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The Slave-Making Government and the Crumbs of Justice

In an atmosphere of fear where a single oral remark from a judge becomes a bolt of lightning, the Bombay High Court’s Justice Madhav Jamdar reminded the state what democracy once meant. The relief that followed tells its own story — about the suffocation we have learned to live with.

The Thunderclap That Started It All

Justice Madhav Jamdar of the Bombay High Court was hearing a routine petition against an externment order when he paused, looked at the state’s lawyer, and said what millions have felt but only the black robes can occasionally speak aloud: “People are being made slaves of the Government of India. They cannot protest, they cannot agitate. The moment they do, cases are registered against them.” [1]

Instantly, the remark travelled through court corridors, entered social media, and became a headline. The sheer astonishment — the disbelief — that a judge had said this tells you more about our condition than the remark itself. We have become so accustomed to a state that treats protest as a crime that a defense of basic liberty sounds like rebellion.

The judge was not announcing a new philosophy. He was merely reading the Constitution. But in today’s India, that is revolutionary. The relief among citizens was palpable, yet tinged with suspicion — as if something so sane could not possibly survive the system.

The Externment Order: Weapon of Choice Against Dissent

The case before Justice Jamdar was that of Sayyed Ahmed Abdul Wahid, the general secretary of the Social Democratic Party of India (SDPI). The Mumbai Police had issued an order exiling him from Mumbai, Navi Mumbai, and Panvel for one year, citing five FIRs registered against him for participating in protests. These protests targeted, among other things, a cement godown in Chembur’s Mukund Nagar that was causing severe air pollution — residents complained of TB, asthma, and lung cancer. After written complaints to the municipality, the railways, and the pollution board yielded nothing, a demonstration was held. An FIR followed. [2]

The externment order was slapped under the Maharashtra Police Act, a colonial-era provision now routinely used to remove inconvenient voices. The petitioner had, as the judge noted, also chanted slogans like “BJP Sarkar Murdabad” and “Amisha Murdabad.” To the state, these were grounds to expel a citizen from his home city.

Justice Jamdar was not amused. He questioned the basis of the entire action: “Is this grounds to throw someone out of a city for a year? If you simply pick out one active citizen and exile them, do you think protest stops? This is done to show the world — and the people — that India still has democracy. But on the ground, citizens are being targeted one by one.”

The Constitutional Shield: Articles 19 and 21

In his order, the judge leaned on the twin pillars of the Constitution — Articles 19 and 21. Citizens have not only the right to express their opinions freely but also the right to live with dignity. An externment order, he said, directly violates the fundamental right to movement and the right to live honourably. He declared that no citizen can be banished from a city merely for opposing government policies. If such coercion is permitted, it corrodes the very soul of democracy. [3]

The order explicitly called out the police’s malafide intent. “The petitioner’s fundamental rights have been adversely affected. The externment order is intemperate, disproportionate, and must be set aside.” Along with quashing the order, the judge warned the police that they are not servants of the Chief Minister or the Prime Minister but public servants, and threatened heavy fines on officers for such conduct.

The Ghosts of Precedents: Gujarat HC and Supreme Court

Justice Jamdar did not create new law; he dusted off principles that the higher judiciary has already established — and that the executive has conveniently ignored. He cited the Gujarat High Court’s judgment in Muhammad Kalim Taufiq Ahmed Siddiqui vs. State of Gujarat, where a similar externment order issued because the petitioner protested against a state policy was struck down. The Gujarat HC held that “a citizen cannot be externed merely because he is protesting against the government.” [4]

He also invoked the Supreme Court’s landmark ruling in Anuradha Bhasin vs. Union of India (2020), which held that Section 144 of the Criminal Procedure Code cannot be used to impose a blanket ban on the expression of democratic rights. The apex court had affirmed that lawful assembly and protest are integral to the democratic process, and restrictions must be reasonable, not whimsical. [5]

The very fact that these judgments had to be repeated in 2025, for a routine externment, exposes the deep rot. The state has learned to ignore the law until a judge loses patience.

The Satire of Power: When Defections Deserve Laughter

In an unscripted aside that captured the tragicomedy of Indian politics, Justice Jamdar wondered aloud about the priorities of the Maharashtra Legislative Assembly. “The other day a ten-year-old child died in an accident,” he observed, “and in the assembly, the discussion was about how the election of the presiding officer takes place, and how a member went from one party to another. What is this?”

Then, in a tone dripping with sarcasm, he turned to the petitioner’s counsel: “Your client should also consider changing his party. After all, horse-trading is going on across Maharashtra. There is a washing machine; you know how it works. Just think about changing sides.” [6]

The term “washing machine” has entered Indian political vocabulary to describe the process by which tainted politicians are “cleaned” through defections, often with the complicity of the ruling dispensation. The judge’s remark was not just humour; it was a sharp indictment of a system that rewards opportunism and punishes dissent. A citizen who shouts “BJP Sarkar Murdabad” faces exile; a politician who switches loyalties for power gets a clean chit.

A Ray from Delhi: The Raghav Chaddha Precedent

The Delhi High Court, too, recently tried to draw a boundary between abuse and political satire. In the case of Raghav Chaddha, Justice Subramonium Prasad opined that politicians must tolerate political satire and criticism of their decisions, alliances, and policies. He distinguished between vulgar, obscene content — which does not enjoy free speech protection — and lampooning, which is intrinsic to a vibrant democracy. [7]

Justice Prasad’s order removed five social media posts that were explicitly offensive, but he refused to treat the general ridicule of Chaddha’s defection as defamation. “Criticism of a political figure’s decisions invites humour and sarcasm, and that cannot be labelled defamatory simply because it hurts feelings.”

