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Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Federal Farce

India’s federal compact was never meant to resemble street theatre. Yet that is precisely what unfolded in Tamil Nadu and Kerala, where opening sessions of the Assemblies degenerated into petty skirmishes between Raj Bhavans and elected governments. Governors deserve scrutiny for overreach. But what played out on January 20 says as much about the studied belligerence of two state governments that have turned constitutional convention into a contact sport. Start with Tamil Nadu. Governor R.N....

Federal Farce

India’s federal compact was never meant to resemble street theatre. Yet that is precisely what unfolded in Tamil Nadu and Kerala, where opening sessions of the Assemblies degenerated into petty skirmishes between Raj Bhavans and elected governments. Governors deserve scrutiny for overreach. But what played out on January 20 says as much about the studied belligerence of two state governments that have turned constitutional convention into a contact sport. Start with Tamil Nadu. Governor R.N. Ravi’s decision to walk out of the Assembly without delivering his address was dramatic, ill-judged and constitutionally questionable. But the stage for that walkout was carefully set by the ruling DMK. The Speaker’s insistence that the Governor read only what the Cabinet had approved, delivered with the pugnacious aside that “only MLAs can express opinion in the House,” reflected not reverence for convention but contempt for dialogue. Tamil Nadu’s government treated it as an opportunity to box the Governor into a corner and then feign outrage when he refused to play along. The subsequent statements from Raj Bhavan, disputing the state’s extravagant investment claims and invoking disrespect to the national anthem, only deepened the ugliness. But it is worth asking why such disputes routinely explode in Tamil Nadu. The answer lies less in New Delhi’s alleged conspiracies than in Chennai’s habit of governing by provocation. The DMK has discovered that permanent confrontation with the Governor serves its political narrative as it keeps the Centre in the dock. Kerala’s episode was no less revealing. Governor Rajendra Vishwanath Arlekar delivered his address and left, only for Chief Minister Pinarayi Vijayan to return to the House to announce solemnly that the Governor had tampered with Cabinet-approved paragraphs. The offending omissions concerned fiscal federalism and pending Bills, subjects dear to the Left Democratic Front’s sense of grievance. Vijayan’s declaration that the Cabinet’s version would prevail was less a constitutional clarification than a performative assertion of supremacy. Governors are not meant to rewrite policy. But nor are Assemblies meant to retroactively overrule a Governor’s address by executive fiat. Kerala’s government could have placed its objections on record or sought judicial clarity. Instead, it chose to dramatize the dispute, turning the Assembly into a forum for moral grandstanding. Together, these episodes expose a deeper malaise. State governments, particularly those ruled by parties opposed to the BJP, have begun to treat Governors not as constitutional functionaries to be constrained by process, but as political foils to be publicly humiliated. The irony is rich. Tamil Nadu and Kerala style themselves as guardians of constitutional morality, federalism and democratic norms. Yet, by weaponizing Assembly proceedings against Governors, they weaken the very conventions they claim to defend. None of this absolves Governors who stray into partisan commentary or obstructionism. India has no shortage of such examples. But federalism cannot be sustained if elected governments respond to irritation with institutional vandalism. Assemblies are not arenas for settling scores with Raj Bhavans.

Bihar’s Dry Experiment: Between Morality and Politics

Prohibition’s future in Bihar may depend on whether the State can evolve from rigid idealism to pragmatic reform.

When Nitish Kumar enforced complete prohibition in Bihar in 2016, it was presented not merely as policy, but as a moral crusade. The Chief Minister cast it as part of a Gandhian vision of social reform — a move to curb domestic violence, protect women, and wean society from intoxication. Nearly a decade on, as Bihar heads into a crucial assembly election, that experiment in sobriety has become both a symbol and a fault line. The question haunting the State is no longer whether prohibition was well-intentioned, but whether it has achieved reform or simply fermented resentment and political opportunism.


Kumar’s Janata Dal (United) calls prohibition his “dream project,” while opponents deride it as a failure that has fuelled corruption and hypocrisy. The Rashtriya Janata Dal (RJD) argues that noble intent was undone by poor execution. Political strategist-turned-politico Prashant Kishor, who has jumped into the fray as a ‘third front,’ has promised to repeal the law if elected, claiming it has inflicted more harm than good.


The issue, like Harivansh Rai Bachchan’s famous metaphor from ‘Madhushala,’ has become a mirror in which every faction sees what it wishes: virtue for some, vice for others.


For Kumar, prohibition embodied moral responsibility and Gandhian rectitude. But over time, its political symbolism has eclipsed its social outcomes. The law that was meant to purify society has instead muddied the state’s politics — celebrated by women’s groups as liberation, condemned by traders as tyranny, and quietly undermined by smugglers who thrive in its shadow.


Thriving Black Market

Few Indian states have implemented prohibition with such bureaucratic fervour. Between April 2016 and July 2025, Bihar registered over 536,000 cases and sentenced nearly 640,000 people for violations. The figures reveal both the state’s determination and its dilemma: the more it cracks down, the more evidence emerges of failure.


