Battle for the Bow and Arrow

The Shiv Sena dispute before the Supreme Court is no longer just about MLAs and symbols, but about what legally defines a political party. AI generated image The fight over the Shiv Sena has moved well beyond Maharashtra’s familiar political theatre. In the Supreme Court, the dispute has narrowed to a question that is less dramatic on the surface but potentially far more consequential: what exactly makes a political party a political party? Is it the elected strength of its legislators? The...

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The Shiv Sena dispute before the Supreme Court is no longer just about MLAs and symbols, but about what legally defines a political party. AI generated image The fight over the Shiv Sena has moved well beyond Maharashtra’s familiar political theatre. In the Supreme Court, the dispute has narrowed to a question that is less dramatic on the surface but potentially far more consequential: what exactly makes a political party a political party? Is it the elected strength of its legislators? The organisation outside the legislature? The party constitution on record with the Election Commission? Or some combination of all three? That question lies at the centre of the legal battle between the factions led by Eknath Shinde and Uddhav Thackeray. Two Claims Senior advocate Neeraj Kishan Kaul, appearing for the Shinde faction, has defended the Election Commission’s February 17, 2023 decision, recognising the Shinde camp as the Shiv Sena and allotting it the bow-and-arrow symbol. The Thackeray faction has challenged that decision. The bench is also dealing with challenges connected to the Maharashtra Assembly Speaker’s January 2024 decision on disqualification petitions. The Thackeray faction, represented by senior advocates Kapil Sibal and Devadatt Kamat, has drawn a sharp distinction between the political party and its legislature wing. Its argument is a group of MLAs breaking away from the legislative wing does not automatically mean that the political party itself has changed hands. The party’s organisation, structure and identity cannot simply be equated with the numbers sitting in the Assembly. The Shinde faction says the dispute was never merely about legislators walking out. According to its argument, the rupture extended into the wider political organisation, with competing meetings, resolutions and claims of support from party workers and functionaries. The legislative split was, in its telling, only one visible part of a larger party-wide conflict. That distinction determines whether the Election Commission could legitimately intervene under Paragraph 15 of the Election Symbols Order and decide which rival faction represented the recognised political party. Kaul has argued that the Commission was entitled to consider the wider organisational dispute rather than treating the matter as a purely legislative rebellion. Constitutional Tussle The courtroom fight has also brought an old Shiv Sena document back into the spotlight. Kaul has relied heavily on the constitution placed on record with the Election Commission after the poll panel raised objections to the party’s earlier structure. The material before the court says the Commission had, in the late 1990s, pushed for a more democratic organisational structure, including changes to the manner in which party office-bearers were selected. The 1999 constitution subsequently went on record. The Shinde side says the 2018 constitution represented a significant departure from that structure. Its argument is that the later arrangement concentrated substantial authority in the party chief and relied extensively on nominated or appointed office-bearers rather than elected organisational bodies. It has also questioned why its leaders participated in the organisational structure created under the 2018 arrangement and did not object to it at the time. Kaul has further argued that the 2018 constitution relied upon by the Thackeray faction was not registered with the Election Commission, while the 1999 constitution was on the Commission’s record. This has become a significant element of the Shinde faction’s case. The Thackeray faction, meanwhile, has relied on the Supreme Court’s earlier Constitution Bench judgment in the Subhash Desai matter to reinforce the distinction between a political party and its legislature party. The earlier judgment’s discussion about not conflating the political party with its legislature wing arose in the context of questions such as who could appoint the whip. It did not, according to the Shinde side, mean that the Election Commission must ignore legislative strength altogether when determining which faction represents a recognised political party. The Shinde side has also invoked the Sadiq Ali case, arguing that legislative majority remains a relevant consideration in a party-symbol dispute. The case has therefore increasingly begun to look like a legal examination of the Election Commission’s decision-making process. The Thackeray faction has questioned the Commission’s jurisdiction and the basis on which it concluded that there was a party-wide split. Its challenge effectively asks whether the Commission went too far in examining the internal structure of the Shiv Sena. The Shinde faction argues that Article 324 gives the Election Commission broad powers and that, when two groups claim the same recognised party, the Commission has to examine the party constitution, organisational structure and available evidence to identify which group represents the party. The practical difficulty is obvious. The Election Commission cannot ask every Shiv Sena member whom they support. Nor can it conduct a referendum among every booth-level worker. Kaul has therefore defended the organisational-majority approach as a workable method of assessing cadre support through recognised organisational bodies and elected representatives. The Shinde camp has also brought the events after the 2019 Maharashtra Assembly election into the argument. Shiv Sena and BJP fought the election together, but the government subsequently formed under Uddhav Thackeray was with Congress and NCP. According to the Shinde side, that political realignment created discontent among sections of the Shiv Sena organisation and contributed to the eventual split. The Thackeray faction disputes the broader narrative and maintains that the legislative rebellion cannot simply be converted into proof that the political party itself changed hands. It has also challenged the Maharashtra Speaker’s decision not to disqualify MLAs from either faction. The Supreme Court has examined questions about what could follow if that decision were set aside, including whether consequential disqualification could arise under the Tenth Schedule. Party recognition and legislative disqualification arise under different legal frameworks. The Shinde side has argued that earlier cases concerning disqualification cannot simply be transplanted into the Election Commission’s determination under the Symbols Order. The real question is no longer simply who has more MLAs. It is whether those MLAs, the party organisation, the constitution and the cadre can legally be treated as parts of the same answer. (The writer is a political observer. Views personal.)

