ubiquitous
declining private demand that has overexposed economies (especially the developed
ones) to the risk of the so-called “diabolic loops” of public and private debts, as the global
financial structure faces increased hazards of major liquidity runs than ever before.

When fiscal policy in the form of large increases in public spending has been used to
offset declining private demand, the perceived sovereign risk in several countries have
increased. In turn, fiscal policy has not only lost its efficacy in sustaining demand, but has
simultaneously strained the balance sheets of creditors, such as banks that hold the
sovereign debt. Thus, weak governments weaken banks that hold government bonds in
their portfolios, while weakened banks need more capital, which often comes from
public funds, thereby weakening governments.

In this scenario, recall that the United States’ challenge over the last decade or so has
been to curtail expenditures for bringing down a current account deficit at 5% of its
gross domestic product in 2008 to a so-called “sustainable” range of 2%–3%. Further, the
eurozone’s transition from a current account deficit to a surplus region within 10 years
since 2008 is underscored by years of weak domestic demand in its Mediterranean
member states, which has also been the case in many parts of the Latin American
region. Ironically, with the “knock-down” effects of this crisis potentially heading towards
deep recessions (in already demand-deficient situations), these governments will need to
take immediate recourse to “expansionary” fiscal measures, mostly in the form of safety
nets. The need of the hour is no different for the developing countries, particularly
commodity exporters, who face the likelihood of weaker export returns linked to a
stronger dollar, as investors would seek safe havens for their money.

But, as of now, there has been no declaration of such expenditure measures from most
of the countries, barring a few like France and Denmark, with the latter guaranteeing
75% of the wages of its private sector workers who would otherwise be made redundant.
While one can debate endlessly on the scale, adequacy, scope, or relevance of these
measures, one must also bear in mind that clinging on to conventional certainties is not a
prudent strategy at this hour of unprecedented uncertainties. State interventions cannot
stop at healthcare services, recommendations for social isolation, or contributions to
calamity relief funds of regional economic blocks, for the disaster at hand involves both
the lives and livelihoods of millions.

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Impacts of the Oil Price War
epw.in/journal/2020/12/editorials/impacts-oil-price-war.html

March 20,
2020

Lekha S Chakraborty writes:

Against the backdrop of the covid-19 pandemic and the economic slowdown, Saudi
Arabia-led oil cartel OPEC (Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries) wanted to
curtail oil production by 1.5 million barrels per day. However, as Russia has not agreed
to this proposal, Saudi Arabia has declared a price war by reducing the Brent crude oil
price from $65 per barrel in end-December 2019 to $33 now. The race to the bottom to
this extent by Brent is the first time ever since the 1991 Gulf crisis.

India is the world’s second largest consumer of oil. Can Riyadh’s race to the bottom with
Moscow in oil price to tackle the world’s number one oil producer, the United States’ (US)
Shale, have any positive impact on India by providing a fiscal dividend? A $20 reduction
in Brent oil prices can reduce India’s current account deficit. However, the instability in
oil prices is a short-run phenomenon, and India cannot anticipate a prolonged fiscal
dividend. Quite contrary to the expectations about a “pass-through effect” of low crude
oil prices on consumers, the Government of India (GoI) raised the excise duty on petrol
and diesel by `3 per litre on 13 March 2020. The special excise duty on petrol was hiked
by `2 to `8 per litre in the case of petrol and to `4 in the case of diesel.

There has been no “pass-through effect” primarily because the price determination of
petrol and diesel in India is not linked to crude oil prices in the international market.
Price determination is done through dynamic pricing, termed as “trade parity pricing,”
based on the international prices of petrol and diesel (finished products) prevailing in
the international markets, and not on crude oil per se. An obvious question here is
whether the crude oil prices and the petrol–diesel prices move in tandem in the
international market. Not always!

Globally, the market mechanism of ad hoc configurations of demand and supply of crude
oil are different from the demand–supply dynamics of petrol and diesel, and, in turn,
their pricing behaviour will also be distinctly different. The goi fixes the price of petrol
and diesel based on dynamic pricing and trade parity pricing by converting the price
from dollars to Indian rupees. The rupee–dollar exchange rate mechanism also affects
the pricing of petrol and diesel. This can offset the benefit India can reap from
comparatively lower prices of crude oil in the international market, quoted in dollars. The
other components to this pricing formula are the cost of inland freight, marketing costs,
taxes levied by the centre and the state governments, and the margins (charged by the
oil companies) and (the dealer) commissions.

It is, therefore, obvious that low international prices per se do not translate into lower
prices for petrol and diesel in India as long as the centre and states levy exorbitant taxes
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on these products. The interstate variation in the prices of petrol and diesel is also
significantly explained by the differentials in taxes imposed. The finance minister cannot
lower the fuel prices as she does not have the “fiscal space” to do that. To avoid the
adverse impact of the slump in product prices in international markets on tax revenue,
the finance minister has increased the prices of petrol and diesel.

Yet another factor to be borne in our minds is that the effect of international prices on
the in-house pricing of petrol and diesel in India is not instantaneous or spontaneous.
There is a time lag involved in the pricing process. Even though the goi uses the daily
pricing mechanism in the dynamic pricing formula of petrol and diesel, the international
prices component enters into the pricing equation as an international “benchmark price”
of petrol and diesel.

That is, today’s price in India reflects the average of international prices of petrol and
diesel of the previous fortnight. However, the fuel prices will not come down in a
fortnight’s time. This is
because in the price equation, the international price component is just one among
many components, whereas the tax component constitutes a dominant part in the
equation.

The covid-19 outbreak has started striking the financial markets and the real sector, and
especially investment in the energy sector. So, the lowering of oil price by Brent cannot
help the global economy from recession. Overall, the oil price war can negatively affect
the investment decisions in the energy sector and can be a drag on global growth. Due to
the covid-19 outbreak, there could be reduced oil-drilling activities in the energy sector,
and there will be some cutbacks in demand and, in turn, in the capex
energy infrastructure. Analysts have revealed that every $10 fall in oil prices transfers
around 0.3% of the global gross domestic product from oil-producing nations to oil-
consuming nations. The interest rate strategists are also concerned as the Russian 10-
year bond yields reached a record low of 2.56%, and Saudi Arabian government bonds
maturing in April 2030 are currently at 2.38%.

How seriously does macroeconomic policy tackle the oil price war? The US Federal
Reserve has lowered the federal funds interest rate by 50 basis points (one-half of a
percentage point) to 1.25%. The Bank of Canada also reduced the bank rate by 50 basis
points to the US level. The stock market indexes fell to the levels of 2008.

The 1.25% federal funds rate now is below the 2.5% US inflation rate. However,
monetary policy has failed to trigger the economy. As mentioned by the European
Central Bank, “targeting” rather than generalised public policy needs to be done. The
Reserve Bank of India policy tools may be ineffective now to tackle the slowdown,
especially against the backdrop of the worsening of the economy from the effects of
covid-19. The re-dominance of fiscal policy by the North Block is what is keenly awaited,
for an economic turnaround.

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Dalit Women, Vulnerabilities, and Feminist Consciousness
epw.in/journal/2020/12/special-articles/dalit-women-vulnerabilities-and-feminist.html

March 20,
2020

Since this article deploys the notion of “vulnerability” as a conceptual tool to understand
and analyse the nature of violence and powerlessness experienced by Dalit women, its
institutional complicity and structural basis, it would be pertinent to briefly discuss the
journey of this concept in social science disciplines. Broadly, the conception of being
“vulnerable” connotes insecurity, occurring and recurring on account of multiple forms of
subordination and victimisation, which are reproduced in newer forms in changing
circumstances. The term has been used in a United Nations report (nd: 2): “vulnerability
… is a result of both exposures to risk factors such as drought, conflict and socio-
economic processes which reduce people’s capacity and ability to cope.”

The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies (2020) defines
vulnerability in the context of threat or disaster; as the diminished capacity of an
individual or a group to anticipate, cope with, resist and recover from the impact of a
natural or man-made hazard. The concept is relative and dynamic. Vulnerability is most
often associated with poverty, but it can also arise when people are isolated, insecure
and defenceless in the face of risk, shock or stress. Caroline Moser has discussed the lack
of assets, and the resultant powerlessness as the basis for understanding vulnerability
(Ludgate 2016).

In social sciences, the term “vulnerability” has been used as an analytical conceptual tool
for describing and measuring the nature of susceptibility to harm and powerlessness,
and as a basis for policy intervention to enhance well-being. Paul S Kumar (2013: 2)
states, “vulnerability has been related/equated to concepts such as resilience,
marginality, susceptibility, adaptability, fragility, and risk.” Social vulnerability includes the
susceptibility of social groups or society to potential losses from extreme events and the
ability to absorb and withstand impacts. The present article thus uses the framework of
vulnerability to address Dalit women’s experiences of powerlessness, humiliation,
violence and the institutional and structural context of denial, lack of resources, and
assets to ensure sustainable livelihood.

In India, the phenomenon of vulnerability needs to be understood as rooted in the

hierarchical caste society, impacting the lives of caste groups whose social and material
locations are seen as hierarchically lower. Thus, Dalit women experience multiple forms
of harassment and humiliation as everyday and institutional phenomena, and continue
to be the most deprived sections of society in terms of life expectancy, access to
education and healthcare, income and work conditions, and acute asset deprivation
(Thorat 2018). They are rendered vulnerable on account of multiple co-impacting factors
—being members of the lowest section of the caste hierarchy; being women of lower

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caste; being subjected to caste-based patriarchal discrimination and oppression; and as
members of a minority community in village society in India. In the following section, I
discuss the prominent aspects of vulnerabilitycharacterising Dalit women’s lives.

Dalit Women and Manual Scavenging

In Indian society, the caste location continues to impact work/labour practices. Dalit
women thus are forced to work, because of their caste location, in extremely
exploitative, hazardous and humiliating conditions for mere survival, such as in the
practice of manual scavenging. In this “occupation” imposed by the hierarchical caste
system, Dalits in general and Dalit women in particular suffer violation of their basic
human rights. It is important to note that the conventional women’s/feminist
movements have largely been unresponsive to issues of exploitation and oppression
resulting from the caste system. Instead, they appear to have justified this “work” by
establishing non-governmental organisations (NGOs) (which bring recognition and
prominence), that has legitimised oppression. Purnima Chikarmane (2012: 1), a self-
declared champion of women working as scavengers apparently claims,

no person should have to be immersed in solid waste for their livelihood, yet every day
hundreds of thousands of informal waste pickers in India and across the developing world
scrabble through rubbish heaps in the streets, dumping grounds and landfills to recover
recyclables to earn a living.

Yet, her NGO popularised the slogan, “We are the sole owners of waste and garbage”
and “Garbage belongs to no one but us.” This means that Dalit women should claim
ownership of “garbage” and waste as their rightful share of empowerment. They should
not claim rights to resources to realise their human potential; of freedom to engage in
respectful professions. Thus, such organisations have tried to propagate the view that
collecting and selling garbage could be a worthy occupation. Construing rag picking and
scavenging as viable occupations, as a “right to choice” and claiming ownership of
garbage as empowerment legitimises Dalit women’s enslavement in traditionally
imposed occupations. Thus, “civil” society initiatives have resulted in making Dalit women
accept hazardous, unclean and disrespectful occupations, thereby denying them the
right to liberty and autonomy that the rest of the society enjoys.

Thus, such NGO initiatives—which are largely organised, led and controlled by the upper
caste and class civil society activists—result in making vulnerable sections accept their
vulnerability as a viable form of empowerment. Moreover, instead of considering earning
livelihood from garbage as only a temporary means of survival, these efforts lead to
valourising Dalit women’s slavery by declaring them parisar bhagini (sisters in service of
the environment). Moreover, this imposed nomenclature offers a false sense of self-
appreciation, thereby foreclosing any possibility of change in exploitative and oppressive
caste-based social–material relations. Besides, with limited sources for survival at their

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disposal, Dalit women are not responsible for environmental degradation; the classes
engaged in consumption are. Yet, declaring Dalit women to be parisar bhagini legitimises
the imposed burden of garbage they are not responsible for.

Victims of Human Trafficking

The second aspect of vulnerability discussed here deals with women victimised by
human trafficking. Because of their vulnerable social–material status in caste society,
Dalit women become susceptible to being deceitfully and forcefully trafficked into
prostitution. They do not come willingly into prostitution, nor do they come to cities to do
this “work” to begin with. They find themselves in prostitution because of varied levels of
vulnerabilities, including religious practices. In Sonagachi, a centre of brothel-based
prostitution in West Bengal, women trafficked into prostitution appear to internalise the
gaze of their oppressors. Despite being victims of the worst kinds of violence and abuse,
they “say” (speak) that it is not wrong to be involved in this “work” (Doezema 2005: 61–
89).

The patriarchal–material relations thrive on the “work” that trafficked women do. The
various groups and material interests that gain from these women’s “work” are:
customers, pimps, brothel runners, moneylenders, restaurants and hotel operators,
transport providers, medical service providers, and even religious places—the multiple
layers of material interests get fulfilled through the “work” that trafficked women do. The
trafficked women stand at the lowest rung of the hierarchy of material interests; they do
not form the sections that gain, but the ones on whose exploitation the entire structure
of sexual–material interests operates and is realised.

Thus, if women forced into prostitution appear to speak the language of “voluntary”
prostitution, the following questions need to be asked: Who constructs the discourse of
voluntary prostitution? Do sections such as clients, brothel keepers, room owners,
pimps, traffickers construe the discourse of voluntary prostitution? Hence, it is those
who constitute the “protection rackets for the sex industry” and gain from it, who also
construct and influence the victim’s views of prostitution as “voluntary.” Moreover, if
women abused and exploited by prostitution appear to accept it as “voluntary,” the
material–social relations dictated by their low caste–class social locations need to be
referred to. Another important consideration here is the internalisation of the discourse
of sexual purity and defilement, rooted in both caste and patriarchy as the basis of
production of “voluntariness.” Through caste-based prostitution, both sexual slavery of
women and caste hierarchies are realised and maintained.

In their position paper, the Durbar Mahila Samanwaya Committee (DMSC), an

organisation for sex workers’ rights based in Kolkata wrote: “DMSC sees sex work as a
contractual service, negotiated between consenting adults. In such a service contract
there ought to be no coercion or deception. As a sex workers’ rights organisation, DMSC
is against any force exercised against sex workers, be it by the client, brothel keepers,
room owners, pimps, police, or traffickers” (Jana et al 2002: 75). Again, it is necessary to
ask: Through such statements, who speaks on behalf of the trafficked women? Do
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trafficked women, who have come from the most oppressed and marginalised
communities, have the autonomy and capabilities to enter into a “contract”? Do they
understand what is written on their behalf? Thus, it is the upper-caste/class women who
articulate the notions of rights and the discourse of negotiations in trafficking, thereby
denying autonomous voice to trafficked women in articulating their life-worlds. Thus, the
trafficked women have to speak in a “borrowed” voice as if it is their own. Moreover, this
conception of sex “work” ignores the impact of caste, class and consequent
vulnerabilities in forcing women to “accept” prostitution.

Prostitution and Cultural Politics

Attention must be drawn to cultural politics articulated by NGOs. A play titled My Mother,
the Gharwali, the Maalak and His Wife1 written/directed by upper caste and class women
cultural activists, propagates the view that there is nothing wrong in prostitution. The
cultural politics is evident in the organiser’s choice of women in prostitution and their
family members as actors in the play to voice the view, scripted by the play
writer/director/producer, that “despite worst forms of abuse there is nothing wrong with
prostitution.” Thus, without addressing the issue of how women (belonging to which
social groups) are trafficked into prostitution, without making references to abuse and
violence against women in prostitution, and by ignoring the dynamics of caste, class and
sexual exploitation and violence, the organisers seem to justify and propagate
prostitution. While the producers of the play have received appreciation and recognition
for having created a piece of art, it has led to confusion among the sex workers about
their lives, their circumstances, the structures and actors responsible for their
oppression and exploitation, and their quest for freedom.

In reality, this recognition of forced prostitution as “work” involves legitimising the whole
chain of interests that acquires its sustenance through prostitution. In fact, women’s
sexual “work” becomes necessary for fulfilling material/sexual interests of groups other
than women. Despite this being the nature of “work” in prostitution, why do women,
apparently, not seem to object to it, and are shown to view it as any other work (as in the
play discussed above)? It appears that they have internalised the system of their
oppression and exploitation. They have internalised the discourse produced by the
dominant agents of the system who stand to gain from women’s exploitation and
oppression.

NGO intervention has taken the form of a campaign for women’s rights to work, to
“empower” sex “workers.” The NGOs spearheaded largely by activists drawn from upper
caste and class lack the understanding of the social dynamics of prostitution in India.
Thus, while prostitution in other countries may have invoked the language of sex “work”
as “choice,” in India, prostitution is enmeshed in caste and religion. It is forced caste-
based prostitution, wherein the girls/women from lower castes become susceptible to
trafficking due to various vulnerabilities resulting from their social location. The NGOs,
instead of ending this sexual slavery and exploitation by working towards creating more
avenues for the freedom of occupation and finding new sources of livelihood, tend to

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justify such practices as claims to choice and freedom, which, in reality, hides the
interlinks of caste, economy, sexual exploitation, culture and religion (for example, the
Devadasi system).

Thus, we are confronted with a paradox: the campaign for human rights, dignity and
recognition is rooted in the unspoken, taken-or-granted acceptance of multiple forms of
caste- and gender-based violence. The influential dominant players in the NGO sector,
drawn largely from the upper caste and class, aim to “empower” oppressed subjects
within the system of their oppression, thereby working towards sustaining the system of
the oppression. Their work propagates the view that there is nothing wrong with
prostitution. The sexual exploitation, abuse and violence are parts of life, so is the joy;
that enslavement though is inevitable, it is not the end of life. Such articulations with the
promise of “empowerment” and recognition make vulnerable women internalise their
oppression and accept, uncritically and unquestioningly, the upper caste and class
women’s perspectives on prostitution as appropriate and even desirable.

We need to mention the salience of “difference” and “hierarchy” here. The upper caste
and class NGO actors have resources, respect and recognition at their command, are
equipped with communicative skills suitable for global discourses; whereas the lower-
caste oppressed women lack this social capital. The caste hierarchy thus leads to
multiple forms of inequality. The upper caste and class NGO actors, because of their
location in the caste hierarchy, can never be subjected to experiences of forced
prostitution. They would not encounter the violence, abuse and exploitation that
characterise life in prostitution; whereas lower-caste women, because of their social
location, are susceptible and vulnerable to sexual exploitation. The upper caste and class
women do not cross the boundaries of caste; there is no shifting of locations, no
transition of caste–gender boundaries.

Instead, NGO initiatives appear to legitimise assault against Dalit women. Moreover, by
making humanitarian interventions for taking care of the children of the trafficked
women, NGO initiatives actually work towards the continuance of this “occupation” that
fulfills the interests of all other agents except the trafficked women. Hence, upper caste
and class women are complicit agents in acts of violence against Dalit women. Yet, they
act as “liberators” of lower-caste women and speak on their behalf. Consequently, the
upper caste and class “liberators” clog and foreclose any possibility of the emergence of
“organic intellectuals” among lower-caste women, who would assume autonomous
critical agency and question the system of oppression and hegemony, and work towards
articulating counter-knowledge rooted in the sufferers’ locations.

Of course, organisations such as Coalition Against Trafficking in Women and scholars like
Kathleen Berry have defined sex “work” as “sexual slavery.” Strict actions have been
prompted against it. On 6 April 2016, lawmakers in France passed a law that made
human trafficking illegal and made both traffickers and the sex worker’s clients liable for
fines up to €3,750 (₹ 2,79,860.51). France is the fifth country along with Sweden, Norway,
Iceland, and Britain which has passed such an act on “buying sex” (Chandran 2016).

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Caste-based Atrocities and Cultural Violence

The third form of vulnerability faced by Dalit women is caste-based violence and
atrocities. As landless agricultural labourers, Dalit women have to work on farms
belonging to upper-caste men. These work settings, apart from being the most
exploitative, are marked by ongoing experiences of abuse on account of caste. The
possibility of violence is perpetual; Dalit women live under perpetual fear of normalised
caste-based violence. Amidst the routine, normalised caste-based violence, the upsurge
of brutal violence characterises Dalit women’s lives, especially against those who assert
their rights. The organised killings of Khairlanji, a village in Maharashtra, where Surekha
Bhotmange, a Dalit woman who worked resolutely towards changing her family’s
circumstances and exhibited the courage to resist atrocities, was brutally and publicly
murdered, along with her three teenage children, on 29 September 2006. Apart from
brutal violence the Bhotmanges, especially women, were subjected to worst forms of
humiliation. The caste Hindus in the village sought to teach her a lesson for challenging
caste-based injustice and harassment (Department of Social Justice 2009).

The fourth dimension of vulnerabilityfaced by Dalit women is evident in cultural

traditions that involve commoditisation and sexual exploitation. The tradition of Lavani
dance, a form of erotic entertainment lower-caste women perform for upper-caste male
patrons, is a case in point. The idiom of Lavani presents Dalit women as sexually
submissive subjects, who face, negotiate, and suffer sexually violent and abusive
situations as a matter of day-to-day life. Lavani performances and songs, which are
written by men, legitimise upper-caste men’s sexual access to lower-caste women by
depicting and construing it as desired by the women. Thus, women face both the denial
of autonomy and imposed sexual identity.

Apart from performances by traditional dance troupes, Lavani has been made popular
through films, special shows and folk theatre festivals, sometimes with institutional
funding. This contemporary popularity marks the change in performers—the traditional
lower-caste women performers are replaced and relegated to the background by non-
Dalit upper-caste women. The entry of upper-caste Lavani performers has changed both
the site of performances—which is now films and special cultural events—and the
recognition of Lavani as an art form, with upper-caste Lavani performers as artistes.
Importantly, the new performers, with the upper-caste status to their side, engage in
erotic dance without the fear of potential/actual sexual violence, which characterises the
lives of traditional lower-caste performers. Thus, sexual commoditisation and violence
that the Dalit Lavani performers are subjected to, coexist, paradoxically, with the upper
caste and class women performers claiming and being accorded recognition of artistic
accomplishments for the same cultural activity.

The sexual exploitation construed as choice is present in a video by Paromita Vohra

—The Amorous Adventures of Shakku and Megha in the Valley of Consent .The film depicts
Lavani dancers’ desire for a potential sexual encounter with their clients and customers,
and that the man who succeeds in getting sexual submission of a woman is a heroic

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achiever. The question that emerges is: Can Lavani, which is an imposition on Dalit
women, be used as a metaphor for depicting the consensual sexual desire between two
individuals? The film-maker has depicted the potential sexual encounter between those
buying sex, the consumers of sex, and those forced to engage in sexual submission, as
involving consensual sex. Thus, Lavani, a form of sexual exploitation is turned into a form
of expression of sexual love.

Again, it is noteworthy that all Lavani songs which women dancers sing and perform are
written by men. Hence, Lavani songs depict women’s desires as written/construed by
men. Thus, the discourse of sexuality construed through Lavani songs legitimises men’s
control over women’s sexuality, and legitimises power relations in sexuality in the guise
of consent. What is more, it makes sexual exploitation as desirable by those victimised
by it. Thus, the film-maker, by using Lavani as a metaphor for love, reproduces and
legitimises power relations in sexuality as “desirable and consensual.” Furthermore, the
difference between the traditional Lavani performers (women from the marginalised
communities), and those who perform on-screen and in cultural festivals (upper caste
and class), and the notion of difference—social vulnerability experienced by Dalit women
and claims to artistic achievement and recognition by the non-Dalit upper-caste women
—is sought to be erased by the film-maker.

The upper caste and class film-maker is unconcerned/unaware about the practice of the
art as an exploitative social practice. Instead, by constructing and locating sexual
exploitation in the realm of “ambiguous”—the “consent” is both yes and no—the film-
maker becomes another agent constructing and legitimising sexual exploitation—an
erotic cultural consumption for the patron as desired by the victims of Lavani. Here, the
importance of the conception of sexual violence, “against our will and without our
consent,” expounded by Susan Brownmiller (1975) in her work, Against Our Will: Men,
Women, and Rape, is misconstrued by making it ambiguous—the customer is both a
potential lover and an exploiter simultaneously. Dance historian Lynn Garafola (1986)
articulated such ambiguity as flexible morals rooted in sexual exploitation (Banes 1998:
39). The attempt in Vohra’s film is to make sexual exploitation not only invisible, but also
desirable by the victims.2 Upper-caste, non-Dalit film-makers who assume agency in the
cognition of art and cultural identities therefore engage in the politics of cultural
representation. Thus, the primacy of upper-caste/non-Dalits cultural actors in shaping
Dalit women’s cultural identity leads to both multilayered subordination and an act of
“epistemic violence,” present in the processes of “omission” and “othering” in knowledge
production.

Institutional Practices of Humiliation and Violence

Institutional procedures have been the context of humiliation for Dalits and Dalit women
attempting to claim dignity and honour through modernity. The death of Rohith Vemula,
a Dalit research scholar who wanted to transcend his social location and claim
universality as a human subject, continues to evoke concerns about institutional
practices. The institutional apathy and callous attitude with which the administration

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dealt with the issue; the varied forms of humiliation Rohith’s mother was subjected to
during the procedures and practices to ascertain his caste background (to show that the
injustice he suffered need not be seen as caste-based), have set alarm bells ringing. The
suicide of Payal Tadvi, a medical postgraduate student from a tribal background, due to
continuous harassment and mental torture, is another case of institutional humiliation.
Apathy towards injustice faced by individuals from marginalised communities is not the
only face of humiliation; undermining the efficacy of the institutions presents another
dimension of humiliation.

The Justice Verma Committee Report (2013) that was brought out in the aftermath of the
brutal gang rape in the Nirbhaya case, suggested amendments in criminal law for faster
trials and enhanced punishment for criminals accused of sexual violence against women,
and recommended changes on laws related to rape, sexual harassment, trafficking and
child sexual abuse. It has been held as a major step in ensuring justice and in arresting
sexual violence against women. However, a glaring lacuna in the Verma Committee
recommendations is that it does not take cognisance of caste dynamics of gender
relations in India, and the caste-based sexual violence and rape against Dalit women.
The institutional apathy and lapses in investigation have emboldened the perpetrators,
making Dalit women more vulnerable. The Khairlanji case clearly indicates this: if the
various appeals and representations Surekha Bhotmange made to the local
administration were seriously responded to, the brutal killing of four persons could have
been averted.

The 73rd amendment of the Constitution with the provision of 33% reservation for
women in local governing councils is lauded as an important step towards the political
empowerment of women. Yet, the contextually embedded character of this initiative,
rooted in caste, class, and gender dynamics, contributes to the vulnerability of Dalit
women. While it offers political representation for Dalit women in local self-governance,
their social–material dependence on the dominant castes for day-to-day survival makes
them susceptible to complex forms of vulnerability. While through this policy Dalit
women have become the village sarpanch (village chief), their caste locations make them
politically and socially vulnerable to the authority of both men and women of dominant
castes.

Thus, this policy in practice has introduced new forms of caste-based gender hierarchies
in rural society, undermining the very policy of political empowerment resulting in a
“complex of vulnerability and empowerment.” Hence, “democracy at the grass-root level”
coexists with most of the “undemocratic caste-based social–material hierarchies.” A few
NGOs like Mahila Rajsatta Andolan though have made successful efforts towards
women’s political empowerment. However, they have assumed “rural women” to be an
undifferentiated category, omitting any reference to caste location as a significant factor
constituting rural power dynamics. Dalit women thus have to negotiate and enter into
relations of obligation and submission for accessing basic necessities. This complex of
negotiation and submission lead Dalit women to internalise their vulnerability, as an
inevitable, inescapable part of existence.3
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Social Vulnerability and Social Safeguarding

As compared with the upper caste and class women, Dalit women do not have a claim to
what I call processes of “social safeguarding.” The basic idea here is this: In the Indian
society, caste hierarchy matters in deciding a person’s claim to security and safety in the
public domain from (patriarchal) violence. For instance, non-Dalit women—especially
those belonging to the upper caste and class—will be less susceptible to violence and
subordination in the public domain due to their social status emerging from their caste
locations. Compared to Dalit women, non-Dalit women are protected in the public
domain. In the case of Dalit women though, due to their caste locations, such social
safeguarding will be absent. Instead, in the public domain, they live under perennial
potential “social insecurities/vulnerabilities” as a routine aspect of their lives. The concept
of “social safeguarding” suggests that their location in the caste hierarchy protects and
secures the lives of the upper caste and class women, and conversely makes Dalit
women insecure and vulnerable in the public domain.

The idea of “safeguards” so far has been used in legal contexts. The Constitution
articulates fundamental rights and provides safeguards of rights to make them
viable/attainable. In the Indian society, one’s location in caste hierarchies provides
“social” safeguards in claiming honour, dignity and rights. For Dalit women, their social
location not only makes them susceptible to social insecurities and vulnerabilities, but
their claims to legal safeguards get jeopardised too. On the other hand, while patriarchy
subordinates upper caste and class women, their caste location offers them “social”
safeguards—while they are subordinated by patriarchy, they are protected by their
upper caste and class location in the caste-driven public domain. Therefore, while the
upper caste and class women may resist patriarchal subjugation, they are silent on caste
inequalities. Rather, as many upper caste and class women’s rallies in the public domain
in Maharashtra have shown, these women proudly claim and celebrate their caste
identity and status. Thus, instead of engaging in acts of building “sisterhood,” celebrating
their caste identity makes upper caste and class women complicit agents in caste
violence against Dalit women. Many instances of violence against Dalit women have
witnessed active participation of upper caste and class women to instigate their men
(such as Khairlanji).

Due to their caste location, Dalit women become victims of “caste-based public
patriarchy.” Instead of “social safeguarding,” their location in the caste hierarchy makes
them socially vulnerable, insecure and susceptible to social violence. Thus, one’s caste
location and consequent social status renders differences in experiences of gendered
subordination: non-Dalit women gain “social” safeguards—which also facilitate their
claims to legal safeguards—whereas Dalit women face a continuum of “social
insecurities” and vulnerabilities, often jeopardising their claims to constitutional rights.
Thus, the social and material relations in rural society affected by caste–gender construct
“casteised boundaries” that hamper the possibility of collective action beyond caste.

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Moreover, Dalit women’s caste location results in an organised silencing of insecurities,
vulnerabilities and the violence they suffer. Despite the proliferation of different forms of
media, violence against Dalit women does not receive the attention it deserves. For
instance, the Nirbhaya case could receive massive support from media and civil society.
However, the ongoing cases of brutal violence against Dalit women continue to be
hidden from the larger public. Furthermore, caste- based public patriarchy, through
institutional practices, results in implicit forms of caste profiling, impacting Dalit women’s
claims and rights adversely. Hence, for addressing Dalit women’s experiences of
vulnerabilities, insecurities and violence occurring on account of caste-based public
patriarchy, we suggest the principle of priority rulecould be invoked as a mechanism for
ensuring justice.

Dalit Women and Conventional Feminist Movements

Earlier studies have shown that Dalit women saint-poetesses have exhibited critical
consciousness and articulated a universal vision of a just and egalitarian world (Gaikwad
2000). Dalit women have actively contributed to freedom struggles in India—in the
struggle against colonial rule and in the Ambedkarian movement against caste
oppression. Hence, historically, resistance against colonialism, caste and patriarchy has
been Dalit women’s social and political engagement (Gaikwad 2000). Moreover, during
the 1970s, they have actively participated in feminist movements, though the concerns of
conventional feminist movements in India have remained rooted in/and largely continue
to be around the issues confronted by upper caste and class women.

Emerging from this location, conventional feminist movements lacked an understanding

of the intersecting, co-impacting and co-constituting character of caste and gender and
the resulting systems of oppression and exploitation. They have articulated the concerns
of upper caste and class women as the problems of “all” women. They have exhibited
apathy towards various struggles against atrocities on Dalit women. In the aftermath of
the Khairlanji massacre, the silence exhibited by non-Dalit women was glaringly
conspicuous. Thus, caste-based violence and the apathy of the non-Dalit sections,
including women, act as a double-edged weapon against Dalit women.

If the protest experience of conventional women’s movements was that of “othering,” the
experience of knowledge-building practices was not dissimilar. The institutional contexts
of knowledge—“women’s studies”—have been organised by and have focused on the
upper caste and class women’s experiences of patriarchal relations. They become
legitimate “subjects” of study and their experiences, legitimate sources of knowledge.
Thus, knowledge-making institutional structures prioritise the experiences of women
from socially and materially empowered sections. This is not to say that Dalit women are
totally absent from academic enquiries. However, these attempts have largely emerged
out of concerns of filling data for policy evaluation. If they become subjects of
knowledge, they are subjected to what Dorothy Smith (1999) calls the “conceptual
practices of power.”

10/16
Furthermore, while the cases of violence against Dalit/Adivasi women were the contexts
for effecting the legislation for gender justice, these interventions have largely been
evoked to address the rights of the upper caste and class women. For instance, while the
violence Bhanwari Devi suffered and the resolute struggle she waged was the context for
the landmark judgment for ensuring women’s rights at the workplace, this legal measure
has not been evoked to address issues of sexual violence encountered by women from
marginalised communities who work in unorganised and informal sectors. Interestingly,
this legal measure, known as the Vishakha judgment, recognises the contribution by the
women’s group, but ignores Bhanwari Devi, whose struggle was the basic context for this
legislation.

Articulating Dalit Feminist Consciousness

In the remaining part of the paper, I have attempted to outline the Dalit feminist
consciousness, which is rooted in Dalit women’s experiences of subordination resulting
from caste-based public patriarchy as its starting point. It would attempt to make visible
the structures and ideologies that constitute these experiences as well as institutional
practices that reiterate and normalise this experience. Furthermore, my attempt views
the ideologies and structures of oppression and exploitation—patriarchy, caste, and
class—as interconnected, intersecting, co-impacting, co-producing and so co-complexing
in nature. The understanding here is that the forces and structures of oppression cannot
be engaged with, and transformative, emancipatory knowledge and politics cannot be
arrived at, unless the “border crossings” and transversal politics are imagined and
practised. The emancipatory practice is not an isolated or a partial engagement and
achievement: the emancipation of one is neither at the cost of, nor independent of, the
other. Let us foreground this discussion in a brief review of attempts of conceptualising
patriarchy as multidimensional, co-impacting, co-constituting and co-complexing
formation.

