Maize ethanol shift squeezes sugar mills, cane farmers question falling payments

Partha Sarathi Biswas | 24 Feb 2026

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A rise in maize-based ethanol procurement has left sugar mills with idle capacity and cane farmers worried about lower or delayed payments.

Representational Image. Image Courtesy: Flickr

Pune, Maharashtra: When Madhavrao Roasaheb Kadam (43) approached the private sugar mill in his area in January to ask why the declared payment for sugarcane was lower than expected, the answer unsettled him. The farmer from Akoli village in Basmath taluka of Hingoli district in Maharashtra was told that the mill would not be able to pay more because the “ethanol” it had manufactured was not being purchased by the government.

“Millers in districts of Kolhapur and Sangli are paying Rs 3,500 per tonne and in our region the payment is just about Rs 2,500 per tonne. The mill said they would not be able to pay more than this and the lower than expected revenue from ethanol is to be blamed. They promised to pay us more when they are able to raise more funds but maybe it would happen later in the season,” said Kadam, who grows cane on one acre of his four-acre holding. He grows soyabean, chana (Bengal gram) and wheat on the remaining land.

The explanation did not convince him. “It seems odd. The mill has invested a substantial amount to set up the new ethanol plant, but when it comes to paying the farmers they always have an excuse,” he said.

The apprehension among farmers is echoed within the industry. Bhairavnath B Thomabre, president of the West Indian Sugar Millers Association (WISMA), which represents private sugar mills in Maharashtra and Gujarat, said the industry is under strain.

“The sugar industry is now facing financial stress. At present, mills in Maharashtra have run up unpaid dues of over Rs 4,000 crore. The industry is unable to clear farmers’ dues in time,” he said.

Ethanol, stabilising revenue

Unlike most other crops, sugarcane farmers are assured payment in the form of the Fair and Remunerative Price (FRP). The Sugarcane Control Order of 1966 mandates that payment must be made within 14 days of cane delivery, failing which mills can face action including attachment of property for revenue recovery. Mills failing to pay is therefore a warning sign for both farmers and millers.

For the sugar industry, ethanol had emerged as a stabilising revenue stream. Produced by fermentation of carbohydrates, ethanol is blended with petrol to reduce emissions and curb fossil fuel imports. While sugar mills had long produced ethanol as a byproduct, production accelerated after 2018 when Oil Marketing Companies (OMCs) became assured buyers.

Ethanol in the sugar industry can be manufactured directly from sugarcane juice or from B-heavy and C molasses, the byproducts obtained after sugar extraction. Procurement from higher sugar-content feedstock encouraged mills to divert excess sugar into ethanol.

The central government incentivised the setting up and expansion of ethanol capacity in sugar mills, including through interest subvention on loans for new projects. Industry sources estimate total investments at around Rs 40,000 crore across the country. More than the interest support, it was the assurance of a stable market that encouraged mills to invest and diversify.

“The sudden change in policy for ethanol procurement is not good for farmers or millers. Mills are unable to utilise their distilleries at full capacity and are thus stuck,” Thomabre said.

Policy shift towards maize

The drought of 2019-20 saw a decline in sugarcane area and ethanol output. Subsequently, the government began augmenting ethanol production from food grains such as maize and broken rice, often referred to as second-generation (2G) ethanol.

In November 2020, the government permitted the use of maize as a feedstock for ethanol production. Over the past few years, OMC procurement from maize-based units has increased steadily.

Unlike the financial year, the Ethanol Supply Year (ESY) runs from December 1 to November 30.

In ESY 2022-23, maize-based ethanol manufacturers were given a target of 2.70 crore litres but supplied 31.51 crore litres. By ESY 2023-24, allocation rose sharply to 205.88 crore litres, with actual supplies touching 289.91 crore litres.

The shift became more pronounced in ESY 2024-25. OMCs allocated 520.27 crore litres to maize-based ethanol and procured 419.97 crore litres. The sugar industry, by contrast, was allocated 349.97 crore litres and supplied 306.7 crore litres. In pricing terms too, maize-based distilleries have received better rates compared to sugar-based units.

