From Jantar Mantar to Safdarjung: The crisis of democratic dialogue

By Kumar Krishnan* 

The most troubling image of a democracy is not always found inside Parliament. More often, it emerges outside it—on a street, at a protest site, or beside a hospital bed.

That unfolded in New Delhi on Saturday. After 21 days on an indefinite hunger strike, social activist Sonam Wangchuk was moved by the Delhi Police from Jantar Mantar to Safdarjung Hospital following directions from the Delhi High Court and the advice of a panel of medical experts. The court underscored a fundamental constitutional principle: every citizen's life is precious. The police maintained that they were simply complying with the court's order. Protesters, however, viewed the move as an attempt to weaken the movement and registered their opposition.

Amid these competing narratives, the most important question slipped into the background: Must a citizen in India be carried to a hospital before the state is prepared to listen?

At that moment, the story ceased to be about one individual. It became a story about democracy itself.

Wangchuk's hospitalization is neither a victory for the government nor a defeat for a protest movement. It is a defeat for dialogue—a democratic failure that has increasingly become one of India's most serious institutional ailments. Jantar Mantar has once again reminded us that democracy is not merely about winning elections; it is about the enduring ability of governments to hear the voices of the people. When citizens must use hunger as their last instrument of persuasion, and the state responds only after judicial intervention, every democracy has reason for introspection.

India's democratic strength has always rested in its diversity. It has historically accommodated competing ideas, respected dissent, and allowed public movements to enrich democratic debate. From the freedom struggle to the Jayaprakash Narayan movement, from the Right to Information campaign to the farmers' protests, India has traditionally treated dissent not as anti-nationalism but as a legitimate force for democratic correction. Time and again, popular movements have compelled governments to make better decisions.

Yet a noticeable shift has occurred in recent years. Governments increasingly view protests less as democratic expressions than as administrative or law-and-order challenges. Demonstrations first become security concerns, then policing issues, and eventually judicial matters. Dialogue arrives only as a last resort, even though it should be democracy's first response.

For decades, Jantar Mantar served as India's democratic town square. Farmers presented their demands there. Veterans campaigned for One Rank One Pension. Students debated education policy. Women demanded justice. Indigenous communities raised concerns over forests, water, and land rights. Civil society organizations drew national attention to issues ranging from environmental protection to corruption. Its significance lay in serving as a bridge between Parliament and the people.

Today, however, Jantar Mantar is more often associated with police barricades, permissions, restrictions, and prohibitory orders than with open civic engagement. Law and order is undoubtedly essential in any democracy. But when avenues for peaceful public dialogue steadily narrow, frustration accumulates beneath the surface—a warning sign no democratic society should ignore.

Wangchuk's movement concerns Ladakh, the fragile Himalayan ecosystem, environmental protection, and the rights of local communities. Citizens may agree or disagree with his demands. The government, too, has legitimate considerations, including national security, administrative priorities, and developmental objectives. Yet the defining characteristic of a democracy is not the absence of disagreement but the willingness to continue talking despite it. Once dialogue collapses, the road from the protest site inevitably leads to courtrooms and hospitals.

The Delhi High Court was right to emphasize that the preservation of life is paramount. Article 21 of the Indian Constitution guarantees every citizen the right to life and personal liberty. By directing the administration to ensure proper medical care, the judiciary fulfilled its constitutional responsibility. The police acted in compliance with that order. Yet the entire episode reveals a deeper truth: in the absence of political dialogue, the judiciary is repeatedly being compelled to assume the role of mediator.

A healthy democracy is not one in which every conflict reaches the courts. It is one in which governments, citizens, and protest movements resolve differences through timely engagement.

History shows that India's most transformative social changes have emerged from a combination of public pressure and meaningful dialogue. Mahatma Gandhi chose satyagraha because he believed violence hardens authority, while nonviolence appeals to its conscience. His objective was not merely to defeat governments but to persuade them.

That raises a pressing question today: Does political power still possess the sensitivity to listen to dissent?