Holy Retreat

Correspondent

Dec 18, 2025

3 min read

The revocation of the land pooling scheme in Ujjain lays bare the limits of political authority.

Few spectacles test the Indian state quite like the Kumbh Mela. It blends faith, logistics and politics on a civilisational scale. Yet in Ujjain, where the Simhastha Kumbh is due in 2028, the Madhya Pradesh government has discovered that even the most sanctified ambitions can founder on the stubborn realities of land, livelihood and consent.

This week the government quietly but decisively scrapped its land pooling scheme aimed at acquiring 2,378 hectares across 17 villages to build permanent infrastructure for the Simhastha. The move followed weeks of farmer mobilisation, threats of fresh agitation and more tellingly, dissent from within the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) ranks.

The scheme, unveiled earlier this year, was ambitious to the point of hubris. Unlike previous Simhasthas, where farmland was temporarily acquired for a few months with compensation, the new plan envisaged a permanent Kumbh city. Roads, ashrams, hospitals, underground drainage, electricity networks and government buildings were to rise on what is now agricultural land. An estimated Rs. 2,000 crore would be spent to prepare for an expected footfall of over 12 crore pilgrims, almost double the turnout in 2016.

For Chief Minister Mohan Yadav, the proposal carried personal and political weight. As the MLA from Ujjain South, transforming the temple town into a year-round pilgrimage hub would have been a signature achievement. It would also have aligned neatly with the BJP’s broader strategy of marrying religious symbolism with visible infrastructure.

However, this has run into rough weather with between 5,000 and 8,000 farmer families standing to lose land that has sustained them for generations. Land pooling, with its promises of future development gains, may appeal in urbanising corridors. In sacred geography, where land is livelihood rather than asset class, it looks more like disguised expropriation.

Soon enough, tractor rallies rolled through Ujjain while meetings hardened into threats of indefinite strikes. The Bharatiya Kisan Sangh (BKS), not a habitual adversary of the BJP, given its RSS lineage, accused the government of betrayal. Its call for a “dera dalo, ghera dalo” agitation from December 26 is a warning shot from within the Sangh ecosystem itself.

The government attempted a familiar manoeuvre: tactical retreat disguised as clarification. On November 17 it amended the scheme, limiting compulsory acquisition to land needed for roads, water and sewage, while exempting other infrastructure. However, the farmers and the BKS saw through it, accusing the government of duplicity.

The final reversal in this episode has been scrapping the town development schemes entirely under the Town and Country Planning Act, which was alter framed as an act of “public interest.” In reality, it was an act of political triage. With state elections behind it but local anger simmering, the BJP chose containment over confrontation.

The episode exposes a deeper contradiction in India’s development politics. The state is increasingly eager to monumentalise religion by building corridors, plazas and permanent infrastructures around sites of worship. But faith-based urbanism often collides with rural India’s fragile social contract. Farmers may tolerate temporary disruption in the name of dharma. Permanent dispossession is another matter.

It also underlines the limits of ideological alignment. The BJP’s long-held assumption that farmer discontent can be managed through cultural affinity rather than economic justice has been repeatedly tested—from the repealed farm laws to localised agitations such as this one. When livelihoods are at stake, symbolism offers thin protection.

Battle for the Bow and Arrow

Holy Retreat

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