Maize acreage has expanded year on year, with kharif 2025 touching a record 71.21 lakh hectares.

Underutilised capacity

For the sugar industry, the shift in ethanol procurement has translated into underutilised capacity. Maharashtra industry sources said that of roughly 300 crore litres of distillery capacity, only about one-third is currently being used.

A tentative survey by the National Federation of Cooperative Sugar Factories Association showed that against an installed distillery capacity of 1,822 crore litres with sugar mills, only 1,003.1 crore litres was utilised in ESY 2024-25.

A Maharashtra miller described the situation as uncertain. “Sugar millers have loans to service and the assured payment from ethanol helped both in clearing farmers’ dues as well as servicing those loans. Now, as capacities lie idle, we are not sure of the financial future of distilleries,” he said.

Vijendra Singh, executive director of Renuka Sugars Limited, which operates in Maharashtra and Karnataka, called for equitable distribution. “Ultimately, sugar millers pay their farmers… thus it is in the interest to ensure equitable allocation,” he said.

Farmers fear lower payments

The uncertainty around ethanol is something Bhagvat Jadhav (38) has also heard cited repeatedly by millers in his region. Jadhav grows cane on four acres in Nave Khed village in Walwa taluka of Sangli district.

“Mills here have higher recovery which is the percentage between sugar produced and cane crushed which determines the payment to farmers under the Sugarcane Control Order, 1966. So they are able to pay us Rs 3,500 per tonne. But they say they would not be able to continue the payment trend for the entire season,” he said.

Jadhav, who is an active member of the farmer’s union Swambimani Shetkari Sanghatana, alleged that the explanation could be a pretext. “The Sanghatna would hit the roads if any move is made in our region to lower the payment,” he said.

For farmers like Kadam, the policy shift has immediate consequences. “Cane is the only crop which has assured payment. Now the mills are trying to use the guise of ethanol to get away from better payment. For us farmers this sudden change in payment is out of the blue,” he said.

(Partha Sarathi Biswas is a freelance journalist and a member of 101Reporters, a pan-India network of grassroots reporters.) 

 

Against Hate Script: How Ordinary Citizens Are Reclaiming Public Space

CJP Team | 17 Feb 2026

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A shop sign in Kotdwar, a shutter kept open in Nainital, a landlord’s refusal in Purola, and a Valentine’s Day standoff in Jaipur — how everyday acts of defiance are reshaping the narrative of communal tension in India.

In recent years, public spaces across India — markets, parks, neighbourhoods, gymnasiums — have increasingly become arenas of majoritarian assertion. Names are scrutinised. Shops are marked. Couples are questioned. Boycotts are called. Identity is policed in the open.

But another pattern has emerged alongside these flashpoints: ordinary citizens refusing to comply.

From Kotdwar and Nainital in Uttarakhand to Jaipur in Rajasthan, small acts of resistance are creating ripples that extend far beyond their immediate geography. These moments do not erase communal tension — but they complicate the narrative of inevitability.

Kotdwar: Republic Day, a shop sign, and a national ripple

On January 26, 2026, as reported by The Hindu (February 9, 2026), patriotic music echoed across Kotdwar’s Jhanda Chowk when a confrontation unfolded outside “Baba School Dress and Matching Centre,” a decades-old garment shop run by 71-year-old Wakeel Ahmed.

A group of young men demanded that Ahmed remove the word “Baba” from his signboard, claiming that Kotdwar — associated with Baba Siddhabali — did not permit a Muslim trader to use the term. Mobile phone videos later circulated widely, showing Ahmed visibly shaken.

The incident may have remained another viral moment of coercion had Deepak Kumar, a local gym owner, not intervened. When asked to identify himself, he responded: “My name is Mohammad Deepak.” The addition of “Mohammad” was deliberate — a symbolic rejection of rigid identity boundaries.