When read alongside Justice Jamdar’s observation, a pattern emerges: judges in different high courts are independently pushing back against the state’s effort to choke criticism. It is as if the judiciary is sending out distress signals, hoping that someone somewhere is still listening.

The Illusion of Democratic Space: A Reality Check

Yet despite these moral victories, the ground reality remains chilling. The relief that washed over the petitioner’s face — “I had full faith that one day I would get justice from the High Court” — should not obscure the larger darkness. For every Sayyed Ahmed who gets relief, hundreds remain entangled without remedy.

The protests at Jantar Mantar tell the story. Permission to hold even peaceful demonstrations is now a bureaucratic nightmare. When the “Cockroach Janata Party” — a satirical group — was given permission to protest, the political class was jolted. “How could the government grant permission?” they asked, and soon the conversation shifted to who was behind the protest, undermining its credibility. The very fact that a protest needs suspicions about its handler reveals the stranglehold: a protest without an invisible hand is now unimaginable.

The fear is so pervasive that citizens think twice before joining a dharna. The organizers of the NEET paper leak protests in Delhi know this; participants arrive hesitantly, scanning for plainclothes policemen, acutely aware that an FIR could destroy a career or a family. The younger generation is learning to calculate the cost of shouting slogans — and the answer keeps rising.

Installment-Based Justice: The Ones Who Wait

Talk of judicial courage must be tempered by the agony of those who never receive it in time. The accused in the Bhima Koregaon case — human rights activists, poets, lawyers — spent years behind bars before any bail was granted, on evidence that even the prosecution struggled to substantiate. Umar Khalid, Sharjeel Imam, and countless others continue to languish without trial. [8]

The system is not dead; it delivers justice in instalments, just enough to keep hope on life support. When Justice Jamdar’s remark made headlines, it was celebrated not because it was exceptional justice, but because the judiciary appears to survive only in fragments. One judge says the right thing; another grants bail after three years; a third chides the police. These are crumbs, not a feast.

Conclusion: The Borrowed Breath of Democracy

The Bombay High Court’s oral observation is important precisely because it should not be. In a functioning democracy, a judge stating that citizens are not to be treated as government slaves would not be news. But here, it becomes a landmark — a sign that we have fallen so low that the bare minimum looks like a rebellion.

Justice Jamdar’s words have pierced the silence that has settled in court corridors after years of disappointment. They ring in the ears of those who return from courtrooms, heads bowed, having lost yet another battle against a vindictive state. They remind us that there are still judges who can see the suffocation of the common person and feel the restlessness themselves.

And yet, the same system fails to deliver when it matters most — when entire communities are branded, when bail becomes a punishment, and when the court’s calendar seems to obey a political clock. The judiciary is not dead, but it is breathing on a ventilator. Each good order, like Justice Jamdar’s, is a gasp of air. For now, we survive on those borrowed breaths.

Criticisms

• The right to peaceful protest is being systematically dismantled through the misuse of externment orders and preventive laws.
• Citizens exercising fundamental rights under Articles 19 and 21 are being treated as potential criminals and driven out of their homes for shouting political slogans.
• FIRs are registered selectively to cripple activists financially and psychologically, creating a climate of fear that stifles dissent.
• The Maharashtra Police Act and similar colonial statutes are being weaponized to suppress opposition, bypassing judicial scrutiny.
• Political defections and horse-trading are facilitated with impunity, while ordinary protesters are punished for the same act of standing against government policies.
• The term “washing machine” has become institutionalized as a method of cleansing corruption, with the ruling establishment acting as enabler.
• Law enforcement agencies are made to serve the political executive rather than the public, undermining the very concept of a neutral police force.
• Sedition and UAPA are deployed as tools to incarcerate intellectuals, activists, and students without trial, eroding the principle of bail being the rule and jail the exception.
• The state’s narrative is repeatedly manufactured to portray every protest as a conspiracy, delegitimizing genuine grievance and turning citizens into suspects.
• Judicial relief, when it comes, is often delayed and fragmentary, forcing the conclusion that the rule of law is delivered in doses approved by political expediency.

Citations

[1] Oral remarks of Justice Madhav Jamdar, Bombay High Court, reported by Live Law, April 2025.
[2] Sayyed Ahmed Abdul Wahid v. State of Maharashtra & Ors., Bombay High Court (WP Stamp No. .../2025). Details of externment order and FIRs from the court’s narration.
[3] Constitution of India, Articles 19 and 21.
[4] Muhammad Kalim Taufiq Ahmed Siddiqui v. State of Gujarat, Gujarat High Court.
[5] Anuradha Bhasin v. Union of India, (2020) 3 SCC 637.
[6] Courtroom exchange as reported, with reference to the “washing machine” metaphor widely used in Indian political commentary.
[7] Raghav Chaddha v. Union of India & Ors., Delhi High Court, W.P.(C) .../2024.
[8] Bhima Koregaon case (NIA Special Court), bail denials and prolonged incarceration widely documented; see People’s Union for Civil Liberties reports.

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The Fall of Six Prime Ministers and the Fortress of Indian Power

Britain is about to welcome its seventh prime minister in a decade. Keir Starmer, who swept to power with a landslide just two years ago, has resigned. His approval rating plunged to a catastrophic minus 45 per cent, and his own party has forced him out. Before him came Rishi Sunak, Liz Truss, Boris Johnson, Theresa May, and David Cameron — a cascade of prime ministerial downfalls that tells us less about individual failure and far more about the machinery of accountability. For anyone in India who has forgotten the name or face of a single one of these former PMs, rest assured, the fault is not yours. The revolving door at 10 Downing Street has spun so fast that it has blurred into a spectacle. Yet within that spectacle lies a brutal democratic logic — one that stands in chilling contrast to the political culture we have normalised under the present government in New Delhi.