Majorities may form governments, but the quality of a democracy is measured by how those governments treat minorities and dissenting voices. If every disagreement is dismissed as political conspiracy, anti-development activism, or hostility toward the state, democracy gradually ceases to be a space for debate and becomes an instrument of political messaging.

Nor is this challenge confined to Delhi. Across India, movements continue over issues such as land acquisition, displacement, environmental protection, employment, indigenous rights, and social justice. Tribal communities in Jharkhand continue to question mining projects. Forest rights remain unresolved across central India. Concerns over displacement persist around the Ken-Betwa river-linking project. Residents of Bihar's Banka district have expressed anxieties regarding a proposed nuclear project. Social tensions in Manipur have yet to be fully resolved. Farmers' concerns repeatedly return to the streets.

Though these movements differ in substance, they share one common demand: they want governments to listen before they decide.

Unfortunately, governance often functions in reverse. Decisions are announced first; explanations come later. That inversion breeds distrust.

Governments rightly argue that they cannot yield to every protest. Democracy cannot become mob rule. Equally true, however, is that reducing every protest to a law-and-order issue is inconsistent with democratic values. Between these two extremes lies the only sustainable path: dialogue.

Political management has increasingly displaced political conversation. Press conferences have become rarer, while one-way announcements have multiplied. Public debate has yielded ground to publicity campaigns. Criticism is too often answered with political accusations rather than evidence. At the same time, opposition parties frequently confine themselves to protest without presenting constructive alternatives. In the end, the greatest loser is the citizen.

The police are responsible for maintaining public order. The judiciary safeguards the Constitution. The media is expected to question those in power. The opposition exists to ensure accountability. Yet above all these institutions stands one indispensable democratic asset: public trust. When trust begins to erode, every democratic institution comes under strain.

That is why Wangchuk's transfer to a hospital carries symbolic significance. It was not only his body that arrived at Safdarjung Hospital. The failure of democratic dialogue arrived there as well. So did the uncomfortable question: Do governments act only after courts intervene? Has institutional sensitivity gradually shifted from the executive to the judiciary?

India remains one of the world's largest democracies. Its Constitution is robust. Elections are held regularly. The judiciary remains independent. Civil society continues to be active. Yet democracy is more than constitutional architecture. It is a living relationship of trust between citizens and the state. When that trust weakens, democracy may remain institutionally intact while becoming morally unwell.

Democratic decline rarely happens overnight. Governments first stop listening. Citizens gradually lose confidence. Protests intensify. Courts begin to intervene more frequently. Eventually, hospitals and courtrooms become substitutes for political dialogue. No mature democracy should accept that trajectory as normal.

What India needs today is not the victory of one side over another. Governments must stop equating dissent with disloyalty. Protesters must resist viewing governments as enemies. The media should privilege informed debate over sensational noise. The opposition must offer alternatives rather than mere obstruction. The future of Indian democracy does not rest in the hands of any single political party; it rests in the culture of dialogue itself.

The journey from Jantar Mantar to Safdarjung Hospital should serve as a warning. Democracy requires more than police protection; it requires the protection of open dialogue. Courts can save lives. Only dialogue can keep democracy alive.

If a satyagrahi must fight hunger simply to be heard, and if the government waits for judicial direction before initiating conversation, then the issue extends far beyond administrative procedure. It raises serious questions about democratic sensitivity itself.

Indian democracy is not dead. Its heart is still beating. But its breathing has become labored. It will not find oxygen in a hospital ward. Its oxygen lies in dialogue, respect for dissent, transparency, and the recognition that citizens are not merely voters—they are the true custodians of the republic.

The day Jantar Mantar once again becomes a space where democratic dialogue flourishes without fear, mistrust, or confrontation, it will be possible to say that Indian democracy has finally emerged from the ICU. And perhaps then, no citizen like Sonam Wangchuk will have to reach a hospital merely to make the government listen. Instead, the government itself will come to the people and say, "We are here to listen."

This version is adapted as an English op-ed while preserving the original argument, tone, and rhetorical style, with language and structure suited to international newspaper opinion pages.

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*Independent journalist