What followed, again reported by The Hindu, was swift escalation. An FIR was filed against Deepak, reportedly based on a complaint from members of the Vishwa Hindu Parishad. His gym memberships collapsed from 150 to 15. A crowd gathered days later outside his premises raising slogans. Police were deployed. His family reportedly received threats.

Yet this is where the story altered course.

As reported by The Indian Express, CPI(M) MP John Brittas publicly purchased a gym membership in solidarity. Fifteen Supreme Court senior advocates followed, each contributing Rs 10,000 as annual membership fees — deliberately structured as subscriptions, not donations, because Deepak refused direct financial aid. More than 20 lawyers pledged pro bono legal assistance.

Public figures such as Kaushik Raj, Raju Parulekar, Ramchandra Guha, Swara Bhaskar and Teesta Setalvad amplified calls for support.

A local confrontation thus transformed into a national solidarity campaign.

The Association for Protection of Civil Rights (APCR), in its January 2026 report Excluded, Targeted & Displaced, contextualised such incidents within a broader pattern of communal narratives, economic boycotts, and displacement in Uttarakhand since 2021. Kotdwar was not an aberration — it was part of a documented trajectory.

And yet, the ripple effect from Deepak’s intervention shows that the story does not end with targeting. It can expand into resistance.

Nainital: “Why are you beating everyone?”

In April 2025, Nainital witnessed unrest following the arrest of a 72-year-old man accused of molestation. According to reporting by The Hindu, although the accused was swiftly detained, protests escalated into vandalism of Muslim-owned shops and attacks on property.

Amid the chaos, Shaila Negi — daughter of a traders’ association office-bearer — confronted a swelling mob. In a viral video, she asks: “Sabko kyun maar rahe ho?” (“Why are you beating everyone?”).

She refused to shut her shop during a bandh called against Muslims.

The backlash, she later told The Hindu, included online rape threats and abuse. But her action inserted dissent into what might otherwise have appeared as unanimous anger.

The importance of her intervention lies not in scale but in rupture — she broke the logic of collective punishment.

Purola: When an 83-year-old lawyer said “no”

The summer of 2023 in Purola saw boycott calls and intimidation after allegations involving two youths of different faith in a love jihad case. Posters marked Muslim homes. Tenants were pressured to vacate. Protests reportedly involved groups including the Bajrang Dal.

As documented in The Hindu’s coverage and referenced in the APCR report, fear spread, and some minority families left. But 83-year-old lawyer Dharam Singh Negi refused to evict his Muslim tenants despite threats and posters pasted outside his own house. His defiance reportedly encouraged other landlords to stand firm. This was not viral. It did not trend nationally. But it stabilised a town at a fragile moment.

Jaipur: Public reversal of moral policing

On February 14, 2026, a public park in Jaipur became the setting for a confrontation that quickly travelled far beyond Rajasthan. Videos widely circulated showed a group of men, reportedly linked to the Bajrang Dal, approaching couples in the park on Valentine’s Day. Dressed in saffron scarves and carrying sticks, the men were seen demanding identification cards and questioning the legitimacy of the couples’ presence. Such scenes have, over the years, become almost ritualistic in parts of India, where fringe groups position themselves as defenders of culture against what they describe as Western influence.

What made this incident different, however, was the reaction it provoked. Instead of dispersing or complying quietly, the couples — joined by bystanders — began demanding identification from the vigilantes themselves. Voices in the video are heard asking under what authority the men were conducting checks. One individual insists on knowing their names and addresses and warns that he would take them to court. The dynamic of intimidation visibly shifted. What had begun as an attempt to assert moral authority turned into a public challenge to that very authority.

The exchange quickly escalated into a tense standoff, but the significance lay in the reversal. Moral policing typically operates through spectacle and psychological pressure — the presence of a group, symbolic attire, raised voices, and the implicit threat of escalation. Its power depends on the assumption that those targeted will feel embarrassed, cornered, or fearful. In Jaipur, that script collapsed. By demanding accountability, the public reframed the encounter as a legal question rather than a cultural one: who has the right to demand identification in a public park?