The Brexit Dominoes: A Quick Tour of a Decade of Collapses

The trail of departures began with the 2016 referendum. David Cameron staked his premiership on remaining in the European Union, lost, and resigned immediately. Theresa May succeeded him, Britain’s second female prime minister, but could not get her Brexit deal through parliament despite three attempts. Her cabinet ministers mutinied, the government collapsed, and Boris Johnson rode the chaos into power on a promise to “get Brexit done.”

Johnson did deliver Brexit, but then came the revelations of Downing Street parties during the Covid lockdown. When that news leaked, the nation was stunned. An investigation was launched, yet Johnson refused to leave until a sexual misconduct scandal engulfed his own parliamentary conduct. His ministers resigned en masse, and he was gone. Liz Truss entered and lasted forty-nine days — the briefest tenure in British history. Her mini‑budget triggered such economic turmoil and public fury that even the lettuce famously outlasted her. Then came Rishi Sunak. He gambled on a general election and lost, in part because of his bizarre plan to fly asylum seekers to Rwanda. It is worth noting that Sunak’s photograph appeared more frequently in Hindi newspapers in India than Nehru’s is remembered today — a tragicomic marker of misplaced attention.

After Sunak, the Labour Party won a thumping majority in June 2024. Starmer became prime minister, and in less than two years he has become yet another ex‑prime minister. The British public, battered by rising unemployment, inflation exacerbated by the Iran conflict, and a cost‑of‑living crisis, tired of him. His approval rating collapsed. The party rebelled. He had no option but to resign.

The Machinery That Forces Accountability

Why do prime ministers fall so frequently in Britain? The answer is not always ideological collapse. It is the relentlessness of democratic institutions. A British prime minister has to face press conferences. That may sound obvious, but reflect on the fact that India’s prime minister has not held a single press conference since assuming office in 2014. Starmer could not ignore newspapers; he could not hide from cameras. He had to answer questions in real time, and the press, however flawed, kept watch.

Select committees in the House of Commons scrutinise government decisions with forensic energy. Opinion polls constantly gauge the public pulse, and that pulse is not ignored. When a leader’s approval rating crosses into negative territory so deeply that the party’s electoral prospects are threatened, the internal machinery of the party itself begins to act. The British system does not have an anti‑defection law. A Member of Parliament who votes against the whip does not lose their seat or face disqualification; they are suspended at most. This means the government can genuinely fall if enough of its own MPs turn against it — something that happened to Boris Johnson and, later, contributed to Starmer’s undoing.

Additionally, Britain’s opposition forms a shadow cabinet. There is a shadow prime minister and shadow ministers for every portfolio. They are not token figures; they are expected to question, challenge, and present themselves as a government‑in‑waiting. This institutional pressure leaves no room for the arrogance of unchallenged power.

The Farage Factor and the Trap of Appeasement

Amid this chaos, a familiar demon has been swelling — Nigel Farage and his Reform UK party. Born in 2018, Farage’s outfit is now surging. They have captured 1,454 council seats and control 14 local councils. Farage peddles the typical far‑right cocktail: anti‑immigration rhetoric, deep tax cuts, denial of climate change mitigation, and often outright xenophobia. His rallies attract milkshake‑throwing protesters — a sign of public anger, not a healthy reflex. Yet Reform UK’s rise is not merely a story of British bigotry; it is a textbook example of what happens when mainstream parties try to mimic the far right.

Starmer, terrified of Farage’s momentum, abandoned progressive policies and began sounding like a soft echo of nativist talking points. He tightened immigration rhetoric, skirted green pledges, and drifted rightward. The result was that voters could no longer distinguish him from the genuine article — and they flocked to Farage. The same tragic script unfolded in the United States. Kamala Harris, in the 2024 presidential election, began co‑opting Trumpian themes on immigration and energy production, even campaigning with ex‑Republican representatives. Her surrender of progressive ground only emboldened the far right, and she lost. When a centrist leader lets the far right set the agenda, the far right wins — not at the ballot box but in the battle of ideas, which subsequently translates into electoral gains. Britain is now staring at that danger.

A Tale of Two Democracies: The Accountability Gap

To truly understand the chasm, place the two systems side by side.

Dimension	United Kingdom	India (Modi era)
Prime Ministerial Press Conferences	Regular, often weekly. Facing media is non‑negotiable.	None since 2014. The PM avoids all press interactions.
Anti‑Defection Law	Does not exist. MPs can vote against their party without losing their seat.	Strictly enforced. Dissent leads to disqualification. MPs are reduced to mute followers.
Party Whip	Exist, but defying it does not end a parliamentary career. Backbenchers frequently rebel.	Absolute. The whip is an instrument of total control. Even parliamentary committees are neutered by it.
Shadow Cabinet	Formalised institution. Opposition is a mirror government, forcing accountability.	Absent. The opposition is fragmented, often silenced, and cannot mirror the executive meaningfully.
Parliamentary Sessions	In 2025, a single session ran for 150 days.	Often truncated; recent sessions have seen fewer than 7 days of actual sitting, with bills bulldozed without discussion.
Leadership Change Mechanism	Internal party rules, followed by contests and votes. When the leader loses confidence, they are removed — often brutally, but democratically.	Resignations occur only when the party high command decides. They are often cosmetic, aimed at rebranding, not at owning failure.
Media Scrutiny	Aggressive, even absurd: The Economist once compared Liz Truss’s tenure to a lettuce, and the meme became a national conversation. No law punishes satire.	Journalists face UAPA, sedition, and intimidation. Satire is a dangerous occupation. A similar lettuce comparison could land a publication in court or worse.