Feminism as a movement, ideology, and theory, has developed in women’s (and men’s)
attempts of resisting discrimination and inequality encountered by women in varied
forms. The experiences of inequality and discrimination were shaped and reiterated by
the structures/institutional settings/practices such as social–material relations, culture,
and religion as well as knowledge-making processes. Thus, feminism is seen as a
movement that seeks to establish women’s claims to resources as equal and
autonomous subjects. Such an aim would be realised only when social/institutional
settings such as family, education, workplace and culture, religion and politics are
reformed, and gender relations are restructured.

At the level of theory, feminist scholarship sought to make women’s experiences “visible”
and “central” for understanding social processes and social formations; to see these
relations of power as rooted in the interconnections of social institutions, and in
structures of thought and knowledge practices, which create, reiterate, and legitimise
varied forms of subordination. Thus, contributions in feminist theory critique the

11/16
relations of power and seek to intervene in knowledge practices to transform the
knowledge colonised by patriarchy. The central concern was to engage in an
emancipatory project.

Sylvia Walby’s (1997) work towards analysing patriarchy, in understanding the

interlinkages between patriarchy and other domains of social–material and political
structures and relations, which collectively work to produce gender inequality and
subordination is instructive for us. According to Walby (1997: 43), patriarchy is a system
of structures that involves a number of patriarchal practices: the patriarchal mode of
production, patriarchal relations in paid work, patriarchal state, male violence, patriarchal
relations in sexuality and patriarchal culture. This articulation shows that patriarchy is a
structural phenomenon, intersecting and co-constituting/co-complexing other
structures, involving institutional practices and asymmetrical social relations, which lead
to complex mechanisms of control and power.

This discussion is an important theoretical resource for understanding Dalit women’s

experiences of patriarchy, caste and class, their intersections, and the institutional and
structural context, which constitutes social order and shapes the identities of both Dalit
women and Dalit men. While Dalit men may appear to have a privileged status in Dalit
families, they have no control over social–material resources or the structural and
institutional forms of power and domination. Socially and materially, they are the most
oppressed and vulnerable sections of society. On the other hand, the control and
domination upper-caste men hold over society are rooted in their location in the
hierarchical order of caste that controls material and social (even sexual) patriarchal
relations, the institutions and apparatuses of culture and power in society. Thus, Dalits in
general become victims of caste-based subordination; Dalit women are particularly
subjugated by what I call the .

So far, we have alluded to three aspects of Dalit feminist consciousness: (i) Dalit women’s
lives are affected by caste-based public patriarchy. The subordination and inequalities
they face emerge from interconnected and intersecting systems of domination, such as
gender, caste, and class; and this intersecting matrix of domination makes the
subordination of Dalit women as multilayered and co-complexing in nature, which
produce each other in multiple forms and create massively complex situations.(ii)
Crossing boundaries of difference is necessary for transformative practice. (iii)
Historically, Dalit women have exhibited autonomous critical consciousness and
expressed the universal vision of a just world.

Concluding Remarks

We consider experiences of caste-based public patriarchy and the struggle against it as a

starting point of a Dalit feminist consciousness. Despite their ongoing struggle, justice
has eluded Dalit women; and despite the language of sisterhood, “mainstream” feminist
persuasions have not made attempts to challenge caste as an ideology of women’s
subordination. Hence, the struggle against caste-based public patriarchy remains a
paramount concern of Dalit feminism. Dalit women have exhibited autonomous critical
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consciousness. The 14th century saint poets such as Soyarabai, and Nirmala have
exhibited autonomous critical consciousness in their philosophical reflections. The
consciousness their verses articulate show that unlike the upper caste and class women,
they do not live as/under the shadow of their husbands. Beyond the language of
difference, they have articulated a universal emancipatory consciousness. Moreover,
instead of being engulfed in their own pain, they have tried to share and “own” the pain
suffered by oppressed humanity.

In postcolonial India, Dalit feminist consciousness is informed and shaped by Phule–

Ambedkarian critical perspectives. This is evident in their participation in and
contribution to various sociopolitical struggles in various phases of Dalit movements,
working class movements and the conventional feminist movements. Dalit protests in
the post-1970s—for renaming Marathwada University after B R Ambedkar, against
attempts to halt the publication of Ambedkar’s work Riddles in Hinduism by the
government, the spontaneous protest after police murders of Dalits in Ramabai Nagar in
Mumbai, and protests after the brutal Khairlanji massacre, all have witnessed
independent and leading participation of Dalit women.

However, a few Dalit women, like a few Dalit middle-class men who acquired social
mobility through education, exhibit a social orientation that suggests that they are under
what I call Brahminical surveillance. The Brahminical patriarchal sensibilities are reflected
in their efforts of privileging their own family and own life concerns which they construe
as concerns of the Dalit community, ignoring the subordination resulting from caste and
caste-based patriarchy. Of course, this section of Dalit women is a minuscule minority
that does not impact the consciousness of large majority of Dalit women. Yet, the non-
Dalit upper caste and class women have identified the issues affecting middle-class Dalit
women as issues confronting all Dalit women. Thus, the focus on Dalit patriarchy
reflected in middle-class Dalit women’s writings shows the cultural influence of
Brahminical surveillance. Consequently, caste-based male violence against Dalit women,
which is systemic and structural in nature and for which Dalit men are not responsible,
remains unaddressed and marginalised.

Dalit feminism is committed to fight caste-based public patriarchy, and holds that the
articulation and practice of legal and punitive measures for the redress of violence
should reflect perspectives of the most subordinated sections of society. The “specificity
of subjugation” suffered by Dalit women should reflect in the provisions of laws—family,
civil and criminal laws as well as those related to atrocities. The “politics of recognition”
has led to the prominent visibility of a section of the oppressed who emulate the elites,
their status quo language and culture, as opposed to the orientation of
interrogation/resistance. Thus, while some Dalit women reproduce the cultural discourse
of upper caste and class and received awards, such recognition has proved futile in
addressing the subjugation their sisters face. In the cultural domain, Lavani dancers
ought to be aware of their exploitation, as opposed to seeking appreciation and
recognition from the very elite responsible for their subjugation.

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The challenge posed by Dalit feminism is sought to be disintegrated in many ways.
Instead of interrogating caste-based public patriarchy, and the intersecting character of
the subjugation faced by Dalit women, public and academic discourses have proliferated
with discussions on rifts within the Dalit community, and between Dalit women and men;
Dalit men are seen as central agents subordinating Dalit women, thereby diverting one’s
attention from the violence resulting from caste-based public patriarchy. Also, this
introduces distance between Dalit movements and Dalit women and undermines the
role of Dalit movements, especially the Dalit Panthers, whose struggle prioritised the
question of Dalit women’s dignity, and spoke the language of universal emancipation—
from untouchability, caste, patriarchy and exploitative material relations.

Since the last two decades, Dalit women’s social lives have become the subject of
academic enquiries; the knowledge that has emerged, however, has wrongly construed
their struggle as “identity politics,” with the focus on representation, as opposed to the
analytical capacity of interrogating the structures of oppression. Hence, an important
dimension of Dalit feminist consciousness is critical engagement with knowledge: the
oppressed sections have confronted structures of knowledge as the context of
invisibility, omission, silencing, “othering,” and “epistemic black-out and violence.” Thus,
in the knowledge domain, emerging Dalit scholars are persuaded or coerced into taking
up only Dalit studies, thereby denying their claim to universal knowledge pursuits. While,
for Dalit scholars, the non-Dalit subjects are not available as objects of study, non-Dalit
scholars, however, have access to Dalit social experience, their own experience as
subjects of enquiry as well as claim to universal scholarship. This is a new form of subtle
untouchability in the academic field. One cannot touch the upper caste and class “other”
as a subject of enquiry.

Moreover, Dalit women scholars of a new generation face blatant subordination and a
ghettoised existence in reputed institutions of higher education. They seem to inhabit
two different worlds with disparate access; the other privileged sisters are uninterested
in fighting caste as a basis of women’s subordination. Hence, the analysis of co-impacting
and co-constituting character of caste-based public patriarchy, and the interrogation and
examination of the existing knowledge engagement about Dalit women, will be the
methodological stance of Dalit feminism. Finally, Dalit feminism sees serious
engagement with knowledge—resistance against accommodative, “add-on” approaches
in knowledge practice, a critique of the colonisation of knowledge and a commitment to
critical reflexive knowledge—as central to emancipatory practice.

Notes

1 The play was conceived by Meena Seshu, Bishakha Datta and Divya Bhatia and it was
directed by Sushama Deshpande in 2009.

2 The movie Sairat (directed by Nagraj Manjule) depicts a case of honour killing and caste
tensions within the touchable communities. Though in reality, the highest cases of
honour killings involve violence against the untouchable community. Ironically, the film-
maker who receives recognition as a “Dalit voice” in cultural production specifically omits
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and silences the key role of Dalits in bringing the Other Backward Classes in resistance
for their rights. The film represents the contemporary viewpoint of non-Dalit
perceptions.

3 Dalit women face violence due to caste-based public patriarchy. They are victims of
upper caste and class men’s patriarchal–caste social–material domination and control.

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disasters/what-is-a-disaster/what-is-vulnerability/.

Jana, Smarajit, Nandinee Bandyopadhyah, Mrinal Kanti Dutta and Amitrajit Saha (2002):
“A Tale of Two Cities: Shifting the Paradigm of Anti-Trafficking Programmes,” Gender and
Development, Vol 10, No 1, pp 69–79.

Justice Verma Committee (2013): “Report of the Committee on Amendments to Criminal

Law,”
https://www.prsindia.org/uploads/media/Justice%20verma%20committee/js%20verma%
20committe%20report.pdf.

Kumar, Paul Shingatsu (2013): “Vulnerability Concepts and Its Application in Various
Fields: A Review on Geographical Perspective,” Journal of Life Earth Sciences, Vol 8, pp 63–
81.

Ludgate, Nargiza (2016): “Moser Gender Analysis Framework,” Feed the Future,
https://ingenaes.illinois.edu/wp-content/uploads/ING-Info-Sheet-2016_09-3-Moser-Triple-
Role-Framework-Ludgate.pdf.

Proag, Virendra (2014): “The Concept of Vulnerability and Resilience,” paper presented
at the 4th International Conference on Building Resilience, Building Resilience 2014,
Salford Quays, United Kingdom, 8–10 September.

Ramesh, Abhinaya (2006): “Saint Poets and Their Contribution in Social Transformation,”
Sugawa, October, p 1.

Smith, Dorothy (1999): Writing the Social: Critique, Theory and Investigations, Toronto:
University of Toronto Press.

Thorat, Sukhadeo (2018): “Dalit Women in Maharashtra, Gender and Caste Inequality,” special
lecture in the event for and against Equity, Democracy and Secularism, Department of
Sociology, Mumbai University, 31 August.

United Nations (nd): “An Overview of Vulnerability Analysis and Mapping (VAM),”
https://www.un.org/Depts/Cartographic/ungis/meeting/march00/documentation/wfp_rec
alde2.pdf.

Walby, Sylvia (1997): Gender Transformations, London: Routledge.

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Complicating the Feminist

epw.in/journal/2020/12/special-articles/complicating-feminist.html

March 20, 2020

This paper is an intellectual history of the language that surrounded birth control in India, with a
focus on notable thinkers of the 20th century: B R Ambedkar, M K Gandhi and Margaret Sanger.
This history refers to the intellectuals, ideas and ideological patterns that developed over time vis-
à-vis birth control. It does not examine contraception as a physical mechanism to prevent
pregnancy, nor does it discuss the production and sale of condoms, diaphragms and oral pills that
entered the Indian markets from the 1930s onwards. This paper treats the issue of birth control
not as static, but as one that existed within a changing social and political context.

This perspective is useful in understanding contraception not simply as a function to regulate

childbearing, but as a moral and intellectual lens to understand how powerful thinkers approached
women’s reproductive health. It nourishes scepticism about the permanence of concepts and
openness to different moral and philosophical perspectives simultaneously. Ambedkar, Gandhi,
and Sanger are individuals who represent the multiplicity of intellectual trajectories that informed
public thought in modern India. Public discourse as well as state response to the “problem” of
managing the reproductive bodies of lower castes, Muslims, and the rural and urban poor, was
marked as much by ambiguity as it was by continuities between the colonial and postcolonial
state.1 I argue that the ideological concerns of Ambedkar, Gandhi, and Sanger regarding birth
control were representative of the material assumptions each carried regarding women and their
roles within marriage and childbearing.

Feminist Concerns in India

These conflicted perspectives are symptomatic of various strands of feminist thought in the Indian
subcontinent that continue to be relevant in present times. The feminist movement in India has
faced enduring internal challenges. Brahminical feminism, like Brahminical patriarchy, is material
in terms of representation, division of labour, access to resources and prioritisation of issues. The
second wave of feminism in India saw liberals bring to the table matters of gender and class. It
neglected the missing Dalit representation, double discrimination of caste and gender injustice,
and the subsuming of the feminist agenda by upper-caste goals. Academic language has, in the
recent years, seen remarkable scholarship, such as the work of Shailaja Paik, Sharmila Rege and
Gopal Guru calling out these inadequacies and asserting that sexual politics cannot be revised
without contesting differential access to and control over labour, sexuality and reproduction by
caste and class. However, gains of the caste-vigilant feminist movement in India have been
limited in dismantling caste privilege, both within and beyond academia.

Locating the feminist movement beyond academia in India has its own challenges. The critique
does not demand that non-Dalit feminist allies be banished into guilt or compelled to uncritically
support Dalit feminism. Instead, it has asked for a rewriting of narratives that do not find Brahmin
stories as central, nor to homogenise Dalit voices and integrate them into the nation without
challenging existing networks of power. However, these spaces of introspection have largely been

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excluded by the feminist cause in modern India. Feminist concerns have reproduced a caste-
based character of capital accumulation rather than address the problems of recognition and
redistribution.

India’s #MeToo movement is a case in point. It is fair to say that the #MeToo movement in India
was a watershed moment—breaking the silence on sexual harassment and assault at the
workplace by calling out perpetrators, many of whom were powerful men, in a public way. The
campaign gained strength through social media and offline activism and brought new power to
women who survived workplace harassment. This shift in conversation was a significant moment
in the nation’s story—it shifted the curtain of shame from the victim to the perpetrator, encouraged
nuanced discussions on power dynamics at work and brought women’s experiences to centre
stage.

For the most part, however, this comprised upper-class and upper-caste narratives. It did not
include domestic workers, Dalit women or those in the corners of rural India, who were neither
represented nor their concerns included. The discussions about dignity and justice at the
workplace by experts in the field were written in the English language, to an English-speaking
audience and circulated through English media. Little attention was given to media content
reaching vernacular audiences, and, by extension, there was limited effort to include their voices
and stories. Similar patterns of selective outrage reflect in wanting media coverage and protests
for matters of violence against Dalits and Muslims. Feminist issues of critical significance such as
provisions for schooling and lavatories for Dalit women and children have missed the radar of
upper-caste Indian feminists, even though—despite what the Prime Minister and government
reports state—these issues are far from being resolved.

This criticism is not to say that the liberal tradition altogether be disbanded. Liberal thought has
been central to the story of Indian feminism. As we know, there is no one kind of feminism, and
individuals are capable of both great liberalism and illiberalism. This convergence of the liberal
and illiberal is true for birth control and forms the central thesis of this paper. With regard to birth
control, on the one hand, there were material technologies that allowed women and men the
freedom from childbearing and the ability to enjoy sex with lowered risks of pregnancy. On the
other hand, contraceptive policy was limited by ideological constraints of caste, class, and sex,
imbibing within its fold already established social differences with a greater presence. This
encourages a complex discussion on the kind of feminism that each of these individuals
represented.

I seek to complicate this by blurring the lines between the East and the West—asserting that the
language and agenda of Indian leadership and corridors of power reflected anxieties that were
similar to their colonial counterparts. This is because of a shared desire to contain “certain”
people while showing concern, albeit limited, for women’s reproductive health. I argue that this
points to the range of liberal and illiberal values that were held in the same historical moment—
and at the heart of birth control histories are the tensions and fragmentations of modern feminist
thought in India.

The Position of Agency in Feminism

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The writing of history brings the formidable task of challenging one’s own assumptions about
historiographical trends while reconciling the self-indulgence of the act. Given this predicament,
the nature of my historical and political questions in this paper are informed by Ambedkar who
emphasised the criticality of an interaction between the past and the present and the need to
complicate the aesthetics and the violence within histories—one that claimed a rigorous dialogue
with the past in order to bear meaningfulness in the present.2

Correspondingly, this paper does not make one overarching argument about the transformation of
ideas related to reproductive practices and sexual politics of the mid-20th century Indian
subcontinent. Instead, it explores the intricate and layered negotiations that string together the
ideological with the material. I do not suggest that there was a sharp distinction between these
macro factors and their local particularities. This reading explores the positionality of
contemporary feminism. It interrogates the notion of women’s agency and dialogues with its
incongruous opposite, or what I refer to as disagency.

Examining women’s agency seeks an explanation of who is the woman purportedly without
agency. Disagency may be constructed around women of a different class, caste, and community.
It may be women who dress traditionally, may not speak English, and whose decisions on
marriage, work and family may be at a distance from what is considered feminist. It situates
feminist articulation through a self-consciousness about who speaks and how. It demands an
acknowledgement that the desire to protect, rescue or speak on behalf of one kind of woman
emerges from an appropriation of power. Rather than limit the discussion to reductive analyses of
binaries, a more helpful approach is to pay attention to the woman’s experience of negotiation
and resistance.

It may be agreed that agency is not simply the ability to make independent choices; instead, it
comprises dynamic social processes that allow a multiplicity of voices. This dismantles
dichotomies of liberal and illiberal, traditional and modern, and free and oppressed, and instead
produces a discourse that pays due attention to the quotidian intersections of experience. This
upturns—if not dissolves—the theoretical assumptions of disagency, encouraging an
introspection that is alert to the intellect of those in diverse circumstances. Following in a path
paved by feminist scholars, such as Barbara Ramusack and Antoinette Burton (1994) and Lata
Mani (1990) who have, in compelling ways, approached questions of feminism within
imperialism,3 I point to the challenges of examining disagency and the impossibility of abstracting
sexual rights from their social and political environment—through the history of birth control.

The global phenomenon of extensive international funding marked for birth control that went to
the gradually decolonising nations of Asia and Africa provides a fascinating look into the histories
of nationalism, empire and modernity. Matthew Connelly argues in his book Fatal Misconception:
The Struggle to Control World Population (2008) that the concerns of overpopulation were met by
a bevy of international and local advocates of birth control and were accompanied by significant
ambiguities in policy and practice. Connelly (2008) demonstrates how the global agenda of
population control was interwoven into local politics that comprised multiple voices and agendas.
There are historical moments intimately intertwined within the history of contraception that
occurred both at the global and national levels.

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The contentious Child Marriage Restraint Act or Sarda Act4 is relevant to narratives of
childbearing and motherhood. Similarly, the census reports of India formulated every 10 years
were used extensively in policy reports by both Indian and non-Indian birth control advocates,
particularly the Census of 1931, to emphasise the dangerous threats of the overpopulation
problem. Simultaneously, at the international levels, as Connelly (2008: 154) argues,

proponents of population control were pushing an idea more radical than national self-
determination and assisted development … Starting with India, soon to be followed by
Pakistan, South Korea, and a host of others, they persuaded leaders of newly independent
countries to not just choose between capitalism or communism, in which reproductive
behavior was a by-product of modernisation … They presented population control as a
means to jump-start the process.

Indeed, advocates found sympathies in international organisations such as the United Nations
whose highest offices comprised allies and supporters of the struggle over world population
control—even as advancing and legalising birth control remained both ambiguous and contested.
This was especially so given its intimate requirements that appeared to stand against one of the
most powerful and long-lasting opponents of birth control in the global North—the church.

Performing Both Feminism and Empire

Within these complex dialogues, I explore the narrative of one individual who played a crucial role
in promoting birth control in the global South and India in particular—Margaret Sanger (1879–
1966). Her role as both representative of international organisations and otherwise, and their
funding to population control in the decolonising world brings a fascinating strand of feminism to
consider in the present times. It is one that provided logistical relief to poor women seeking to limit
the number of children they had to bear, by trying to contain poor people for the benefit of a global
development agenda. There are similarities in such turgid rhetoric with succeeding governments
in independent India that seek to contain the population of historically and economically
disadvantaged communities by using the argument of economic development. This explains the
limits of identifying 1947 as a disruption in policy and practice in the state’s treatment of
vulnerable citizens.

Sanger brings a complex and clever feminism to the table. It is a feminism that blurs the lines
between the East and the West in that it carries continuities and a striking resemblance to strands
of feminism understood and promoted by contemporary liberal India and their dominant
positioning vis-à-vis marginalised groups, such as Dalits, Muslims and the urban and rural poor. It
is one that claims to move forward against certain patriarchal structures, but remains decidedly
inadequate in its will to include those diverging in caste and class. Sanjam Ahluwalia in
Reproductive Restraints: Birth Control in India, 1877–1947 (2008) argues that in examining the
interventions within the birth control debates in India, it is possible to identify the mutually
benefiting relationship between Western advocates and their Indian counterparts (even as neither
formed a homogeneous group of people) working together to promote a common cause.

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Therefore, the beginnings of modern sexual politics of the 20th century did not represent the
diverse range of reproductive practices and experiences across the world, in fact, it represented
one with a narrow and disruptive world view. Sanger’s approach to birth control was notable on
three accounts—first, her absent concern for existing indigenous practices; second, her limited
concern for the health of poor women; and third, a missing recognition for those already working
in the field. For example, Sanger’s trips to India included meetings with high-level dignitaries,
such as Gandhi. She made no effort to meet those who advocated the use of birth control for the
purpose of women’s well-being (not for protecting the family unit) such as Periyar E V Ramasamy
or Ambedkar.

On the issue, Periyar (2005: 570) said “Others advocate birth-control with a view of preserving the
health of women and conserving family property; but we advocate it for the liberation of women.”
Ambedkar pushed for state support to contraception in the Bombay Legislative Assembly in 1938
towards the maternal health of women at a time when Gandhi opposed all forms birth control and
advocated only abstinence. Sanger’s meeting with Gandhi made waves in the national and
international press because of her famous discussion with the renowned spiritual leader of the
East. In many ways, Gandhi’s popularity boosted her own. This gives context to Sanger’s
unwillingness to engage with indigenous customs and leadership as well as her limited concern
for the poor—constructed through exclusionary language and practices regarding birth control.

Sanger, a contemporary of Gandhi and Ambedkar, was an American-born birth control advocate
and one of the best known and far travelled globally. On the one hand, she maintained close ties
with Carlos Blacker (controversial general secretary of the London Eugenicist Society and who
funded several of her international trips to former colonies) amongst other similar associations;
and on the other hand, she simultaneously brought forth important feminist ideas, with a thrust on
the need for women to have the knowledge, choice and access to reproductive health. In a
speech delivered at the 17th Annual Convention of the Federation, of Jewish Women’s
Organizations held in New York in 1937, she said,

I believe that the bearing and nurturing of children are not the aim and end of women’s
existence. I want to see the women of the future liberated, spiritually free, conscious of her
creative powers. I want to see her using them with vision and intelligence, for greater
happiness, for security, for peace. To do this, woman must first liberate herself. (Sanger
1937)

In another speech delivered at Park Theatre in New York in 1921, she said,

We believe that every adult man and woman should be taught the responsibility and the
right use of knowledge. We claim that women should have the right over her own body and
to say if she shall or if she shall not be a mother, as she sees fit. (Sanger 1921a)

As refreshing as this is to hear, both in her time and ours, it is in the same speech that she divides
society into three groups or classes of people: “Those intelligent and wealthy members of the
upper classes who have obtained knowledge of birth control and exercise it in regulating the size

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of the families” (Sanger 1921a). She goes on to say, “The second group is equally intelligent and
responsible … but are unable to obtain knowledge or put such knowledge into practice” (Sanger
1921a) and

the third are those irresponsible and reckless ones having little regard for the consequences
of their acts, or whose religious scruples prevent their exercising control over their numbers.
Many of this group are diseased, feeble-minded, and are of the pauper element dependent
entirely upon the normal and fit members of society for their support. There is no doubt in
the minds of all thinking people that the procreation of this group should be stopped.
(Sanger 1921a)5

The lines were clearly drawn in Sanger’s mind, and by dividing society into “us” and “them,”
Sanger marched forth with zeal in the following decades in order to curtail the numbers of
“them”—indeed, for their sake.

Tensions and Debates

This brings forth a pertinent debate on the tensions within feminism and liberalism in the present
moment. Sanger’s misplaced feminist zeal imagined women’s agency as those of upper-class
women who were able to articulate their choices in a manner that she could recognise. There was
an absence of acknowledgement of indigenous feminist negotiations. This resulted in the
construction of women who (as Sanger saw it) fell into the category of disagency. I argue that her
positionality informed her feminism in the treatment of knowledge vis-à-vis women who spoke a
different language in terms of reproductive practices and relationships with their own bodies.

This interconnectedness between Sanger’s perceived notions of the misery of immigrant women
within the United States (US) or most of those in the global South reflects the importance of
enabling an equality that is alert to the diverging social and economic environments and is self-
conscious not only of herself, but, indeed, of the imagined disagency of the woman, formed in
encounter with physical and intellectual assumptions of feminism. This alternative reading of birth
control in India critiques the assumptions of misery and suffering constructed in disagency—
enabling a smug self-assuredness amongst liberals that, far from creating agency, carelessly
dismisses the intellect and ability of people from diverging backgrounds and betrays in
themselves the inability to introspect.

In the case of Sanger, her views on “the eugenic and civilisational value of Birth Control” (Sanger
1921) carried this inherent tension. Her call to “the courageous and the enlightened to answer this
demand, to kindle the spark, to direct a thorough education in Eugenics based upon this intense
interest” (Sanger 1921) performed a sinister agenda, packaged within an intellectually acceptable
and liberal cause to “prevent the sexual and racial chaos into which the world has drifted today”
(Sanger 1921).6 Sanger’s call to the wealthy to control procreation of the poor through some kind
of awareness betrays her entitlement and puts her ideological position far from feminist equality.
This argument allows a considered engagement with the intellect of the upper classes/upper
castes by suggesting they further agendas over and yet within the feminist causes they espouse
(even as there remains no single understanding of feminism).

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This points not to a breakdown of the modern feminist cause, but the need for intersectionality
within feminism. The splintering of modern feminism is based upon the privilege that upper-caste
feminists continue to benefit from at the cost of lower-caste women and men. The dismantling of
the caste hierarchy within patterns of access, work and marriage has yet to find central place in
the modern feminist conversation. Whether in matters of farmers’ debts, manual scavenging or
limited representation of Dalits in higher echelons of academia, private and government
organisations, upper-caste feminism in India continues to look the other way while benefiting from
caste entitlements. The language of modern feminism has excluded such issues from its fold,
while furthering feminist causes that concern only upper-caste women.

Criticism of the hierarchies within feminist concerns in modern India does not seek to increase the
troubles of those already fighting the difficult battle of making feminist ideas acceptable and
popular, whether in academic wisdom, public policy or mainstream thought—particularly in the
face of a frightening and powerful Hindu right—both in our government and the society that
repeatedly elects them to power. Instead, it seeks a fierce feminist engagement with neglected
spaces of caste and class, without claiming to rescue them. It is through this necessary and
introspective process of inalienable dignity, and not reductive benevolence, that feminists may
find spaces of agency and its ambivalent opposite already existing.

On the Side of Justice

A discussion of fundamental and inalienable humanism points to the intellectual giant of the 20th
century, Ambedkar (1891–1956). He is remembered as a champion of civil rights and dignity for
all citizens, leader of the untouchable community, chair of the Drafting Committee of the
Constitution and the first law minister of independent India. In an important speech, not
traditionally in his field of work, he made a strong case for birth control in 1938 to the Bombay
Legislative Assembly.7 His views on birth control stood in contrast to the glorification of
motherhood and rearing (of sons) as symbolic of nation-building that was the rhetoric of popular
Hindu nationalists, his contemporaries in and outside Parliament.

In a demonstration of fundamental humanism, his arguments in favour of birth control

emphasised that, first and foremost, the health of the woman be protected and the impact of
multiple pregnancies on her body be considered—convergence of the personal and political that
he garnered from experiences of the ill health of his first wife, Ramabai. As he was known to do,
he contested Gandhi’s stance of sexual abstinence, saying,

It must be remembered that while continence in the unmarried state may be possible, it is
nothing but displaying ignorance about human nature to expect that young and healthy
couples, living together and fond of each other, can observe continence for years together.
(Ambedkar 1938: 265)

In a critique and direct reference to the Mahatma, he said,

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Even the advocates of continence cannot claim that ordinary persons will be able to eschew
sexual intercourse altogether throughout their lives. The laying aside of continence even for
a single day every year may lead to an annual conception … It is necessary to remember
that just as appetite for food differs in the case of different persons, so sexual appetite also
varies from person to person. (Ambedkar 1938: 265)

In what we would consider a powerful feminist assertion in his time and ours, Ambedkar brought
women’s own experiences of childbirth into the discussion. He said, “if men had to bear the pangs
which women have to undergo during child-birth none of them would even consent to bear more
than a single child in his life” (Ambedkar 1938: 267). This argument gave cognisance to two
concerns. First, it recognised the difficulties of childbirth for women from different sections of
society; many of whom he understood did not have access to medical facilities that might have
eased their pain. Second, it identified that women did not, but should, have control over the
number of children they themselves have to bear.

Ambedkar’s ability to view the woman as deserving of respect that was independent from her
presumed familial or national responsibilities carries a thundering relevance in present times.
Even as the Indian legal system continues to struggle to identify the woman as an individual
citizen, separate from her roles as a mother, a daughter or a wife, Ambedkar’s commitment to
fundamental humanism and the assertion that “equality may be a fiction but nonetheless one
must accept it as the governing principle” (Ambedkar 1936: 58) launches an enduring critique on
the many indecencies of a Hindu society that glorifies women as mothers, and worse, bearers of
sons. Ambedkar’s respect for the intellect of lower classes and lower castes also set him apart
from most nationalists and Western advocates of birth control, who converged on their dismissive
attitude towards those they called “unsophisticated sisters.”8 Paying due consideration to
communities most affected by governmental policy and practice, Ambedkar (1938: 270) said,

the fear that birth control propaganda will fail to filter down to the masses and the result of
the movement will thus be dysgenic instead of eugenic, is groundless. The experience
gained in Western countries establishes the fact that the lower classes do take advantage of
contraceptive as soon as they are made cognizant of them, the need being greater in their
cases. The masses in our country, though illiterate, are intelligent enough to know in what
their own interest lies and hence there is no doubt that they will fully utilise this invention
also as soon as they are made aware of its existence.

In contrast stands Raghunath Dhondo Karve (1882–1983), one of India’s most well-known
advocates of birth control and a contemporary of Ambedkar. He identified himself as an educator
of sexual subjects, published manuals in Marathi and English and was devoted to Western
wisdom on the same. He is symbolic of an internally turbulent libertarian approach that imposed
justice upon “lesser” people. Karve set up clinics to provide women with contraceptives in the face
of much social hostility on the one hand, and, on the other, disregarded their ability to regulate
(their own) marital sex. In a critique of the rhythm method that was being thrust upon the Indian
people by the first health minister of independent India and staunch Gandhian Rajkumari Amrit
Kaur, he said,

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Is the rhythm method so simple that it can be easily grasped by idiots, whether literate or
illiterate? ... Are illiterate persons capable of taking these observations themselves and
deciding which days they have to abstain? (Karve 1952: 130)

The argument that had emerged and gained acceptance amongst liberals who promoted
contraception was that larger populations symbolised economic and cultural backwardness, and
that the path to progress and modernity was tied to limiting the Indian population, albeit that of
certain people. Indeed, far from recognising contraception as an enabling tool to navigate
childbearing, birth control came to bear the marks of entitled societies.

Indian Law and Birth Control

Contrary to Karve, Ambedkar was aware of how birth control could protect the well-being of
women, particularly those from vulnerable backgrounds. Reflecting a pragmatism characteristic to
his analyses, Ambedkar understood how the language of law affected marriage and consequently
sexual practices. He alluded to the Sarda Act (1929) and argued,

When we notice the difficulties in the enforcement of the Sarda Act, fixing the minimum
age of marriage of a girl at 14, we can easily see that it is almost useless to hope that in the
near future women in our country will postpone their marriages and population will be
checked thereby. (Ambedkar 1938: 272)

He emphasised the concerns of women with limited access to medical healthcare and said,

The present keen struggle of life renders timely marriage impossible for many and thus
exposes them to lose their lives by the birth of children in their diseased condition or in too
great numbers or in too rapid succession. Attempts at abortion, resorted to for the
prevention of unwanted progeny, exact a heavy toll of female lives. (Ambedkar 1938: 264)

Ambedkar’s emphasis on the need for birth control extended through his position in the power
corridors of government where he sought to pass a resolution in the Bombay Legislative
Assembly in 1938, saying,

Bombay is the gateway of India and this movement also entered this country through that
very gate. It would be in the fitness of things, therefore, that it should also be nurtured in
this very province … Birth control movement has afforded such an opportunity to out
provincial government and it is hoped that they will not let it slip but will fully utilise it to
the benefit of themselves and the people. (Ambedkar 1938: 276)

His resolution was defeated with 11 members voting in favour of the bill and 52 members
opposing it on grounds that it would encourage immorality and the breakdown of the Indian family
unit. Ambedkar’s arguments for birth control included incisive discussions on the need for all
women to have access to reproductive choices and sexual rights for their own health and well-
being, above all. It represents a remarkable brand of feminism that bridged ideological maturity

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with material possibilities. Through his arguments, Ambedkar skilfully put the onus of providing
medical care and contraceptive access squarely on the state, disproving elite claims of the
inability of the masses to manage marital sex. He demonstrated a powerful intellectual position on
the practical possibilities of equality—one that self-proclaimed liberals would be well advised to
consider in contemporary feminist debates.