The viral circulation of the clip amplified this reversal. Social media users described the moment as an “UNO reverse,” but beneath the humour was a serious civic assertion. Instead of the now-familiar images of couples being chased or shamed, the video showed alleged vigilantes on the defensive, being questioned about their authority. The spectacle of humiliation, so often directed at young people celebrating Valentine’s Day, was replaced by a spectacle of resistance.

The Jaipur episode is important not merely as a viral moment but as an indicator of shifting public thresholds. Unlike instances in Kotdwar, Nainital, or Purola — where individuals initially stood almost alone — the Jaipur confrontation reflected collective, spontaneous pushback. It suggested a growing unwillingness among citizens, particularly younger urban residents, to concede public spaces to self-appointed moral enforcers. In doing so, it signalled that while intimidation may remain visible, compliance is no longer automatic.

The Pattern: From isolation to contagion

These incidents, taken together, reveal an emerging civic reflex:

• A gym owner interrupts harassment.
• Senior lawyers institutionalise solidarity.
• A woman challenges collective punishment.
• An elderly lawyer defies eviction pressure.
• Couples publicly question vigilante authority.

They are geographically scattered. They are politically unaffiliated. They are socially risky.

But they share one thing: they disrupt the perception of unanimity.

Communal polarisation often depends on silence. It thrives when intimidation goes uncontested. What these incidents demonstrate is that public dissent — even by one person — fractures that narrative.

The ripple from Deepak Kumar’s Republic Day intervention is especially instructive. His stand did not remain local. It catalysed legal networks, political support, and social media amplification. It reassured others that resistance might not mean isolation.

Jaipur shows what happens when that reassurance spreads.

None of these incidents eliminate structural tensions. None reverse policy shifts or ideological mobilisation. The APCR report makes clear that displacement and targeting remain real concerns in parts of Uttarakhand.

But they demonstrate something equally real: civic resilience.

They show that:

• Names cannot be monopolised.
• Crime cannot justify collective blame.
• Landlords need not obey mobs.
• Vigilantes can be questioned.
• Solidarity can be structured, visible, and contagious.

Hate travels quickly — through slogans, rumours, and viral clips. But courage travels too.

And increasingly, it is not travelling alone.

Courtesy: Sabrang India

Sonam Wangchuk’s Long Detention Tests Indian Democracy

Aalok Bajpai | 26 Feb 2026

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It has become a defining test of India’s tolerance for dissent, and commitment to dialogue.

Renowned engineer, innovator, education reformer, and socio-environmental activist Sonam Wangchuk has been detained under the National Security Act (NSA) since September 26, 2025. Currently incarcerated in Jodhpur Central Jail, his detention has now extended to nearly 150 days (five months). On February 19, 2026, the Supreme Court heard a petition challenging his detention, directing the government to produce original recordings of his speeches and accurate translations.

Dismissing Wangchuk's prolonged imprisonment as merely a legal matter would be simplistic. This case transcends an individual; it probes the sensitivity of India's democracy. In a democratic setup, tension between power and dissent is natural, but when voices of disagreement are silenced through extended incarceration, it raises questions about the health of the democratic system. This is not just about one person's freedom; it is a litmus test for India's democratic sensitivity, tolerance, and openness to dialogue. For the Indian people, this is a moment for introspection—have we begun to equate dissent with treason, criticism with rebellion, and warnings with crime?

Mr. Wangchuk has consistently drawn the state's attention to issues of environment, education, and social concerns in border regions. In a geographically and culturally unique area like Ladakh, his role has been more than that of an activist; he has served as a bridge for dialogue between local society and the central government. Thus, the question of his prolonged detention goes beyond law and order. It raises important questions on the nature of relations between power and society.