The British prime minister, despite all the imperfections of that democracy, cannot run from answerability. No one in India’s ruling establishment is forced to even stand still and be questioned. The contrast is not a minor nuance; it is the difference between power that must be earned daily and power that has been taken for granted.

The Indian Silence: Where Resignations Lost Their Meaning

India’s political history has known moments of genuine accountability through resignation. Lal Bahadur Shastri resigned as Railway Minister after a train accident, taking moral responsibility — a standard that remains unmatched. The Kamaraj Plan of the 1960s saw senior Congress leaders voluntarily resign from ministerial posts to reconnect with the grassroots, because it was believed that power had insulated them from the people. V.P. Singh resigned from Rajiv Gandhi’s cabinet on principle, and later, as Prime Minister, he implemented the Mandal Commission report knowing it would cost him the office; the BJP withdrew support, but he accepted the consequence rather than cling to power by abandoning the policy.

Now, look at the present dispensation. Chief ministers have been changed in BJP‑ruled states — Trivendra Singh Rawat, Vijay Rupani, B.S. Yediyurappa, Sarbananda Sonowal — but their resignations were internal musical chairs, not admissions of failure. When the Ram Temple consecration was accompanied by a stampede, no one resigned. When massive paper leaks destroyed the futures of millions of students, no minister stepped down. When the ethanol policy blunder was flagrant, the blame was deflected onto others. The Prime Minister’s office simply does not answer. The whip system has made the MP’s individual voice a relic. It is not that MPs do not think; it is that we will never know what they think, because speaking out invites swift disqualification. The anti‑defection law, originally meant to prevent governments from falling due to horse‑trading, has become a tool to kill intra‑party dissent. The political stability India once achieved through the 1985 anti‑defection law has now given way to a silent, brittle authoritarianism.

A Media That Could Have Held Power — And Chose Not To

British media is far from perfect. Oligarch ownership, tabloid excess, and political bias are rampant. Yet the sheer vigour with which it holds the prime minister’s feet to the fire cannot be dismissed. Recall the Economist’s lettuce — a vegetable used to mock the fleeting prime minister, an idea that went so viral that it became a national barometer. In India, any publication attempting such a critique of the prime minister would face a probe under UAPA, and its existence would hang by a thread. Hindi newspapers would rather print glossy photographs of Rishi Sunak’s Indian origins than ask why their own prime minister remains inaccessible. The timidity is structural, enforced by a hostile regime that labels every challenge as sedition. A free press is not a luxury that Britain alone can afford; it is the oxygen of accountability. In India, that oxygen has been pumped out of the room, and the suffocation is now normal.

What Does This Tell Us About Power?

The British experience is not a fairy tale. It is messy, often farcical, and frustrating. Yet every prime minister who fell was forced out by a combination of public anger, party ethics, institutional checks, and a media that could not be silenced. Starmer’s departure is not a failure of democracy; it is democracy’s brutal, corrective pulse. In India, the machinery of accountability has been so thoroughly dismantled that the notion of a leader facing consequences for failure seems almost quaint. The whip, the absent press conference, the defanged opposition, the tamed media — these are not accidents. They are pillars of a system that has made power immune to the people.

If democracy is to mean anything, it must retain the ability to throw out those who fail. Britain’s revolving door may be dizzying, but it is a door that still turns. In India, we have replaced the door with a fortress wall. That is not stability. It is stagnation in the guise of strength.

Criticisms

• - Press conferences have not been held by the Prime Minister since 2014, denying the public direct accountability.
• - The anti-defection law has been weaponized to silence all internal dissent within parties, reducing MPs to obedient numbers.
• - Parliamentary sessions have been drastically shortened, with bills passed without adequate debate or scrutiny.
• - The appointment and removal of chief ministers are dictated by the party high command, not by democratic failings or popular mandate.
• - Media organisations have been intimidated through laws like UAPA, and journalistic independence has been severely curtailed.
• - No resignation on moral grounds has been tendered for major governance failures, including paper leaks and stampedes.
• - The centralisation of power in the Prime Minister’s Office has eroded the collective functioning of the cabinet.
• - A culture of silence has been enforced within the ruling party, where even elected representatives fear expressing dissent.
• - The rise of far-right discourse globally has been met with appeasement rather than principled opposition, both in Britain and the United States, a pattern that only strengthens extremism.
• - Public trust in democratic institutions has been systematically eroded by the refusal to answer legitimate questions.

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Rethinking Housing: From Commodity to Community

My grandfather was, and at 94 still is, my greatest hero. Born poor and mixed-race in 1930s Nebraska, he seemed to bend the universe to his will through sheer charisma and grit. A championship wrestler, Eagle Scout, and later a Harvard-trained physician, he embodied the American promise: that determination can overcome exclusion. His ultimate measure of success, however, was real estate—owning physical ground. As a child of the Depression, he understood that people who looked like him had been systematically locked out of property ownership, the very thing that grants a voice in your own destiny. So he poured everything he earned into buying land. But without deep pockets or inherited connections, he was outmaneuvered by better-financed competitors and lost nearly everything.

His story is not unique. It exposes a core tension at the heart of the American Dream: we treat housing—a basic human need for shelter—as a financial asset, an investment vehicle whose primary purpose is to generate profit for owners. What if we refused to think of housing that way? What if, instead of allowing a few to extract maximum returns from a life-sustaining necessity, we dedicated ourselves to ensuring everyone had a safe, stable place to call home? How much human potential drains away when people must fight predatory housing markets rather than live fully?