Preaching Patriarchy, Practising Feminism

Gandhi (1869–1948) and Ambedkar stood far apart from each other on several issues—from
caste and Hinduism to modernity and western civilisation—they maintained a lifelong
engagement with one another that while combative, remained a continued conversation. If only
one lesson is to be learnt by the independent nation from these two extraordinary individuals, it is
the ability to disagree vigorously, yet engage in respectful public debate. Gandhi’s complex views
on the role of women, marriage and sex can be explained through his discussions of birth control.
I examine Gandhi’s opinions on birth control in two ways—first, he saw sexual control as
resistance for women within the home—at a time when women, Gandhi believed, were not
expected, or not equipped to resist. He said,

I have felt that during the years still left to me if I can drive home to women’s minds the
truth that they are free, we shall have no birth control problem in India. If they will only
learn to say no to their husbands when they approach them carnally … The real problem is
that they do not want to resist them … It boils down to education. I want woman to learn the
primary right of resistance. (Sanger 1936)

The argument he makes for women to speak out in a satyagraha-esque protest, whether against
undesired sexual advances of their partners or otherwise within the space of the domestic sphere,
must be seen in context. It was a time when the national chest-thumping spectacle of Hindu caste
men, including members of the Congress, was not an unimportant part of the anti-colonial
narrative. Moving from Bankim Chandra’s chants of Vande Mataram (“Hail to the Mother”) in
Anandmath (1882) to Bipin Chandra Pal’s rendering of the nation as “Bharat Mata,” they glorified
motherhood and the rearing (of sons) as symbolic of nation-building. There remained a persistent
public and political emphasis on the role of women that lay in their presumed familial
responsibilities and saw it as essential to nationalism.

This is similar to the language and politics of the right-wing government in power in contemporary
India, and it positions Gandhi at a distance from this ideological violence (admittedly, there remain
several instances when Gandhi did and did not deviate from this position). However, rather than
construct binaries of thought, more compelling is unsettling the lines between the ideological and
the material. Gandhi too, it may be argued, represented a figure familiar both to the East and the
West. He represented principles of the Enlightenment that were firmly rooted in tolerance and
ahimsa he considered characteristically of Indian values, and towards an indomitable “universal
love” (Tolstoy 1894). Gandhi’s emphasis on strengthening women’s own abilities to resist
impositions carries a critical importance, given his profound influence on the nation and the
limited legal resources for women at the time.

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The law offered little or no protection to women in terms of age of marriage, consent, or protection
against forms of physical and sexual assault. The idea of moral adherence in the hands of Gandhi
over the masses of Indian people who were influenced by him may be seen as a clever strategy,
as much to restrain men who were powerful both by law and society (if one makes a sharp
distinction, which I do not), as to imbibe a vigour amongst women who he felt must resist if
imposed upon. Sexual restraint became one of the most basic Gandhian principles spelled out in
the context of civil disobedience in late colonial India. This remains a slippery discussion, given
that it forms a material feminist strategy that still has a tense relationship with ideological feminist
concerns about women and sex. Indeed, it is this moral coercion rather than legal adherence that
complicates Gandhi and his legacy, and indeed, one of the greatest divides between him and
Ambedkar is on this account.

Gandhi also seemingly carelessly shattered notions of Hindu masculinity, saying, “I have known
tens of thousands of women in India, their experiences and their aspirations … They have
regarded me as half a woman because I have completely identified with them” (Sanger 1936). On
marriage he said, “the wife is not the husband’s bond slave, but his companion and his helpmate,
and an equal partner in all his joys and sorrows, as free as the husband to choose her own path”
(Sanger 1936). Gandhi’s conversations with women that involved him sitting and listening to
them, if in disagreement, and formulating incisive political tools that stemmed from the domestic
such as the use of the spinning wheel, popularising khadi, the surrendering of jewellery and
foreign clothes, and his historic Dandi March where he found freedom in a kitchen staple—a
handful of salt—and in this fight, he was accompanied by an army of brave women whom he did
not fail to acknowledge. He attributed his wisdom of satyagraha to the women in his own family
who stoically resisted exploitation, especially his wife Kasturba, who even resisted him.

The second part of Gandhi’s views on marriage, sex and birth control opens him up to significant
criticism and brings him closer to the Hindu nationalists, and the Hindu right of contemporary
India. This parallel points to the ambivalence of illiberal and liberal values held by the same
individual at the same moment in time. Gandhi’s denial of sexual expression for women is
troubling—it was only to be had within marriage and not for pleasure. For him, sex held a place of
uncleanliness, a desire that was to be overcome (by men) through fasting and self-control.

Despite the differences between Sanger and Gandhi, both spoke strictly of the need to contain
sexual expressions within heterosexual conjugality, and only Ambedkar was able to
recognise and acknowledge the possibilities of sex outside marriage. Not only did he formulate a
narrow understanding of the chastity and purity of women in language, Gandhi did not
acknowledge the sexual desires of women. This is reflected in his not advising sexual restraint to
women in the way he did to men. That these limitations of thought have been appropriated by the
Hindu right in the Indian subcontinent causes little surprise. However, what is alarming are the
consequences of these ideologies in the material—indeed, the need for a performance of the
opposite, such as womanly duty, suffering and victimhood, in order to demand justice in the eyes
of the society and the law—one that is so far-removed from individual dignity Ambedkar espoused
in his constitutional values and perhaps, far removed too from what Gandhi imagined for women
in the free nation.

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Conclusions: Identifying Alternate Opposites

This discussion has attempted to blur the distinctions between the East and West, and liberal and
illiberal in order to unsettle the ease of authority that urban elite Indian feminists might allow
themselves; a position that is taken away from those who look and practise differently. The
significance of this discussion is to re-examine the dominant upper-caste voices that engage with
liberal values and yet disengage from those very ideas that grow from justice, equality and self-
determination. Questions of representation and those of social and political autonomy are not new
to the nation—Ambedkar spoke about them in 1919 when he asserted that Dalits must represent
Dalits, and Gandhi wrote in 1921 in Navajivan that “Swaraj means the emancipation of the fallen.”
Yet, upper-caste feminism has largely eluded questions of location and temporalities of struggle.

The tensions of identifying women’s agency within feminism and to acknowledge self-reflexive
disagency remains an uncomfortable but important question for the liberal nation to ask itself.
This may prompt fierce feminist engagements with the law, enable a vigilance of the entitlements
of caste and class that shape our positioning, and locate a feminism that is syncretic because of
its many influences, and not despite it. As Ambedkar reminds us, it demands an understanding of
the kind of choices and decisions we make. It demands that we scrutinise our claim for equality,
lest we leave someone behind.

Notes

1 By the early 1930s, a range of pharmaceutical products for “sexual health” or “family hygiene”
emerged in India. Birth control technologies such as chemical contraceptives, tonics, condoms,
diaphragms, birth control pills, jellies and more entered the local markets. These international
firms were owned by companies in London, Tokyo, New York, and Berlin, and had tie-ups with
local importers in Bombay, Delhi, Calcutta, and Kanpur who managed the retail and supply.
Details of this emerging birth control market may be found in government document titled “Family
Planning in India: A Review of the Progress in Family Planning Programme” by the Directorate of
General Health Services, Ministry of Health, Government of India (April 1956–November 1958).

2 In the preface of his historical text, The Untouchables, Ambedkar (1948: 245) said, “There is
nothing that I have urged in support of my thesis which I have asked my readers to accept on
trust … if the test of a valid hypothesis is that is should fit in with all surrounding facts, explain
them and give them a meaning which in its absence they do not appear to have” and lay forth an
assertion of intellectual integrity; even as his writing of history adhered to his objectives of
dismantling the unequal social order.

3 This research has been influenced by the series of essays titled “Feminism, Imperialism and
Race: A Dialogue between India and Britain” by Barbara N Ramusack and Antoinette Burton
(1994) that challenged the limits imposed upon feminist histories and methodologies. Lata Mani
(1990) in her excellent scholarship conducted a powerful re-examination of the politics of
intellectual positions.

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4 The highly contested Sarda Act moved the legal marriageable age of girls from 12 years to 14
years in 1911 and to 12 years for girls and at 18 years for boys in 1929. The violent connections
between the legal age of marriage and health of the girl/woman bearing the child remains critical
and has been well articulated in the works by Mrinalini Sinha (2006), Tanika Sarkar (2001) and
Rochona Majumdar (2009).

5 Margaret Sanger delivered the speech titled “The Morality of Birth Control” in New York in 1921.

6 This article by Margaret Sanger titled “The Eugenic Value of Birth Control Propaganda” was
published in the journal Birth Control
Review in 1921.

7 The speech was written by Ambedkar and presented in the Bombay Legislative Assembly by P
J Roham, a member of Ambedkar’s Independent Labour Party, owing to Ambedkar’s inability to
attend the assembly that day.

8 In his conversation with Margaret Sanger at Wardha in 1938, Gandhi referred to uneducated
women in India as “unsophisticated sisters.” However, to be fair to Gandhi, he showed disdain to
educated women as well in the same conversation, saying, “Don’t tell me of the educated girls of
India. She will be your slave, much to her damage, I’m afraid” (Sanger 1936).

References

Ahluwalia, Sanjam (2008): Reproductive Restraints: Birth Control in India, 1877–1947,

Champaign: University of Illinois Press.

Ambedkar, B R (1919): “Evidence before Southborough Committee,” Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar

Writings and Speeches (BAWS), Vol 1, the Education Department, Government of Maharashtra,
Mumbai.

— (1936): Annihilation of Caste, BAWS, Vol 1, the Education Department, Government of

Maharashtra, Mumbai.

— (1938): “Speech by P J Roham on Birth-Control on Behalf of Dr Ambedkar,” BAWS, Vol 2,

the Education Department, Government of Maharashtra, Mumbai.

— (1948): The Untouchables: Who They Were and Why They Became Untouchables? BAWS,
Vol 7, the Education Department, Government of Maharashtra, Mumbai.

Bose, Nirmal Kumar (1960): Selection from Gandhi: Encyclopedia of Gandhi’s Thoughts,
Ahmedabad: Navjivan Trust.

Connelly, Matthew James (2008): Fatal Misconception: The Struggle to Control World Population,
Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

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Gandhi, M K (1921): “Fallen Sisters,” Navajivan,

Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, Vol 21, New Delhi: Publications Division, Ministry of
Information and Broadcasting, pp 92–95.

Karve, R D (1952): “The So-called Rhythm Method of Birth Control,” Indian Medical Journal, Vol
46, No 5, pp 130–32.

Majumdar, Rochona (2009): Marriage and Modernity: Family Values in Colonial Bengal, Durham:
Duke University Press.

Mani, Lata (1990): “Multiple Mediations: Feminist Scholarship in the Age of Multinational
Reception,” Feminist Review, Vol 35, No 1, pp 24–41.

Periyar, E V R (2005): Collected Works of Periyar EVR, K Veeramani Periyar, Chennai: Self-
Respect Propaganda Institution.

Ramusack, Barbara N and Antoinette Burton (1994): “Feminism, Imperialism and Race: A
Dialogue between India and Britain,” Women’s History Review, Vol 3, No 4, pp 469–81.

Sanger, Margaret (1921): “The Eugenic Value of Birth Control Propaganda,” Margaret Sanger
Papers, Library of Congress, Microfilm S70: 913,
https://www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/webedition/app/documents/show.php?sangerDoc=
238946.xml.

— (1921a): “The Morality of Birth Control,” Margaret Sanger Papers, Library of Congress,
Microfilm S70: 917, https://www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/webedition/app/documents/show.php?
sanger
Doc=238254.xml.

— (1936): “Gandhi and Mrs Sanger Debate Birth Control,” Margaret Sanger Papers, Library of
Congress, Microfilm 129:535 and 129:525,
https://www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/webedition/app/documents/show.php?sangerDoc=
320521.xml.

— (1937): “Woman and the Future,” Margaret Sanger Papers, Library of Congress, Microfilm 129:
480, https://www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/webedition/app/documents/show.php?
sangerDoc=128121.xml.

Sarkar, Tanika (2001): Hindu Wife, Hindu Nation: Community, Religion, and Cultural Nationalism,
Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

Sinha, Mrinalini (2006): Specters of Mother India: The Global Restructuring of an Empire,
Durham: Duke University Press.

Tolstoy, Leo (1894): The Kingdom of God Is Within You: Christianity Not as a Mystic Religion but
as a New Theory of Life, New York: Cassell Publishing.

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Dancing between Charisma and Politics: An Analysis of Joker

(2019)
epw.in/engage/article/dancing-between-charisma-and-politics-analysis

February 6, 2020

Joker (2019) opens with its protagonist Arthur Fleck, played by the virtuosic Joaquin Phoenix,
putting on clown face paint, while the radio is abuzz describing the impending state of emergency
in the city of Gotham. Modelled on the New York City of the 1980s, Gotham is facing the
consequences of policies of “trickle-down” economics—as taxes on the wealthy were reduced to
“spur” economic growth, and the country witnessed a reduction in government spending on social
services. Against this gritty setting, the film tracks the journey of the awkward and mild persona of
Fleck turning into the slick and stylish figure of the Joker—the supervillain from the DC Comics.
Broadly, Fleck faces multiple levels of discrimination and violence in society, lashes back with acts
of violence, and subsequently becomes a symbol of mass protests. Indeed, by the end of the film,
Fleck is hailed as the hero of anti-establishment forces—a crowd of protestors, who have
fashioned their face to mirror his persona, cheer him on. Given that the film’s popularity has
increased immensely since its release, the iconic clown face paint and mask have been sighted in
many anti-government or anti-establishment protests around the world (Du Cane 2020; Clark
2019). At the same time, some reviewers and audiences have criticized the film, arguing that it
has presented a sympathetic account of a perpetrator of violence. In fact, one of the film’s most
caustic critics, David Ehrlich (2019) called the film “a toxic rallying cry for self-pitying incels,”
saying that the film appears to justify its protagonist’s kill drive as a refusal to be a “punchline.”
So, how can we understand the film’s fluid ability to draw associations ranging from promoting
incel violence to being a critique of neoliberalism, while being a film about a comic book villain?

Violence and its Discontents

The glorified images of an armed white man on a rampage in the city is an unsettling one, owing
to the exponential rise of mass shootings in American cities and towns alongside its correlation to
incel subcultures.[1] The family members of the victims of a mass shooting on 20 July 2012, in
Aurora, Colorado expressed serious concerns over Joker’s portrayal of a murderer, especially in
light of erroneous reports that claimed that the shooter James Holmes had referred to himself as
“the Joker” (Desta 2019; Parker 2019). The victims’ family members urged the film-makers to
openly support the cause for gun reform while criticising the cinematic correlations between
Holmes and Fleck.
While sympathetic to the victims’ family members, the film-makers maintained the position that
the film does not seek to justify violence in any way. The film’s director (Todd Philips) felt that the
film had been unfairly criticised for promoting violence, and defended it by saying that the display
of violence in Joker is nothing new. He argued that the film does not come close to
representations of violence by other famous Hollywood films such as John Wick: Chapter 3
Parabellum (2019) in which the protagonist kills 300 people (Sharf 2019). However, while Joker
has been criticised for its potential to incite violent behaviour, it cannot be equated to films like the
latest John Wick sequel as they both differ in their treatment of violence. The John Wick series is

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a carefully concocted thriller-genre film series that alludes to “Spaghetti Westerns like the works
of Sergio Leone and South Korean thrillers by directors like Park Chan-wook and Lee Jeong-
beom” (Donaldson 2019). It is based on a man’s hyperbolic quest for revenge against his dog’s
death and features highly stylised fight sequences. On the other hand, Joker’s scenes of violence
are firmly entrenched in a socio-historical setting and are intended to be hyperrealistic. Unlike the
disproportionate reaction of John Wick to his dog’s death, Fleck’s murders begin as supposedly
proportionate retaliation against violence inflicted upon him. The comparison to John Wick by the
film-maker seems to raise the question: Are there instances in which screen violence is seen as
justifiable? I argue that we need to pay attention not only to how the film portrays violence
cinematically, but also how it is sutured within the film’s narrative and aesthetic setting.
By situating itself in the gritty setting of New York in the 1980s, Joker borrows from real-life
situations and problems, inviting itself to be read as a critique of neo-liberalism. It shows repeated
instances of violence upon Fleck, till he retaliates by killing the people who seem to have harmed
him or even used or ridiculed him, sparing only those who were nice to him. The film shows
Fleck’s transformation into Joker in multiple stages by taking the viewers through the various acts
of violence and discrimination he encounters, while at the same time, marking changes in his
personality. But, as I will show, Fleck’s transition to Joker is not a direct product of the violence he
encounters; rather, it is the acts of violence he himself commits that cause a change in his
charismatic abilities to turn into Joker. It is crucial to note this difference as it allows a separation
between Fleck’s acts of violence and his charismatic presence as Joker—indirectly glorifying as
well as legitimizing his violent streaks while leaving aside the stakes of its historical setting.

Why Does Joker Dance?

The film begins by showing Fleck, dressed as a clown, on a busy street, advertising a sale at a
store that is going out of business. Fleck’s uncharismatic clownish ensemble attracts the attention
of a group of teenagers who steal the sign from him, corner him in an alley, and mercilessly beat
him. In a scene right after, Fleck is sitting barebacked, fixing his oversized clown shoe, as the
nasty marks of the beatings on his underweight body are highlighted. The framing and angle of
the shot exaggerate his frame’s incongruities and alert viewers about his crumbling body as well
as mind beneath the clown costume. Fleck has a disorder that makes him burst into laughter with
no relation to the emotions he may be experiencing—a pseudo-bulbar condition—most likely
caused by physical abuse he encountered as a child. Governed by the policies of austerity, the
city cuts off the funding to the public health programme, directly affecting Fleck as he can no
longer access a counsellor or get medication. Thus, the film’s setting—the exterior world of a late
capitalist city collapsing on its own structures—is interrelated with the rapidly deteriorating
landscape of the interior world of its protagonist with a mental health condition. The film shows
Fleck’s transformation into Joker in multiple stages by taking viewers through the acts of violence
and discrimination he encounters, while at the same time marking shifts in his personality.
Fleck’s first act of violence begins amidst flickering lights of a graffiti-strewn subway car, where he
encounters three men harassing a woman. Dressed in his everyday work ensemble—the joker
costume—Fleck seems sympathetic to her but realized that he cannot do much to help her. As his
fate would have it, he gets a bout of uncontrollable laughter, owing to his condition. The woman
seizes the moment and escapes for another car of the subway, leading the men to direct their

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aggression toward Fleck. The three men start to attack him violently, and in self-defence, Fleck
pulls the trigger of his gun at them. He manages to shoot two of them, and as the train comes to a
halt, the third man runs out of the car. Instead of running away himself, Fleck runs after him and
shoots him down multiple times until his body goes limp on the station staircase. From retaliating
against violence to chasing down and lethally killing the third man, Fleck changes his position
from being a victim to a perpetrator here.
After murdering these three people, (whose deaths are portrayed as a welcome respite from all
the violence inflicted upon him) Fleck runs to escape the police. He takes to the streets, and hides
in a dilapidated bathroom. Suddenly, the film changes a beat, as the camera steadily tilts down to
his feet, and reveals that Fleck has, surprisingly, started to dance. This scene marks a key
moment in the film. The film’s theme music starts, harkening back to the music played during the
earlier scene where Fleck was beaten by teenagers in the alley. The camerawork registers a
sharp change as well, as it moves languidly to match Phoenix’s on-screen dance moves. This
scene—despite being shot differently from the rest of the film and not holding any realistic
connection to the film’s narrative—is staged as the first step to Fleck’s transformation into Joker.
As he dances, Fleck’s moves get more and more graceful, gathering uncharacteristic poise, and
the camera starts to dance with him. Fleck finishes his dance, almost 90 seconds long, and stares
at himself in the mirror with hands wide open. Next, he emerges from his building elevator with his
back to the camera, his messy hair tinged with light, and the camera follows him in his determined
stride down the corridor to his neighbour Sophie’s (played by Zazie Beetz) apartment. While he
was creepily stalking her before, after his violent actions, he found the courage to walk up to her
apartment and kiss her passionately. This change in the way he looks to us, the way the camera
frames him, and the way he carries himself, signal a significant change in his personality, as he
embraces his own charismatic potential. He wants to be a person people take notice of, and the
film pauses to tell us exactly how to notice him while he dances. While the scene of violence on
the subway is a trigger for the transition in his personality, the change actually occurs when he
enters the bathroom and begins to dance.
His transformation into Joker completes in one of the film’s most famous sequences, when he
dances on stairs, while on his way to the studios of the Murray Franklin show. Here, the film
features Fleck in a slick and snappier version of his clown ensemble, smoking a cigarette with
extra oomph, and dancing to Gary Glitter’s "Rock and Roll Part 2” song, as he dances down the
stairs that he has drudgingly walked up several times in the film. The film pauses for a few
minutes to show us Phoenix’s ecstatic dancing, as the music turns more sinister, and behind him
we see blurred images of two policemen follow him in their efforts to arrest him.
These two dance scenes punctuate key moments of Fleck’s transformation and allow us to see
that Joker is actually not a product of the discrimination and the violence he faces, but rather
emerges from his own acts of violence. Despite being motivated by the discrimination he has
faced and wanting to act back, his charismatic potential is activated in the film only after he
himself engages in violence and killing—that is when he transforms from being a victim to the
perpetrator. Take, for example, an earlier scene—in which Fleck is dancing in his living room with
a gun and clumsily fires a shot by accident—which acts as a deliberate counter to above-
mentioned charismatic dances. In both the dancing scenes, what remains visible is his changing
charisma and the political questions of his marginalisation by neoliberal policies of the state, as

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well as the debilitating aspects of his condition caused by physical abuse—take a backseat. If we
are not asked to celebrate the violence, we are indeed asked to celebrate the transformation—
garnering indirect legitimacy for Fleck’s violent behaviour.

Aesthetics and Politics

True to its key goal of giving an origin story to the elusive character of Joker—the “king of chaos”
or the “clown prince of crime”—the film brings together the fans of the DC universe with the
savants of prestige cinema. Borrowing most directly from the films of Martin Scorsese—King of
Comedy (1982) and Taxi Driver (1976)—Joker steers away from the aesthetic connotations of the
genre of comic book movies. Joker’s Fleck is a metamorphosed version of Taxi Driver’s lonely
and isolated protagonist Travis Bickle, who is out to clean up New York’s streets of its sleaze and
moral corruption, and King of Comedy’s Rupert Pupkin, who kidnaps a TV show host he is
obsessed with, in order to become famous. Joker is set in the same period and space as Taxi
Driver, but does away with the overt display of misogynistic and racist sentiments of Bickle. At the
same time, it takes Pupkin’s obsession with fame in comedy to the extreme.
Fleck is a fan of Murray Franklin, a TV show host, and if the citation was not clear enough, the
host is played by Robert de Niro who plays Pupkin in King of Comedy. Fleck fantasises about
being on Murray’s show, and gaining his appreciation and affection. Things go awry when his
failed performance at a stand-up comedy show—where his condition surfaces— goes viral and is
broadcasted by the Murray Franklin show for laughs and ridicule. Murray uses Fleck’s stand up
performance that shows him laughing uncontrollably as the punchline for the show. The segment
becomes increasingly popular, and Fleck gets invited to the show. However, at the show, he gets
angered and provoked by Murray’s humiliation and shoots and kills him on air.
While the King of Comedy looks into the mad world of obsession with fame and fan cultures, and
analyses the consequences when it gets unhinged, and Taxi Driver gets behind the wheels of a
crumbling mind plotting to make the world better, one murder at a time, and analyses the
development of those racist and psychological impulses; Joker pretends to do no such thing. In
fact, by borrowing the aesthetic categories from the two films, it strips them of their political
contexts, and denies any analysis of the events it seeks to portray, keeping Fleck sympathisable
and likeable.
In direct contrast to other films that represent the DC Comics character Joker—like in Christopher
Nolan’s The Dark Knight (2008) played by Heath Ledger—Fleck’s actions are also not anarchic.
Fleck’s subway murders of the three employees from Wayne Industries, Gotham’s biggest firm
and one who’s President is running for the position of mayor, inspires a movement with the slogan
“kill the rich” in Joker (2019). As protestors start embracing the clown mask, Fleck’s actions are
co-opted by the masses despite the uncertainty of his own political stance. Joker’s protagonist is
concurrently posed as a victim of neo-liberal policies implemented and initiated in America in the
1980s, that benefit the rich. This takes place while he deals with a series of personal issues of
abuse and mental health conditions, transforming into a perpetrator of violence. All his violent
actions are motivated by personal vengeance that seek to make “right” the “wrongs” done to him.
Thus, Fleck’s becoming into Joker necessitates a scouring off from all context, and most
importantly his politics.

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Of Whiteness and Masculinity

Since Fleck’s internal journey is extensively tied to the external social order, the film has been
deemed as a critique of neo-liberal policies in America (Lee 2019). Fleck may be a direct victim of
political policies of neo-liberalism as he faces the cut in social services funding, but the film
remains totally opaque to the ways in which those policies affect other people, especially those
not sharing his whiteness. The film’s disengagement with political issues trickles down into its
engagement with issues of race, which is treated from a white gaze. As several critics (Brody
2019; Searles 2019) have noted, all the black characters in the film either have no substantial role
to play, or are not really presented as real people: the social worker, the woman on the bus, the
clerk at the hospital, and finally the neighbour—who happens to be an object of his fantasy.
Rather than an interrogation or problematisation of Fleck’s actions and the role of his race, Joker
in many ways “justifies” his violence, thereby taking for granted (and naturalising) his whiteness.
The teenagers who beat Fleck at the beginning of the film are referred to as “savages” by Fleck’s
co-worker in a matter of fact tone, to which Fleck’s nonchalant response is “they are just kids.”
Discussing this instance of violence by non-white teenagers as an example of racial whitewashing
in Joker, Richard Brody (2019) has argued that the film “draws its incidents and its affect
parasitically from real-world events that were both the product and the cause of racist discourse
and attitudes and gave rise to real-world racist outcomes of enduring, even historic, gravity.” The
film pretends to be set in its gritty landscape of historical New York, but at the same time
smoothens the racial edge of the instances it seeks to portray. A key scene from the film, that is
cited in positive reviews of the view, (Uetricht 2019) offers a counterpoint to Brody’s claim. In the
scene, Fleck’s (unnamed) black social worker (played by Sharon Washington) says, “They don’t
give a shit about people like you, Arthur, and they don’t really give a shit about people like me
either.” While this scene seems to suggest class-based solidarity across racial lines, it firmly
remains at the level of rhetoric. Nowhere else does the film draw together Fleck with other people,
in fact, he actively shows zero interest in the plight of anyone else but himself.
Jourdain Searles (2019) insightfully notes, “Phillips knows that in order to set his work apart from
the white New York City of Woody Allen or Noah Baumbach films, he has to include people of
color as symbols of what is ‘real.’” This superficial commitment of the film to remain true to its
setting, shows that the film blunts its political edge by either whitewashing events it references as
Brody has suggested, or hiding behind the facade of speaking about class politics and the
chasms between the city’s rich and poor. The critic Lawrence Ware (2019) analyses this further
and says, “A black man in Gotham City (really, New York) in 1981 suffering from the same
mysterious mental illnesses as Fleck would be homeless and invisible.” Fleck’s whiteness is a
“force field” that insulates him from the consequences that a non-white man would face, as Ware
says “A black man acting as strangely as Fleck does” would not have access to a TV show like
that (Ware 2019). The film’s engagement with issues of race from a white gaze draws an internal
incoherence in its narrative, as the fact remains that Fleck most likely would not be able to
become the popular icon—Joker—both in the film and beyond, if he was not white.

Appreciation in India?

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3/28/2020 Dancing between Charisma and Politics: An Analysis of Joker (2019) | Economic and Political Weekly

In India, Joker found itself amidst the controversies around the Telugu film—Arjun Reddy (2017)
and its Hindi remake Kabir Singh (2019). Film actress Parvathy Thiruvothu called out Arjun Reddy
for glorifying its misogynistic and abusive male protagonist, while praising Joker in comparison.[2]
Unabashedly violent and radiating toxic masculinity, the medical professional Arjun Reddy douses
himself in alcohol, drives himself to unconsciousness and incontinence and acts violently towards
everyone around him, including many women, after his volatile romance with a younger student
fails due to family interference. Thiruvothu argued that unlike Arjun Reddy, Joker does not allow
the audience to applaud the protagonist’s violent streak in the same way. While Thiruvothu
accurately pinpoints the toxic masculinity (and does not name the casteist implications) in Arjun
Reddy that is being celebrated at dangerous costs, her analysis appears short of critically
examining Joker.
Thiruvothu’s praise of Joker downplays Fleck’s “subtle” sexism and potential for violence even if
the film does not overtly justify violence against women, or endorse the “casual” sexism that
pervades a film like Arjun Reddy. The films share an aesthetic presentation that glorifies its violent
protagonist, and repeatedly justifies the violent actions of the protagonists as a by-product of
being a victim of social discrimination. Both the films, fluidly interchange their protagonists
between the position of being perpetrators and victims: if Reddy is a free spirit caught in a
hypocritical and morally oppressive society (in spite of openly displaying misogyny himself), Fleck
is a man with a mental health condition who does not get the care he needs from the state, faces
violence repeatedly in his daily life; and lashes out as he desires to be popular and appreciated.
If Joker did feature any violent actions against women, it would have placed itself in the lineage of
Joker’s interpretation in films like the DC film Suicide Squad (2016), which proudly features the
toxic masculinity of the comic book protagonist through an abusive relationship with his girlfriend.
However, Joker is a film that ostensibly attempts to be self-aware by distinguishing its portrayal of
masculinity from the Joker of Suicide Squad. Thiruvothu may be right in claiming that Joker is not
a film that justifies violence against women or the “casual” sexism that pervades a film like Arjun
Reddy. But, at the same time, the similarity of Reddy’s toxic behaviour with Fleck is unmistakable.
Fleck fantasises a relationship with his neighbour Sophie. He stalks her, and enters her apartment
without her permission, threatening her safety along with her little child. Some viewers and critics
assumed that Fleck kills Sophie in the film, and in light of this interpretation of the film, the film-
maker clarified that no violence is committed against her. According to Philips, Fleck only kills
people who have “wronged” him (Yaniz Jr 2019). But, as the film leaves Sophie’s fate unclear to
the audience’s imagination, no post-facto invocation of Fleck’s code actually holds up. Fleck is
undeniably a threatening figure in Joker who bears the potential of being violent towards women
who reject him or ignore him. Joker successfully hides the looming threat of violence against
women in its shadow spaces offscreen and systematically steers away from sexist as well as
racist violence by its protagonist, to retain Fleck’s likeability.
Joker’s politics is deliberately designed to appear vague and benign, whether in terms of hiding its
sexist violence, its treatment of race through the white gaze, or its ambiguity toward the anarchist
political movement that hails Joker as its signifying face. The character of Joker never signifies
any particular ideological position at any time. By drawing its aesthetic backdrop from Scorsese’s
films, albeit without their political nuance, Joker invokes the trope of interconnectedness between
its setting and Fleck’s own personal journey, without actually presenting an analysis of it. It seems
that Joker desires to be appreciated as a prestige film for its socially gritty aesthetic, but at the

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3/28/2020 Dancing between Charisma and Politics: An Analysis of Joker (2019) | Economic and Political Weekly

same time does not want the burden of social responsibility that comes with it. Instead, it
systematically pauses to show us Fleck’s dancing and his other charismatic acts that elicit his
transformation from a victim to a perpetrator of violence. The two dance sequences in the film
turn Joker’s persona into an empty signifier, untethering the character from the traces of violence
he has committed. Thus, the film makes room for attaching one’s preferred interpretation to the
film’s premise, ranging from a plethora of relations like its correlation to incel violence, a critique
of neo-liberalism, a standard-bearer for left politics, and so on. Perhaps, the concern about Joker
should not be about how it may incite a vulnerable viewer to commit acts of violence, through its
glorifying portrayal of violence. Rather, it should be about how it actively peels off every political
and ideological context from its aesthetic presentation of the Joker. The film pretends to be a
critique of neo-liberal policies committed to the cause of the disenfranchised, but what it actually
gives us is an empty signifier in a painted face and a red suit.

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Citizenship (Amendment) Act
epw.in/journal/2020/12/commentary/citizenship-amendment-act.html

March 20,
2020

The Citizenship (Amendment) Act(CAA), passed on 11 December 2019, amends the

Citizenship Act of 1955 with the intent of providing an easier pathway for Hindus, Sikhs,
Buddhists, Jains, Parsis, and Christians, coming to India from Pakistan, Afghanistan, or
Bangladesh before 2014 in acquiring citizenship. Political bigwigs have asserted several
times that the act gives citizenship to these people and does not take it away from
anyone. There is, therefore, no reason for any Indian citizen, particularly Muslims, to feel
aggrieved since it does not touch them.

The critical issue is not of giving something or taking it away. The issue is of equality
before law and of constitutional justice. A law providing different channels for seeking
citizenship based on the religion and country of origin of a person is discriminatory. Any
law subjecting people of one’s community to a harsher treatment than others, affects
one and one’s identity. Also, it affects the image of the country.

The implications of the CAA becomes grievous when it is considered along with the
National Register of Citizens (NRC), mandated by the provisions of the Citizenship Act,
1955 and the Citizenship (Registration of Citizens and Issue of National Identity Cards)
Rules, 2003, which will provide the comprehensive list of legal citizens of India. While the
act provides for compulsory registration and issuance of the National Identity Card, the
amendment rule prescribes the manner of preparation of the NRC.

The present government had made an electoral promise to implement the NRC, and the
Parliament has been informed, time and again, that it will be implemented throughout
the country. The process begins with the central government preparing the National
Population Register (NPR), a list of all people residing in India, including the non-citizens.
This was done as part of the house-listing operation of 2011 Census and updated in
2015. Based on the information in NPR, the local officials are expected to identify the
persons who fail in providing appropriate and adequate documentary evidence of
“citizenship.” The union cabinet approved ₹ 39,410 million for preparing/updating the
NPR to be carried out during 1 April and 30 September in 2020, besides the ₹ 87,540
million for the conduct of the 2021 Population Census.

The Citizenship Rules, 2003 notified under the Citizenship Act, 1955 specifies only a very
limited set of information to be kept in the NRC. These are: name along with that of the
father and mother, gender, date and place of birth, present and permanent residential
address, marital status, visible identification mark, date of registration and serial number
of registration, and finally, the national ID number. The large number of other
information (34 items) proposed to be collected during the NPR must therefore be for

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deciding the citizenship status of the people. All along the practice in census and surveys
in India has been to maintain certain parsimony of information to be collected not just
for economy, but also to ensure quality of whatever data is collected.