Police and excise officials boast of seizing 96,000 vehicles and collecting over Rs.400 crore in fines and auctions. Yet, the illegal trade thrives — now a cross-border enterprise spanning Uttar Pradesh, Jharkhand, Haryana, West Bengal, Rajasthan and even Arunachal Pradesh. A policy born of moral zeal has birthed a parallel economy lubricated by smuggling and bribery.


Officials privately admit that enforcement has become an end in itself rather than reforming behaviour. In the shadow of morality, a black market flourishes.


If prohibition has an enduring constituency, it lies among Bihar’s women. Surveys suggest that a majority of them support the ban, crediting it with fewer domestic quarrels, improved household finances, and safer streets. In countless villages, women recall nights once filled with drunken rage replaced by relative calm. For them, prohibition is less about state control than personal dignity and a protective shield against generations of abuse.


Yet, even they acknowledge its limitations. Law alone cannot erase addiction, which often mutates rather than disappears. As Bachchan wrote in Madhushala, “What insult is there in a bartender’s rebuke? I found the tavern after stumbling all over the world.” Desire, when denied, finds detours. In Bihar’s case, that detour has proved deadly.


Death by Poison

The most tragic consequence of prohibition has been the rise of deaths from spurious liquor. According to the World Health Organization, alcohol-related causes kill some 26 million people globally each year, over 260,000 of them in India. In Bihar, outbreaks of toxic hooch in districts like Siwan, Saran, and Gopalganj have repeatedly claimed dozens of lives.


Each of the 30-35 annual deaths in Bihar from poisonous liquor tells the same grim story: when the state bans supply without addressing demand, desperation fills the void. Families lose breadwinners, and the government loses credibility. Prohibition’s moral halo cannot mask the human cost of its unintended consequences.


The state’s war on alcohol has merely shifted the battlefield. Data from Bihar’s Economic Offences Unit reveal that since 2016, drug-related cases have quadrupled. In that year, police registered 518 cases under the Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substances (NDPS) Act; by 2024, the figure had soared to 2,411. Arrests rose from 496 to 1,813, with narcotics such as charas, brown sugar, and opium husk replacing liquor as contraband of choice.


The substitution effect, familiar to economists and criminologists alike, has transformed Bihar from a dry state to a high state. Addiction persists, merely changing its intoxicant. The problem, critics say, lies not in alcohol itself but in the social despair that drives people to seek escape.


Failed Sobriety

Bihar’s experiment is not new. In 1977, Chief Minister Karpuri Thakur tried a similar ban, only to withdraw it within 18 months after revenue collapsed. The same pattern has played out elsewhere: Andhra Pradesh, Haryana, and Tamil Nadu have all lifted bans citing economic strain.


Today, only a few Indian territories — Gujarat, Nagaland, Mizoram, and Lakshadweep — maintain total prohibition, each wrestling with its own black market. Even Nagaland reviewed its decades-old ban in 2023. The lesson is consistent: morality decreed by law rarely triumphs over economics and human impulse.


Before prohibition, Bihar earned around Rs. 4,000 crore annually from liquor taxes — up from Rs. 295 crore in 2005-06 and over Rs. 3,000 crore in 2014-15. By 2015, Biharis were consuming 141 million litres of alcohol a year through some 6,000 licensed outlets. The beer market alone was expanding by 30 percent, triple the national rate.


That revenue has since evaporated, leaving the state fiscally parched. Supporters argue the sacrifice is justified. Critics counter that the loss has crippled public finances, forcing cuts in welfare and infrastructure while enriching smugglers. The truth lies somewhere between virtue and viability: a policy too moral to be pragmatic, yet too entrenched to be reversed.


In the approaching election, prohibition has become less an issue of governance than of identity. For women’s groups and social activists, it remains a badge of progress; for young voters and the working class, it represents hypocrisy and fear. Police raids, arbitrary arrests, and custodial deaths have added resentment to the brew.


Opposition parties sense an opportunity. Kishor’s Jan Suraj movement appeals to frustrated youth; the RJD accuses Nitish Kumar of moral grandstanding; the BJP oscillates between cautious support and silent amusement, knowing prohibition’s unpopularity can only weaken its erstwhile ally.


For Kumar, the dilemma is existential. Having anchored his political legacy to the ban, he can neither abandon it nor fully enforce it. What began as moral reform now sustains his image as a leader of rectitude even as its cracks widen.


Prohibition’s future in Bihar may depend on whether the state can evolve from rigid control to compassionate reform. Experts suggest a gradual shift from total ban to regulated access, coupled with addiction counselling, awareness campaigns and stronger healthcare systems. The goal should be not the illusion of sobriety but the reality of recovery.


If Bihar’s journey began in idealism, it must now continue in pragmatism. Law without empathy breeds defiance; reform without enforcement breeds chaos. The challenge is to strike a balance between the two — to blend Gandhian ethics with modern governance.


Whether prohibition will become a cornerstone of Bihar’s moral renewal or remain bottled up as an election slogan will be revealed in time. The real test, perhaps, is not whether Bihar can keep alcohol out of its borders, but whether it can keep hypocrisy out of its politics.

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