As elections near, principles for opposition become optional

As elections approach, the Congress-led opposition ecosystem reveals a growing crisis of credibility, marked by selective secularism, institutional distrust, and political inconsistency.

From the DMK’s escalating confrontation with the judiciary over Kartheega Deepam to the portrayal of Hindu faith as a regional or electoral inconvenience, ideology increasingly appears calibrated for political gain

The Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) has long prided itself on a distinctive ideological lineage—rationalism, social justice, and opposition to what it terms “Sanatana Dharma.” This inheritance, rooted in the Dravidian movement, historically positioned itself against caste hierarchy and social exclusion. Yet as Tamil Nadu approaches another electoral cycle, this opposition appears less philosophical and increasingly political.

The question now being asked is not what the DMK opposes, but why it bends backward to foreground religious antagonism at moments of heightened political sensitivity. The DMK’s hostility to Sanatana Dharma is not new. It flows from a worldview that treats Hinduism—particularly its pan-Indian civilisational expressions—as a tool of hierarchy and cultural homogenisation.

What is striking today, however, is the escalation of this rhetoric from ideological critique to institutional confrontation. The Tamil Nadu government’s decision to approach the Supreme Court against a division bench verdict of the Madras High Court on Kartheega Deepam is legally permissible, but politically revealing. Judicial disagreement is legitimate in a constitutional democracy; turning such disagreement into a political spectacle raises questions of intent, timing, and precedent.

This escalation has led to sharper, if uncomfortable, questions. Will the logic of confrontation now extend to calls for impeachment of judges who delivered an unfavourable verdict? Such a move would be unprecedented and deeply destabilising.

The contrast with recent judicial history is telling. Justice S M Subramaniam (Swaminathan), as a single judge of the Madras High Court, delivered several judgments that sections of Hindu organisations openly opposed.

Yet no impeachment notices were floated, no sustained allegations of institutional bias were pursued. Judicial disagreement was accepted as part of democratic functioning, not weaponised for political mobilisation.

What has changed is not judicial conduct, but political narrative. The present discourse goes well beyond legal challenge. A broader opposition ecosystem—comprising political leaders, commentators, and activist voices—has begun suggesting that judges operate under pressure. The allegations vary: some point to executive influence, others to post-retirement appointments as inducements.

A senior Congress leader recently went so far as to claim that bail outcomes are determined by the government in collusion with judicial discretion. Such assertions, made without evidence, erode public confidence in institutions and reveal an uncomfortable inconsistency.

If post-retirement appointments compromise judicial independence today, they did so yesterday as well. Congress governments, across decades, appointed eminent judges to the Rajya Sabha, gubernatorial posts, and constitutional offices. Justice Mohammad Hidayatullah, a former Chief Justice of India, was appointed Vice President of India after retirement.

At the time, this was celebrated as recognition of legal brilliance and statesmanship, not denounced as institutional capture. The selective outrage of today risks appearing less principled than partisan.

At the heart of the current controversy lies a deeper ideological paradox. Opposition parties—especially the DMK—argue that their resistance is not to Hinduism itself, but to its “North Indian” manifestations. This distinction collapses under even cursory scrutiny. Statements rejecting Lord Rama and Lord Krishna as “northern gods” while projecting Lord Murugan as a “Tamil god” reflect cultural essentialism rather than theology.

Murugan is also Kartikeya and Kumara Swamy in the broader Hindu tradition—the son of Lord Shiva. Shiva’s abode, Kailasa, lies in the Himalayas, not Tamil Nadu. Hinduism’s civilisational continuity has never respected modern linguistic or regional boundaries.

This selective regionalisation of divinity exposes the hypocrisy embedded in contemporary political secularism. Gods are accepted or rejected not on philosophical grounds, but on electoral utility. Faith becomes legitimate only when localised, sanitised, and politically compliant. What is projected as rationalism increasingly resembles cultural gatekeeping.

Critics argue that recent judicial and religious controversies are being amplified deliberately ahead of Tamil Nadu elections. If that is the accusation, it must be applied consistently. West Bengal Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee recently announced plans to construct a Durga temple—an overtly religious statement with clear political resonance. Yet this is framed as cultural affirmation rather than electoral mobilisation. Why is religious symbolism considered secular in one state and communal in another? The answer lies less in principle and more in political alignment.

This inconsistency reveals a deeper malaise in India’s opposition politics, particularly within the Congress-led ecosystem. Secularism has increasingly become a rhetorical weapon rather than a constitutional value—invoked selectively, enforced asymmetrically, and quietly abandoned when inconvenient.

Hindu faith expressions are scrutinised for political motive, while similar gestures by non-BJP leaders are rationalised as cultural outreach.

The hypocrisy does not end with religion. It extends to urban governance and law enforcement. When demolitions were carried out by the Delhi civic body during wee hours of Wednesday following court orders, Congress spokesperson Rashid Alvi described them as a “deliberate attack on Muslims,” even alleging—incorrectly—that a religious structure had been demolished. Such false claims reflect a disturbing willingness to amplify misinformation.

There must be a limit to political exaggeration and fakery, especially when communal harmony is at stake. Demolitions in India’s old cities have never been merely about bricks and mortar. They are deeply political acts, reflecting how the state views power, citizens, and urban space. A comparison between demolitions during the Emergency (1975–77) and those carried out under later Congress regimes reveals both change and continuity.

During the Emergency, demolitions—most infamously in Old Delhi—were executed with authoritarian speed under the direction of Sanjay Gandhi, who held no constitutional office. Thousands of homes were razed in the name of “beautification” and slum clearance. Notices, if issued at all, were cursory. Rehabilitation was poorly planned, and resistance was crushed under suspended civil liberties.

The bulldozer became a blunt instrument of state control, emblematic of a period when legality itself was subordinated to executive will. These actions left deep scars on public memory and contributed significantly to the Emergency’s political backlash.

In the post-Emergency decades, including under successive Congress governments, demolitions in old city areas continued, but within a formally democratic framework. They were justified through municipal laws, court directives, and development projects—road widening, metro construction, and heritage renewal.

On paper, due process, compensation, and rehabilitation were integral. In practice, implementation often fell short. Evictions were selective, rehabilitation uneven, and compensation delayed or inadequate. For affected communities, legality softened the blow but did not eliminate hardship.

The difference between the two eras lies less in outcome than in method. The Emergency demonstrated the dangers of power without process. Later regimes reveal a subtler problem: how process itself can legitimise displacement without delivering justice.

The old city remains trapped between modern planning imperatives and lived realities. Ultimately, the lesson is clear. Whether on religion, the judiciary, or urban governance, selective outrage corrodes credibility. Development and reform gain legitimacy not from ideological posturing, but from fairness, consistency, and respect for institutions.

The larger question, therefore, is not whether Sanatana Dharma—or any tradition—deserves critique. It always has. The real question is whether Hindu phobia has become the opposition’s substitute for secularism, and institutional doubt its substitute for accountability.

If secularism means equal distance from all faiths, and democracy respect for all institutions, then selective antagonism is not principle. It is politics. And politics, when stripped of consistency, rarely convinces.

(The author is a former Chief Editor at The Hans India)