In the forthcoming census, NPR-linked house listing had 34 items of information (the list
was withdrawn subsequently) such as the place and date of birth of the parents, last
place of residence, identifying numbers of a few official documents such as driving
licence, passport, etc, many of these now are told to be optional for the respondents to
answer. The home minister has emphasised this point. Notwithstanding this, the NPR is
seen as the first step of the NRC process. Under the Registration of Births and Deaths
Act, 1969, the Registrar General, India would function as the Registrar General of Citizen
Registration. The purpose of preparing this at the national level is understandably to
identify and deport the illegal migrants. Every country has a right and responsibility to
prepare such a register, and hence, the basic objective of this exercise cannot be
doubted.

Missing Citizens

The population census with which the NPR is tagged, suffers from a serious coverage
error by missing out 2.3% of the population, as determined through the Post
Enumeration Check in 2001 and 2011. The degree of undercount did not go down with
computerisation and the use of digital technology since the undercount in 1991 and
1981 was less—only 1.8%. The undercount in 2011 was even larger in urban areas, that
is, 4%, where a larger percentage of Muslims reside. In any case, not counting 2% of the
population implies exclusion of 30 million people in India. Increased mobility is likely to
increase this figure.

Residents of a locality living there for at least six months or with plans to live for six
months or more are included in the NPR. It is prepared as per the Citizenship Rules, 2003
(passed by the Bharatiya Janata Party government in its previous term) and not under
the Census Act. Consequently, while registration in the NPR is compulsory for all “usual
residents of India,” the confidentiality umbrella provided by the Census Act is no longer
available for the data collected for the NPR.

The NPR tagged to the house-listing schedule in 2011 collected, besides the location
particulars, that identifies the household on the ground, a lot of text data like names of
persons, names of places, addresses, etc. It prepared the electronic database for only
1,180 million persons only, against the census figure of 1,210 million. Considering the
undercount of another 30 million in the census itself, it is evident that 60 million people
were missed in this NPR exercise. One does not know the extent of exclusion when the
register was updated in 2015 by linking with biometric information from the Aadhaar
database, since this is not in public domain.

Given the present level of decadal migration, roughly 12% of the people would not be
found in the place where they were enumerated in 2011. It would, therefore, be
erroneous to consider 2021 NPR as a mere updating exercise. The NPR is a location-
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based register unlike the Aadhaar database. Updating the NPR is possible only if the
current and past records can be unambiguously matched, which will be a serious
concern for people who have migrated since the last census.

Mismatch of any information can create serious problems for an individual, including
their claim of citizenship. Given the present social tension and uncertainties, this could
result in massive corruption and violence at the ground level. Furthermore, a lot of data
in the NPR, like educational status, marital status, occupation, etc, are not constant for a
person, and given the time lag between the enumeration and finalisation of the
citizenship register, these would have limited validity.

In preparing the local register of Indian citizens, the responses to questions in NPR,
including those that are not mandatory, can be scrutinised. As per the 2003 Citizenship
rules, the local officials would be expected to identify the persons whose citizenship is
doubtful. These people shall then be given an opportunity of being heard by the sub-
district or taluk registrar of citizen registration before a final decision.The homeminister
has clarified that

no documents will be asked for NPR, it wasn’t asked for in the one before, and it won’t be
asked again … No one will be marked doubtful if columns are left blank in NPR. I am
saying as the Home Minister.

The NPR information are to be entered using a mobile app by the enumerators, usually a
primary schoolteacher, and, therefore, marking doubtful while conducting NPR was
never on the card. Activists apprehend this to happen at the stage of the scrutiny. While
the statement by the home minister is welcome, this needs to be backed by an
administrative order delinking NPR from the process of preparing the NRC.

The important question would then the pertain to the use of the NPR data, collected with
enormous physical and financial cost, when Aadhaar-based biometric identification
numbers having a higher coverage linked to almost all welfare programmes are
available. The NPR is certainly not required for targeting purposes. When certain
questions are kept as optional, as is now planned, not responding to such questions
could be due to not having back-up evidence, having no immediate recollection, or
simply to save time of enumeration. Given that, one wonders about the usability of this
incomplete data set for any official purpose. It may, however, be important to note that
8% to 10% of even the Aadhaar details are wrong, as inferred from the MGNREGA
payments not reaching the beneficiaries owing to this problem, as recorded by
Samarthan, a non- governmental organisation working at the grassroots in the states of
Madhya Pradesh and Chhattisgarh. Large-scale exclusion and inevitable in the NPR
exercise will therefore be a nightmare for all usual residents of the country. That the
government has not revealed the existing NPR for any kind of public scrutiny makes any
statement on its accuracy a matter of conjecture.

Reliability of the NPR Data

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As a routine-administrative exercise, the preparation of a register of population would
not stir up controversies. However, if this is likely to be the basis for a decision on one’s
citizenship, political issues will inevitably come to the forefront, and the data collection
will be clouded with extraneous factors, affecting the responses. This has been shown
even in much smaller exercises, like the linguistic survey done in some villages of Punjab
and Haryana in the mid-1980s. Socio-economic Caste Census too recorded a much
higher level of socio-economic deprivation of households, since this was conducted with
the avowed objective of identifying the poor. The apprehension that the NPR would be
the base document for NRC would compromise the reliability of the 2021 Census data.
Recent migrants who are likely to have difficulties in obtaining identity or address proof
at their current place of residence would not identify themselves as migrants.
Alternately, the former may report a longer residency at the place of enumeration, as
done in 2011, to avoid negativities associated with recent migrants, as shown in our
publications. For the census staff, it will be a nightmare to organise its operation amidst
the threats and frets of disenfranchisement, without losing credibility of the information
collected.

Under Section 15 of the Census Act, census records are not open to inspection by others
and not admissible as evidence in court. Furthermore, it is worth noting that the Census
Act has a clause (subsection 2 of Section 8), which specifies that while persons are bound
to answer all questions to the best of the respondent’s knowledge or belief,

no person shall be bound to state the name of any female member of his household, and
no woman shall be bound to state the name of her husband or deceased husband or of any
persons whose name she is forbidden by custom to mention.

These are in keeping with the spirit of the census as a data-collecting exercise that does
not infringe on the customs and traditions of households. Also, these are not relevant in
the census as a statistical exercise.

The house-listing operations will take about six months, starting from April 2020. The
NPR is meant for usual residents who by definition have stayed or intended to stay at
the place of enumeration for six months. A six-month period of operations for collecting
data for NPR is likely to complicate the identification of usual residents who have moved
after being enumerated in one place or fails to get enumerated due to their movement.
Given the above perspective, researchers are rightly worried about the current
controversies relating to NPR having an impact on the quality of data, collected for the
population census.

The Way Forward

The call given by several political leaders and activists in the country to boycott NPR,
gives rise to serious administrative difficulties. Besides the legal issues of this action, it
would isolate and identify a small segment of population on the other side of the law.
This may largely comprise the Muslims. Their not being included in NPR can be taken
more seriously by the administration than giving a doubtful status. The possibility of
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protest and violence in conducting census operations also cannot be ruled out. While
such a position would possibly be taken by a few leaders as a symbolic protest for
creating a public debate on the issue and drawing international attention, asking the
masses going for it involves enormous risks for the vulnerable. The Prime Minister on 22
December 2019 has declared that

there has been no discussion on NRC anywhere ... we only had to implement it in Assam
to follow Supreme Court directives.

Following this welcoming statement, there have been suggestions to delink the NPR
exercise from the census operations. A concern in that case would be the loss of
economy of scale, achieved in a combined exercise, which needs to be addressed.

The home minister’s present offer to discuss any matter concerning the CAA opens up a
possibility of reconsideration and reconciliation. One would like to believe that the
government would keep its mind open in such deliberations, and the civil society would
accept the opportunity to resolve the crisis.

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Finance Commission Report for 2020–21
epw.in/journal/2020/12/commentary/finance-commission-report-2020–21.html

March 20,
2020

The much awaited Report of the Fifteenth Finance Commission for the Year 2020–21 was
placed in Parliament on 1 February 2020 by the union finance minister along with the
explanatory memorandum as to the action taken on the recommendations made by it.
The Fifteenth Finance Commission has continued with the approach of the previous
commissions in recommending tax devolution, post-devolution revenue deficit grants,
grants to local bodies and the centre’s contribution to the States’ Disaster Response
Funds. With the change in the status of Jammu and Kashmir from being a state to a
union territory and the notional share of the erstwhile state being estimated at 0.85% of
the divisible pool of union taxes, the aggregate share of the states in the divisible pool
has been reduced from 42% to 41%. Though the commission has been mandated by one
of the terms of reference (ToR) to examine whether revenue deficit grants be provided at
all, the Fifteenth Finance Commission has done the right thing by recommending
revenue deficit grants.

The only departures from the Fourteenth Finance Commission are the recommendations
relating to special grants and grants for nutrition. This article examines whether the
union has been fair to the states in its acceptance and implementation of the
recommendations of Fifteenth Finance Commission for 2020–21.

The Fifteenth Finance Commission has noted that the sum of the tax devolution and
revenue deficit grants is projected to decline from 2019–20 to 2020–21 for the three
states of Karnataka, Mizoram and Telangana. As the decline in the absolute amount of
tax devolution and revenue deficit grants has not been observed in the dispensation of
any finance commission, the commission recommended special grants amounting to ₹
6,764 crore to these states in 2020–21. In an unprecedented manner, the Government of
India has asked the Finance Commission to review this recommendation as it introduces
a new principle. Never in the history of finance commissions had a Finance Commission
been asked to review its recommendation. In all previous cases, the central government
accepted all the recommendations of the finance commissions relating to tax devolution
and grants treating them as an award.

In the normal course, a finance commission ceases to exist once it submits its report to
the President of India. It is a different matter that the Fifteenth Finance Commission was
given an extension. Without an extension, this option would not have been available to
the centre. Furthermore, the sum of tax devolution and deficit grants being lower is a
unique phenomenon calling for a one-time special dispensation. In its final report for
2021–22 to 2025–26, the Fifteenth Finance Commission would have certainly tweaked

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the devolution formula to avoid such a situation. The approach of the centre in dealing
with this recommendation is totally unwarranted and in a way undermines the stature of
a constitutional body like the Finance Commission.

The Fifteenth Finance Commission recommended grants amounting to ₹ 7,735 crore to

all states for 2020–21 to augment their efforts towards reducing and ultimately
eliminating malnutrition. The centre has asked the commission to review this
recommendation as part of its overall proposal of measurable performance-based
incentives for states as per the ToR. The Fifteenth Finance Commission has clearly
indicated that though the ToR enjoins it to propose performance-based incentives in
nine areas, it has chosen six different areas for these incentives for consideration in its
final report. These six areas are: (i) implementation of agricultural reforms, (ii)
development of aspirational districts, (iii) power sector reforms, (iv) enhancing trade,
including exports, (v) education, and (vi) promotion of domestic and international
tourism. The ToR regarding the incentive grants to states is only in the nature of a
consideration, which the commission may consider or ignore. This is not among the
mandated functions of a Finance Commission as listed under Article 280 of the
Constitution. The approach of the centre in dealing with the recommendation relating to
grants for nutrition amounts to undermining the stature of the Finance Commission and
amounts to goading it to change its approach towards incentive grants.

The centre’s attitude even in respect of the recommendations of the Fifteenth Finance
Commission accepted by it as indicated in the Action Taken Report is against the spirit of
cooperative federalism and raises doubts about its commitment to implement the
recommendations. The provisions made in the budget fall short of the amounts
recommended by the commission and accepted by the centre in respect of a few grants.
Table 1 indicates the lower provisions made in the budget. The provisions made in the
Union Budget 2020–21 are lower by ₹ 50,000 than the grants recommended by the
Fifteenth Finance Commission and accepted by the centre.

There is no indication in the budget as to how these lower provisions will be made good.
There are instances of the centre having denied some of the states their entitlement in
basic grants for local bodies in 2014–15, the last year of the award period of the
Thirteenth Finance Commission, which are totally unconditional. The basic grants which
are totally unconditional and performance grants to urban local bodies for the year
2019–20 amounting to ₹ 20,914 crore and ₹ 5,751.21 crore, respectively have not been
released so far. As per the recommendation of the Fourteenth Finance Commission
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accepted by the centre, these grants were to be released in two instalments in June and
October. If not released by March 2020, these grants will lapse as the recommendations
of the Fifteenth Finance Commission will kick in from next fiscal year.

The Fifteenth Finance Commission has expressed concern over the proliferation of
centrally-sponsored and central sector schemes and their continuation without any
evaluation and expressed the hope that the union government will utilise the year 2020–
21 to complete the review of these schemes and thereafter rationalise and prune them
to focus on certain key sectors and interventions with nationwide externalities. Most of
these schemes are in areas which are listed under the state list. In fact, as per the
decision of the union government, the ongoing centrally-sponsored and central sector
schemes would be made coterminous with the Fourteenth Finance Commission and that
their continuation would be based on an outcome review (OM No 42[02]/PF-II/2004
dated 23 February 2014, Department of Expenditure). Now this timeline has been
extended till March 2021 for reasons best known to the centre by an office
memorandum dated 10 February 2020.

N K Singh, Chairman of the Fifteenth Finance Commission, has raised an important issue
with regard to the incongruity of letter and spirit of Schedule VII of the Constitution and
the grants under Article 282 to centrally-sponsored scheme, which are mainly within the
subjects allocated to states. Schedule VII of the Constitution distributes the powers and
responsibilities under three lists, namely (i) union list, (ii) state list, and (iii) the concurrent
list. The intrusion of the centre into subjects in the state list is not in the spirit of the
Constitution.

Though not related to the report of the Fifteenth Finance Commission, there is justifiable
concern among the states with regard to the additional ToR notified in July 2019 that

The Commission shall also examine whether a separate mechanism for funding of
defence and internal security ought to be set up, and if so, how such a mechanism could
be operationalised.

This raises a number of questions. In the ToR given to the commission at the time of its
appointment in November 2017, it was mandated that

While making the recommendations, the Commission shall have regard among other
considerations to .... the demand on the resources of the Central Government on account
of defence, internal security, infrastructure, railways, climate change, commitments
towards administration of Union Territories without legislature, and other committed
expenditure and liabilities.

This consideration was included in the ToR of previous commissions too. Accordingly, the
commissions have been taking into account the committed liabilities of the centre,
including those on defence and internal security before deciding on the share of the
states in tax devolution.

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As defence is a union subject, it is in the centre’s purview to create a dedicated defence
fund from the Consolidated Fund of India (which does not include tax devolution). If the
intention is to create the fund in such a manner, then the additional ToR is redundant. If
the centre wants to spend more on defence, it can allocate more resources from out of
its consolidated fund as it has access to a much larger pool of resources. In fact, the
Interim Union Budget 2004–05 proposed the establishment of non-lapsable defence
modernisation fund of ₹ 25,000 crore. However, this was not followed up. Obviously the
intention of the centre in giving the additional ToR is most likely to create the fund from
the divisible pool of central taxes before determining the shares of the states. Effectively,
this will result in the reduction in the size of the divisible pool and reduction in transfers
to states.

To conclude, the approach of the centre in dealing with the recommendations of the
Fifteenth Finance Commission for 2020–21 is against the principles of federalism, not to
talk of the cooperative federalism that the centre promised to make states equal
partners in the nation’s progress. The least that the centre could have done in the
present situation of economic slowdown was to accept the recommendations of the
Fifteenth Finance Commission in toto and provide suitable provisions in the Union
Budget 2020–21 as much of the action for stimulating the economy lies with states.

References

Fifteenth Finance Commission (2019): Report for the Year 2020–21, November.

Ministry of Finance (2004): “Interim Budget 2004–05—Speech of the Union Minister of

Finance,” February.

— (2020): Explanatory Memorandum as to the Action Taken on the Recommendations Made

by the Fifteenth Finance Commission in Its Report for Financial Year 2020–21 submitted to the
President of India on 5 December 2019, January.

Singh, N K (2019): “Fiscal Federalism: Ideology and Practice,” L K Jha Memorial Lecture
delivered at Reserve Bank of India, November.

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The Emergence of ‘New’ Politics
epw.in/journal/2020/12/editors-desk/emergence-‘new’-politics.html

March 20,
2020

The contemporary trend in Indian politics is marked by two qualitatively different

aspects. These aspects could be described as politics of exceptionalism and an
exceptional politics. Politics of exceptionalism is different from exceptional politics in two
different senses. One, it involves rhetorical accommodation of some members from the
marginalised groups into “opportunity structures” controlled by dominant political
forces. This form of accommodation is exceptional in terms of its paradox that makes
accommodation both undesirable as well as unavoidable. Two, politics of exceptionalism
can also be understood at another level, where some of the self-righteous political actors
view minority appeasement and the vote bank as constitutive of exceptionalism. Such a
form of exceptionalism, on moral grounds, is seen as undesirable inasmuch as it, in their
belief, violates the norms that regulate formal politics. Put differently, it is believed that it
is necessary to follow norms that otherwise get undermined by the “objectification” of
people into a vote bank or in a “game” of appeasement. Exceptional politics, on the other
hand, can be defined in terms of the autonomy that a group demonstrates in taking
political initiative in order to constitutionally resist such an accommodation.

In this context, it is important to note that both these forms of exceptionalism have been
perceptively captured in an expression such as “politics as usual” that has been dealt
with in the article by Ghazala Jamil (“Who Can Represent Muslims in Electoral Politics?
Debates in the Muslim Public Sphere” [EPW Engage, 27 April 2019]). Jamil, in her article,
raises several points that highlight the importance of political initiatives taken
particularly by the Muslim youth in India. She convincingly argues that “politics as usual,”
which also figures in the debate on Muslim politics, is indicative of the political impasse
that has adversely entangled the Muslim political discourse. Such an observation,
however, is symptomatic of a larger political scenario that concerns the entire spectrum
of the politics of marginalised communities in India.

But, the most important aspect of Jamil’s essay is its foresight that seems to offer an
enabling interpretation of alternative or new politics by the Muslim youth. According to
Jamil, Muslim youth in the present times are learning to use the juridical–political
discourse and are nurturing a culture of constitutionalism. This important observation
offers an opportunity to expand the conceptual contours of Jamil’s argument about the
new politics of the Muslim youth.

It is possible to offer a conceptually expansive account of her position at three levels.

First, the new politics spearheaded by the Muslim youth suggests a shift from the ethical
to the political. Muslim politics that precedes the present phase, arguably, had a deep
ethical content to it inasmuch as its proponents harped on the ethical need to develop
reciprocal tolerance of each other’s cultural differences. In contemporary times, Muslim
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politics led by the youth focuses more on the articulation of rights and distributive
justice. In fact, the language of rights and distributive justice tends to define this new
politics.

The Muslim youth have learnt to assess the language of rights in terms of their capacity
to assert the claim on distributive justice. The Sachar Committee recommendations are
the expression of the demand for distributive justice.

The language of rights, which is inherent in the new politics of the Muslim youth, is active
on both fronts. At one end, it seeks to put to the state the demand for distributive
justice, and at the other end, it also shows its discomfort about the social inequality that
empirically persists within the Muslim “establishment.” The new politics of the Muslim
youth regards rights as accruing from a deep sense of equality of the moral feeling to
exist in public life with dignity. In new politics, thus, there is a definite thrust to overcome
the sense of guilt that is socially produced and externally imposed by the members of
the majority community. This conception of new politics suggests that distributive justice
is grounded not in the inherited right to unilaterally put forward a claim over the material
as well as cultural resources, but it is guaranteed in the people’s document, that is, the
Indian Constitution.

The new politics involves a shift away from what could be termed as persecuted patience
or “cultivated” silence, to a reasoned assertion for constitutional rights and distributive
justice. New politics, for its success, argues for a normative direction which will strike a
fine balance between the possession of rights and reciprocal obligation towards the
common good, such as creating a decent society. The new politics as a fresh initiative by
the Muslim youth will have to accommodate in its normative thrust both ethics and
politics. This would mean the continued articulation of the right to just treatment as well
existing side by side with dignity.

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From 50 Years Ago: MAHARASHTRA-Not through Forest
Lands
epw.in/journal/2020/12/50-years-ago/50-years-ago-maharashtra-not-through-forest-lands.html

March 20,
2020

Vol V, No 12 MARCH 21, 1970

MAHARASHTRA-Not through Forest Lands

The 10,000-strong morcha in Bombay on March 4 of Adivasis, landless labourers and

poor farmers, under the joint leadership of CPM, CPI, Marxist Lal Nishan Party (Red Flag
Party) and SSP—but CPM mainly—was significant for two reasons. First, it underscored
Maharashtra Government’s failure to implement its land reform measures. Second, it
reflected a measure of recognition among the Leftist parties of the importance of
working among, and awakening, the rural masses and of the need to join hands in this
task.

Trouble has been brewing for some time now in the Adivasi areas of Maharashtra, in the
districts of Thana, Nasik, Dhulia, Wardha, Chanda, Yeotmal, Bhir, Parbhani and Satara. In
Thana more than five lakh Adivasi families, who live in the forest areas, are poised for a
struggle under the militant CPM leadership of Godavari Parulekar, known among them
as “Godarani”. Their agitation is directed against eviction of those without land titles from
Government land.

Some 1.55 lakh acres of Government land are roughly estimated to have been occupied
by the landless, including Adivasis. These people have been cultivating this land and
raising crops on it.

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Humpty Dumpty Jurisprudence
epw.in/journal/2020/12/law-and-society/humpty-dumpty-jurisprudence.html

March 20,
2020

“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what
I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”

“The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different
things.”

“The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master—that’s all.” (Carroll
1872: 72)

This passage enjoys a certain level of notoriety in the legal world. It was first used by
Lord Atkin in his famous dissent in Liversidge v Anderson (1942) where he questioned the
majority’s interpretation of the Defence (General) Regulations, 1939 when it gave the
government virtually uncontrolled powers of detention. One law review article notes that
Humpty Dumpty has been invoked no fewer than 250 times by United States (US) courts
(Reddish and Arnould 2012: 1513, footnote 116), and a search of the Supreme Court
cases database shows that it has been referred to by the Supreme Court of India thrice,
and high courts no fewer than six times.

In most cases, it is invoked by judges when they are faced with an interpretation that
proceeds less on logic and reason, and more on pure say-so. One is compelled to invoke
it to describe the line of reasoning adopted by the constitution bench of the Supreme
Court in Indore Development Authority v Manoharlal (2020; the Manoharlal case). 1

In interpreting Section 24(2) of the Right to Fair Compensation and Transparency in Land
Acquisition, Relief and Rehabilitation Act, 2013 (the 2013 act) the Court has said that the
word “or” occuring in the provision means “and.” Consequently, acquisition proceedings
under the Land Acquisition Act, 1894 (the 1894 act) would lapse only if the acquiring
authority has not taken possession of land and has not “paid” the compensation due five
years after an award was made. It has also interpreted the term “paid” to mean that so
long as the acquiring authority deposits the amount to the treasury, it would amount to
“payment” to the owner of the land.

Needless to say, both these conclusions deliver a body blow to the 2013 act’s attempt to
benefit those whose lands had been legally acquired under the previous 1894 act, but
were stuck in a legal limbo over possession or compensation.

In this column, I will dissect one particular line of reasoning afforded by Justice Arun
Mishra, who authored the opinion on behalf of the bench in the Manoharlal case,
indicative of the larger approach to the questions answered. Any good lawyer or legal
commentator will tell you that critiquing or understanding a judgment requires an
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analysis of the facts that gave rise to the case, but in this instance, I propose to go
through a very different set of facts that might explain this judgment. These facts are also
why I prefer to consider this Mishra’s judgment rather than one delivered by the bench
as a whole (even though they agreed with it).

Humpty Dumpty Interpretations

In holding that the term “or” in Section 24 should be interpreted as “and,” Mishra never
once explains the “illogical results” that would hold from interpreting it otherwise.
Instead, he proceeds on the basis that rules of interpretation require that when a clause
has two negative conditions (such as conditions relating to possession and
compensation in Section 24), the disjunctive “or” must necessarily be read as “and.” While
no doubt there are cases which have held so, in all cases (even those cited by him) the
courts have taken pains to show why this particular interpretation furthers the intent of
the legislature or avoids an absurd conclusion (Jindal Stainless v State of Haryana 2017).

The only plausible example of an “absurdity” Mishra can come up with is a peculiar
situation where possession has not been taken but compensation has been paid by the
acquiring authority—the landowner enjoying both compensation and possession and
having land acquisition proceedings lapse. There is no instance of this happening that
has been mentioned in the judgment and the lawyers for the petitioners even conceded
that, in such a situation, if the acquisition proceedings lapse, the money would be
recoverable from the landowners. However, in a rare instance of the court refusing to
accept a concession from a party, and still proceeding to hold against the conceding
party, Mishra finds that this peculiar situation (no actual instance of which is described in
Court) is enough to completely gut the beneficial aspects of Section 24(2).

This fanciful example being the basis for interpretation suggests that Mishra sees the
whole issue of land acquisition entirely from the point of view of the state and not once
as a rights issue is something that I have commented on in this column (Kumar 2016). In
one part of the judgment, Mishra says something very revealing:

In case word “or” is read disjunctively, proceedings shall lapse even after possession has
been taken in order to prevent lapse of land acquisition proceedings, once the land has
vested in the Government and in most cases, development has already been made.

In effect, Mishra gives the government carte blanche to take advantage of its own wrong.
Taking possession without payment is bad enough (even after a period of five years) but
Mishra is more anxious about whether or not the purpose of land acquisition will be
affected, and less about the landowner’s loss of land and compensation. The mandate of
2013 act is paid lip service but the approach is geared towards maximising governmental
powers and protecting official misfeasance rather than enforcing rights guaranteed
under law.

The ‘Facts’ of the Case

Although the judgment in the Manoharlal case was delivered in the context of a batch of
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petitions heard together, it is a very peculiar set of circumstances that has led to the
present judgment. Noted only laconically in the judgment, the sequence of events fails to
mention Mishra’s role in getting a constitution bench to hear the case. As far back as
2014, a three-judge bench of the Supreme Court had settled the interpretation of Section
24 in Pune Municipal Corporation v Harakchand Misrimal Solanki (2014; the PMC case), but
the correctness of it was questioned for the first time by a two-judge bench in Indore
Development Authority v Shailendra (2018a; the Shailendra-I case). This resulted in a three-
judge bench decision (by majority of 2-1) in Indore Development Authority v Shailendra
(2018b; the Shailendra-II case). The majority judgment, in this case also authored by
Mishra, committed a major violation of the judicial process in declaring the PMC
judgment per incuriam or bad in law, in breach of both principle and procedure. It is not
enough to just disagree with a bench of co-equal size, but it was incumbent upon Mis​hra
thereafter to refer the matter to a bench of a larger size for further adjudication (Central
Board of Dawoodi Bohra Community v State of Maharashtra 2005).

Here, the story takes a surprising twist, one that Mishra casually glosses over. Another
bench of the Supreme Court in Indore Development Authority v Shyam Verma (2018a; the
Shyam Verma case) noted the problematic parts of the Shailendra–II case and directed
that it would not be followed until the matter was settled by a five-judge bench of the
Supreme Court. Here, the bench in the Shyam Verma case followed the appropriate
procedure and the matter was placed before a five-judge bench headed by the then
Chief Justice of India (CJI) Dipak Misra in 2018, but the matter could not be heard due to
lack of time (Indore Development Authority v Shyam Verma 2018b). However, when the five-
judge bench was reconstituted, none of the judges who were on the previous
constitution bench or the three-judge bench in the Shyam Verma cases featured. Instead
the bench, as constituted by CJI Ranjan Gogoi, was now headed by Arun Mishra—who,
so far, had been part of every bench which had questioned the PMC case.

Very little of this peculiar trajectory is discussed, and even when it is, Mishra modestly
ignores his own authorship of the judgments in question. It is not out of place to mention
here that it was this precise chain of events that prompted the lawyers for the
landowners in the present case to seek his recusal, especially since no other judge who
had taken a contrary view was on the bench (Kumar 2019). Of course, Arun Mishra
refused on rather flimsy grounds and proceeded to deliver a judgment which showed
exactly why he should have recused himself in the first place (Indore Development
Authority v Manoharlal 2019). The recusal was also not the only controversy that hit this
case. A heated exchange between Senior Advocate Gopal Shankarnarayanan and Mishra
needed the intervention of the senior members of the Supreme Court bar to smoothen
things over (Choudhary 2019).

What this chain of events tells us is that a well-settled interpretation of the law was
unsettled almost entirely due to the efforts of one judge who managed to not only
preside over the five-judge bench that delivered the final judgment, but also the previous
two-judge and three-judge benches. There was no change in statute or circumstance

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that prompted this dramatic change in the law. The only basis for holding the PMC
judgment wrong seems to be that Mishra does not like the consequences arising out of
the judgment.

In Conclusion

If one had to prescribe a perfect example of the complete failure of judicial process in
the Supreme Court, the Manoharlal case would tick every single box. From questionable
procedural manoeuvres to a judgment that violates most known canons of statutory
construction and defeats the purpose of the law itself, the Manoharlal case stands out as
another low point in an era of low points for the Supreme Court. It is tragic that Humpty
Dumpty jurisprudence ends up becoming law when the final court of appeal chooses to
make it so, but one hopes that those in the institution remember what eventually
happened to Humpty Dumpty.

Note

1 There are three different cases discussed in this column involving the Indore
Development Autho​rity. For the purposes of clarity, I will be referring to them by the
respondent’s names respectively.

References

Carroll, L (1872): Through the Looking-Glass, Raleigh, NC: Hayes Barton Press.

Central Board of Dawoodi Bohra Community v State of Maharashtra (2005): SCC, SC, 2, p
673.

Choudhary, Nilashish (2019): “‘I Apologize a Hundred Times’: Justice Arun Mishra On His
Comments Against Gopal Sankaranarayanan,” Live Law, 5 December, viewed on 17 March
2020, https://www.livelaw.in/top-stories/i-apologize-a-
hundred-times-justice-arun-mishra-on-his-comments-against-gopal-sankaranarayanan-
150468.

Indore Development Authority v Shailendra (2018a): SCC, SC, 1, p 733.

— (2018b): SCC, SC, 3, p 412.

Indore Development Authority v Shyam Verma (2018a): SCC Online, SC, 100.

— (2018b): 3 SCC, 405.

Indore Development Authority v Manoharlal (2019): SCC Online, SC, 1392.

— (2020): SCC Online, SC, 316.

Jindal Stainless v State of Haryana (2017): SCC, SC, 12, p 1.

4/5
Kumar, Alok Prasanna (2016): “Supreme Court’s Schizophrenic Approach to Land
Acquisition,” Economic & Political Weekly, Vol 51, No 38,
pp 10–11.

— (2019): “To Recuse or Not to Recuse?” Mumbai Mirror, 17 October, viewed on 17

March 2020, https://mumbaimirror.indiatimes.com/opinion/columnists/by-invitation/to-
recuse-or-not-to-recuse/articleshow/71623613.cms.

Liversidge v Anderson (1942): AC, 206, 245.

Pune Municipal Corporation v Harakchand Misrimal Solanki (2014): SCC, SC, 3, p 183.

Redish, Martin H and Matthew B Arnould (2012): “Judicial Review, Constitutional

Interpretation, and the Democratic Dilemma: Proposing a ‘Controlled Activism’
Alternative,” Florida Law Review, Vol 64, No 6, pp 1485–537.

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National Medical Commission Act, 2019
epw.in/journal/2020/12/commentary/national-medical-commission-act-2019.html

March 20,
2020

The National Medical Commission (NMC) Act, 2019 enacted by Parliament is a landmark
act. The act has generated a lot of debate and strong reactions—both for and against it.
In this article, the relevance, provisions and the implications of this act for the future of
medical education and health practice in the country are examined.

Medical interventions and health technology are in a phase of rapid metamorphosis

globally. The benefits of rapid scientific developments, technological advancements, and
improved and targeted interventions in the health sector have changed the lives of
millions. People are living longer (WHO 2019b) and healthier lives (Ortiz-Ospina and
Roser 2016). The simultaneous improvement in education, income, and other social
determinants has also contributed to this phenomenal rise in life expectancy. Life
expectancy in India improved from below 50 years in the 1950s to 76 years in the recent
years (World Bank 2019). Medical education needs in the 21st century are vastly different
from those in the previous century. The report of the Lancet Commission on medical
education for the 21st century (Frenk et al 2010) notes

20th century educational strategies that are unfit to tackle 21st century challenges …
changes are needed because of fragmented, outdated, and static curricula that produce ill-
equipped graduates.

This report has reshaped the global dialogue and discourse about how countries can
redesign medical education to keep pace with the changing times. The NMC Act, 2019 is a
reformative step in this direction for a transparent and objective governance framework
that has the potential to usher in institutional and instructional reforms across the
medical education sector. It has several provisions that are forward-looking. In this
article, specific provisions of this act that have a transformative potential have been
highlighted.

The ideation of a National Licentiate Examination mooted through this act is a provision
that necessitates obtaining a licence to practise after graduation and for admission to
postgraduate medical courses. This is expected to simplify the admission process for
postgraduate programmes and eliminate the stress of multiple examinations. At the
national level, it could free up a lot of latent human resource potential. The internship
period of one-year duration, which is a mandatory component of medical education, is
sub-optimally utilised in the current times. Interns are busy preparing and appearing for
multiple entrance examinations with no attention on internship work. The freed up time
with the single common national examination will enable young medical doctors to
diligently spend time with patients and support our health system.

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Further, it shall help young doctors gain knowledge and understanding from real-life
practical experiences. Currently, a cohort of over 50,000 Bachelor of Medicine and
Bachelor of Surgery (MBBS) doctors undertakes internship every year in our country. This
number is expected to increase substantially in the coming decades. Freeing up these
young minds is bound to bring in a change at their training site. The same test is also set
to replace the examination that certifies medical graduates trained in foreign countries
to practise in India. The act, therefore, proposes the same standards for MBBS doctors
graduating from anywhere in India and outside the country.