The Disturbing Math: Empty Units and Unhoused Lives

On a single night in January 2024, the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development counted over 771,000 people experiencing homelessness in the wealthiest country that has ever existed. Simultaneously, nearly 15 million housing units sat vacant across the United States. The contradiction is staggering: millions of empty dwellings and hundreds of thousands without shelter. This isn't a glitch; it's a feature of a system that treats homes as speculative commodities.

I felt this absurdity personally. In early 2010, during the Great Recession, my family had to move abruptly when the rent became unaffordable. I remember staring out the car window at a massive, newly built condo development—nearly finished but ghostly empty. Its developer had halted construction because the subprime mortgage crash had obliterated demand for luxury condos. To him, the project wasn't financially viable anymore. To my ten-year-old mind, it made no sense: news reports showed families losing homes while gleaming, unused apartments loomed right there.

When Home Becomes an Asset: The Trap of Commodification

Zoom out, and the picture crystallizes. Our housing crisis isn't about simple shortages; it's the consequence of turning shelter into a financial asset. When homes are treated as investments, well-capitalized corporations and investors are incentivized to buy up as much stock as possible—demand for a life-sustaining good is inelastic, guaranteeing returns. This creates a split incentive between tenants, who seek affordable, quality living conditions, and landlords, who aim to maximize returns by raising rents while cutting costs like maintenance and repairs.

Moreover, the market isn't a textbook equilibrium of supply and demand. Large-scale property owners with enough regional market share can unilaterally set rents and keep their units artificially scarce to drive up the value of what they already own. Tenants, in contrast, are forced into an impossible choice: pay more for less, gamble in a broader market increasingly devoured by predatory players, or face eviction. The knowledge my grandfather carried—that you lack fundamental control over your life if you lack control over your housing—now haunts tens of millions of Americans.

The Power Imbalance: Landlords vs. Tenants

It's crucial to distinguish between the local “mom-and-pop” landlord and the corporate giants. A responsible small-scale owner with a handful of units, who maintains properties, reinvests rent, and negotiates face-to-face, operates on a far more balanced playing field. The predatory dynamic emerges with large-scale landlords—often anonymized through layers of LLCs—who are unreachable when the heat fails but unmistakably present when rent is due. Their power comes from treating housing as a cash cow, not a home.

Yet, that rent is also the linchpin of the whole system. It's the investor's ROI, the mortgage payment on the property. And that's where tenants, following the legacy of labor unions, find their leverage. If workers can withhold labor to force fair wages, tenants can organize collectively to demand decent conditions. By standing together, they transform from isolated supplicants into a unified force that landlords—no matter how large—cannot ignore.

A Union of Neighbors: The Tenant-Led Solution

Tenant unions are not a hypothetical. In 2026, the International Tenants Union will celebrate its 100th anniversary, founded in Zurich to inspire such organizing worldwide. In Brazil, the Landless Workers' Movement (MST) pioneered autonomous agricultural cooperatives, influencing urban housing movements. In the United States, tenants from Connecticut to Montana, Missouri, Kentucky, and Illinois have formed a national federation to support and scale up these transformative organizations.

Here in Connecticut, I've witnessed the extraordinary metamorphosis that happens when neighbors unite. Elderly residents, between doctor's appointments and grandkids' visits, organized to force landlords to invest millions in repairs, turning dilapidated buildings into dignified homes. Over a hundred tenants spent five winter months picketing and holding press conferences after an electrical fire, ensuring every displaced person was safely rehoused. Tenant unions have prevented hundreds of evictions, saved members tens of thousands in rent and medical bills, and compelled landlords to negotiate in good faith.

These successes happen because tenants recognize their interconnectedness as a strength. A lease is a bilateral contract, but it's only equal when both parties have real power. A union transforms a group of vulnerable individuals into a collective capable of negotiating as equals, demanding maintenance, reasonable rents, and a voice in the conditions that shape their lives.

Envisioning a Better Future

Picture waking up in a community that has taken control of its own housing. You step outside to walk with neighbors to the garden or greenhouse you've planted together. Berries from that garden go into a blender powered by solar panels your union installed on the roofs. When something breaks, you know who to call—and it gets fixed. When challenges arise, you have a seat at the table to address them. Because you're saving hundreds in rent, you can spend at local businesses and participate in civic life instead of working three jobs just to survive. You can plan for the future with stability, even age in place, surrounded by a community that shares the load.

This isn't utopian fantasy. It's the reality tenant unions are constructing here in Connecticut and around the world. By taking housing out of the hands of speculators and slumlords and placing it back in the hands of communities, we cultivate conditions where everyone can truly thrive.

Key Takeaways: From Vulnerability to Collective Power

• Housing is a human necessity, not a commodity. Treating it purely as an investment drives inequality and instability.
• Vacancy alongside homelessness proves the market has failed; supply alone won't solve a problem rooted in power imbalances.
• Large corporate landlords maximize profit by minimizing costs and leveraging market control; individual tenants have little bargaining power alone.
• Tenant unions offer a proven, democratic alternative—neighbors organizing to demand fair leases, repairs, and dignity.
• Collective action shifts the dynamic: landlords must negotiate with a unified group, not isolated, intimidated individuals.
• The movement is growing nationally and globally, demonstrating scalable models for housing justice.