Right to Dissent in Democracy

The first question pertains to the right to dissent in a democracy. Detaining someone who has dedicated their entire life to education, community development, and Ladakh, who has brought glory to the country by winning the Ramon Magsaysay Award, who demonstrated patriotism in Galwan, undertook fasts for the protection of Himalayan environment, and inspired millions of Indians, under a stringent preventive detention law like NSA for such a long period sends the wrong message. Dissent is not a crime. Labeling someone who peacefully demands from the state as 'anti-national' and imprisoning them weakens the soul of democracy. The Constitution grants freedom of expression as a fundamental right not so that citizens only praise the government, but so that they can also question it. Individuals like Sonam Wangchuk do not oppose power; they alert society—whether it's about Ladakh's environment, education reforms, or local autonomy. If such voices are confined to long-term imprisonment, it creates an atmosphere of fear and self-censorship in society. This is akin to imprisoning not just one person, but the collective civic consciousness.

Misuse of NSA

The second issue is the need to prevent the misuse of NSA. Although meant for preventive detention, NSA has been repeatedly used to suppress political dissent. Extraordinary laws like NSA should be used only in extraordinary circumstances. If every dissent is deemed a 'threat to national security,' both freedom of expression and democracy will be endangered.

Unheard Demands of Ladakh

The third issue is the ignored core demands of Ladakh. Sixth Schedule status, statehood, priority for locals in jobs – these demands are linked to the region's security, culture, and livelihoods. Mr. Wangchuk's journey began with disappointment with the existing education system, which he felt did not meet the needs of Ladakhi students. In 1988, along with other concerned students, he founded the Students' Educational and Cultural Movement of Ladakh (SECMOL), aimed at reforming government schools and making education more practical and relevant in the Ladakhi context. Recognizing the growing water crisis due to melting glaciers, Mr. Wangchuk developed the simple "Ice Stupa" technique. The ice stupas have earned international acclaim as a low-cost solution to water scarcity. Mr. Wangchuk was on a hunger strike in Leh from March 6, 2024, to March 26, 2024. His main demands were: grant Ladakh statehood under the Sixth Schedule, which provides special rights and protections to tribal areas; declare Ladakh an environmentally protected area; increase employment opportunities for Ladakh's youth; and preserve Ladakh's unique culture and language.

Imprisoning Sonam Wangchuk does not solve the problem. The sentiments of Ladakh's people should be addressed, not suppressed, especially since Ladakh is a strategically important border region.

Health and Humanity Concerns

The fourth question is about health and humanity. The Supreme Court itself expressed concern over his health. Is such prolonged preventive detention necessary for a person over fifty years old suffering from some chronic illnesses, who has previously undertaken fasts, and who had to be admitted to Jodhpur AIIMS due to health deterioration caused by contaminated jail water and adverse conditions? Isn't this against humanity?

Need for Peaceful Dialogue and Positive Resolution

Sonam Wangchuk has always supported peaceful protests. Following the Gandhian path, Mr. Wangchuk's movement has been based on fasts and peaceful marches from Leh to Delhi. Is imposing a harsh law like NSA on a person engaging in non-violent protest in line with democratic values? He is not just a political activist but an internationally acclaimed innovator and environmentalist. His demands as a climate warrior to save Ladakh's glaciers and its fragile ecosystem are connected to the future of the entire country, especially the Himalayas. His imprisonment means weakening the voice for Ladakh's ecological security. The Supreme Court has sought clarity from the government on whether there are sufficient grounds for his detention. The old adage goes, 'Justice delayed is justice denied.' Sonam Wangchuk's struggle is not just for Ladakh but a fight to balance freedom of expression and nature conservation in Indian democracy. An enlightened society must ensure that in the race for development, we do not lose our environmental guardians behind bars. This is the time for the Indian populace to adopt a clear and rational stance in favor of expression, dialogue, and tolerance—because democracy ultimately survives not through institutions, but through civic consciousness. The central government should immediately release Sonam Wangchuk and rectify its mistake. Sitting at the dialogue table with Ladakh is still possible. This would be best for the country's unity and dignity.

The writer is a senior journalist, columnist and multidisciplinary cultural commentator. The views expressed are personal.