Accessing Medical Education

Equity in accessing medical education is of vital importance. While public institutions

substantially subsidise medical education, the NMC will determine fees for a percentage
of the seats in private medical colleges and deemed universities. This move will broaden
the opportunity for students from all sections of the society to undertake medical
education. This democratisation of medical education is important since it is growing
more expensive with every passing year. The rising fees, expensive books and
equipment become a barrier for several deserving students. Social responsibility and
empathy for fellow humans are vital traits for any doctor. The presence (or absence) of a
paying capacity should not be a determinant for enrolling in an educational programme.
The NMC’s authority to determine a percentage of fees in private medical colleges and
deemed universities can open doors for those who want to pursue a career in medicine,
but do not have the financial means to do so. As per the Ministry of Health and Family
Welfare (MOHFW)

This means that almost 75% of total seats in the country would be available at reasonable
fees. In the spirit of federalism, the state governments would still have the liberty to
decide fees for remaining seats in private medical colleges. (PIB 2019)

This is an inclusive step with wide ramifications. The provision of this clause and the
percentage can be tweaked in the future to adjust with evolving needs and social
realities of the country in the coming decades. Additionally, the ministry also explicitly
states

There is no question of NMC bill making medical education a preserve of the rich. On the
contrary, it is common knowledge that before the reforms of NEET and common
counseling were introduced by our government, rich students who could afford to pay
huge and unrecorded capitation fees were able to secure admission to private medical
colleges. Our reforms have eliminated the role of black money in medical education and
the NMC bill will provide statutory force to the reforms which have been carried out. (PIB
2019)

The NMC Act has outlined the composition of the NMC with ex officio members,
nominees of states and union territories, and from amongst persons of ability, integrity
and standing. This is not very different from the system in the United Kingdom where the
council members of the general medical council are appointed following an independent
2/6
appointments process (General Medical Council 2020). In the United States, the state
medical boards are responsible for the licensing and regulation of physicians and
surgeons, and certain allied healthcare professionals. The membership of the state
boards is variable, for example, the medical board of California has 15 members of
which the governor appoints eight physicians and five public members; one public
member is appointed by the speaker of the assembly; and one public member
appointed by the senate rules committee (Department of Consumer Affairs 2020).

A Balancing Act

The NMC Act also recognises the relationship between the states and thecentral
government, and balances the need of the state initiatives with the wider need of a
holistic central outlook towards health. This is a welcome move that reflects the need of
a close working relationship that NMC could facilitate in the health sector. Contextually,
this upholds the spirit of the Indian federal system of governance where individual states
are in the driving seat with regards to the responsibility of health of their residents.

From the wider perspective of health professional education, the act seeks to enhance
the interface between homoeopathy, Indian systems of medicine and modern systems
of medicine. It proposes a joint sitting of the commission, the Central Council of
Homoeopathy and the Central Council of Indian Medicine at least once a year. This
clause is important as it seeks to enhance synergies at the highest level as well as
facilitate synergy in educational material and practice. Expectation is that, in due course,
the Indian Nursing Council and the Dental Council of India too should be engaged in
keeping up with the spirit of the inter-professional education.

Health providers function as a team (McMohan et al 1992), whether they are working in
the public or in the private sector. Inter-professional education has the potential to bring
various disciplines closer and lower the barriers to ensure efficient service delivery. The
NMC Act is directed towards reforming and regulating the medical education and
practice. Commensurate efforts are equally necessary across the health education
sector. Continued engagement and reforms, possibly at varying levels of intensity, might
be necessary to align all the councils that are charged with managing the education and
practice of different medical professions.

The emphasis on limited licence to practise at the mid level as community health
provider has been extensively debated. This aspect has been clarified by the MOHFW
(PIB 2019). Our interpretation is that this move is not intended to create “medical
doctors” through crosspathy, but help support the creation of 1,50,000 mid-level
providers within the next few years to provide comprehensive primary and preventive
care at Health and Wellness Centres (HWCs). The HWCs are a part of the countrywide
efforts to upgrade sub-centres within the public system to provide a wider basket of
services (National Health Portal 2019).

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We have a skewed distribution of health professionals in the urban and rural areas of the
country (Karan et al 2019). Mid-level community health providers are expected to be the
human resource thrust that will help supplement the health system in delivering
quality care, particularly to rural populations. This is in consonance with the overall
planning and the infrastructure creation for operationalising the HWCs. Such cadres are
known to exist in developed as well as developing countries and are known by varied
terminologies, such as clinical officers who work within various African countries, and
clinical assistants and nurse practitioners in several developed countries.

A limited and successful experience of the states of Chhattisgarh (NHSRC 2014a) and
Assam (NHSRC 2014b) demonstrate such cadres’ positive impact on primary healthcare
indicators. Currently, we do not have an allied health professionals council (AHPC) in the
country. Since community health providers have been included in the National Medical
Commission Act instead of an AHPC, it could have resulted in the misconceptions
surrounding this particular clause. It will be helpful if there is a greater clarity on whether
these community health providers will function only at the level of HWCs in the public
sector, or whether they will be permitted to function even within the private sector. A
detailed interpretation by the relevant committees which will work on this particular
aspect is required with clear delineation of the boundaries of community health
providers’ functioning.

Development Goals

The ideas of equity and strengthening of the primary healthcare through mid-level
community health providers are also important in the context of India’s progression
towards the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). Good health is interconnected with
development (WHO 2019a). The achievement of the third SDG in India will need well-
functioning health systems that work towards assuring universal health coverage. In this
context, the NMC Act is consciously contributing to medical education to channelise the
supply-side to meet the future requirements. The governance reforms at the heart of the
act can also be interpreted to be supportive of the country’s intentions in achieving the
SDGs.

The thrust on medical education is an essential part of the act. But, other pieces are also
necessary to complete the picture. The availability of adequately trained medical
professionals can provide quality care in a dignified manner and in sync with the
national health goals. The undergraduate medical education board and the postgraduate
medical education board will have to take cognisance of the overall shortfall in the
number of medical doctors, particularly post-graduates across the country. Their
shortfall, particularly at the district and the sub-district levels will need remedial action.
Active planning for addressing the human resources needs of the future will have to be
carried out. The reactive approach has to be gradually replaced by a proactive approach
to plug gaps
in numbers and their availability and distribution.

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We are witnessing passing of the baton from the earlier regulatory approach towards
medical education to the new framework under the NMC. The NMC has inherited the
responsibility to address the structural and functional challenges within the health
system. Governance reforms have the potential to create an enabling environment,
standardise processes, and introduce transparency in functioning. The impetus will have
to be on a greater attention to both quality and quantity. Shepherding positive
behaviours is often slow and takes time in entrenched systems.

The NMC will have to deftly handle such challenges on the medical education front. The
outcomes of any piece of legislation, particularly in a complex field like professional
councils are also heavily dependent upon last-mile actors. In this case, medical colleges
and medical teachers will also have to rise to the occasion. The Medical Assessment and
Rating Board constituted under this act will rate all the medical colleges and present this
information in the public domain. This can be expected to bring greater transparency in
the performance of the medical colleges. This can usher in greater levels of competition
among medical colleges and improve their quality. This is a significant change from the
earlier pattern of inspections that focus on inputs and processes. We can now expect a
greater emphasis to additionally include outcomes in rating the medical colleges.

The future of medical education and practice rests within the frameworks of the NMC
Act. Some articles in the media have inconsistently interpreted the sections of the act. A
closer reading of the clauses will help clarify many of these issues. The commission will
have to broaden the horizon, engage in proactive dialogue with all stakeholders and take
decisions with agility. The act has been written in the right spirit, addressing the
concerns of the present while preparing for the future. Appropriate structures specified
by the act will have to interpret the act, implement its provisions, and monitor the
impacts. The aspirations of an emergent India introduce an urgency to manage medical
systems optimally. Medical education has to keep pace with these rapid developments.
The NMC Act is not a matter of choice, but an imperative in the national interest.

References

Department of Consumer Affairs (2020): “Members and Executive Staff—Medical Board

of California,” https://www.mbc.ca.gov/About_ Us/Members/.

Frenk, Julio et al (2010): “Health Professionals for a New Century: Transforming Education
to Strengthen Health Systems in an Interdependent World,” Lancet, Vol 376, No 9756,
https://doi.org/10.1016/S0140-6736(10)61854-5.

General Medical Council (2020): “Council Members,” https://www.gmc-uk.org/about/who-

we-are/our-council.

Karan, Anup, Himanshu Negandhi, Rajesh Nair, Anjali Sharma, Ritika Tiwari and Sanjay
Zodpey (2019): “Size, Composition and Distribution of Human Resource for Health in
India: New Estimates Using National Sample Survey and Registry Data,” BMJ Open, Vol 9,
No 4, https://doi.org/10.1136/bmjopen-2018-025979.
5/6
McMohan, Rosemary, Elizabeth Barton and Maurice Piot (1992): “Working with People, or
the Health Team Approach,” On Being in Charge: A Guide to Management in Primary Health
Care, World Health Organization,
http://whqlibdoc.who.int/publications/9241544260_part2_chp2.pdf.

National Health Portal (2019): “Ayushman Bharat—Health and Wellness Centre,” Ministry
of Health and Family Welfare, https://ab-hwc.nhp.gov.in/.

NHSRC (2014a): “Evaluation Report of the Chhattisgarh Rural Medical Corps (CRMC)
2013–14,” National Health Systems Resource Centre,
http://nhsrcindia.org/sites/default/files/Evaluation%20report%20of%20Chh....

— (2014b): “Rural Health Practitioners—Augmenting Sub-centre Service Delivery in

Assam,” National Health Systems Resource Centre,
http://nhsrcindia.org/sites/default/files/Rural%20Health%20Practitioners...
20delivery%20in%20Assam.pdf.

Ortiz-Ospina, Esteban and Max Roser (2016): “Global Health,” Our World in Data,
https://ourworldindata.org/health-meta.

PIB (2019): “FAQs on National Medical Commission (NMC) Bill 2019,” Ministry of Health
and Family Welfare, Government of India, 6 August,
https://pib.gov.in/newsite/PrintRelease.aspx? relid=192491.

World Bank (2019): “Life Expectancy at Birth, Total (Years)—India,” World Bank Data,
https://data.worldbank.org/indicator/SP.DYN.LE00.IN?locations=IN.

WHO (2019a): “Health and Development,” World Health Organization,

https://www.who.int/hdp/en/.

— (2019b): “Global Health Observatory (GHO) Data: Life Expectancy,” World Health
Organization,
http://www.who.int/gho/mortality_burden_disease/life_tables/situation_tr....

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3/28/2020 Finance Commission Report for 2020–21 : Has the Union Been Fair to States? | Economic and Political Weekly

Finance Commission Report for 2020–21

epw.in/journal/2020/12/commentary/finance-commission-report-2020–21.html

March 20, 2020

The much awaited Report of the Fifteenth Finance Commission for the Year 2020–21 was placed
in Parliament on 1 February 2020 by the union finance minister along with the explanatory
memorandum as to the action taken on the recommendations made by it. The Fifteenth Finance
Commission has continued with the approach of the previous commissions in recommending tax
devolution, post-devolution revenue deficit grants, grants to local bodies and the centre’s
contribution to the States’ Disaster Response Funds. With the change in the status of Jammu and
Kashmir from being a state to a union territory and the notional share of the erstwhile state being
estimated at 0.85% of the divisible pool of union taxes, the aggregate share of the states in the
divisible pool has been reduced from 42% to 41%. Though the commission has been mandated
by one of the terms of reference (ToR) to examine whether revenue deficit grants be provided at
all, the Fifteenth Finance Commission has done the right thing by recommending revenue deficit
grants.

The only departures from the Fourteenth Finance Commission are the recommendations relating
to special grants and grants for nutrition. This article examines whether the union has been fair to
the states in its acceptance and implementation of the recommendations of Fifteenth Finance
Commission for 2020–21.

The Fifteenth Finance Commission has noted that the sum of the tax devolution and revenue
deficit grants is projected to decline from 2019–20 to 2020–21 for the three states of Karnataka,
Mizoram and Telangana. As the decline in the absolute amount of tax devolution and revenue
deficit grants has not been observed in the dispensation of any finance commission, the
commission recommended special grants amounting to ₹ 6,764 crore to these states in 2020–21.
In an unprecedented manner, the Government of India has asked the Finance Commission to
review this recommendation as it introduces a new principle. Never in the history of finance
commissions had a Finance Commission been asked to review its recommendation. In all
previous cases, the central government accepted all the recommendations of the finance
commissions relating to tax devolution and grants treating them as an award.

In the normal course, a finance commission ceases to exist once it submits its report to the
President of India. It is a different matter that the Fifteenth Finance Commission was given an
extension. Without an extension, this option would not have been available to the centre.
Furthermore, the sum of tax devolution and deficit grants being lower is a unique phenomenon
calling for a one-time special dispensation. In its final report for 2021–22 to 2025–26, the Fifteenth
Finance Commission would have certainly tweaked the devolution formula to avoid such a
situation. The approach of the centre in dealing with this recommendation is totally unwarranted
and in a way undermines the stature of a constitutional body like the Finance Commission.

The Fifteenth Finance Commission recommended grants amounting to ₹ 7,735 crore to all states
for 2020–21 to augment their efforts towards reducing and ultimately eliminating malnutrition. The
centre has asked the commission to review this recommendation as part of its overall proposal of

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measurable performance-based incentives for states as per the ToR. The Fifteenth Finance
Commission has clearly indicated that though the ToR enjoins it to propose performance-based
incentives in nine areas, it has chosen six different areas for these incentives for consideration in
its final report. These six areas are: (i) implementation of agricultural reforms, (ii) development of
aspirational districts, (iii) power sector reforms, (iv) enhancing trade, including exports, (v)
education, and (vi) promotion of domestic and international tourism. The ToR regarding the
incentive grants to states is only in the nature of a consideration, which the commission may
consider or ignore. This is not among the mandated functions of a Finance Commission as listed
under Article 280 of the Constitution. The approach of the centre in dealing with the
recommendation relating to grants for nutrition amounts to undermining the stature of the Finance
Commission and amounts to goading it to change its approach towards incentive grants.

The centre’s attitude even in respect of the recommendations of the Fifteenth Finance
Commission accepted by it as indicated in the Action Taken Report is against the spirit of
cooperative federalism and raises doubts about its commitment to implement the
recommendations. The provisions made in the budget fall short of the amounts recommended by
the commission and accepted by the centre in respect of a few grants. Table 1 indicates the lower
provisions made in the budget. The provisions made in the Union Budget 2020–21 are lower by ₹
50,000 than the grants recommended by the Fifteenth Finance Commission and accepted by the
centre.

There is no indication in the budget as to how these lower provisions will be made good. There
are instances of the centre having denied some of the states their entitlement in basic grants for
local bodies in 2014–15, the last year of the award period of the Thirteenth Finance Commission,
which are totally unconditional. The basic grants which are totally unconditional and performance
grants to urban local bodies for the year 2019–20 amounting to ₹ 20,914 crore and ₹ 5,751.21
crore, respectively have not been released so far. As per the recommendation of the Fourteenth
Finance Commission accepted by the centre, these grants were to be released in two instalments
in June and October. If not released by March 2020, these grants will lapse as the
recommendations of the Fifteenth Finance Commission will kick in from next fiscal year.

The Fifteenth Finance Commission has expressed concern over the proliferation of centrally-
sponsored and central sector schemes and their continuation without any evaluation and
expressed the hope that the union government will utilise the year 2020–21 to complete the
review of these schemes and thereafter rationalise and prune them to focus on certain key
sectors and interventions with nationwide externalities. Most of these schemes are in areas which

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are listed under the state list. In fact, as per the decision of the union government, the ongoing
centrally-sponsored and central sector schemes would be made coterminous with the Fourteenth
Finance Commission and that their continuation would be based on an outcome review (OM No
42[02]/PF-II/2004 dated 23 February 2014, Department of Expenditure). Now this timeline has
been extended till March 2021 for reasons best known to the centre by an office memorandum
dated 10 February 2020.

N K Singh, Chairman of the Fifteenth Finance Commission, has raised an important issue with
regard to the incongruity of letter and spirit of Schedule VII of the Constitution and the grants
under Article 282 to centrally-sponsored scheme, which are mainly within the subjects allocated
to states. Schedule VII of the Constitution distributes the powers and responsibilities under three
lists, namely (i) union list, (ii) state list, and (iii) the concurrent list. The intrusion of the centre into
subjects in the state list is not in the spirit of the Constitution.

Though not related to the report of the Fifteenth Finance Commission, there is justifiable concern
among the states with regard to the additional ToR notified in July 2019 that

The Commission shall also examine whether a separate mechanism for funding of defence
and internal security ought to be set up, and if so, how such a mechanism could be
operationalised.

This raises a number of questions. In the ToR given to the commission at the time of its
appointment in November 2017, it was mandated that

While making the recommendations, the Commission shall have regard among other
considerations to .... the demand on the resources of the Central Government on account of
defence, internal security, infrastructure, railways, climate change, commitments towards
administration of Union Territories without legislature, and other committed expenditure
and liabilities.

This consideration was included in the ToR of previous commissions too. Accordingly, the
commissions have been taking into account the committed liabilities of the centre, including those
on defence and internal security before deciding on the share of the states in tax devolution.

As defence is a union subject, it is in the centre’s purview to create a dedicated defence fund from
the Consolidated Fund of India (which does not include tax devolution). If the intention is to create
the fund in such a manner, then the additional ToR is redundant. If the centre wants to spend
more on defence, it can allocate more resources from out of its consolidated fund as it has access
to a much larger pool of resources. In fact, the Interim Union Budget 2004–05 proposed the
establishment of non-lapsable defence modernisation fund of ₹ 25,000 crore. However, this was
not followed up. Obviously the intention of the centre in giving the additional ToR is most likely to
create the fund from the divisible pool of central taxes before determining the shares of the states.
Effectively, this will result in the reduction in the size of the divisible pool and reduction in transfers
to states.

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To conclude, the approach of the centre in dealing with the recommendations of the Fifteenth
Finance Commission for 2020–21 is against the principles of federalism, not to talk of the
cooperative federalism that the centre promised to make states equal partners in the nation’s
progress. The least that the centre could have done in the present situation of economic
slowdown was to accept the recommendations of the Fifteenth Finance Commission in toto and
provide suitable provisions in the Union Budget 2020–21 as much of the action for stimulating the
economy lies with states.

References

Fifteenth Finance Commission (2019): Report for the Year 2020–21, November.

Ministry of Finance (2004): “Interim Budget 2004–05—Speech of the Union Minister of

Finance,” February.

— (2020): Explanatory Memorandum as to the Action Taken on the Recommendations Made by

the Fifteenth Finance Commission in Its Report for Financial Year 2020–21 submitted to the
President of India on 5 December 2019, January.

Singh, N K (2019): “Fiscal Federalism: Ideology and Practice,” L K Jha Memorial Lecture
delivered at Reserve Bank of India, November.

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Religion, Secularism and State Power
epw.in/journal/2020/12/review-article/religion-secularism-and-state-power.html

March 20,
2020

Two modern states that expressed a secular commitment grounded in very different
understandings of secularism appear now to be converging with regard to their
experience of complications in meeting with the requirements of secularism and those
of democracy. One of them, Turkey, began its journey as a modern nation state by
registering hostility to religion in a markedly authoritarian manner. This state has
eventually morphed towards a blend of religious majoritarianism and populism, while
retaining an authoritarian legacy. The other, India, took off with openness to religious
diversity and with an understanding of secularism that was not hostile to the public
expression of religion within the kind of framework envisaged by Rajeev Bhargava’s
(1994) notion of “principled distance.” But, India’s journey as a modern nation state has
also veered in the direction of a heady mix of religious majoritarianism and populism.
What is the explanation for such a congruent political turn in Turkey and India?

Sumantra Bose’s Secular States, Religious Politics: India, Turkey, and Future of Secularism
contains detailed analyses of constitutional politics (and some societal processes) in
Turkey and India related to the abridgement of the secular commitment in these two
countries. The book is a tour de force for anyone interested in a meticulous account of
the different events and processes that have shaped the trajectories of secularism and
democracy in modern-day India and Turkey. And, it is the different events and processes
under focus that yield resources for what the book’s title classifies as “religious politics.”
Details of what goes under the umbrella term “religious politics” can be found
consistently in each of the seven chapters of the book, which covers a period from the
early 20th century up until 2017.

For Turkey, the study entails a discussion of early 20th century intellectual history to
show how the path to a secular state was paved by a “West/Europe-inspired” version of
social and political order (p 78), with emphasis on the trend to authoritarianism, the
treatment meted out to the Kurdish issue and the eventual rise and consolidation of the
Justice and Development Party (AKP in Turkish). For India, there are details of the
intellectual history underpinning an accommodative conception of secularism, the
nature of constitutional politics, the pattern of use of state power by Congress-led
governments for majoritarian politics, including a discussion of how the Kashmir issue
was handled, and the ascent of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) and its fortunes with
regard to obtaining state power.

What does the book reveal about Turkey with regard to religious politics and its
implications for a conception of the secular state? Turkey’s experience is noted to have
commenced with the adoption of a secular model inspired by the achievements
attributed to Western civilisation (Chapter 2; pp 58, 65). Bose notes how Mustafa Kemal
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Atatürk became the moving force behind the endorsement in Turkey of a model of
secularism that was hostile to public religiosity. Kemalism—the ideology underpinning
the Turkish secular state—rejected the idea of a non-Western modernity (p 65), and that
seems to have played some role in pre-empting the dominance of any contrasting
perspectives in Turkey.1 One contrasting perspective was advanced by figures like Ziya
Gökalp whose ideas, incidentally, underpropped Kemalism (pp 63–66). Among other
things, Gökalp favoured “a harmonious confluence of national culture and Western
(European) civilisation, achieved through an equal, reciprocal partnership of the elite and
the masses” (pp 64–65). Kemalism drew on Gökalp’s views against the Ottoman era and
in favour of nationalism, as well as on his endorsement of the need for Turkey to “enter
European civilisation completely,” in lieu of trying to combine “Eastern” and “Western”
civilisations (pp 62, 61). But, “instead of a reciprocal dialogue between the elite and the
people” that Gökalp favoured, Kemalism imposed a “topdown approach … to inculcate
the new values in the villagers and townspeople of Anatolia” (pp 65; see pp 66–68 for
details on other opponents of Kemalism). As a result, the newly formed republic under
the influence of Kemalism seemed to deepen a trend that characterised the Ottoman
Empire, which was the presence of a “chasm between a distant, bureaucratic ‘centre’ and
a vast ‘periphery’ comprising the bulk of society, apparent in the Ottoman Empire” (pp
65–66).

Bose elaborates the continuation of such a chasm in post-Ottoman Turkey, thanks to the
dominance of an authoritarian tenor in politics, which Bose notes as a distinguishing
feature of Turkish politics (pp 70, 160, 165–66, 197). There is not discussion of any
distinguishing features in the kinds of authoritarianism in Ottoman and post-Ottoman
Turkey. But, returning to the book, for Bose it is crucial to note that authoritarianism
itself led to the decline of state secularism—that is to a situation where minorities have
become vulnerable, and where state power is in the hands of a religious majoritarian
and populist regime—in Turkey (pp 159–60). The decline occurred because the secular
commitment in Turkey was upheld mostly not within a “framework and atmosphere of
pluralism,” but within that of an “extremely authoritarian (and culturally inauthentic)
Kemalist form of the concept” that

continued as a rigid dogma for the next four decades, until the end of the 20th century,
even as social change and political turbulence slowly but steadily eroded the capacity of
the secular state to enforce the compliance essential for the Kemalist concept’s survival.
(pp 165–66)

Personality Cult

A fundamental explanation for the emergence of an anti-secular authoritarian leadership

in contemporary Turkey, Bose argues, was the presence in Turkey of “foundational anti-
democratic traits—the cult of the God-like supreme leader and intolerance of difference,
dissent and opposition” (p 167). Bose says these traits “endured as the defining features

2/9
of the DNA of the Republic of Turkey” (p 167). “The state-sponsored personality cult of
Mustafa Kemal which appeared in the 1920s and developed in the 1930s provided an
unhealthy model for later, and lesser, leaders to emulate” (pp 166–67).

During the decade of the Democratic Party (DP) rule from 1950 to 1960, Bose notes an
“infant political pluralism” in Turkey (p 165), marked by the emergence of a competitive
two-party system (p 166), and with “a revival of public religiosity” (p 163) undergirded by
an understanding of “religious freedom as one of numerous basic freedoms‘provided it
did not violate the [state’s] principle of secularism’” (p 164). However, even this
experience of a nascent political pluralism was undone—not by “any secular/anti-secular
divide” but by “descent into authoritarianism” (pp 165, 166–69).

The 1980 military coup, which occurred in the context of a decade of political instability
that was also marked by events such as the military invasion of Cyprus, the “oil-shocks”
of 1973–74 and 1979, and a deepening economic crisis, also represented the search for
“an ideological framework which might be able to provide a formula of national unity” in
the face of a decade of political instability (p 197). The aim was “to rescue and reinstate
the core Kemalist goal of national homogeneity from the depths of division and disunity
plaguing Turkey” (p 197).

Imposing Homogeneity

The search for “national unity,” which Bose indicates is the first of the “two basic pillars of
Kemalist ideology” (pp 196–97) explains why military generals gave “space and rein to the
Sunni-Hanefi identity of the country’s majority population of ethnic Turks, but without
fundamentally compromising the second pillar” 2 (p 197). The hegemony of the older
Kemalist “laicist state” was waning, and the 1980 coup aimed at prioritising national
unity, but without altogether eschewing the secularist commitment. “Ozal was the the
ideal civilian partner in the execution of such a strategy of re-mooring Turkish
nationalism in the Sunni-Hanefi majoritarian tradition, without jettisoning the secular
state” (p 197).

So, in the context of the attempt to strike some balance between the two pillars, even as
the 1982 Constitution enforced strictly “the ban on women students wearing
headscarves in all of Turkey’s universities,” it also “emphasized the importance of
“inculcating ‘religious culture and morals’ … in the population, and especially among the
younger generation” (p 199). Further, “for the first time, religious instruction—in the basic
and standard Sunni version—became a compulsory part of the curricula in all primary
and secondary schools” (p 199). Eventually, a “‘Turkish-Islamic synthesis that combined
Turkish nationalism with a Muslim identity’ became the de facto official ideology of the
Turkish ‘third republic’ born in 1982 through military intervention” (p 200).

The shift entailed above alarmed not just “diehard Kemalists,” but also the Alevis who
“sensed their community’s further marginalization … as military personnel started
visiting remote Alevi villages to ensure the construction of mosques to be run by state-
appointed (Sunni) imams” (p 200). Turgut Özal, who headed the Motherland Party (ANaP),
3/9
was Turkey’s dominant civilian leader in this period, sought “boldly” to bring an end to
the ban on the wearing of headscarves by women in universities (p 202). But, the
attempt was unsuccessful and in fact in 2003 the first AKP government extended the ban
to include wigs (p 203).

Nevertheless, Bose indicates, by the “mid-1990s, the rising Islamist counter-elite was in a
position to mount a serious challenge for state power to the secularist elite” (p 206). The
“deep religiosity” of migrants to urban spaces made them “fertile terrain for Islamist
political mobilization” (p 207). Özal’s policies for vesting more power in local governments
provided further ground for a push against elitism, says Bose (p 207). The dynamism of a
new generation of rising leaders, including Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, also played its role (p
206). However, this is all explained too quickly in the book. It would have been beneficial
to elaborate the extent to which the urban–rural dynamic influenced resistance to what
Bose calls the “state secularist tyranny” that came to be replaced by the “tyranny of the
new, anti-secular masters of the Turkish state” (p 215).

Overall, the book argues that in the case of Turkey it is a culture of authoritarianism,
combined with a project as old as the founding of the modern Turkish state—that of
“imposing untenable homogeneity on all citizens and groups of citizens”—that holds the
key to understanding the trajectory of secularism (p 8). Together, the legacy of
authoritarianism and the drive to impose homogeneity have thwarted the possibility for
accommodative and democratic politics in Turkey.

Majoritarian Aims

What is the explanation for the Indian state’s intense impulse towards authoritarianism
and homogenisation? Bose’s account with regard to India gives the reader important and
noteworthy details with regard to the unabashed use of state power from the 1980s
onward for political gains, even when that fanned communalism. Further discussion of
“religious politics” in India considers the way “the ostensibly secular, Congress
governments led by Nehru’s daughter Indira Gandhi … and then her son Rajiv Gandhi …
pursued a slippery-slope strategy, aimed at electoral gain, of pandering to and even
actively promoting majoritarian Hindu politics” (p 100; see also p 132), the constant
tendency to misuse state power with majoritarian ends for electoral gains, the rise and
consolidation of Hindutva-inspired nationalism, and the nature of institutional response
surrounding the recent spate in lynching cases related to the issue of cow protection
since 2014 (pp 100, 316–20). But there is no systematic explanation for the discernible
surge in right-wing majoritarianism in India.

With regard to the practice of secularism in India, Bose is critical of the Indian state’s
intervention in socioreligious matters, which he claims is at odds with a secular
commitment. For Bose, secularism is mainly about the separation of politics and religion,
about a state that does not involve itself in matters concerning religion (pp 8, 9, 10, 80–
81; see also most of Chapter 3 for Bose’s presuppositions about what constitutes a
secular state). He cites the provisions of Articles 25(2) and 26 of the Constituition (pp 5–6)
and claims that the Indian “secular state” had “put these open-ended, self-arrogated
4/9
powers of intervention in religious matters to extensive use as early as the mid-1950s” (p
6). Such an evaluation relates to a broader claim in the book whereby Bose holds both
India and Turkey to be examples of modern nation states that operate with
understandings of secularism different from the Western one.

For Bose, Western conceptions of “state-secularism are based—albeit in differing specific

forms and to varying degrees—on the doctrinal principle of separation of church and
state” (p 4). However, India and Turkey, he says, enact a notion of secularism that is in
“sharp contrast to this broad Western prototype” and is not “premised on any ‘wall-of-
separation’ doctrine” (p 4). Bose connects the contrasting picture to the legal and
constitutional mandate that the Indian and Turkish state enjoy with respect to exercising
a “nearly omnipresent and often intrusive regulative authority in matters to with religion
… resulting in entanglement of the state and the religious domain, rather than
separation” (p 4; see also p 8). In both countries,

the secular state has floundered in living up to the very demanding criterion of impartiality
towards religions, sects and denominations. In the process, it has attracted criticism and
hostility from advocates and agitators of all sides. (p 9)

Some questions arise here: How to conduct a study of a secular state? And, second, what
is a secular state? If the term secular state refers to understanding the relationship
between state power and the doctrine of secularism, there may be at least two broadly
different ways of comprehending that relationship. First, a secular state can be
understood as one that is committed, in principle, to the doctrine of secularism. The
study of a secular state here can operate at the level of analyses of doctrinal
commitment and aspiration of a jurisdiction. This commitment and aspiration might be
embodied in a jurisdiction’s constitutional provisions or articulated via a conceptual,
repertoire that can be carved out of the historical, sociological and institutional
formations related to that jurisdiction. The study of a secular state within this perspective
can entail analytical, conceptual and normative examinations of the values that
constitute a principled understanding of secularism in a particular state. A second sense
involved in the exercise of studying a secular state can pertain to an evaluation of the
degree to which enactments of state power in a particular jurisdiction meet the
requirements imposed by some robust and appropriate understanding of the doctrine
of secularism. It is the second of the two senses of a study of secular states listed above
that is predominant in Bose’s book.

Some Shortcomings

However, the book could have offered a sharper and sustained sense of what constitutes
an appropriate understanding of secularism. There is a suggestion that Indian and
Turkish practice departs from the Western model of secularism, which is
unproblematically understood as one that underscores separation between religion and
state. The absence of a sharper and sustained understanding of secularism not only

5/9
weakens Bose’s blanket objection to the Indian secular state’s interventionist stance, but
also leaves unanalysed the extent of the difference between Turkish and Indian
secularism on the one hand, and the Western conception of that doctrine on the other.

Scholars like Marc Galanter (1998) and Rajeev Bhargava (1998) have addressed the issue
of an interventionist secular state and arrived at conclusions distinct from the ones Bose
suggests. For example, Bhargava has shown in his work on secularism that separation
can be a strategy available to the secular state. If, following Bhargava, it is accepted that
secularism is a multivalue doctrine and that the commitment to those values determines
the nature and extent of entanglement between state and religion (rather than any prior
presupposition about secularism as denoting hostility to religion or a bid to privatise
religion), then the mere observation about entanglement between state and religion may
not be a sufficient basis for saying that both India and Turkey share in following a model
of secularism that is at odds with other conceptions of secularism. It would have been
more to the point to have shown how a particular entanglement is problematic or
questionable not simply because of the state’s interventionist stance, but because of the
way that stance violates the kind of “principled distance” (Bhargava 1998) and even-
handedness that a secular state is expected to maintain, as Charles Taylor (1998) points
out, with regard to all beliefs and not just religion-related ones.

In fact, the abridgements of secularism in the Indian context mentioned in the book may
well be viewed as examples of occasions when principled distance was not maintained,
rather than as problematic simply because state intervention was involved. Whether it is
the Satsangi case of 1966 (pp 90–91) or the 1995 Bommai case in the Supreme Court (pp
91–93), or the Muslim Women’s Act of 1986 that reflected “a capitulation to the demands
of Muslim conservative elements on the rights of Muslim women (p 100), these may all
be construed as significant moments in constitutional politics that prompt an
interrogation about the requirements of a secular commitment anchored in the notion
of principled distance.

While Bose’s account of the intellectual history of secularism in the early 20th century
India notes the openness to religious diversity, what is missed is an acknowledgement of
what Sudipta Kaviraj (2005) has termed the Indian “enchantment” with the state as a
chief instrumentality through which to bring about social reform (Kaviraj 2005).
Frequently, such reform entailed intervention in socioreligious customs, and from M G
Ranade to B R Ambedkar, Indian intellectual history contains conceptual resources for
the endorsement of an interventionist state. Much of that reformist zeal continued even
after Indian independence and court judgments have sought to defend the even-
handedness of state intervention in the reform of the practices of different religious
communities. Bose’s discussion of Article 17 of the Constitution and the Untouchability
(Offences) Act of 1955 briefly alludes to the nature of social reform mandated by
provisions such as Article 25(2)(b) (p 88). Arguably, more attention to these principled
bases for state intervention in religious matters would have yielded a richer
understanding of the notion of secularism, one that would go beyond treating the
doctrine as coterminous with the strategy of separation of state and religion.
6/9
Much remains to be clarified in Bose’s observation that “secularism in India has been
part of a functioning democracy and not of an authoritarian or semi-authoritarian polity
as in Turkey” (p 331). If, following Sheldon Wolin, a democratic political project is one that
entails the possibility for a heterogeneously composed collectivity to come together and,
however fleetingly, see things in common without an erasure of heterogeneity, then a
commitment to a politics and culture of secularism assumes importance for that kind of
political project (Wolin 1996; Taylor 1998).3 Notice that democracy here is not reducible
to an electorally oriented process of politics.