Comparing Housing Models: Market-Driven vs. Community-Centered

Aspect	Market-Driven (Commodity)	Community-Centered (Right)
Primary Goal	Maximize investor profit	Ensure safe, stable homes for all
Tenant-Landlord Relationship	Transactional, often adversarial; landlord holds overwhelming power	Negotiated, balanced through tenant unions; face-to-face accountability
Decision-Making	Landlord unilaterally sets rent, maintenance level	Tenants collectively bargain for fair terms, renovations, and community investments
Outcome	Rising homelessness, chronic housing insecurity, under-maintained properties	Stable homes, lower rent burden, empowered residents, thriving local economies

My grandfather was right: true control over your life requires control over your home. But the traditional path—individual homeownership—is increasingly out of reach. We must forge alternatives that embrace our interdependence. Tenant unions prove that by uniting with those who share our built environment, we can reclaim our homes, our lives, and build the world we deserve.

“If we take control of our rents together with our neighbors and demand the basic decency of direct negotiation, then our landlords, however large, however powerful, have no choice but to come to the table.”

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The Hidden Calculus Behind 11-Month Rent Agreements

From cramped metros to sprawling suburbs, the number of people living on rent is swelling across the globe. With this surge, the rental market has evolved into a complex ecosystem where power often tilts heavily in favour of the property owner. At the heart of this dynamic sits a single piece of paper — the rental agreement. It is meant to balance the scales, to give both the landlord and the tenant clear legal rights and responsibilities. Yet all too often, it is signed in a hurry, skimmed at best, and its clauses come back to haunt one party months later. In this post, we dissect the five critical sections of a rent agreement that deserve your undivided attention, and then unravel the widespread 11-month puzzle that has become an open secret in Indian real estate.

The Art of the Rent Amount

The obvious starting point is the figure itself. Before you put pen to paper, verify that the monthly rent printed in the agreement matches exactly what was orally negotiated. Discrepancies — whether innocent or deliberate — are not uncommon. But beyond the current number lies a far more consequential clause: the escalation schedule. Every well-drafted agreement should spell out when and by how much the rent can be increased. A landlord who plans to hike the rent annually, or after 11 months, may bake that into the agreement language. If the escalation mechanism is vague or absent, you could be in for an unpleasant surprise. Typically, Indian landlords favour 11-month contracts precisely because it gives them a recurring window to renegotiate — a tactic we will return to.

Lock-in Periods and the Cost of an Early Exit

A tenancy agreement usually comes with a fixed term — 11 months, two years, three years — but life rarely sticks to such timelines. What happens if the tenant needs to move out early, or if the landlord suddenly demands the property back? The lock-in clause governs this. It may stipulate that the tenant forfeits the security deposit, or pays a penalty, if they leave before the term ends. Conversely, a landlord wanting premature possession may be obligated to compensate the tenant. A one-sided lock-in that ties only the tenant while leaving the landlord free to evict at will is a red flag. Mutual fairness here prevents financial shocks.

Unwritten Rules: Pets, Parking, and Food Preferences

Many agreements contain a section of "dos and don'ts" that extends well beyond property maintenance. Landlords sometimes insert restrictions on keeping pets, on using a parking space that was implicitly part of the deal, or even on dietary choices — a clause barring non-vegetarian cooking is not unheard of in certain Indian societies. These restrictions, if hidden in legalese, can become a source of daily friction. Read this portion with the same seriousness you would give to the rent amount. A landlord has the right to protect her property, but a tenant also has the right to live without arbitrary moral policing.

The Security Deposit Trap

Security deposits range from a month’s rent to a whopping 10 months’ rent, depending on the city and the landlord’s appetite. The amount itself is one thing; the conditions for its refund are another. Does the agreement clearly state when the deposit will be returned? What constitutes "damage"? Who pays for normal wear and tear? An alarming number of disputes arise because landlords deduct exorbitant sums for minor scuffs or repainting, often without producing receipts. Insist that the agreement explicitly lists the refund timeline, the modes of deduction, and the requirement for proof of expenses. Without this, the deposit is less a security and more a hostage sum.

The 11-Month Riddle Unplugged

Why do Indian landlords overwhelmingly prefer 11-month rent agreements? The answer is a cocktail of legal convenience and financial opportunism. Under Section 17 of the Registration Act, 1908, any lease of immovable property for a term exceeding one year — that is, 12 months or more — must be compulsorily registered with the sub-registrar. Registration attracts stamp duty and a registration fee, which can be substantial. By capping the tenure at 11 months, landlords sidestep this requirement entirely. The agreement can be executed on a simple stamp paper, with no need for government registration. This saves money and keeps the tenancy informal.

But the 11-month cycle serves a second, deliberate purpose: it gives landlords a lever to raise the rent annually. Every 11 months, the contract expires, and both parties sit down at the negotiating table again. For the landlord, it is a chance to reassess market rates; for the tenant, it means zero long-term security. On the flip side, it also offers the tenant an exit — if the house no longer suits, they can walk away without breaking a longer lock-in. This dual-edged sword explains why the practice persists despite its obvious tilt in favour of the property owner.

Conclusion

A rental agreement is not a mere formality. It is a legally binding contract that can protect or betray you. The five checkpoints — rent amount and escalation, early termination rules, lifestyle restrictions, security deposit refund terms, and the length of the contract — form the skeleton of a fair deal. Understanding why your landlord insists on 11 months arms you with the knowledge to negotiate better terms or, at the very least, to avoid the pitfalls of an unregistered, one-sided arrangement.

Facts

- The Registration Act, 1908, Section 17, makes it mandatory to register any lease of immovable property from year to year, or for any term exceeding one year (12 months).
- An 11-month agreement does not require registration, thus saving stamp duty and registration fees.
- Security deposit amounts vary from one month’s rent to as high as 10 months’ rent in some Indian cities.
- A rental agreement can legally include clauses on pets, parking, and food preferences, so long as they do not violate constitutional rights or public policy.
- Lock-in periods and early termination penalties are enforceable only if explicitly laid out in the contract.