Kashmir: Belonging, Conditional

Zahid Sultan , Anusreeta Dutta | 

17 Feb 2026

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What it means to live as a permanent suspect.

KASHMIR IS INDIA'S GAZA

File Photo

I am a Kashmiri Muslim. That sentence alone now carries a burden that it did not always carry in this country. It no longer simply names a place or a faith; it marks a condition -- one of explanation, suspicion, and permanent audition. Every time I step outside the Valley, I am reminded that my citizenship is not assumed. It is examined. It is tested. It is sometimes demanded in the language of slogans, sometimes in the language of threats, and often in silence that waits for me to falter.

For Kashmiri students, artisans, and those who leave home only to earn a living, this is no longer exceptional. It is routine. You are stopped at stations, questioned about identity documents no one else is asked to show, warned about how you should speak, what you should avoid saying, and increasingly, what you must say. Patriotism is no longer inferred from conduct or civic belonging; it is extracted through performance. Chanting has become a substitute for citizenship. Refusal is treated not as choice, but as provocation.

The demand to chant slogans like “Jai Shri Ram” or “Vande Mataram” is rarely framed as violence by those who impose it. It is presented as something lighter -- a gesture, a courtesy, a harmless affirmation. But anyone who has lived at the receiving end knows better. This is not about affection for the nation. It is about power. It is about who gets to decide the terms on which ‘belonging’ is granted. When refusal is followed by threats, beatings, or public humiliation, the real meaning of the demand becomes unmistakable, which is obedience masquerading as patriotism.

“Vande Mataram” occupies a particular place in this discourse. Its defenders insist that it is merely a national song, emptied of context and history. But history does not empty itself so easily. The song emerges from Anand Math, a novel that does not hide its hostility toward Muslims. The Muslim figure in that novel is not a fellow inhabitant of the land but an obstacle to be overcome, an enemy to be defeated. This is not an incidental detail; it is the moral architecture of the text. To ask Muslims to sing this song without acknowledging that inheritance, is to demand amnesia. To insist upon it as proof of loyalty is to ask for something more disturbing -- consent for one’s own symbolic erasure.

Read Also: Identity Issue to Fore: The Vande Mataram Row

For a Kashmiri Muslim, this demand does not arrive in abstraction. It arrives in railway compartments, on streets, near hostels, in workplaces. It arrives backed by numbers, by menace, by the confidence that nothing will happen to those who enforce it. The violence that follows refusal is not spontaneous. It is enabled. It rests on the knowledge that the system will look away, that complaints may dissolve, that accountability is unlikely. This confidence is itself political. It tells us that some forms of violence are now socially legible as acts of “national discipline”.

We have heard enough stories, and seen enough individually, to know that this is not paranoia. Students are cornered and told to chant or leave. Artisans are abused while carrying their goods. Workers are warned that employment comes with conditions that extend beyond labour. Each incident may look small in isolation, but together, these form a pattern -- one in which Kashmiri Muslims are reminded, repeatedly, that they inhabit public space on sufferance.

What is most corrosive is not only the physical risk, but the moral calculation it forces upon Kashmiris. You begin to ask yourself questions no citizen should have to ask. Is silence safer than refusal? Is compliance temporary protection? Will asserting dignity cost more than it preserves? This is how coercion works: it turns conscience into a liability. It teaches you that integrity is expensive, and that safety is conditional. Over time, this produces not loyalty, but exhaustion.

This is not nationalism as shared political commitment, but as surveillance. It does not ask what you contribute, how you live, or whether you respect the law. It asks whether you can be made to say what you are told to say. Symbols become instruments of discipline, not expressions of belonging. In this arrangement, the Kashmiri Muslim is made to feel not a citizen among others, but a permanent suspect -- tolerated when compliant, punished when resistant.

What this kind of regime ultimately destroys is trust -- between citizens, in institutions, in the idea that law, not sentiment, governs public life. When mobs feel authorised to test loyalty, and institutions fail to intervene, the constitutional promise quietly retreats. Rights remain on paper, but their availability becomes uneven. You learn, quickly, that some grievances travel further than others.