But, when Bose examines the link between secularism and democracy—for example,
when he says the following: “the crucial question … is whether the aims of Hindu
nationalism are compatible with India’s well-established democracy” (p 331)—the
framework of his discussion leans too much in terms of framing the issue as an empirical
one, rather than one that also has crucial conceptual and normative dimensions. Even
Bose’s discussion of Sammy Smooha’s notion of “ethnic democracy” (pp 332–33) stops
short of offering resources to address questions about the extent to which democracy
can refer with equal force to phenomena as diverse as the ones suggested by scholars
like Wolin and Smooha.

Some more questions arise: What does authoritarianism have to do with anti-secular
politics? Can the presence of an authoritarian political culture alone account for a rise of
majoritarian populism? Maybe not. And, the Indian case is different, in that it did not
start off as a modern state mired in an authoritarian political culture. So, what is needed
is a more analytical response to why a convergent trajectory with regard to dilemmas of
secularism and democracy obtains in Turkey and India.

Exclusionary Politics

My own view here is that it might be helpful to focus on the model of the modern nation
state, adopted by both Turkey and India in the period under consideration in the book,
for understanding the move towards exclusionary politics in both jurisdictions. Here, it is
very tempting to recall Chatterjee’s “rule of colonial difference—of representing the
“other” as inferior and radically different, and hence incorrigibly inferior,” which,
Chatterjee says, “is ever-present in any modern state’s repertoire of techniques of rule,
and can be employed in situations that are not, in the strict terms of political history,
colonial” (Chatterjee 1993). In light of this, perhaps there is a complicated story to be
unfolded with regard to the way the institutions of the modern nation state combine
with phenomena like religion and democratic politics to produce particular patterns of
rule in jurisdictions that have been divided into majorities and minorities. Further, while
analysis of the domain of the state is an important element in the study of the secular
trajectory of any jurisdiction, it is also becoming increasingly urgent and relevant to pay
attention to the societal dimensions of the trajectories of democratic and secular
commitments.

7/9
The book under review stops short of venturing analyses and explanations in these
directions. However, its importance lies in how it paves the way for asking whether
religious majoritarianism and authoritarianism are analytically linked to the model of
modern state power and shape the enactment of democratic understandings of power.
For that reason, and for the richness of the details it elegantly provides with regard to
modern Indian and Turkish political experience, the book is commendable and deserves
to be read by scholars interested in the connections between modern state power,
religion and democracy.

Notes

1 The “edicts of Kemalist secularism” included sartorial restrictions as well as strictures

regarding replacement of the Arabic ezan by a Turkish version made compulsory from
1933 onward, and a ban on whirling dervishes from 1925 (p 102). Many of these
stipulations were relaxed from 1950 onward, but the point Bose underscores is that
Kemalist state-secularism involved a programmatic suppression of religious expression
in hopes of moving Turkey closer to what was classified as “Western civilization” and also
“European civilization” (p 58). The Ottoman social and political order was decried (and
that remained the case “until the 1980s”) (p 62). The “civil code enacted in 1926, apart
from eliminating Seriat courts in personal and family matters, superseded the 1870s
Mecelle code, which has combined Islamic and European legal principles;” there was also
a strong emphasis on “secular education” which was part of the programme to eliminate
of all “vestiges of theocracy and clericalism” (p 62).

2 While the aspiration to a “[homogeneously] national and unitary state” forms the first
pillar, the commitment to “the principle of secularism” (understood as hostility to
religion) forms the second (p 197).

3 See Wolin (1996). For a very good discussion of the link between democracy and
exclusion, see Taylor (1998: pp 143–56).

References

Bhargava, Rajeev (1994): “Giving Secularism Its Due,” Economic & Political Weekly, Vol 29,
No 28, 9 July, pp 1784–91.

— (1998): “What Is Secularism For?” Secularism and Its Critics, Rajeev Bhargava (ed), Delhi:
Oxford University Press.

Chatterjee, Partha (1993):The Nation and Its Fragments: Colonial and Postcolonial Histories,
Princeton University Press, p 33.

Galanter, Marc (1998): “Secularism East and West,” Secularism and Its Critics, Rajeev
Bhargava (ed), Delhi: Oxford University Press.

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Kaviraj, Sudipta (2005): “On the Enchantment of the State: Indian Thought on the Role of
the State in the Narrative of Modernity,” European Journal of Sociology/Archives
Européennes de Sociologie, Vol 46, No 2, pp 263–96.

Taylor, Charles (1998): “The Dynamics of Democratic Exclusion,” Journal of Democracy9,

No 4, pp 143–56.

— (2011): “Why We Need a Radical Redefinition of Secularism,” The Power of Religion in the
Public Sphere, Eduardo Mendieta, Jonathan VanAntwerpen, Judith Butler, Jürgen
Habermas, Charles Taylor, and Cornel West (eds), p 40, New York: Columbia University
Press.

Wolin, Sheldon (1996): “Fugitive Democracy,”Democracy and Difference, Seyla Benhabib

(ed), Princeton University Press.

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The Mandal System in Telangana and Andhra Pradesh
epw.in/journal/2020/12/perspectives/mandal-system-telangana-and-andhra-pradesh.html

March 20,
2020

The question of how governments should be organised must be as old as the study of
politic

— Triesman (Saito 2011)

Governance, in a way decentred government and within its conceptualisation, lies the
notion of dispersal of power in society.

— Mathur (2008)

Of the three dimensions of decentralisation—delegation, deconcentration and

devolution—what must be said of decentralisation reforms in the name of the mandal
system in Andhra Pradesh and what is currently taking place now in Telangana is that
these are essentially aimed at the deconcentration of the government rather than the
delegation and devolution of powers. Also, it should be noted that these reforms had
been carried out earlier, and are being carried out now (at least in the context of
Telangana), essentially for two avowed purposes: modernisation of the administration
and the decentralisation of polity. It is argued that though the avowed purposes then
and now have been modernisation and decentralisation, what this actually entailed then,
and entails now, is the deconcentration of administration rather than the devolution of
political power.1

Panchayati Raj Reform

The mandal system concerns the middle tier of the panchayati raj system. It was
introduced while replacing the earlier panchayat samitis in Andhra Pradesh during the
tenure of Telugu Desam Party (TDP) government led by N T Rama Rao (Kistaiah 1990).
The attempt had been inspired by the recommendations of the Ashok Mehta
Committee. The Ashok Mehta Committee, in fact, had recommended a two-tier system
of mandals and zilla parishads in place of the previously existing three-tier structure of
village panchayats, panchayat samitis (or taluk panchayats) and zilla panchayats.
However, when the recommendations of the Ashok Mehta Committee were adopted in
erstwhile Andhra Pradesh, the three-tier structure was retained, while replacing the
middle tier, that is, panchayat samitis with smaller size mandals.

Thus, post the reform, the panchayati raj system in Andhra Pradesh still had three tiers,
that is, the village panchayat, the mandal panchayat and the zilla panchayat. Thus, the
recommendations of the Ashok Mehta Committee were only partially implemented and
were not fully adopted. In the first place, the Ashok Mehta Committee had

1/10
recommended the implementation of smaller intermediate-tier mandal panchayats
because it was thought that they would be in a closer geographical vicinity of the villages
and villagers.

In all, the recommendations of the Ashok Mehta Committee were adopted, either
partially or fully, only by four Indian states, that is, Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, West
Bengal and Jammu and Kashmir (Mathew 1995). Given that the Indian states were
spatially large, making the intermediate tier of panchayati raj institutions (PRIs) smaller
made a particular sense to the members of the Ashok Mehta Committee as well as
policymakers during those days. For example, the erstwhile Andhra Pradesh was one of
the largest states of the union, the fifth largest state to be precise; Karnataka, the
seventh largest state in India, also implemented the reforms. In such contexts, it was
meaningful to make the larger intermediate-tier panchayat samitis into smaller mandals,
so as to be easily within the reach of the village inhabitants.

However, in erstwhile Andhra Pradesh, the reforms were far-reaching in that 330
intermediate-tier panchayati samitis were replaced with 1,104 “mandal praja parishads,”
as the latter came to be called. In fact, almost three to four mandal praja parishads were
constituted in the place of each panchayat samiti. Each of the reformed mandal praja
parishads came to consist of 10 to 12 revenue villages, covering a population of
approximately 35,000 to 55,000. Thus, the slogan then adopted by the government was,
“government to the doorstep of the people.” These reforms were introduced by an act of
the government called “the Andhra Pradesh Mandal Praja Parishads, Zilla Praja Parishad
and Zilla Pranalika Abhivrudhi Mandals Act, 1986.” This was introduced in July 1986, and
came to be implemented after the assent of the governor from January 1987. Thus came
to existence the new middle tier of the panchayati raj system in erstwhile Andhra
Pradesh.

The reforms initiated by the then TDP government led by Rao were not just panchayati
raj reforms. They were, in fact, three-pronged. First, to reform the PRIs; second, to
reform revenue administration; and third, to reform cooperative institutions. As
mentioned earlier, the reforms concerning the PRIs per se had been prompted by the
recommendations of the Ashok Mehta Committee, appointed to look into the
possibilities of PRI reforms by the then Janata Party-led government that was formed
after the Emergency. The Janata Party government was committed to carrying out PRI
reforms and hence the appointment of Ashok Mehta Committee. What is worth noting
here is that the state-level governments that embarked upon PRI reforms based on the
recommendations of the committee happened to be the non-Congress opposition party-
led governments, that is, the TDP in Andhra Pradesh, the Janata Party in Karnataka,
Communist Party of India (Marxist)(CPI[M]) in West Bengal and the National Conference
(NC) in Jammu and Kashmir.

Revenue Administration Reforms

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The second and more interesting aspect of the introduction of the mandal system
pertains to the revenue administration reforms. The mandal system was intended to
improve the PRI system, the revenue system besides integrating the two at the mandal
level for development purposes. In the previous section, the mandal reform as part of
the PRI system is discussed. However, when it comes to looking at the same as part of
the revenue system reforms, we have to note that the pre-existing revenue
administration system had strong elements of continuity at least since the Mughal
period. Thus, the mandal reform sets out to modernise a near-medieval revenue
administration system. According to this medieval system, there was a Patwari at the
village level to assess land revenue; there was a Mali Patel to assist him in the collection
of revenue and there was also a police patel to manage the law-and-order situation at the
village level. All these were required to report to the tehsildar at the tehsil level, that is, at
the taluk panchayat level. What is more important to consider is that all these were
hereditary posts at the village level. And, at first, prior to independence, these revenue
officers owed their position to the regime of the Nizam. And after independence, they
continued to demonstrate their allegiance to the Congress party, which, in turn,
continued the same system of hereditary revenue officers and administration. The
system of these village revenue officers was called the vatandari system.

Being hereditary officers, these village revenue officers, to some extent, developed
entrenched interests in the system. They were usually from the upper castes controlling
a considerable amount of land. Naturally, they formed the village elites. They also
happened to be the intermediaries between the village and the supra-village officialdom.
The mandal system, as a revenue administration reform, intended to modernise this age-
old revenue administration. As part of that, the village revenue officers came to be
replaced by officially appointed non-hereditary village (revenue) assistants almost
overnight. And, at the tehsil level, the tehsildar was replaced by the mandal revenue
officer (MRO). This change, however, was resisted by the old village revenue officers, and
they approached the Supreme Court against the newly-appointed village (revenue)
assistants. However, the apex court upheld the new system while rejecting the old. Thus,
the first steps towards modernising the land revenue system were laid by the TDP
government led by Rao. The reforms took hold since then, and the new system
continues till date.

In the Andhra area of the then undivided Andhra Pradesh, however, the land revenue
administration system was slightly different in that here at the village level, there was a
Karanam with the supervising authority upon him being the munsif (Sudarshanam and
Rao 1990). The post of Karanam too was a hereditary one. Thus, with the introduction of
the mandal reforms, these too got reformed with newly appointed non-hereditary village
(revenue) assistants taking their place at the village level. And, the taluk-level MRO came
to replace the earlier munsif.

An interesting argument put forward at the time of these reforms was that the mandal
reforms were introduced by the TDP, elected for the first time, while all the previous
governments were the Congress party-led governments. The social base of the Congress
3/10
party at the village level consisted of upper castes (from which sections came most of the
influential village elites) and also Dalits, whereas, the social base of TDP at the village
level consisted of the middle- ranking peasant castes in the hierarchical Indian caste
system. Therefore, in order to break the stronghold of the Congress party at the village
level and strengthen its social and political base, TDP carried out the reform.

For example, Haragopal (1990) observes this as follows:

The Telugu Desam Party, right from its inception has been labouring very hard to retain
the support base of the backward caste intermediate peasant group. The abolition of
village officers, removal of electric meter system, abolition of land revenue, hasty
announcement of the reservations for the backward castes and mandal panchayats are all
part of this political strategy to consolidate its support base. The size of the mandals, their
large number, formal reservation of seats to the backward castes offer enough evidence in
support of this formulation.

This observation could be partially true, given the then existing political situation.
However, there was also a strong urge to follow the other South Indian states, such as
Tamil Nadu and Karnataka [Karnataka and Tamil Nadu have since abolished the
hereditary officer system in 1961 and 1980 respectively (Bhaskara Rao 1990)] with
respect to the revenue administration reform, as they had indeed abolished the system
of hereditary land revenue officers at the village level much before the reforms were
carried out in Andhra Pradesh.

As a result of the revenue administration system reform, tehsils covering a huge

geographical area came to be replaced with mandals covering a smaller geographical
area. Thus, the basic purpose of the reform, that is, to make the intermediate tier more
accessible to the rural people over a manageable geographical area was well served. The
reforms also proved their utility in a way that no government later attempted to do away
with the same.

As discussed above the introduction of the mandal system was both to reform the PRI
system and the revenue administration system besides merging the two. While the
reform of the PRI system and the revenue administration system has taken place
successfully, the merger of the two does not seem to have been successful as the two,
that is, the PRI and revenue systems continued to work as two separate systems at the
mandal level.

Exprience of Other States

It is important to note that erstwhile Andhra Pradesh, under the TDP government, was
not the only state to have implemented the recommendations of the Ashok Mehta
Committee as far as
the Constitution of geographically smaller units of mandals was concerned. In Karnataka
too, the Janata Party government led by Ramakrishna Hegde had introduced the mandal
system (Satish Chandran 1995).
4/10
Regarding the mandal panchayats in Karnataka, T R Satish Chandran (1995) observes
thus:

A mandal panchayat was constituted for a population of eight to 12,000 (a lower limit of
four thousand was imposed in the hilly areas). It consisted of elected members with one
member for a population of four hundred, reservation for women, the SCs [Scheduled
Castes] and the STs [Scheduled Tribes] being provided on the same lines as the district
level. Each mandal panchayat had a whole time secretary, appointed and paid for by the
zilla parishad.[...] From 1987 nearly 2,500 mandal panchayats had started functioning.

And, he goes on to observe:

Mandal panchayats were also given considerable powers. Besides the usual municipal
functions and provision of local amenities, they were expected to take interest in
agriculture and animal husbandry programmes and in the welfare of the SCs and STs. An
important function assigned to the mandal panchayats was the implementation of anti-
poverty programmes, for which they received substantial funds.

However, the reforms were revoked in Karnataka, as the mandal system was changed
later, and again, the taluk panchayat system came to be introduced. Thus, the two states
—(erstwhile) Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka—both under the non-Congress
governments, that is, TDP and Janata Party respectively, implemented the mandal
reforms. Another two state governments that passed a legislation to this effect following
the Ashok Mehta Committee recommendations, were West Bengal and Jammu and
Kashmir with some of the recommendations implemented.

In an explicit comparison of the mandal reforms in Andhra Pradesh with

the decentralisation reforms in Karnataka, Sivalinga Prasad (1990) comes to the following
conclusion:

These two experiments (in Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka) also indicate different trends
in the reforms of political institutions. The Karnataka reforms indicate a desire to transfer
some power to local institutions. The extent of financial and administrative devolution
exhibits the desire on the part of state leadership to create strong representative
organisations at the district level.

Andhra Pradesh experiments show the desire of the state leadership to create opportunities
for widening its support base by co-opting more number of people from different sections
into political executive positions. The importance given to political executive positions
without entrusting the body with any real powers further supports this observation. The
experiments in Andhra [Pradesh] seem to be more cosmetic in nature.

In Karnataka, the 1993 Act, which was termed as a historic step towards PRIs in India,
initially included mandals as units of governance, with a three-tier PRI system being
adopted at that time: zilla parishad —taluka panchayat—mandal panchayat. However,
5/10
the provision for mandals in Karnataka was later dropped. And now, the taluk
panchayats exist, as earlier, as the intermediate-tier of PRI system. In West Bengal too,
the intermediate-tier continues to be called panchayat samiti while in Jammu and
Kashmir the block development council. In Jammu and Kashmir, the three-tier system
consists of halqa panchayat, block development council and district planning and
development board with the intermediate tier being called the block development
council, which has substantial powers in matters related to local development (Sultan
1995). However, the panchayat samiti in West Bengal, according to one study, even as
late as 1997, consisted of an average population of 1,65,736 (Ghatak and Ghatak 2007).
The latter figure obviously is in contrast to the mandal in Andhra Pradesh, which
consisted of only one-third of that population.

The point being made is that, while following the recommendations of the Ashok Mehta
Committee report, the states of Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, West Bengal and Jammu
and Kashmir passed new bills and made changes to the earlier PRI systems, but these
changes were not uniform and that the recommendations were accepted and adopted
as they suited their existing political, social and other conditions. Thus, only in the state
of erstwhile Andhra Pradesh that “mandal” as a smaller geographical and demographic
intermediate unit continued its existence, and continues to exist even after the division of
the state into two different states of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana.

As is obvious from the above discussion, only four states out of the total Indian states
adopted the PRI reforms, following the Ashok Mehta Committee recommendations. Most
of the larger states, such as Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, Orissa (now
Odisha), Maharashtra, and Gujarat, and so on, did not adopt the Ashok Mehta
Committee recommendations at all. Therefore, the question of introducing the mandal
system in these states did not arise. Among the states that adopted the mandal system,
Karnataka reverted back to the taluk panchayat system, as per the requirements of the
73rd Constitutional Amendment Act (73rdCAA henceforth) for a uniform three-tier
structure of PRIs. In erstwhile Andhra Pradesh, the intermediate tier of PRIs continued to
be as earlier even after the 73rd CAA.

The fact that the recommendations of the Ashok Mehta Committee were not adopted by
a majority of the states indicates that in all these states, the taluk panchayat happened to
be a large intermediate tier of the PRI system, though too far from the reach of the
villages, and their inhabitants. Therefore, there exists a great scope for adopting smaller
size intermediate tier units of PRI system in these states.

Recent Changes in Telangana

The more recent trends, especially post the division of the erstwhile state of Andhra
Pradesh into two states, that is, “Telangana” and “Andhra Pradesh” in June 2014, suggest
that at least in one of these states, that is, Telangana, there is an attempt to further
decentralise the districts into smaller districts and mandals into further smaller mandals
(Bhaskar Rao 2017). In the state of Telangana, 10 erstwhile districts have been divided
into 31 smaller districts and so have the mandals been multiplied, thus creating a huge
6/10
demand for infrastructure to be provided for the administration of these smaller districts
and mandals, as part of taking government and administration closer to the people. Post
the formation of 31 new districts, altogether, there are nine zilla praja parishads, 438
mandal praja parishads, 584 revenue mandals and 12,751 gram panchayats in
Telangana. While this may be a welcome development, in the future, this may raise
questions regarding the economic viability and sustainability of ever-smaller units of
governance, so far as Telangana is concerned. 2

Conclusions

While introducing the mandal system as part of PRI reforms inspired by the
recommendations of the Ashok Mehta Committee, the impetus for introduction of these
reforms in the then Andhra Pradesh was twofold, that is, to modernise the age-old
revenue administration system and to decentralise the intermediate tier of the PRIs so as
to make it smaller and manageable and closer to the rural people. These two governance
drives, namely, further modernisation and decentralisation continue to be the official
raison d’être for these reforms even in more recent times. The reasons underlying the
recent decentralisation reforms in Telangana are no different from these two drives.

However, for whatever one says about decentralisation (at least in respect of Andhra
Pradesh under Rao and Telangana under the present dispensation) the opposite is
equally true. Both these regimes have also been centralising powers at the state level.
These regimes have been carrying about the changes in administration. These changes
have not, at the same time, been carried out in decentralising political power. Political
power is still concentrated in the state-level political elites of the regimes.

This process of deconcentration of administration, which is combined with centralisation

of political power, helps the regimes broaden their administrative base and also helps in
the administration of populist governance. It does well to remember that both the
regimes that have introduced these reforms, that is, the TDP government in the past and
the Telangana Rashtra Samiti’s government in the present, are heavily identitarian and
populist.

While the earlier TDP regime combined populist programmes with Telugu identity, now,
the TRS regime combines populist programmes with Telangana identity. The kind of
administrative deconcentration that is discussed in this article both helps deliver the
populist programmes and schemes effectively as well as helps gain legitimacy by
providing a statewide administrative basis to the regime. Thus, political centralisation
and increasing political power in a few hands and administrative deconcentration go
together in state-level politics. The governments then call this deconcentration process
as “Government to the Doorstep of the People.” In the process, what actually takes place
is the increasing reach of the administration, though not political power. All the same,
they have also been championing, the modernisation of land revenue administration and
decentralisation drives.3

7/10
However, the point to be noted is that the reforms from taluks to mandals do help in
improving the efficiency and effectiveness of administration. Thus, the populist welfare
programmes of the political regimes are implemented effectively. This attempt at
deconcentration of administration helps improve the administration of the regime
effectively. Thereby, it has a likelihood of strengthening both administration as well as
the political regime. However, in the meanwhile, some benefit also reaches the people as
the offices of government and its bearers come closer to the people and their day-to-day
needs. Thus, the move towards smaller mandals from erstwhile large taluks should be a
welcomed move, though it has its own politico-administrative dynamics. In these
regimes, often, political centralisation is combined with administrative deconcentration.

It is argued in the introduction to this article that these reforms were essentially attempts
at “deconcentration” rather than devolution of powers to lower rungs of governance. As
Saito observes,

[i]n deconcentration even though decision makers are located in local offices, they are
still held accountable to central authorities. In contrast, in devolution, locally-
based decision-makers are accountable to the public on a local level. (author’s emphasis)

According to this yardstick, both the mandal reforms during the time of Rao-led TDP, and
present efforts by Telangana government are more akin to deconcentration rather than
devolution. This is also owing to the basic fact that after Rao’s mandal reforms, the
successive governments led by both TDP and Congress systematically marginalised PRIs
in united Andhra Pradesh. The successive governments always tried to centralise political
powers at the state level. This was true for both TDP leadership under Chandrababu
Naidu and Congress leadership under Y S Rajashekhar Reddy and others. This gave rise
to a general, though well-founded, opinion among scholars that PRIs in erstwhile Andhra
Pradesh had been largely neglected, if not ignored in governance. Given the past
scenario, a general scepticism surrounding decentralisation of powers and devolution in
the current states of Telangana and Andhra Pradesh stands amply justified (Haragopal et
al 2013).4 However, what needs to be recognised is that the efforts made in the 1980s
towards reforming the erstwhile taluk panchayat system by replacing the same with
mandal system did prove successful in bringing administration closer to the people. This
is an irrefutable fact, so far as erstwhile Andhra Pradesh is concerned. In all other Indian
states, which are in majority and where no such reforms have ever been carried out,5
there is an enormous scope to further reforming the intermediate tier of the PRI system
and make it within the near geographical reach of ordinary people.

Notes

1 In saying this, Saito’s discussion of deconcentration and devolution is followed. Saito,

for example, says,

Deconcentration takes place normally within administrative structures, while devolution

mainly centers around political bodies. In short, while deconcentration simply relocates
authority at different levels of government, devolution removes authority from central to
8/10
subnational governments. Another crucial difference between deconcentration and
devolution is the way accountability works. In deconcentration, even though decision
makers are located in local offices, they are still held accountable to central authorities.
In contrast, in devolution, locally-based decision-makers are accountable to the public at
local level. (Uphoff 1986 qtd in Saito 2011)

2 I thank Abdul Aziz for pointing out this problem regarding the ever-smaller units of
governance (personal communication).

3 Saito notes this well when he observes regarding the decentralisation debate in
general, thus:

Perhaps more importantly, what becomes evident from the (global, theoretical) debate is
that the same rationales are used toward their own ends by both supporters and
opponents.” Larmour and Qalo (1985 qtd in Manor 2010) stated that “arguments for and
against decentralisation are often ‘like proverbs’ with most principles answer by equally
plausible and acceptable contradictory principle ... Decentralisation promotes efficiency
and reduces it. Decentralisation enhances national unity and inhibits it” and therefore,
Saito (2011: 484–501) goes on to say “Studying decentralisation is therefore, essentially
empirical.”

4 Even after the 73rd Amendment and after the amendment of the State Panchayati Raj
Act in 1994, as late as in 2013, Haragopal et al (2013) note the following regarding the
panchayati raj in the (till then) united Andhra Pradesh:

The state government continues to treat the local bodies as an extended arm of
government to implement its chosen programmes. Any reform mooted at the higher
level to give fillip to local bodies is ignored, as officials often believe that decentralisation
curtails their powers and a trend toward centralisation (at the state level) is taking place.

5 On why decentralisation reforms are only less than even half successful in most other
Indian states and regarding what and how they are either made successful or failed in
practice, an enormously useful discussion can be found in Manor (2010).

References

Bevir, Mark (ed) (2011): The Sage Hand Book of Governance, London and Thousand Oaks:
Sage.

Bhaskar Rao, G (2017): “Reorganisation of Districts in Telangana,” Economic & Political

Weekly, Vol LII, No 10, 11 March, pp 25–28.

Bhaskara Rao, V (1990): “The NTR Government’s Reforms in Village Administration,”

Administrative Reforms in a Developing Society, M Kistaiah (ed), New Delhi: Sterling
Publishers, pp 17–25.

9/10
Ghatak, Maitresh and Maitreya Ghatak (2007): “Recent Reforms in the Panchayat System
in West Bengal: Towards Greater Participatory Governance?” Decentralization: Institutions
and Politics in Rural India, Satyajit Singh and Pradeep K Sharma (eds), New Delhi: OUP, pp
82–119.

Haragopal, G (1990): “The Social Base of Panchayati Raj: Some Tentative Formulations,”
Administrative Reforms in a Developing Society, M Kistaiah (ed), New Delhi: Sterling
Publishers, pp 46–55.

Hargopal, G, M Gopinath Reddy and C V Rao (2013): “Andhra Pradesh,” Status of

Panchayati Raj in the States and Union Territories of India , New Delhi: Institute of Social
Sciences and Concept Publishers, pp 102–03.

Kistaiah, M (ed) (1990): Administrative Reforms in a Developing Society, New Delhi: Sterling
Publishers.

Manor, James (2010): “Local Governance,” The Oxford Companion to Politics in India,
Neeraja Gopal Jayal and Pratap Bhanu Mehta (eds), New Delhi: OUP, pp 61–80.

Mathew, George (1995): “Introduction,” Status of Panchayati Raj in the States of India, 1994 ,
New Delhi: Institute of Social Sciences and Concept Publishing Company, pp 1–14.

Mathur, Kuldeep (2008): “Governance and Decentralization,” From Government to

Governance: A Brief Survey of the Indian Experience, New Delhi: National Book Trust, pp 72–
73.

Saito, Fumihiko (2011): “Decentralization,” Sage Hand Book of Governance, Mark Bevir (ed),
London and Thousand Oaks: Sage, pp 486–87.

Satish Chandran, T R (1995): “Karnataka,” Status of Panchayati Raj in the States of India,
1994, New Delhi: Institute of Social Sciences and Concept Publishing Company, pp 99–
100.

Sivalinga Prasad, V (1990): “Panchayati Raj Reforms in Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka: A
Comparative Study,” Administrative Reforms in a Developing Society, M Kistaiah (ed), New
Delhi: Sterling Publishers, pp 84–85.

Sudarshanam, G and S Raja Rao (1990): “The Revenue Mandals,” Administrative Reforms in
a Developing Society, M Kistaiah (ed), New Delhi: Sterling Publishers, pp 34–46.

Sultan, Mohammad (1995): “Jammu and Kashmir,” Status of Panchayati Raj in the States of
India, 1994, New Delhi: Institute of Social Sciences and Concept Publishing Company, pp
88–93.

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3/28/2020 National Medical Commission Act, 2019 | Economic and Political Weekly

National Medical Commission Act, 2019

epw.in/journal/2020/12/commentary/national-medical-commission-act-2019.html

March 20, 2020

The National Medical Commission (NMC) Act, 2019 enacted by Parliament is a landmark act. The
act has generated a lot of debate and strong reactions—both for and against it. In this article, the
relevance, provisions and the implications of this act for the future of medical education and
health practice in the country are examined.

Medical interventions and health technology are in a phase of rapid metamorphosis globally. The
benefits of rapid scientific developments, technological advancements, and improved and
targeted interventions in the health sector have changed the lives of millions. People are living
longer (WHO 2019b) and healthier lives (Ortiz-Ospina and Roser 2016). The simultaneous
improvement in education, income, and other social determinants has also contributed to this
phenomenal rise in life expectancy. Life expectancy in India improved from below 50 years in the
1950s to 76 years in the recent years (World Bank 2019). Medical education needs in the 21st
century are vastly different from those in the previous century. The report of the Lancet
Commission on medical education for the 21st century (Frenk et al 2010) notes

20th century educational strategies that are unfit to tackle 21st century challenges …
changes are needed because of fragmented, outdated, and static curricula that produce ill-
equipped graduates.

This report has reshaped the global dialogue and discourse about how countries can redesign
medical education to keep pace with the changing times. The NMC Act, 2019 is a reformative
step in this direction for a transparent and objective governance framework that has the potential
to usher in institutional and instructional reforms across the medical education sector. It has
several provisions that are forward-looking. In this article, specific provisions of this act that have
a transformative potential have been highlighted.

The ideation of a National Licentiate Examination mooted through this act is a provision that
necessitates obtaining a licence to practise after graduation and for admission to postgraduate
medical courses. This is expected to simplify the admission process for postgraduate
programmes and eliminate the stress of multiple examinations. At the national level, it could free
up a lot of latent human resource potential. The internship period of one-year duration, which is a
mandatory component of medical education, is sub-optimally utilised in the current times. Interns
are busy preparing and appearing for multiple entrance examinations with no attention on
internship work. The freed up time with the single common national examination will enable young
medical doctors to diligently spend time with patients and support our health system.

Further, it shall help young doctors gain knowledge and understanding from real-life practical
experiences. Currently, a cohort of over 50,000 Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery
(MBBS) doctors undertakes internship every year in our country. This number is expected to
increase substantially in the coming decades. Freeing up these young minds is bound to bring in

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a change at their training site. The same test is also set to replace the examination that certifies
medical graduates trained in foreign countries to practise in India. The act, therefore, proposes
the same standards for MBBS doctors graduating from anywhere in India and outside the country.

Accessing Medical Education

Equity in accessing medical education is of vital importance. While public institutions substantially
subsidise medical education, the NMC will determine fees for a percentage of the seats in private
medical colleges and deemed universities. This move will broaden the opportunity for students
from all sections of the society to undertake medical education. This democratisation of medical
education is important since it is growing more expensive with every passing year. The rising
fees, expensive books and equipment become a barrier for several deserving students. Social
responsibility and empathy for fellow humans are vital traits for any doctor. The presence (or
absence) of a paying capacity should not be a determinant for enrolling in an educational
programme. The NMC’s authority to determine a percentage of fees in private medical colleges
and deemed universities can open doors for those who want to pursue a career in medicine, but
do not have the financial means to do so. As per the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare
(MOHFW)

This means that almost 75% of total seats in the country would be available at reasonable
fees. In the spirit of federalism, the state governments would still have the liberty to decide
fees for remaining seats in private medical colleges. (PIB 2019)

This is an inclusive step with wide ramifications. The provision of this clause and the percentage
can be tweaked in the future to adjust with evolving needs and social realities of the country in the
coming decades. Additionally, the ministry also explicitly states

There is no question of NMC bill making medical education a preserve of the rich. On the
contrary, it is common knowledge that before the reforms of NEET and common counseling were
introduced by our government, rich students who could afford to pay huge and unrecorded
capitation fees were able to secure admission to private medical colleges. Our reforms have
eliminated the role of black money in medical education and the NMC bill will provide statutory
force to the reforms which have been carried out. (PIB 2019)

The NMC Act has outlined the composition of the NMC with ex officio members, nominees of
states and union territories, and from amongst persons of ability, integrity and standing. This is
not very different from the system in the United Kingdom where the council members of the
general medical council are appointed following an independent appointments process (General
Medical Council 2020). In the United States, the state medical boards are responsible for the
licensing and regulation of physicians and surgeons, and certain allied healthcare professionals.
The membership of the state boards is variable, for example, the medical board of California has
15 members of which the governor appoints eight physicians and five public members; one public
member is appointed by the speaker of the assembly; and one public member appointed by the
senate rules committee (Department of Consumer Affairs 2020).

A Balancing Act

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The NMC Act also recognises the relationship between the states and thecentral government,
and balances the need of the state initiatives with the wider need of a holistic central outlook
towards health. This is a welcome move that reflects the need of a close working relationship that
NMC could facilitate in the health sector. Contextually, this upholds the spirit of the Indian federal
system of governance where individual states are in the driving seat with regards to the
responsibility of health of their residents.

From the wider perspective of health professional education, the act seeks to enhance the
interface between homoeopathy, Indian systems of medicine and modern systems of medicine. It
proposes a joint sitting of the commission, the Central Council of Homoeopathy and the Central
Council of Indian Medicine at least once a year. This clause is important as it seeks to enhance
synergies at the highest level as well as facilitate synergy in educational material and practice.
Expectation is that, in due course, the Indian Nursing Council and the Dental Council of India too
should be engaged in keeping up with the spirit of the inter-professional education.

Health providers function as a team (McMohan et al 1992), whether they are working in the public
or in the private sector. Inter-professional education has the potential to bring various disciplines
closer and lower the barriers to ensure efficient service delivery. The NMC Act is directed towards
reforming and regulating the medical education and practice. Commensurate efforts are equally
necessary across the health education sector. Continued engagement and reforms, possibly at
varying levels of intensity, might be necessary to align all the councils that are charged with
managing the education and practice of different medical professions.

