We live in revealing times. When a television reporter recently confronted renowned development economist Jean Drèze and asked him who he was, social media erupted into debate. Many asked: what is so egregious about a reporter not recognizing someone? But aren't journalists expected to understand the public sphere, its key actors, and their backgrounds? Predictably, an establishment media figure rushed to frame Drèze merely as a former member of the UPA-era National Advisory Council headed by Sonia Gandhi. Yet the real issue is not whether an individual reporter has memorized Drèze’s curriculum vitae. The episode reflects something far more insidious: a media culture that measures relevance strictly through corporate spectacle, where genuine public commitment is invisible unless accompanied by pomp, power, and algorithmic noise.
Political figures of austerity and principle—such as Indrajit Gupta, Madhu Dandwate, A.B. Bardhan, Sitaram Yechury, and Surendra Mohan—would find no place in today’s hyper-commercialized political landscape. In modern India, even a municipal ward councillor cruises through town in a Scorpio or Fortuner, flanked by a phalanx of sycophants eager to stroke an inflated ego. Journalism, too, has largely devolved into a circus. A reporter’s grasp of history, economics, or grassroots reality no longer matters; all that counts is proximity to power, television decibels, and social media reach.
This transformation brings to mind an old incident from the late 1990s. When Comrade Indrajit Gupta was Union Home Minister, a young reporter was sent to Parliament to interview him. Arriving without prior knowledge of him, she expected the usual sarkari tam-jham—an imposing security detail and cleared corridors. Instead, she encountered an unassuming man standing by himself. Confused, she asked him, "I want to meet Home Minister Indrajit Gupta." She was stunned to discover that the quiet elder before her, who regularly took the public bus to Parliament, was the Home Minister of India.
To anyone whose political consciousness was formed after 2014, such unpretentious public life is almost unimaginable. Those who celebrate the contemporary political style may never grasp that a Union Finance Minister like Madhu Dandwate once walked among citizens without a fortress between himself and the street, or that former Prime Minister V.P. Singh could sit in a slum fighting for civil rights without an army of commandos isolating him from the people. In those days, leaders could easily be approached in and around Parliament House or V.P. House. They drew legitimacy from living among people and social activists. Today, politics is run like an enterprise, insulated by self-styled "experts"—often retired bureaucrats and compliant former journalists.
Seen in this light, one can hardly blame an ill-trained field reporter for failing to recognize Jean Drèze. In this media ecosystem, reporters are conditioned to recognize only loud, regime-aligned anchors whose chief talent lies in echoing ruling-party talking points. Furthermore, Drèze has never conformed to the caricature of the elite academic who churns out op-eds while remaining detached from ground realities. He continues to live on his own terms: pedaling through Delhi on a bicycle, anchoring the Right to Food movement, and spending weeks alongside Adivasis in rural Jharkhand rather than courting prime-time studio lights. To an industry that equates visibility with validity, someone who quietly stands with marginalized communities simply does not exist.
The tragedy does not end with ignorance; it lies in the brazen defense of that ignorance. Television studios overflow with commentators who know little about the country’s social architecture yet pronounce verdicts on genuine grassroots activists with unearned authority.
We see this same apparatus at work whenever dissent spills onto the streets. The playbook is predictable: administrative machinery works around the clock to thwart a protest, and by evening, television courtiers declare it a "flop." Yet despite intimidation, citizens and opposition leaders continue to assemble across Delhi, puncturing the administration's claims of total control. We witnessed senior leaders like M.A. Baby being manhandled, alongside footage of street goons assaulting young protesters while police personnel looked on. Extralegal street muscle now operates with apparent impunity—a style reminiscent of the authoritarian impulses of the 1970s.
Meanwhile, constitutional watchdogs remain largely silent. The Election Commission rarely intervenes to settle fundamental questions about electoral fairness, while the higher judiciary frequently limits itself to procedural delays, delivering sermons on civil liberties long after the damage is done. For ordinary citizens, navigating these protracted legal mazes is exhausting and often futile.
Even so, people continue to take to the streets. Their persistence points to a growing conviction that institutional checks and balances are giving way. Nothing is more urgent for Indian democracy than confronting this crisis of faith. Whether our institutions, beginning with the Election Commission, will assert their constitutional mandate to preserve their dignity and democratic integrity remains an open, vital question.
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*Human rights defender
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