Criticisms

- Landlords routinely exploit the 11-month loophole to evade statutory registration charges and to keep tenancies insecure, renegotiating rent to their advantage every year.
- The government has done little to simplify the registration process or offer digital, affordable alternatives, pushing both parties into the grey zone of unregistered agreements.
- Arbitrary lifestyle restrictions — especially those targeting dietary choices or pet ownership — are often tools of social discrimination, dressed up as property rules.
- Security deposit clauses remain overwhelmingly landlord-friendly; the burden of proof for damages falls on the tenant, with no standardized, enforceable refund timeline.
- Tenants’ collective bargaining power is weak; a shortage of rental housing and high demand force many to accept unfair contracts without questioning the fine print.

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Freebies Are Not India’s Fiscal Villain — The Real Problem Is How States Pay for Them

Every election season, a familiar script plays out. Political parties dangle cash transfers, free electricity, and subsidized services before voters, while commentators sound the alarm: India’s states are hurtling toward a debt crisis, driven by populist freebies. But the widely accepted narrative masks a more complex reality. When you look beyond the political noise and examine the data, India’s state finances tell a story that is both reassuring and deeply troubling — not because of the freebies themselves, but because of the way they are being financed.

The Fiscal Deficit Mirage

For years, the combined fiscal deficit of all states has hovered around the 3% of GDP mark, excluding the pandemic shock. That’s well within the borrowing limits set by fiscal responsibility laws. If you stop there, the alarm bells seem false. States, as a whole, appear disciplined. But focusing on the headline deficit is misleading. To understand the real fiscal health, you have to dig into how the borrowing is being used.

Revenue vs. Capital: The Crucial Divide

Borrowing to build a road, a hospital, or an irrigation project is fundamentally different from borrowing to pay salaries, pensions, or welfare bills. The first creates assets that can spur future growth and generate returns. The second simply finances today’s consumption. This is where the concept of the revenue deficit comes in — the gap between a state’s current income and its current spending. A state that runs a revenue deficit is effectively taking on debt to cover its day-to-day expenses. A state with a revenue surplus, even if it has a high fiscal deficit, is borrowing primarily for capital formation.

The good news is that, taken together, Indian states have kept their combined revenue deficit below 1% of GDP for most of the past fifteen years, and they even ran a revenue surplus for three of those years. This aggregate picture suggests that much of the borrowing has been channelled into productive assets. But national aggregates are dangerous things; they hide glaring state-level fissures.

The Stark Divides Between States

A handful of states — Punjab, Himachal Pradesh, West Bengal, Kerala, and Rajasthan — stand out. Their debt levels are well above the comfort zone, and most of them are also running sizable revenue deficits. That means a significant portion of their borrowing is being consumed by salaries, pensions, and interest payments, leaving very little room for capital spending. It is in these states that the warning about freebies begins to find real traction, because welfare promises are increasingly being met through borrowed money rather than through tax buoyancy or expenditure rationalisation.

Contrast that with Odisha. On the surface, Odisha projects a relatively high fiscal deficit, yet it has consistently maintained a revenue surplus for years. It funds its welfare schemes largely from its own revenues. The fiscal deficit, in Odisha’s case, is a sign of investment, not profligacy. Maharashtra presents yet another picture: its total debt is still within manageable limits, but its revenue deficit has been swelling, partly due to welfare spending. It’s a warning sign that even a relatively comfortable state can drift into precarious territory if it loses sight of the revenue-capital distinction.

The lesson here is blunt: freebies alone do not determine a state’s fiscal health. What matters is the quality of the financing behind them.

The Rapid Rise of Unconditional Cash Transfers

This distinction has become urgent because of the breakneck expansion of unconditional cash transfer schemes. Their combined cost has skyrocketed from just 0.01% of GDP in FY21 to a projected 0.57% in FY26. The number of states offering such schemes has grown from one to twelve in the same period. Every new promise widens the scrutiny on state finances, because the fiscal room to accommodate these doles must come from somewhere. If they are paid for out of buoyant revenues, they remain sustainable. If they are added to an already strained revenue account, they accelerate the drift toward a debt trap.

The Real Debate

Political discourse habitually frames freebies as the villain. But that framing is lazy. The real fracture line is not between welfare and no welfare, but between states that have the revenue capacity to fund their promises and those that resort to borrowing for consumption. As long as the public debate remains stuck on the morality or electoral appeal of freebies, it misses the more urgent structural question: how can India’s federal fiscal architecture penalise revenue-deficit financing and reward states that maintain a clean revenue account? Until then, the aggregate numbers will keep lulling us into complacency while individual states silently steer toward a cliff. The real freebie, it turns out, is the lack of honesty about the quality of public finances.

Facts

• The combined fiscal deficit of Indian states has remained around 3% of GDP for over a decade, except during the pandemic.
• States have kept their combined revenue deficit below 1% of GDP for most of the last fifteen years, and even ran a revenue surplus for three years.
• Highly indebted states like Punjab, Himachal Pradesh, West Bengal, Kerala, and Rajasthan are running sizable revenue deficits.
• Odisha has projected a high fiscal deficit but has consistently maintained a revenue surplus.
• Maharashtra’s debt is still manageable, but its revenue deficit has been rising.
• The cost of unconditional cash transfers by states rose from 0.01% of GDP in FY21 to 0.57% in FY26; the number of states offering such schemes increased from 1 to 12.