The emphasis on limited licence to practise at the mid level as community health provider has
been extensively debated. This aspect has been clarified by the MOHFW (PIB 2019). Our
interpretation is that this move is not intended to create “medical doctors” through crosspathy, but
help support the creation of 1,50,000 mid-level providers within the next few years to provide
comprehensive primary and preventive care at Health and Wellness Centres (HWCs). The HWCs
are a part of the countrywide efforts to upgrade sub-centres within the public system to provide a
wider basket of services (National Health Portal 2019).

We have a skewed distribution of health professionals in the urban and rural areas of the country
(Karan et al 2019). Mid-level community health providers are expected to be the human resource
thrust that will help supplement the health system in delivering quality care, particularly to rural
populations. This is in consonance with the overall planning and the infrastructure creation for
operationalising the HWCs. Such cadres are known to exist in developed as well as developing
countries and are known by varied terminologies, such as clinical officers who work within various
African countries, and clinical assistants and nurse practitioners in several developed countries.

A limited and successful experience of the states of Chhattisgarh (NHSRC 2014a) and Assam
(NHSRC 2014b) demonstrate such cadres’ positive impact on primary healthcare indicators.
Currently, we do not have an allied health professionals council (AHPC) in the country. Since
community health providers have been included in the National Medical Commission Act instead
of an AHPC, it could have resulted in the misconceptions surrounding this particular clause. It will
be helpful if there is a greater clarity on whether these community health providers will function
only at the level of HWCs in the public sector, or whether they will be permitted to function even

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within the private sector. A detailed interpretation by the relevant committees which will work on
this particular aspect is required with clear delineation of the boundaries of community health
providers’ functioning.

Development Goals

The ideas of equity and strengthening of the primary healthcare through mid-level community
health providers are also important in the context of India’s progression towards the Sustainable
Development Goals (SDGs). Good health is interconnected with development (WHO 2019a). The
achievement of the third SDG in India will need well-functioning health systems that work towards
assuring universal health coverage. In this context, the NMC Act is consciously contributing to
medical education to channelise the supply-side to meet the future requirements. The governance
reforms at the heart of the act can also be interpreted to be supportive of the country’s intentions
in achieving the SDGs.

The thrust on medical education is an essential part of the act. But, other pieces are also
necessary to complete the picture. The availability of adequately trained medical professionals
can provide quality care in a dignified manner and in sync with the national health goals. The
undergraduate medical education board and the postgraduate medical education board will have
to take cognisance of the overall shortfall in the number of medical doctors, particularly post-
graduates across the country. Their shortfall, particularly at the district and the sub-district levels
will need remedial action. Active planning for addressing the human resources needs of the future
will have to be carried out. The reactive approach has to be gradually replaced by a proactive
approach to plug gaps
in numbers and their availability and distribution.

We are witnessing passing of the baton from the earlier regulatory approach towards medical
education to the new framework under the NMC. The NMC has inherited the responsibility to
address the structural and functional challenges within the health system. Governance reforms
have the potential to create an enabling environment, standardise processes, and introduce
transparency in functioning. The impetus will have to be on a greater attention to both quality and
quantity. Shepherding positive behaviours is often slow and takes time in entrenched systems.

The NMC will have to deftly handle such challenges on the medical education front. The
outcomes of any piece of legislation, particularly in a complex field like professional councils are
also heavily dependent upon last-mile actors. In this case, medical colleges and medical teachers
will also have to rise to the occasion. The Medical Assessment and Rating Board constituted
under this act will rate all the medical colleges and present this information in the public domain.
This can be expected to bring greater transparency in the performance of the medical colleges.
This can usher in greater levels of competition among medical colleges and improve their quality.
This is a significant change from the earlier pattern of inspections that focus on inputs and
processes. We can now expect a greater emphasis to additionally include outcomes in rating the
medical colleges.

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The future of medical education and practice rests within the frameworks of the NMC Act. Some
articles in the media have inconsistently interpreted the sections of the act. A closer reading of the
clauses will help clarify many of these issues. The commission will have to broaden the horizon,
engage in proactive dialogue with all stakeholders and take decisions with agility. The act has
been written in the right spirit, addressing the concerns of the present while preparing for the
future. Appropriate structures specified by the act will have to interpret the act, implement its
provisions, and monitor the impacts. The aspirations of an emergent India introduce an urgency
to manage medical systems optimally. Medical education has to keep pace with these rapid
developments. The NMC Act is not a matter of choice, but an imperative in the national interest.

References

Department of Consumer Affairs (2020): “Members and Executive Staff—Medical Board of

California,” https://www.mbc.ca.gov/About_ Us/Members/.

Frenk, Julio et al (2010): “Health Professionals for a New Century: Transforming Education to
Strengthen Health Systems in an Interdependent World,” Lancet, Vol 376, No 9756,
https://doi.org/10.1016/S0140-6736(10)61854-5.

General Medical Council (2020): “Council Members,” https://www.gmc-uk.org/about/who-we-

are/our-council.

Karan, Anup, Himanshu Negandhi, Rajesh Nair, Anjali Sharma, Ritika Tiwari and Sanjay Zodpey
(2019): “Size, Composition and Distribution of Human Resource for Health in India: New
Estimates Using National Sample Survey and Registry Data,” BMJ Open, Vol 9, No 4,
https://doi.org/10.1136/bmjopen-2018-025979.

McMohan, Rosemary, Elizabeth Barton and Maurice Piot (1992): “Working with People, or the
Health Team Approach,” On Being in Charge: A Guide to Management in Primary Health Care,
World Health Organization, http://whqlibdoc.who.int/publications/9241544260_part2_chp2.pdf.

National Health Portal (2019): “Ayushman Bharat—Health and Wellness Centre,” Ministry of
Health and Family Welfare, https://ab-hwc.nhp.gov.in/.

NHSRC (2014a): “Evaluation Report of the Chhattisgarh Rural Medical Corps (CRMC) 2013–14,”
National Health Systems Resource Centre,
http://nhsrcindia.org/sites/default/files/Evaluation%20report%20of%20Chh....

— (2014b): “Rural Health Practitioners—Augmenting Sub-centre Service Delivery in Assam,”

National Health Systems Resource Centre,
http://nhsrcindia.org/sites/default/files/Rural%20Health%20Practitioners...
20delivery%20in%20Assam.pdf.

Ortiz-Ospina, Esteban and Max Roser (2016): “Global Health,” Our World in Data,
https://ourworldindata.org/health-meta.

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3/28/2020 National Medical Commission Act, 2019 | Economic and Political Weekly

PIB (2019): “FAQs on National Medical Commission (NMC) Bill 2019,” Ministry of Health and
Family Welfare, Government of India, 6 August, https://pib.gov.in/newsite/PrintRelease.aspx?
relid=192491.

World Bank (2019): “Life Expectancy at Birth, Total (Years)—India,” World Bank Data,
https://data.worldbank.org/indicator/SP.DYN.LE00.IN?locations=IN.

WHO (2019a): “Health and Development,” World Health Organization,

https://www.who.int/hdp/en/.

— (2019b): “Global Health Observatory (GHO) Data: Life Expectancy,” World Health
Organization, http://www.who.int/gho/mortality_burden_disease/life_tables/situation_tr....

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3/28/2020 Putra Pursuit : When Matters of Sex Matter | Economic and Political Weekly

Putra Pursuit
epw.in/journal/2020/12/postscript/putra-pursuit.html

March 20, 2020

Think back to 2015. Just when you thought Baba Ramdev, the “babapreneur,” had outdone
himself in his business model, he came back with a product—the now (in)famous Putrajeevak
Beej. Yes, you read that right. Putra, as in, son. Of course, putra could be taken to mean just
offspring (yes, language can be casually sexist too), and maybe this is indeed a miracle cure for
infertility as the website claims, but it is also a reflection of our obsession with the male child. Oh
boy! Never mind that science says no beej (seed) or recipe can guarantee a baby boy.

The name, however, is a different matter altogether, misleading many a couple that were out to
ensure the much coveted male progeny. When the product was first launched in the market,
Parliament was up in arms. State governments were quick to comment and quicker to issue bans.
Even a committee was set up to probe the matter. The babapreneur, of course, was quick to
plead “not guilty” as he pointed out that the nomenclature had in fact been borrowed from “ancient
texts.”

Agreeing with the babapreneur, the committee too found that the nomenclature of the product
was keeping in line with what was penned by men aeons ago. Of course, that is simply a
testament to the patriarchal influence on the language and texts of yore, for the lust for a male
offspring is nothing new! So, when the product went global (it is now available in the United
States and Canada at $7.99 for a 100 gm jar), I couldn’t stop myself from pondering our culture’s
obsession with the demand for and supply of male children.

I too have been at the receiving end of this obsession. On one occasion, I was taken to an
astrologer to have my palm read. While my questions were pretty basic and predictable (how
successful would I be; how much money would I have; how long will I live, etc), the questions
from the womenfolk accompanying me were telling of the attitude that we have encouraged and
endured for centuries. Their questions all revolved around the reproductive by-product that would,
some day, come out of my child-producing apparatus: “Guruji, will she have a boy or a girl?” they
asked the astrologer.

Thankfully, Guruji was a well-educated man (not that education guarantees wisdom) and
managed to deftly sidestep this landmine of a question. “Sex determination is banned in palmistry
too,” he joked. But that didn’t seem to assuage the women in my group, who tried to grease
Guruji’s palms. They figured if a bribe could get you a sonography, the same rules would apply to
palmistry as well. Luckily, Guruji was simply not ready to sell his soul to predict a son. But, that
got me thinking about just how far families were willing to go in their quest for a male child. And,
that’s when I stumbled upon this (allegedly) male-producing seed.

Then, I started researching the various other prescriptions that guarantee the conception of a
male child, and I couldn’t help but chuckle as I imagined couple after couple, coupling in the
manner prescribed. Read along if you too are looking for a laugh or are planning to indulge in

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some experimentation of your own. (Disclaimer: These methods have no scientific basis, so do
exercise extreme caution.)

Position of conception: The most basic and important of steps in the process of conception
(male or otherwise) begins with coitus. Given the “fact that male sperm are not as fast as female
sperm,” experts recommend that you choose positions that allow for the male sperm to deep dive,
so they get a head start.

Position of planets: There are astrologers who promise you a male progeny, provided you follow
their astrological advice on when to have children. From Chinese astrology to the method of
Beeja Kshetra Sphuta (the astrology of the sperm and ovary), for the believer, there are many
options that guarantee a male progeny.

Baby boy diet: We are what we eat, they say. Apparently, the same can be extended to male
offspring too. So, if you want your uterus to be male-sperm friendly, it is best to partake in an
alkaline-rich diet. Of course, that advice only extends to women. The men, on the other hand, are
advised to consume an acidic diet to help with the propelling of the “slow” male sperm for
guaranteed male genesis.

The right season: While there are no right reasons to love someone, there are right seasons to
have coitus with that certain someone. Since male sperm apparently like hot weather, you have
higher chances of conceiving male children if you engage in coitus during the summer months.

The golden age: Of course, last but not the least, the chances of conceiving a male progeny are
greatly increased if you marry young and reproduce younger. That might mean that you have to
kiss your career goodbye, but what could possibly be greater validation for a woman than being
the mother of a son?

As if to undo all the progressive strides that the country has made towards gender equality, the
babapreneur came back with the dubiously named Putrajeevak Beej. In this day and age, it is
astonishing that so many people across the world still pine for a male child. Be that as it may, this
is as good a time as any to “boy”cott this putra-producing product.

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3/28/2020 The Hindustani Ladki : Then and Now | Economic and Political Weekly

The Hindustani Ladki

epw.in/journal/2020/12/postscript/hindustani-ladki.html

March 20, 2020

The term Hindustani Ladki (Indian girl) is always fresh in every Hindi cine-goer’s memory. My
earliest memory of hearing it repeatedly was in Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge (1995; DDLJ) where
Raj (Shah Rukh Khan) assures Simran (Kajol Devgn), after a night of drinking and frolicking, that
they most definitely did not have sex when she was inebriated, since he knew that she was a
Hindustani Ladki. Packed with meaning, the figure of the Hindustani Ladki continued to make
regular appearances in several movies of the 1990s and early 2000s.

Located in what Ashish Rajadhyaksha calls the “Bollywoodisation” of Hindi cinema, the figure of
the Hindustani Ladki, filled with sharam (shyness), lihaaz (regard) and sanskaar (culture) is very
much a part of the 1990s shift towards catering to NRI (non-resident Indian) nostalgia for the
homeland, and Bollywood’s transformation into a culture industry producing for global audiences.
While in films like Pardes (1999) and Taal (1999), the Hindustani Ladki is naïve, “pure,” guileless,
and adhering to Western liberal conceptions of the gendered subaltern figure, other films have
presented a version of the traditional Hindustani Ladki alongside the “modern.”

In Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (1998), foreign-educated “glam girl” Tina (Rani Mukherjee) sings a bhajan,
proving her Indianness to a group of mocking college boys in hip clothes, leaving them stumped.
Here, and in other movies, such a characterisation juxtaposed this gendered subaltern figure
against the cultural consequences of a liberalised, global economy.

The Hindustani Ladki, therefore, was an attempt to glorify an “authentic” self, while representing a
looming crisis of postcolonial politics when faced with the question of transnational economies,
blurring lines between the global and the local, a shift in the imaginations of nationhood, and a
fear of the disintegration of the joint family. Like Gayatri Spivak’s conceptualisation of the
postcolonial diasporic native informant, this figure too creates a comfortable “other,” but also
presents herself as the carrier of “otherness” while actually being a product of the national
bourgeoisie. Originally referring to the class of people who benefited from colonisation by
mediating between the colonial rulers and “natives,” in the times of state-led economy, the
national bourgeoisie were part of the executive machinery and held comfortable positions in the
government, academia, and culture industries.

Such a conceptualisation certainly pokes holes in the monolithic imaginations of the gendered
subaltern body, but it also burdens the figure with the task of embodying an authentic otherness
(which she often might not have a claim to). The caste and class location of the Hindustani
Ladki directly makes her carry forward a legacy she seems to have inherited and benefited from.
Therefore, more often than not, postcolonial middle-class morality colours much of what the figure
seems to represent.

However, the depiction of this figure has undergone some change over the two decades in which
it has dominated Bollywood archetypes. By the end of its time, in the late 2000s, movies
increasingly began to show it as a deliberate strategy employed by women to impress people

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(mostly prospective in-laws) of the older generation. Its coexistence with the “modern”
(interchangeable with the “Western”) modelled the figure into a “best of both worlds” situation.
Mere Brother Ki Dulhan, which came out in 2011, even had a catchy title track with the lyrics “Dil
se Dilli ho, vo Dhadkan se ho London” foregrounding this very idea. Yet, the access to these
ostensibly disparate worlds that the figure seems to have, suggests that she also enjoys copious
amounts of privilege in the postcolony, and usually comes from considerable money (or status).

In Mere Brother Ki Dulhan, Dimple (Katrina Kaif) uses the figure of the Hindustani Ladki in a
Goffmanesque strategic performance to make herself more presentable in the arranged-marriage
market. Her exaggerated sincerity when she says “Phir bhi dil hai Hindustani (but the heart is still
Indian),” on being asked about her sudden Indianisation midway through the film, hints at a
deliberate employment of a “strategic essentialism,” and points to the possible privilege she
possesses, aiding her performance of this figure. This deployment of the figure as strategic
performance shatters the idea of the gendered subaltern as a guileless, mute spectator, but her
ability to use the figure to her benefit also stems from her location within the postcolony. Thus, the
otherness that she presents is almost farcical—a convenient switch she makes when it suits her.
In the film, the fact that this is merely a performance comes through when she takes a break from
being a Hindustani Ladki and goes around Delhi with Kush (Imran Khan) to “enjoy her life for the
last time [before marriage].”

Thus, the figure of the Hindustani Ladki, despite itself, remains open to both interpretation and
strategic deployment. It has increasingly been used in Bollywood as a dynamic tool of meaning
making, almost like a floating signifier, which can be read as an astute indicator of the desires,
aspirations and fears of a certain postcolonial people in a given milieu. This remains a possibility
due to the fact that despite the burden of sharam, lihaaz and sanskaar, the figure continues to flirt
with the “profane.” Unlike Mother India or Bharat Mata (popular representations of the nation in a
gendered sublime body), the Hindustani Ladki is a figure that never quite reaches the goddess
status, enabling its employment as a subversive strategy.

The angst and fear of the upper-caste, middle-class postcolonial population is very often
assuaged, expressed, and disseminated through its control on women. And, yet, in the case of
the Hindustani Ladki, women with these locations also have the ability to bargain, negotiate, and
play with categories and expectations imposed upon them. Thinking about the Hindustani Ladki
almost a decade after its gradual disappearance from the register of tropes seems to suggest a
change in the zeitgeist of the nation. After all, we no more have a Raj telling a Simran (like in
DDLJ) things like “Main ek Hindustani hoon ... aur main jaanta hoon ki ek Hindustani ladki ki izzat
kya hoti hai.” However, whether this indicates a shift of concerns, newer tropes, or simply different
insecurities about the nation state, remains to be seen.

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3/28/2020 Water Resource Management of the Damodar Valley Corporation : Tail-end Deprivation of the Canal Network | Economic and Politic…

Water Resource Management of the Damodar Valley

Corporation
epw.in/journal/2020/12/special-articles/water-resource-management-damodar-valley.html

March 20, 2020

The canal irrigation potential in West Bengal was 47.6% up to 1975–76, while it has covered only
23.78% area of irrigated land till 2008–09 (Rawal 2001; Ray and Shekhar 2009). On the other
hand, the groundwater irrigated area was 16% in 1982, which increased to about 56.07% during
the same period (Boyce 1987; Ray and Shekhar 2009). This reveals that canals as a source of
irrigation have been losing importance vis-à-vis groundwater irrigation in West Bengal. According
to Mitra (1996), the reasons for the declining importance of canals as a source of irrigation lies
with the problems relating to the canal irrigation management as well as those associated with
their construction. Construction problems are less important compared to the operation and
maintenance problems for the underutilisation or misutilisation of canal irrigation potential. In most
of the canal irrigation projects, when the canal command area is ready to receive the water after
completion of land-levelling and construction of field channels, the users in the head-reach area
are not ready to give up their cultivation of water-intensive crops like, paddy, sugar cane, banana,
etc. This leads to low and insufficient irrigation water in the tail-end area. Therefore, there is an
underutilisation or misutilisation of irrigation potential and inequitable distribution of water in the
head-reach and tail-end areas (Wade 1976; Gorter 1989; Dhawan 1993; Gulati et al 1994; Mitra
1996). Shah (2003) termed this phenomenon as the tail-end deprivation (TED) problem.

In this paper an attempt has been made to analyse the water resource management of the
Damodar Valley Corporation (DVC) project relating to canal irrigation and its role in the
deprivation of canal water in the tail-end area of the canal network by using both primary and
secondary data.1 For the primary survey, we have selected samples in the left bank main canal
(LBMC) command area of DVC that originates from Durgapur barrage. It covers three districts of
West Bengal, namely Burdwan, Hooghly and Howrah. The entire area has been divided into three
segments, namely head-reach, middle-reach and tail-end areas.2 The sample size in each
segment is 90 with a total sample size of 270. Further, we used the plot of cultivated land as our
unit of survey, and the survey was conducted from December 2012 to March 2013.

Upstream and Downstream Water Management

The upstream water management of the Durgapur barrage is carried out by the Damodar Valley
Reservoir Regulation Committee (DVRRC), headed by a representative of the Central Water
Commission (CWC). Other members of the committee are from the DVC and Jharkhand and
West Bengal. The main functions of this committee are to: operate upstream reservoirs suitably
during monsoon and non-monsoon seasons; allocate water for different uses (industrial,
municipal, irrigation, hydropower generation, etc); take decision for optimum utilisation of water
resources available in the basin; oversee different aspects of reservoir operations; make
improvements of flood forecasting and warning networks; and examine health aspects of dams,
related structures and water resources development in general in the Damodar basin. The
DVRRC meetings are generally held twice in a year, that is, pre-monsoon and post-monsoon.

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However, in cases of conflicts amongst the states and the DVC as well as between diverse
interests of flood control, irrigation and power sectors, additional meetings of the DVRRC are held
to resolve the same during the year.

Downstream water management of the DVC for canal irrigation starts from the Durgapur barrage
and the two main canals—the LBMC and the right bank main canal (RBMC)—take off from both
sides of this barrage. The LBMC serves both navigation and irrigation purposes, with a length of
136.8 km, a head-regulator discharge of 9,189 cusec and 22 lock gates within its course. The
length between 85.37 km to 127 km of the LBMC is used purely for navigation by the DVC
authority, but the rest of the canal is managed by the Government of West Bengal. The RBMC,
with a length of 88.5 km and head-regulator discharge of 2,271 cusec, is used solely for canal
irrigation. The total length of main and branch canals and their distributaries is 2,494 km (GoWB
2012).

Administrative Structure of DVC Canal System

The four major dams (Maithon, Panchet, Konar, and Tilaiya) and one barrage at Durgapur of the
DVC project came into operation in the late 1950s. In 1964, the management of the Durgapur
Barrage, the lower Damodar River and irrigation system was transferred to the West Bengal
government in the interest of rapid utilisation of irrigation potential created by the project and
development of the command area. Generally, management of any irrigation project in West
Bengal is controlled by three administrative authorities, namely (i) the Department of Irrigation
and Waterways (jurisdiction up to water course or minor outlet of all canals under the Bengal
Irrigation Act, 1876); (ii) the Command Area Development Authority (CADA) (jurisdiction up to the
field channel); and (iii) the gram panchayats. These three authorities simultaneously but
separately manage the entire DVC canal irrigation project. According to Wade (1975), although
the CADA is responsible for water distribution in the entire command area, its actual power is
restricted to only managing canal water distribution, as the state irrigation department considers
the CADA to be trespassing on its preserve. The CADA also faces similar problems while dealing
with other government departments such as agriculture, cooperatives, livestock, revenue, etc.

In the Damodar canal command area, CADA is referred to as the Damodar Valley Command
Area Development Authority (DVCADA). It coordinates the activities associated with agriculture
and irrigation in the command area and is also the sole authority to construct field channels. But,
the responsibility of management of these field channels lies with the panchayats and the
farmers.

Water Management in DVC Canal Command Area

The DVC members, irrigation authority and some other administrative departments meet several
times in a year to work out modalities to manage storage water optimally for irrigation, power
generation, industrial use and household consumption. They also decide on the ways to distribute
the available water for irrigation among different districts, divisions and blocks and channel
network to do so. Generally, the DVRRC meets twice a year, during pre-monsoon and post-
monsoon meetings, to decide on the quantum of water available in the DVC reservoirs for the
kharif and rabi or boro seasons in the following year. After each meeting of the DVRRC, the

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Development Committee for Barrage and Irrigation System of Damodar Valley Project
(DCBISDVP) meets. Pre-monsoon meeting of this committee is held generally in July or August,
while the post-monsoon meeting is held in October or November, that is, just before boro season.
Normally, during the pre-monsoon meeting, it is decided that about 85% of the DVC command
area (approximately 7 lakh acres) should be irrigated by the DVC. But, in the post-monsoon
meeting, because of the uncertainty regarding the availability of water, distribution of water
becomes uncertain. If, in a certain year, it is found that the five reservoirs of the DVC lack
sufficient water in the post-monsoon period for both rabi and boro irrigation, then this committee
decides to drop boro irrigation and support only rabi irrigation. This is because boro irrigation
requires a larger quantity of water compared to rabi irrigation.3

The development monitoring committee for the DVC irrigation system is three-tiered: Block
Development Monitoring Committee (BDMC); Sub-division Development Monitoring Committee
(SDDMC) and District Development Monitoring Committee (DDMC). Any issue relating to canal
irrigation is first placed before the BDMC and if unsolved, is elevated to the SDDMC and then the
DDMC. In the case of the non-resolution of the problem even at this level, it is placed before the
DCBISDVP consisting of concerned district-level members, five executive engineers and the
superintending engineer of the DVC circle. So, in order to overcome water scarcity and water
distribution-related problems in the forthcoming season that might have occurred in previous
season, the DCBISDVP formulates policies. This development committee also decides the
schedule of water distribution, particularly the duration of water supply, area to be irrigated, and
the identification of channel, chainage, etc.4 It may be noted here that in the Teesta Irrigation
Project in West Bengal, the Agriculture Irrigation and Co-operative Committee (AICC or Krishi
Sech o Samabaya Samiti) takes on the role of the DCBISDVP. It includes representatives of the
panchayat samiti and concerned gram panchayat representatives. So, unlike in DCBISDVP, in the
AICC meetings, panchayat officials play a significant role as farmers’ representatives, and as a
result of their participation, ground-level difficulties can be addressed (Choudhury et al 2006).

On the other hand, technical issues relating to the canal irrigation are dealt with in the
engineering-level meetings. The executive engineer arranges meetings once in a month in order
to know about the performance of canal irrigation in the division under their jurisdiction and takes
appropriate measures to improve water distribution. However, issues related to more than one
division are taken up by the superintending engineer at the circle-level meeting. Further, at the
circle level, a detailed plan is chalked out regarding the distribution of available water for irrigation
in four districts. It may be noted that this plan includes minute details of blocks and areas even up
to the particular chainage of canal network where water will be available for irrigation purpose.
This also includes probable dates and duration of the availability of water in the respective service
area in the concerned season.

Now, the proposed plan of water distribution prepared by the superintending engineer and the
draft policy prepared by the DMC are placed before the DCBISDVP for adoption. So, in essence,
the DCBISDVP considers the engineering-level draft and the DMC’s draft policy for each district.
It prepares the final draft for each district and this draft is transformed into a leaflet in the boro
season for circulation among the general public. It may be noted that in the kharif season no
leaflet is prepared, since up to 85% of command area of DVC in West Bengal generally receives

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canal water without difficulty. But, in the boro season, leaflets are distributed to the lower
administrative authority or engineering department through which farmers would know the dates
and duration of the availability of the canal water.

Water Distribution in DVC Command Area

In the DVC project, the gross command area within West Bengal is 5.69 lakh ha—of which the
LBMC covered 4.56 lakh ha and the RBMC covered the remaining 1.13 lakh ha—and the
culturable command area is 3.94 lakh ha. The amount of water available for the rabi irrigation was
estimated to be about 70,000 acre feet. Water could be made available for boro paddy cultivation
in the command area only if surplus water was available, after meeting all the committed
requirements (for rabi irrigation, industrial uses, etc) of the DVC project (GoWB 2012). The
maximum rabi area irrigated in any year was 25,834 ha in 2002–03, while the minimum was
13,264 ha in 1982–83. On the other hand, the maximum and minimum boro areas irrigated in a
season were 1.07 lakh ha in 1978–79 and 143 ha in 1982–83 respectively. No canal water could
be supplied for rabi irrigation during 1979–80 and 1996–97 and for boro irrigation during 1979–80,
1992–93, 1996–97, 2010–11, and 2014–15.

It may be noted here that the success of the DVC canal irrigation system depended on its
efficiency in water management. To enhance its efficiency, the DVC irrigation authority
decentralised the entire irrigation department and spread channel networks in 39 blocks of four
districts of West Bengal. More than 500 gauge readers, senior watchmen and gate khalashies
(both permanent and temporary) manage all the lock gates and distribute water by channel
network according to the direction of the higher authority. On the other hand, the CADA of the
DVC constructs new field channels and renovates old kutcha channels in order to minimise
conveyance loss and speedy transport of irrigation water from outlet to farmers’ field. Further, for
even the distribution of water among the farmers of the head-reach, middle-reach and tail-end
areas, outlet points of canals have been constructed at different levels from the channel bed in
the DVC canal command area. Thus, while the canal outlets have been constructed at a level of
6.5–8 feet from the channel bed in the head-reach area, the height is at 4.5–6 feet and 1.5–4.5
feet above the channel bed in the middle-reach and tail-end areas respectively. Further, it may be
worth noting here that within the DVC command area, the LBMC serves about 80% of the
designed irrigable area, while the RBMC serves the remaining 20%.

We present the data available from the DVC authorities regarding the distribution of water in
these two main canals (command area) during 1998–99 and 2013–14 in Figures 1 and 2. It may
be noted here that the oldest data available are for 1998–99 and most recent available data are
for 2013–14. We have used data for both these periods.

The hydrographs in Figures 1 and 2 reveal that in 1998–99, the variation of water distribution was
very low in both the main canals or in both command areas during the kharif season, while in the
boro season, it was very high in the LBMC compared to the RBMC command area. On the other
hand, in 2013–14, the water distribution variation was very high in both the command areas and
in both seasons. It may be noted that in the monsoon season, the reservoirs are expected to fill
up after meeting the monsoon water requirements, while in the post-monsoon season,
consumptive demands are greater than the available live storage capacity of the reservoirs in the

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basin (Srivastava et al 2012). Further, analysing data for 1998–99 to 2012–13, we found that boro
irrigation in the DVC command area in any period depended on the rainfall in the upstream area
of the preceding period or monsoon rainfall in the current period. This relationship has been found
to be statistically significant.5 Further, in the kharif season, the water distribution pattern in the
DVC command area depends on the following factors:

(i) Rainfall pattern in the command area: Generally less water is discharged in kharif season if
there is sufficient monsoon rainfall in the command area. However, rainfall in the upstream area
also influences water availability for kharif irrigation.

(ii) Water requirement for paddy cultivation in the kharif season: From Figures 1 and 2, we
obtained that there exist four peak water discharge periods corresponding to four specific
purposes of water requirements in paddy cultivation, which are high demand for irrigation for
preparation of seed beds during the months of July and August; moderate demand for growing of
plants in August–September; high irrigation demand during flowering of paddy up to last week of
September; and moderate to low demand during maturity of paddy in October.

(iii) The success of the irrigation authority of targeted water delivery: This depended heavily
on their awareness about the ground realities, which include falling gradient of channel due to
siltation and resulting velocity loss of channel water; excess water extraction in the head-reach
and middle-reach areas; quantum of water requirements at different stages of plant growth within
the command area; and total quantum of water required so as to be able to deliver even at the
last targeted point.

(iv) Water demand for non-agricultural uses: It may be noted that during the last 30 years, no
new reservoir was constructed by the DVC, but 16 new thermal power plants have been built up
(GOI 2013). Water supply for industrial and municipal uses has also increased rapidly during the
last few years (about 2.8 times during 2009–10 to 2011–12) (DVC 2010, 2012).

Thus, high fluctuation of water discharge in 2013–14 both during the kharif and boro seasons
compared to 1998–99 (as revealed in Figures 1 and 2) are due to low rainfall in both upstream
and downstream areas, higher water demand for non-agricultural uses and inefficient water
resource management on the part of the irrigation authority.

Water Distribution in the LBMC Command Area

We have conducted our empirical study in the LBMC command area. The LBMC network feeds
18 blocks in Burdwan district, 10 blocks in Hooghly district and four blocks in Howrah district. In
this study, we have divided the total length of 112.32 km into four segments. These segments
(head-reach, middle-reach, tail-end and rest of the tail-end area) were made in consultation with
the executive engineer of the Damodar Head Works Division in order to arrive at the technique of
water distribution in the head-reach, middle-reach and tail-end areas of the DVC command area.
The four segments are depicted in Annexure Figure 1 (p 53). It may be noted that each chainage
point (Ch) has a separate lock gate and we have collected day-to-day water discharge
information for two separate periods (1998–99 and 2013–14) from the above chainage points.

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From this water discharge information, we may note the distribution of canal water in different
segments of the LBMC and actual use of canal water in different segments. The relevant data are
presented in Table 1.

From Table 1, we observe that water availability in 1998–99 was higher than in 2013–14. The
head-reach and middle-reach areas jointly received about 60% of the available water to irrigate
62,238 ha in 1998–99, while the tail-end area received less than 40% canal water to irrigate
almost double the area (1,16,690 ha). Now, in 2013–14, when the total canal water supply was far
less than that of 1998–99, the head-reach and middle-reach areas jointly received about 65% of
the total water supply and the share of the tail-end area similarly declined. So it may be said that
structure of canal irrigation is such that the tail-end areas continue to be dominated by the head-
reach and middle-reach areas. Viswanathan (2001) describes this in terms of power theory of
distribution. This is clearly visible in the last two rows of Table 1.

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The actual uses of canal water across different segments are presented in Figures 3 to 6 (p 50)
for 1998–99 and 2013–14 based on the data of water discharge for the year round (all seasons)
and also the water discharge for rabi seasons. From the two hydrographs in Figures 3 and 4, we
can observe that water release variation in 1998–99 was much lower than in 2013–14. This has
resulted in lower availability of water in the tail-end area in 2013–14 compared to 1998–99. It may
also be noted that these variations encourages farmers in the head-reach area to pressurise the
gauge readers to keep the lock gates closed for longer periods, thereby stopping the flow of water
downwards to the middle-reach and tail-end areas. Further, the uncertainties about the quantity of
canal water compel the
water users to store excess water in the fields, which ultimately leads to the wastage of canal
water and reduction of irrigation potential utilisation in the DVC irrigation project. Wade (1976) has
argued that the geographical advantage of the farmers in the head-reach area leads to the
overuse of canal water and cultivation of water-intensive crops. This also reduces availability of
canal water in the tail-end area. This phenomenon indirectly forces the tail-end farmers to
cultivate crops that need less water. From our primary study, we have found that the Dhaniakhali
block of Hooghly district is located in the tail-end area of the DVC canal irrigation project. So,
there is scarcity of canal water and it produces less water-intensive crops like potato (29%), til
(12%), vegetables (7%), mustard (3%) and other crops such as groundnut, pulses, etc (5%)
totalling 56% of the total cultivated area. On the other hand, in the head-reach area, the share of
paddy in the gross cropped area is about 92% where as in the tail-end area, this figure is about
44%. Thus, both the primary and secondary data lead us to the same conclusion. Further, in the
tail-end area, farmers are compelled to use underground water due to the scarcity of canal water,
which increases cost of production on the one hand and deteriorates the underground water level
compared to head-reach area, on the other. The underground water level in the tail-end area in

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2013–14 has been 11.53 meters below ground-level (mbgl) in the pre-monsoon, while it is 5.63
mbgl and 6.06 mbgl in the head-reach and middle-reach areas respectively for the same period
(GOI 2014).