The psychological cost of this is cumulative. You begin to move differently. You lower your voice. You avoid certain conversations. You rehearse answers. Identity becomes something to manage rather than inhabit. For students, this bleeds into classrooms where certain questions feel dangerous. For workers, it enters the workplace where silence becomes a strategy. For families, it becomes a constant worry -- about safety.

And yet, what is often misunderstood is that refusal still happens. Quietly, unevenly, without heroism. Many Kashmiri Muslims continue to refuse these demands not because they seek confrontation, but because something in them resists being rewritten. This refusal is not loud. It does not announce itself. But it carries moral weight precisely because of its cost. It says: I will not celebrate a story that erases me. I will not perform loyalty by denying my own history.

This is where the deeper failure of the current moment lies. A democracy confident in itself does not require ritualised affirmation. It does not fear silence. It does not punish refusal. The insistence on compelled speech signals not unity, but anxiety -- about difference, about memory, about narratives that do not align neatly with power. Nationalism that must be enforced through fear has already confessed its weakness.

For Kashmiri Muslims, the question is no longer abstract: what does it mean to belong to a nation that demands gratitude for humiliation? What does loyalty mean when it requires forgetting? These are not ideological provocations. These are questions that arise naturally when citizenship is experienced as conditional, when dignity must be bargained for, and when history is treated as an inconvenience rather than a shared inheritance.

If the nation insists that patriotism can only be expressed in one voice, through one set of symbols, then it is not building solidarity -- it is narrowing itself. A political community that cannot accommodate refusal will eventually criminalise memory. And when memory becomes suspect, justice follows.

We refuse such demands because we take the idea of citizenship seriously. Because we believe that belonging cannot be coerced, that loyalty cannot be beaten into someone, and that dignity cannot be conditional. To say this as a Kashmiri Muslim today is to accept risk. But it is also to insist that the nation must be larger than its loudest slogans.

Patriotism does not live in chants extracted under threat. It lives in the ordinary, difficult work of living together without forcing each other into moral submission. Until that truth is reclaimed, every forced slogan will speak less about love for the nation and more about fear of those who refuse to disappear.

Zahid Sultan is Kashmir-based independent researcher. Anusreeta Dutta is a columnist and climate researcher. The views are personal.

 EMOTIONAL PLAGUE

Striving for Social Justice: Such a Long Journey

Ram Puniyani | 05 Feb 2026

From Mandal to UGC Equity Rules, whenever any regulation for uplift of SC/ST/OBC takes place, BJP uses subtle ways to deflate the measures.

In response to Radhika Vemula (Rohith Vemula’s mother) and Abeda Salim Tadvi’s (Payal Tadvi’s mother) public interest litigation, and also probably due to rising number of students dying by suicide in institutions of higher learning in particular, the University Grants Commission (UGC) came out with a 16-page document with recommendations to be implemented in places of higher learning in particular. In the UGC document, the idea was to protect other children from such humiliation and negative thoughts of taking their own lives.

During the past few years, such grim and tragic incidents have risen. Based on reports submitted to the Rajya Sabha: “Significant Student Suicides (2018–2023): According to data submitted to the Rajya Sabha, 98 students died by suicide in higher education institutions (including IITs, IIMs, and Central Universities) between 2018 and 2023. Marginalized Communities Impacted: Of the 122 students who died by suicide in central institutions between 2014 and 2021, the majority belonged to SC, ST, OBC, and minority communities. Rise in Complaints: Complaints of caste-based discrimination in universities and colleges have risen by 118.4% over the past five years (2019-2024).”

In the light of this, the UGC regulations 2026 came as a breath of fresh air. But to oppose this, there were protests in many places in North India, mostly from the upper caste and presumably supporters of the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party’ (BJP) politics. They also took the matter to the Supreme Court, which promptly stayed the UGC directive. As per the SC, such a move will be dividing the society. The court termed these regulations as vague and easy to misuse. We know that misuse of laws can be part of the processes and putting in protective clauses against misuse is very much possible.