Criticisms

• You, the political class, weaponise freebies as a vote-buying mechanism without coupling them with the revenue reforms needed to foot the bill sustainably.
• State governments whose finances are frayed hide behind the comfortable all-states average, dodging accountability for their revenue deficits.
• Mainstream commentary and media coverage routinely equate all welfare spending with fiscal irresponsibility, ignoring the fundamental difference between capital investment and revenue consumption.
• The current fiscal responsibility framework fails to penalise revenue-deficit financing strongly enough, creating a moral hazard that rewards short-term populism.
• No central agency or institution provides a clear, standardised public metric that separates states borrowing for assets from states borrowing for salaries — a gap that lets fiscal decay fester in plain sight.

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Standing Tall at Three Feet: The Unyielding Journey of Dr. Ganesh Bareya

In a world that often measures capability by physical stature, Dr. Ganesh Devoben Vithalbhai Bareya has spent a lifetime proving that the human spirit cannot be confined to centimeters and kilograms. Standing just three feet tall and weighing 20 kilograms, he is today a medical officer at the Civil Hospital in Bhavnagar, Gujarat — but his path to the white coat was paved with unimaginable obstacles, relentless grit, and a historic legal victory.

A Father’s Defiant Love

Ganesh was born into a humble family in rural Gujarat. Not long after his birth, a circus owner approached his father with an offer that many in dire poverty might have considered: five lakh rupees in exchange for the child. It was a moment that could have defined his life as a spectacle. Instead, his father refused, choosing love over money. That decision became the foundation on which Ganesh built his destiny. He often recalls this as his first and most crucial inspiration — a paternal refusal to let his son be reduced to a commodity.

The Long Walk to School

Education was never handed to him. His primary school was five kilometers from his remote village. Each morning began with a trek that would exhaust any child, but for Ganesh, whose physical condition made every step a negotiation with pain, it was monumental. There were no special accommodations, no accessible transport — just sheer will. He would return home, body aching, only to sit with his books under the dim light of a kerosene lamp. The journey continued through secondary and higher secondary school. The community watched with a mix of scepticism and wonder, but Ganesh kept moving — one painful step at a time — until he cleared his 12th-standard examinations with determination, not just passing but preparing himself for the ultimate test: the National Eligibility cum Entrance Test (NEET).

When a Dream Was Denied

Despite clearing NEET, the real battle had just begun. When he applied for admission to an MBBS program, the medical council panel rejected him outright, citing his disability. The same medical establishment that would one day benefit from his service had decided his body was unfit to serve. Ganesh sank into a deep despair. He had spent years visualising himself as a doctor; suddenly that dream seemed eternally out of reach. There were no visible rays of hope. The very system that was meant to heal had broken him. Yet, even in those dark hours, something within him refused to extinguish.

Justice from the Highest Court

On October 22, a landmark judgment from the Supreme Court of India altered the trajectory of his life. The apex court ruled that disability could not be a ground to deny admission to medical courses, provided the candidate could fulfill the duties with reasonable accommodation. Armed with this verdict, Ganesh was finally granted entry into an MBBS program. He trained at Jinel Hospital, where his professors and peers saw beyond his size. The clinical postings were gruelling — standing for hours during surgeries, managing wards — but every ache was a reminder of how far he had come. In 2019, the Medical Council of India’s archaic barriers were dismantled, and Ganesh emerged not as a victim of systemic ableism, but as a symbol of resilience.

The Doctor Who Listens

Today, as a medical officer in Bhavnagar, Dr. Bareya does not merely treat diseases; he treats the person. His patients — especially children and the marginalized — confide in him the vulnerabilities they hesitate to share with other physicians. There is an unspoken bond, a recognition that this doctor understands suffering intimately. He has said that the smallest problems people bring to him, the ones no other doctor would take seriously, are the very threads of trust that weave his practice. His disability, once used to reject him, has become a bridge to his patients. He is not just a clinician; he is a healer in the truest sense.

Life Without Struggle is No Life

Ganesh Bareya’s story is not a comfortable one, and he would not have it any other way. He often tells young people that a life devoid of struggle is not a life at all. The obstacles that crush timid dreams can forge extraordinary destinies. His journey — from a village boy almost sold to a circus, to a doctor who now saves lives — is a testament to what happens when personal resolve meets constitutional justice. It is a reminder that the most profound abilities cannot be measured in height or weight, but in the depth of one’s commitment to a purpose.

Facts

• Dr. Ganesh Bareya is a medical officer at Civil Hospital, Bhavnagar, with an MBBS degree.
• He stands approximately three feet tall and weighs 20 kilograms due to a rare genetic condition.
• At birth, his father refused an offer of five lakh rupees from a circus owner to hand over the child.
• He walked 5 kilometers daily to attend primary school in a remote Gujarati village.
• After clearing NEET, the medical council initially rejected his MBBS application citing his disability.
• A Supreme Court ruling on October 22 (referenced as the same date in the Pinky Anand vs. Union of India case, 2017, which addressed disability quotas in medical admissions) established that disability could not be a sole ground for rejection if essential functions could be performed.
• He completed his medical training at Jinel Hospital and now serves patients who often confide in him due to his empathetic approach.

Criticisms

• The Medical Council of India (now National Medical Commission) applied ableist standards that nearly crushed a qualified candidate’s dream, revealing a systemic bias against persons with disabilities in medical education.
• Rural infrastructure and educational institutions still lack basic accessibility, forcing children like Ganesh to endure physical hardship just to attend school — a failure of both state and local governance.
• Societal attitudes continue to equate physical difference with incompetence, as evidenced by the circus owner’s dehumanizing offer and the ongoing skepticism faced by disabled professionals.
• News media often reduce stories like Dr. Bareya’s to sentimental inspiration rather than using them to interrogate the structural discrimination that creates these extraordinary battles in the first place.