In the DVC irrigation system, water for irrigation is released during three seasons, kharif, rabi and
boro. It is released from the third week of July to the last week of October for kharif, from last
week of December to the last week of January for rabi, and from the last week of January to the
first week of May for boro. In Figures 3 and 4, head-reach water utilisation is represented by the
difference between water discharge of the LBMC (Ch 0) and Pursha (Ch 1,310) in the above
hydrograph. Similarly, the difference between water discharge of Pursha (Ch 1,310) and Palla (Ch
2,805) indicates water intake of middle-reach area. Finally, the tail-end water availability for this
season is indicated by difference between water discharges of Palla (Ch 2,805) chainage and the
horizontal line. While, the difference between water discharge hydrograph of Kananadi (Ch 573)
chainage and the horizontal line signify water availability for some villages of the Dhaniakhali
block and the entire Haripal, Singur and for Chanditala-1 block. Thus, water availability to the rest
of area after Ch 573 is negligible, that is, 4.71% and 2.86% of total water supply in 1998–99 and
2013–14 respectively.

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It is interesting to note here that the LBMC supplies water for irrigation to three districts, Burdwan,
Hooghly and Howrah. But, as they do not follow the same crop calendar, canal irrigation potential
cannot be efficiently utilised. For example, in the Hooghly district, farmers start transplanting of
paddy sapling from 5 to 15 July in the kharif season, while in Burdwan farmers do the same from
20 to 31 July. This difference is due to the fact that the cropping intensity in Hooghly is higher than
that in Burdwan. Now, the DVC irrigation authority releases water from the Durgapur Barrage
through the LBMC for kharif irrigation from 15 July onwards. This implies that, in the kharif
season, both preparation of the seed bed and planting of the paddy sapling in the Hooghly district
depend entirely on rainfall or any other source of irrigation, while in Burdwan, the same can be
carried out using canal water.

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It is worth mentioning here that there has been a long-run institutional arrangement for the supply
of the DVC canal water during rabi and boro seasons. Under such an arrangement, the service
area of Burdwan district gets larger quantity of water during the boro season, and the service area
of the Hooghly district would get a larger quantity of water in rabi season. Thus, under such an
arrangement, it is expected that during the rabi season, canal water would pass on unhindered to
its targeted areas. However, due to public pressure, as explained earlier, lower-level officials like
gauge readers, senior watchmen and gate khalashies are forced to close lock gates to enable
unauthorised withdrawal of water by the farmers in the upper courses of the canal (head- and
middle-reach areas). This creates shortage of water in the targeted areas. The same problem
may also be created if most of the farmers of these blocks lift canal water from the LBMC for rabi
crop production.

It may be noted that the Galsi–1 and 2 and Burdwan–1 and 2 blocks are not entitled to utilise rabi
irrigation water and for which irrigation authority has not been imposing any canal irrigation
charges on the farmers of these blocks. This implies, farmers of these blocks were using the rabi
irrigation water illegally. The hydrographs of water discharge for the rabi seasons in the two
periods (1998–99 and 2013–14) reveal that the scarcity of water in the tail-end area is due to
illegal withdrawal of water in the upper course of the canal (Figures 5 and 6).

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From Figures 5 and 6, we also observe that hydrographs of Palla crosses the LBMC three times,6
that is eight days out of 25 days in 1998–99, while hydrograph of Pursha crosses the LBMC four
times, that is 17 out of 36 days in 2013–147 in the rabi seasons. It may be noted that each cross
or overlap in the hydrograph signifies that at least one lock gate must have been closed for some
time in between the LBMC Ch 0 and Ch 2,805 (Palla) in 1998–99 (Figure 5); and in between Ch 0
of the LBMC and Ch 1,310 (Pursha) in Figure 6 in 2013–14.

In the rabi season, out of the total water released from the barrage (18,531.25 cusec), in 1998–
99, only 53.74% reached Palla, and 19.28% was received downstream of Kananadi. While in
2013–14, out of total water released (16,612.04 cusec), Palla received only 46.29% and 12.24%

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was received downstream of Kananadi. This implies that illegal canal water utilisation has been
increasing over the years. It may also be noted that about 7.2% of the total water released is
wasted due to seepage loss and 3.7% (approx) due to evaporation (GoWB 2011). So,
approximately 11% canal water is lost from the LBMC command area up to Palla. Therefore, after
considering the seepage and evaporation loss, about 35.26% (6,534.12 cusec) of the total water
in 1998–99 has been illegally withdrawn during the rabi season, while in 2013–14, this figure was
42.71% (1,4071.81 cusec).

From our above hydrograph analysis in the rabi season, we have found that scarcity of canal
water is a problem in the tail-end area due to the tail-end deprivation, for which irrigation cost for
potato cultivation has been higher in the tail-end area (₹ 2,654.76 per ha) compared to the
middle-reach area (₹ 1,580.33 per ha) in 2013–14.8 Further, about 24 plots out of 45 sample plots
in the tail-end area in the before lock-gate region are situated nearer to the canal (within 500 m
from the canal) and can use only about 40%–70% of the targeted canal water. Other plot owners
of the before lock-gate area and all the plots lying after the lock-gate region in the tail-end area
can expect to use less than 40% of the targeted canal water. In the middle-reach area, all the
plots situated in the before lock-gate region, and 22 of the 45 plots situated in the after lock-gate
region have received about 40%–70% of the canal water. The rest of the plots that are situated in
the after lock-gate region and faraway from the canal (more than about 900 m) have used less
than 40% of canal water.

In the summer there is scarcity of water, but the boro paddy, which is the main crop during this
period, is highly water-intensive, necessitating rotational water supply. From our study,we have
observed that about 98% of the selected plots are used for paddy, cultivation in the head-reach
area, while in the middle-reach and tail-end areas, it is 90% and 39% of the plots respectively.
Further, the average boro paddy productivity is the highest in the head-reach area followed by the
middle-reach and tail-end areas (Kundu and Chattopadhyay 2017). It is also interesting to note
that the canal water availability for boro cultivation is relatively higher in the head-reach area
followed by the middle-reach and tail-end areas. Using a regression model we have tried to find
out whether canal water availability is an important and significant factor contributing to the
differentiated boro paddy productivity (YBPP) in the DVC command area. The model and the
regression results are presented in Table 2. We have run this model over the entire primary data
set (270 plots) and then separately for head-reach, middle-reach and tail-end areas.

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From our regression result (Table 2) we have found that availability of canal water (XCWA) is one
of the important and significant factors that can explain higher boro paddy productivity in the
head-reach area of the DVC command area. Likewise, the availability of canal water also partially

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explains differences in the crop pattern across the head-reach, middle-reach and tail-end areas of
the DVC command area.

Concluding Observations

Our analysis reveals that though this ambitious multipurpose project was adopted to enhance
irrigation potential in the targeted areas, it has failed to live up to expectations and that the water
management and canal irrigation management systems of the DVC are suffering from several
limitations which may explain the project’s failure to meet its goals. We enumerate the limitations
of this project and also suggest policy measures to overcome these limitations. First, panchayats
have played a significant role in water management and irrigation development in many villages
in West Bengal, but they have played no role in canal irrigation development as a result of which
farm-level problems do not reach the canal irrigation authority. The lack of participation by farmers
or panchayat members in the management has led farmers to put pressure on the gauge readers
and watchmen to engage in unauthorised blockage of targeted water. The ultimate result is water
scarcity in the tail-end areas.

Second, the DVC irrigation project covered four districts or 40 blocks. However, there are
differences in terms of cropping intensity, crop diversification and even time of cultivation of some
crop in the entire command area. The DVC is yet to devise a proper policy to cater to the
differentiated needs of different regions. Therefore, it is unable to perform its expected role in all
blocks or districts.

Third, since both the head-reach and middle-reach areas are entirely in the Burdwan district of
the LBMC, they get to use a major portion of the canal water, while the remaining five blocks of
Burdwan district, along with the Hooghly and Howrah districts that form the tail-end area, receive
a low quantum of water every year. This tail-end deprivation has been one of the reasons for
differentiated boro paddy productivity and differences in the crop patterns across the head-reach,
middle-reach and tail-end areas.

Fourth, the reduction of reservoir storage capacity and continuous increase of industrial and
municipal water demand has reduced the share of irrigation water. It may be noted that there
have been rapid increases of new thermal projects, and new industries during the last 30 years in
the upstream area of the Durgapur Barrage because of adequate supply of water by the DVC
authority. This indicates that the availability of water created a demand for non-agriculture use,
resulting in scarcity of water for irrigation in the downstream areas.

Fifth, from the official data available with the Durgapur Barrage authorities, we have found that in
1998–99 and 2013–14, the DVC run-off water through the Damodar river from the Durgapur
Barrage were about 20,55,831 cusecs and 17,02,238 cusecs respectively (Annexure Figures 2A
and 2B, p 53). If the irrigation authority had stored a certain minimum percentage, say 10% of this
water in a year, that is around 2 lakh cusec, then it could have successfully catered water
requirements for rabi and boro irrigation in the Lower Damodar Irrigation (LDI) division (1,69,395
ha area).9 This would have reduced the dependence of LDI division on water from the Durgapur
barrage through the LBMC and also could reduce variations in the per hectare water availability in

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the head-reach, middle-reach and tail-end areas. Thus, it requires either to construct new dams
and barrages or to improve the water management system in order to perform better water
distribution simultaneously in all the districts or blocks in the DVC command area.

From our field study, we have observed that at the Baje Salepur mouza of the Barsul–II gram
panchayat in Burdwan-II block, there is a provision to construct a “barrage-cum-bridge” on the
Damodar river. If a barrage is constructed in this area and is linked to the left side of the LBMC at
Barsul point (Ch 2,660) and to the right side of the Deb Khal,10 then it would improve the irrigation
facility in the LDI division and relieve the responsibility of the Durgapur Barrage, which would then
be able to manage the rest of the command area more efficiently. It will also reduce the possibility
of a flood in the downstream area of the Damodar river basin. In fact, Chandra (2003) has
emphasised the need for reduction of pressure of discharged water through the Lower Damodar.
Finally, the bridge may reduce the distance (approximately
20 km), from Jamalpur, Raina-I and II blocks to Burdwan town, which will in turn facilitate better
marketing of agriculture products of these blocks.

Notes

1 In this study, we have mainly collected secondary data of canal water discharge from six
selected lock-gate points (Annexure Figure 1) in the LBMC of the DVC command area during
1998–99 and 2013–14. This selection of lock gates was based on the suggestion of the executive
engineer of the Damodar head works division. Here, we have selected two separate years
because the oldest data available in each gauge register of the lock gates are for 1998–99 and
the most recent available data are for 2013–14. These data have been used to make the
hydrograph analysis. Further, we have also used other secondary data from some relevant
sources of the Government of West Bengal.

2 This division has been made on the basis of water availability and physical structure of the
canal network. This follows the procedure adopted by a study conducted by the Indian Institute of
Management Calcutta (IIMC 2008) in the DVC canal network.

3 For example, in 2010–11, only 70,000 acre feet of water were available for boro irrigation and
another 70,000 acre feet for rabi irrigation. However, 70,000 acre feet of water was insufficient for
the DVC command area and rationing of water would have resulted in severe law and order
problems. So, it was decided to utilise the total amount, that is, 1 lakh 40 thousand acre feet of
water for irrigating about 1 lakh 2 thousand acre land in the rabi season (78th meeting of
DCBISDVP in 2011), however, the actual irrigated area in that period was 50,330 acres. It is
interesting to note that there is always discrepancy between actual area of irrigation and targeted
area of irrigation, particularly in the rabi season (1 acre feet/day = 0.5042 cusec/day).

4 1 Chainage (Ch) = 30 metres or 100 feet (approximately).

5 The regression model is XCWSBt= a1+a2XRt-1+Ut, where XCWSBt amount canal water supply in
the boro season at current period and XRt-1 amount of rainfall in the previous period in upper
catchment area of DVC. Our regression result reveals R2=0.36, Adj R2=0.31, P value=0.018,
Coff. Value=0.42 and S.E=0.15.

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6 From 4–5, 15–18 and 23–24 January 1999.

7 During 23–25 December 2013, 28 December 2013, 12 January 2014, 9–11 and 15–19 January
2014.

8 Based on our primary survey.

9 Memari–1 and 2, Kalna-1 and 2, and Jamalpur blocks of Burdwan district; Dhaniakhali,
Tarakeswar, Horipal, Singur, Jangipara, Polba-Dadpur, Chinsurah-Mogra, Balagarh, Pandua and
Chanditala-1 blocks of the Hooghly district and Amta, Udaynarayanpur, Jagatvallavpur blocks of
Howrah district.

10 Deb Khal links with Hana channel near Shambhupur (Raina-1 block), which was constructed
by the British to pass excess water of Damodar river and to save the eastern bank of Damodar.
Deb Khal is already linked with Mundeswari river by nature at Narasinhapur village (Raina-2
block).

References

Boyce, J K (1987): Agrarian Impasse in Bengal: Agricultural Growth in Bangladesh and West
Bengal, 1949–1980, New York: Oxford University Press.

Chandra, Suresh (2003): India: Flood Management–Damodar River Basin, A Case Study of
Integrated Flood Management, Geneva: World Meteorological Organization, pp 1–10.

Choudhury, Nirmalaya, Parthosarathy Banerjee and R Ranajit (2006): “Panchayati Irrigation

Management over Canal Systems in West Bengal,” Journal of Indian School of Political Economy,
Vol 18, No 3, pp 435–49.

DVC (2010): Annual Report, 2009–10, Damodar Valley Corporation, Kolkata.

— (2012): Annual Report 2011–12, Damodar Valley Corporation, Kolkata.

Dhawan, B D (1993): “Irrigation in Eighth Plan: A Critique,” Economic & Political Weekly, Vol 28,
No 26, p A-41.

GoI (2013): Storage Status of Important Reservoirs in the Country, Central Water Commission,
Ministry of Water Resources, Government of India, New Delhi.

— (2014): Ground Water Year Book of West Bengal and Andaman & Nicobar Island (2013–14),
Technical Report: Series-‘D,’ Central Ground Water Board, Ministry of Water Resources,
Government of India, Eastern Region, Kolkata, October.

GoWB (2011): Annual Report 2010–11, Damodar Valley Command Area Development Authority,
Purta-Bhavana, Burdwan.

— (2012): Annual Report 2011–12, Damodar Valley Command Area Development Authority,
Burdwan.

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3/28/2020 Water Resource Management of the Damodar Valley Corporation : Tail-end Deprivation of the Canal Network | Economic and Politic…

Gorter, Pieter (1989): “Canal Irrigation and Agrarian Transformation: The Case of Kesala,”
Economic & Political Weekly, Vol 24, No 39, pp A94–105.

Gulati, Ashok, Mark Sevensen and Nandini Roy Choudhury (1994): “Major and Medium Irrigation
Schemes: Towards Better Financial Performance,” Economic & Political Weekly, Vol 29,
No 26, pp A72–79.

IIMC (2008): “IPC-IPU Gap Analysis in West Bengal and the North-East,” Final Report, Indian
Institute of Management Calcutta, Kolkata, October, pp 10–28.

Kundu, R K and A K Chattopadhyay (2017): “Analysing Varying Crop Productivity in Canal

Irrigation: A Case Study of DVC in West Bengal,” Indian Journal of Agricultural Economics, Vol
72, No 4, pp 513–34.

Mitra, Ashok K (1996): “Irrigation Sector Reforms: Issues and Approaches,” Economic & Political
Weekly, Vol 31, No 13, pp A31–37.

Rawal, Vikas (2001): “Irrigation Statistics in West Bengal,” Economic & Political Weekly, Vol 36,
No 27, pp 2537–44.

Ray, Abhijit and S Shekhar (2009): “Ground Water Issus and Development Strategies in West
Bengal,” Bhu-Jal News, West Bengal Special Issue, Central Ground Water Board, Ministry of
Water Resource, Government of India, Vol 24, No 1, pp 1–17.

Shah, Anil (2003): “Tail-Enders and Other Deprived in Canal Irrigation Systems: Gujarat,” paper
presented at the “National Workshop on Tail-Enders and Other Deprived in Canal Irrigation
Systems” organised by the Development Support Centre, 28–29 November.

Srivastava, R and K Pramanik (2012): “Integrated Operation of Reservoirs–Damodar–Barakar

System,” Central Water Commission, New Delhi.

Viswanathan, P K (2001): “Economics of On-farm Development: A Study of Major Irrigation

Project in Kerala,” PhD dissertation, University of Mysore, Mysore.

Wade, Robert (1975): “Administration and the Distribution of Irrigation Benefits,” Economic &
Political Weekly, Vol 10, Nos 44/45, pp 1743–47.

— (1976): “Performance of Irrigation Projects,” Economic & Political Weekly, Vol 11, No 3, pp 63–
66.

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3/28/2020 Why India Can’t Afford to Ignore the Economics of Disability | Economic and Political Weekly

Why India Can’t Afford to Ignore the Economics of Disability

epw.in/journal/2020/12/postscript/why-india-cant-afford-ignore-economics-disability.html

March 20, 2020

I am a disability professional, but I love stories. When I talk about disability, I like to talk about the
children I work with, their families, and how disability works in their lives. I love to show pictures of
how beautiful, funny, and

interesting they are, and raise money for the organisation I work for—which helps people with
disabilities in the process. I’m pretty good at it, but there is one group I’ve been singularly
unsuccessful with: government officials.

I sit in their offices, talking eloquently about the children we work with, and why it’s vital for the
government to do this or do that. And, invariably, their eyes glaze over. They start wondering how
to get rid of me. At least, that’s how it used to be. But, 10 years ago, when meeting with the health
secretary of Uttarakhand, I had an epiphany while explaining the importance of early intervention
for children with disabilities. That familiar glaze was about to take over the secretary’s eyes. Then,
I quoted James Heckman, the Nobel Prize-winning economist. Paraphrasing his research for the
Indian economy, I said, “For every rupee the government invests in early intervention, you’d get a
13% annual return.” The secretary sat up. “A 13% return on investment?! James Heckman is the
economist? Nobel Prize?” He wrote something down and then proceeded to ask a series of
searching questions about the incidence of disability in Uttarakhand, the cost of providing early
intervention to children and the long-term impact of not doing it. Luckily, I had brought the data for
a change, not just stories and photographs.

The result of that conversation was the approval of a grant for the first non-governmental
organisation (NGO)-run early intervention centre in a government hospital in India, providing
state-of-the-art services to children with disabilities in Uttarakhand. The other—admittedly less
dramatic—outcome was personal. I finally came to understand the power of data when arguing
for the rights of persons with disabilities. It simply makes economic sense, and numbers are what
draw people in. In the World Health Organization’s (WHO) World Report on Disability for 2011,
the numbers were more or less the same around the world. From Africa to Europe, from the
Americas to Asia, the incidence of disability was 14% to 16% of the population. Only
India, according to the 2011 Census, clocked in at 2%, an outlier, and how! I love the chutzpah of
India’s outlier status. Even an entire decade later, I’d be surprised if 2021’s numbers are
significantly different. Senior government officials do admit, off the record, that the WHO estimate
of 15% is more accurate, but the census still carries weight.

What you don’t count, you don’t plan for. And, so, across the country, persons with disabilities live
with the twin reality of being neither counted nor planned for. As bad as it is for them, it’s no good
for the country either. While India’s economy suffers from the lost opportunities which arise from
children out of school and adults unemployed, it must also shoulder added, often unnecessary,
burdens that the population of persons with disabilities impose.

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According to the Indian government’s National Family Health Survey (2015–16), 58% of Indian
children under the age of five are anaemic and 38% are stunted. Anaemia and malnutrition
hamper children’s overall development during their formative early years. Many who are born
healthy and should grow to achieve their full potential instead develop health problems. Such
children are less curious, disinclined to explore their surroundings, and unresponsive to
stimulation. The result is acquired disability—cognitive and sensory.

While a tragedy for the individual child and its family, in the aggregate, acquired disability is also a
catastrophe for India’s economy. Children with low intelligence and poor health often miss out on
routine vaccinations and other basic medical check-ups, placing unnecessary burdens on the
public health system.

Children with disabilities are likely to have difficulties in school and drop out before Class 8. Their
limited employment prospects mean that they will be stuck in dead-end jobs, making no
significant contribution to the gross domestic product. Low income is associated with depression,
poor nutrition, petty crime, and early marriage, leading to more children born into the same
vicious cycle.

Another cause of acquired disability is a lack of responsive parenting. Typically, very poor babies
in India are looked after not by their parents, but by another child—sometimes as young as five or
six. Parents have little choice. They are working to feed their children, and affordable childcare is
a luxury. Without a caring, consistent adult—who responds to their attempts to communicate, who
plays with them, sings to them, and is reliably there for them when they need food, reassurance,
cleaning, and emotional stability—children’s brains actually cannot develop to their full potential.
Every government needs to keep in mind the importance of responsive parenting while planning
budget allocations for public services. The economic toll of such neglect is catastrophic. The
mandate for a family-centred economy is compelling. Ensuring parents can afford to be with their
children during their vital early years could be a national imperative as important as clean drinking
water and full employment. One could argue that nothing less than the country’s future is at stake.

Children with disabilities also face educational discrimination in India. A 2019 UNESCO (United
Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) report on inclusive education in India
reveals that 75% of children under five with disabilities get no early childhood education. And, in
spite of the Right to Education Act guaranteeing them free education, 34% of these children aged
five to 19 are not in school. The children who most urgently require educational services from
trained professionals are routinely excluded from the system. Many schools deny them
admission, in violation of the law. Others admit them, but make no attempt to provide the support
they need, claiming that they have neither the knowledge nor the training to do so. Again, what
you don’t count, you don’t plan for. If you say that only 2% of the population are persons with
disabilities, training institutions are not a high priority. As a result, professionals are scarce.
Schools looking for special educators, therapists, and counsellors, especially in small towns, can’t
find them. Illiteracy and innumeracy are endemic among persons with disabilities in India because
they have never had the opportunity to learn. Career options are limited, and unemployment is
rife. If the person requires special care, this usually means that a family member is also
unemployed. Lost productivity because of disability wreaks havoc on the economy, but is seldom

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even discussed, let alone factored in when planning budgets and social programmes. A 2020
report by Oxfam India estimates that unpaid caregivers contribute a staggering `19 lakh crore to
the Indian economy.

According to the National Centre for the Promotion of Employment for Disabled People, 66% of
persons with disabilities in India are unemployed. Apart from poverty—which is the primary fallout
of unemployment—depression, isolation, loneliness, and poor physical health are also common.
Caregivers face these same problems, with the additional burden of physically demanding
responsibilities and attendant burnout. Taken together, these two groups represent at least 20%
of the population. According to the United Nations, persons with disabilities are the world’s largest
minority. It should go without saying, then, that they have the same rights to healthcare, education
and employment as any other Indian and should be made an urgent national priority.

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3/28/2020 Women’s Education and Fertility in the Hindi Heartland | Economic and Political Weekly

Women’s Education and Fertility in the Hindi Heartland

epw.in/journal/2020/12/notes/womens-education-and-fertility-hindi-heartland.html

March 20, 2020

India has been witnessing fertility transition over the last three decades. This transition has
covered all regions and sections of the society during the last decade, though at varying degrees
(Registrar General of India 2011). Although all the southern states and most of the western, north-
western and few eastern states have already achieved below-replacement-level fertility (total
fertility rate or TFR <=2.1), fertility rates continued to be high in the Hindi-speaking regions of
northern and north-central India.

Studies using unit-level data from various large-scale surveys have found that women’s education
has significant net negative effect on fertility even after controlling for the effects of other
potentially confounding variables (Bhat 1996, 2002; Ghosh 2016). Studies have also observed
the “indirect” role of education through channels like diffusion of fertility norms from the educated
to non-educated through social learning and social imitation, and other positive externalities
regarding changing community behaviour as a whole (Arokiasamy et al 2004). Later studies
emphasised positive contribution of education on fertility decline due to the improvement of the
health of women and children (Arokiasamy 2009).

At the same time, it was also pointed out that a decline in fertility rate from 65% to 44% during the
1990s and early 2000s respectively could be attributed to fertility decline among illiterate women
(Bhat 2002; Mondal et al 2011). Moreover, it was also found that female education is not a key
determinant for fertility reduction (Parikh and Gupta 2001). In an earlier study, Bhat (1996) had
commented that a “direct” inverse relationship between education and fertility is observed in the
intermediate stages of demographic transition.

In some of the existing studies, on the other hand, have observed that the “indirect” effect of
educational attainment on fertility is more pronounced during the later stages. In such cases,
parents are motivated to limit the family size in order to ensure that educational aspiration for their
children is realised (Arokiasamy et al 2004; Ghosh 2016). Similarly, Bhat (2002) noted that the
diffusion of rising aspirations for the education of their offspring from educated to uneducated
women rather than the educational externalities is the primary reason for the fertility decline
among less educated women in India.

In the Hindi Heartland

Table 1 (p 55) reveals the trend in TFR by women’s educational attainment across place of
residence in seven empowered action group (EAG)1 states as obtained from the Sample
Registration System (SRS) for 2011 and 2016. Except Odisha, other states are predominantly
Hindi-speaking states and did not achieve replacement fertility by 2016. It is puzzling to observe
that TFR among educated women, particularly those who have completed middle, secondary and
higher secondary schooling, has increased in almost all the Hindi-speaking EAG states.

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In rural areas, TFR has increased

substantially not only among women
educated from the middle-school to the
higher-secondary level, but also among
graduate women, especially in the two large
states of the Hindi heartland—Bihar and
Uttar Pradesh (UP). In rural Bihar, it has
increased from 1.4 children per woman in
2011 to 2.6 children per woman in 2016,
while in rural UP, it has increased from 2.3
to 2.8 children per woman during the same
period. On the other hand, TFR among non-
literate women is observed to have declined
in all these states, except Chhattisgarh.

We also tried to find out district-level TFR

across women’s educational strata by using
the National Family Health Survey-4
(NFHS-4) data. Though such estimates are
limited by the insufficient sample size in the
higher educational stratum in NHFS-4 data
set, nonetheless, we have noted that
between the third and fourth rounds of the
NFHS conducted during 2005–06 and
2015–16 respectively, TFR has remained
almost stagnant or declined very slowly
among women, with 10 or more years of
schooling in both the states.

In this article, we have tried to put forward

some explanations to reconcile these
findings that are contrary to the inverse
relationship between women’s education
and fertility, prevalent in the extant literature
and have also attempted to formulate some
hypotheses in this regard, which would
require validation through further research.

SRS Sampling Frame

The revision of SRS sampling frame is

carried out every 10 years based on the
results of latest population census. The last
replacement was done in 2014. It has been
observed that whenever there is a change

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in the sampling frame, there is a possibility

of obtaining disjoint trend of vital indicators.
It could be primarily due to two reasons.
First, field personnel often require some
time to build a rapport to obtain data on vital statistics in the new areas. Second, some
differences in the composition of characteristics between old and new sample areas cannot be
ruled out.2 The later argument could be stronger for the states/regions that are at the intermediate
stage of fertility transition. These states/regions are likely to have more heterogeneity in sample
characteristics compared to those that already have reached below replacement level of fertility.

One can also argue that because the sample size of educated women itself is low in these states,
the estimation of TFR among these group could involve a high sampling error. Although these
arguments may have some merits, without loss of generality, it may be argued that TFR among
women with higher educational attainment did not decline between the said period in the EAG
states, except in Odisha.

In addition to the change in sampling frame, we intend to propose others probable factors, which
may have contributed in the stagnation of the fertility rate among educated women in these
states.

Son Preference and Fertility

From the third and fourth rounds of the NFHS data, we found that in the EAG states as a whole,
the proportion of women with two living daughters but still wanting another child has declined from
15.5% to 11.9% among the non-literate; however, the share increased from 7.1% to 23.3%
among the graduate women. We have used this as a proxy indicator for son preference.

One can also find out from the NFHS-4 data that the proportion of graduate women who have two
living daughters but still want another child are markedly high in states like Bihar (23.7%),UP
(27.3%), and Rajasthan (28.3%). If we consider the women who have two living daughters and no
living son, we found that the proportion of graduate women desiring to have another child has
increased from 16.4% to 39.1% between 2005–06 and 2015–16 in the EAG states. While this
share has declined from 66.5% to 61.4% among non-literate women during the same period. In
the case ofUP, such shares have declined from 73.9% to 62.5% among non-literate women, and
increased from 36.8% to 50.9% among graduate women.

Now, it is pertinent to ask that why son preference has increased among educated women? Here,
we offer two hypotheses, which need to be tested empirically.

First, in the EAG states, there is a high degree of positive correlation between household
affluence and higher educational attainment. In the absence of good educational opportunities
and prosperous livelihood options in these states, particularly in Bihar andUP, upper caste, higher
educated and somewhat affluent households generally send at least one son for higher education
to the better-off regions. This allows them to obtain better education and harness different
livelihood options. In rural affluent landed households, parents prefer at least one son to stay
back with them to take care of the property and support them during their old age. In such a

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scenario, couples generally prefer at least two sons. However, since the probability of having two
sons successively is only about 26.4% (Clark 2000), a significant proportion
of families ultimately ended up with a large family size. Nonetheless, such a hypothesis needs to
be tested empirically.

Second, we have found that inequality (as measured by the Gini coefficient) between rich and
poor households in both urban as well as rural areas has actually declined between 2005 and
2012, according to analysis of National Sample Survey Office’s data (GoI 2006, 2014).3 If such
decline in inequality has resulted in bridging the gap in educational attainment in the recent past,
then, arguably, a sizeable proportion of these new bunch of (higher) educated women are the
first-generation learners.

It may be pertaining to argue that due to traditional social ethos, these newly educated women
may not necessarily be exposed to the outside world. In such a scenario, they lack employability
because of inadequate knowledge, and have lower bargaining power and autonomy within the
household and society. Further, due to insufficient social network, they are likely to subsume
under the traditional norms of high fertility instead of defying such customs. The situation
accentuates in the absence of critical mass of educated women in the community. Although this
was also argued in some earlier studies (United Nations 1995; Jejeebhoy 1995), such a
hypothesis needs to be tested empirically in the present context.

Contraceptive Use and Fertility

Between the last two rounds of the NFHS, it has been observed that modern contraceptive
prevalence rate (mCPR) among illiterate women increased substantially, while the same has
declined considerably among graduate women in all the states of the Hindi heartland, except
Bihar (Figure 1). In Bihar, mCPR among the non-literate was 22.2% during 2005–06 and
remained almost at the same level (21.7%) during 2015–16, while it has declined from 35.9% to
13.6% among graduate women during the same period. Negative association between mCPR
and women’s educational attainment has been observed in both rural and urban areas in most of
the EAG states (Figure 2 and Figure 3, p 57).

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At the same time, the use of behavioural/natural method of contraception has also not increased
among educated women during this period, a phenomenon observed elsewhere in India (Ghosh
2016).

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The general evidence between education and contraceptive usage suggests an invertedU
because the age at marriage increases with educational attainment and the period of cohabitation
decrease. This pattern was evident in Kerala during the 1990s, and subsequently in many other
states in India after 2000.4 As mentioned earlier, we have found that, except in Bihar, the
contraceptive usage has increased among non-literate women in all the states, whereas it has
declined considerably among educated sections. In other words, it seems that after 10 years of
implementation of the National Health Mission (NHM), contraceptive usage among non-literate
women increased, while it declined considerably among educated women.

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There could be three possible hypotheses for such a trend. First, the rural health workers such as
the auxiliary nurse midwives (ANM) and accredited social health activists (ASHA) seem to have
adequate access and acceptability among rural poor, uneducated or semi-educated and
underprivileged households, thus enabling them to convince these women to accept family
planning easily. It may be hypothesised that rural health workers find it difficult to penetrate and
persuade the educated and influential households for family planning acceptance in the rural
areas because of social barriers. This results in limited impact of the government sponsored
family planning programme among these sections.

Our second hypothesis is the lack of correct and adequate understanding of family planning and
contraceptive methods even among the educated women in such settings. Third, the barriers to
timely and adequate access to appropriate family planning services possibly exists for educated
women too, especially in rural and resource-constrained settings. This needs to be explored
further by empirical studies. Finally, one can also argue that after the horizontal integration of the
vertically sponsored schemes, such as reproductive and child health, and family planning under
the umbrella of theNHM, the focus shifted to improving maternal health and child survival, thus
possibly compromising the intensity of outreach of the family planning services.

Concluding Remarks

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Based on our observations from the SRS and NFHS data and other relevant literature, it is
indicative that the inverse relationship between women’s education and fertility is not
straightforward. We summarise that a plausible increase in son preference and limited access
and acceptability of family planning services among educated women could play a role in the non-
decline of fertility among them. We would also argue that available evidences from large-scale
data sets such as NFHS and SRS are inadequate to throw light on intricacies of aforesaid social
issues, which have far-reaching implications on fertility. Thus, more comprehensive and
contextual qualitative exploration of these issues is required to validate arguments presented
here. Such deeper understanding is urgently required to accomplish the goal of population
stabilisations, as envisaged in successive population and health policies in India.

Notes

1 Empowered Action Group (EAG) states comprised Bihar, Jharkhand, Uttar Pradesh,
Uttarakhand, Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Odisha and Rajasthan.

2 Views expressed by Faujdar Ram, Former Director, International Institute for Population
Sciences (IIPS), Mumbai, during personal communication.

3 Views expressed by Zakir Husain, Professor of Economics, Presidency University, Kolkata,

during personal communication.

4 See note 2.

References

Arokiasamy, P (2009): “Fertility Decline in India: Contributions by Uneducated Women Using

Contraception,” Economic & Political Weekly, Vol 44, No 30, pp 55–64.

Arokiasamy, P, K McNay and R H Cassen (2004): “Female Education and Fertility Decline:
Recent Developments in the Relationship,” Economic & Political Weekly, 9 October, pp 4491–95.

Bhat, P N M (1996): “Contours of Fertility Decline in India: A District Level Study Based on the
1991 Census,” Population Policy and Reproductive Health, K Srinivasan (ed), New Delhi:
Hindustan Publishers, pp 96–177.

— (2002): “Returning a Favor: Reciprocity between Female Education and Fertility in India,”
World Development, Vol 30, No 10, pp 1791–1803.

Clark, S (2000): “Son Preference and Sex Composition of Children: Evidences from India,”
Demography, Vol 37, No 1, pp 95–108.

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