The fact is that such cases have gone up by 118% between 2018 to 2023. Sociologist Satish Deshpande argues that having accrued the benefit of the caste system, the upper caste kicked the historical privilege ladder to embrace a casteless identity. Another professor, Ajantha Subramaniam, shows how the ideology of castelessness is a meritocratic defence, especially employed by upper castes in the state of Tamil Nadu, which has a history of subaltern assertions. The Economic Weaker Sections’ (EWS) reservation has taken away the upper caste cloak of meritocracy. 

This is the present position, as BJP has been in the centre of power for the past 12 years. The upper caste do know and expect that this is ‘their’ government and it will do all to dilute affirmative action for the deprived sections of society. During the regime of this dispensation, affirmative action has been undermined by various moves. For example, in places of higher learning, many posts reserved for SC/ST/OBC (Scheduled Castes, Scheduled Tribes, Other Backward Classes) are lying vacant, while the number of eligible teachers is available in the society.

In addition, one also notes that as this government generally protects the upper caste and atrocities against the marginalised sections are on the rise. Their condition has dramatically worsened during the past few decades. Various economic, social and political indices illustrate this downslide.

As per the data of ‘National Coalition for Strengthening SCs and STs’, “The report revealed that atrocities or crimes against Scheduled Castes (SCs) have increased by 1.2% in 2021 with Uttar Pradesh reporting the highest number of cases of atrocities against SCs accounting for 25.82% followed by Rajasthan with 14.7% and Madhya Pradesh with 14.1% during 2021.”

This report details the deep rot within the Indian socio-polity, and its exacerbation by the current Hindutva machinery, ideologically driven with accompanying violence against targeted sections as a key tool for penetration. Dalits are one such target.

The struggle of SC/ST/OBC has been a long one. The first step was to ensure that they are treated equally and get education against resistance from the upper caste. The life and struggle of Jyotirao Phule is an example of how much resistance the upper caste created to this elementary right of human beings.

Babasaheb Ambedkar continued this struggle further, raising the issue of temple entry and right to have access to public drinking water, and against untouchability. Gandhi, the Father of the Nation, devoted years to fight against untouchability. Interestingly, the first attempt on his life took place when his primary struggle was for eradication of untouchability and he was working for uplift of Dalits.

The Indian Constitution brought in clauses against untouchability. It did provide reservations for SC\STs but not OBCs. The implementation of this was half-hearted and many eligible candidates from this group had to miss job opportunities.

As reservations came in; by 1980, a section of the upper caste started articulating their opposition against it. The propaganda was that “non-meritorious” groups of people were blocking the opportunities for the “meritorious” upper castes. These misconceptions were made part of the ‘social common sense’. The hatred against these sections of society led to violence against them, as seen particularly in Ahmedabad and parts of Gujarat in 1980 and then in 1985. An intense violence was orchestrated against these sections and the major issue was reservation.

Groups like ‘Youth for Equality’ came up opposing reservations and spreading elite arguments against the marginalised sections of society. The educational campuses started imbibing this hate against the marginalised and which is now totally manifest in the rising number of suicides in these sections. The argument that there are no such protective clauses for upper castes has no validity, as most of the student suicides are from the SC/ST/OBC groups.

The implementation of Mandal Commission by the then Prime Minister V.P. Singh in 1990 was a bombshell for the upper caste, leading to massive protests against this report. The BJP very shrewdly did not oppose the Mandal Commission. It started a ‘Rath Yatra’ for Ram Temple to distract the attention from Mandal implementation. This shook the country; communal violence started following the route of the Rath Yatra.

Interestingly, whenever the regulations for uplift of SC/ST/OBC take place, BJP uses subtle ways to deflate these measures. The UGC guidelines to prevent suicides amongst ST/ST/OBC students has once again shown the true colours of BJP, and of its parent, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh or RSS. Their opposition to the Constitution reflects over and over again.

The writer is a human rights activist, who taught at IIT Bombay. The views are personal.