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Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Fractured Crown

Between Siddaramaiah’s grip on power and Shivakumar’s restless ambition, the Karnataka Congress is trapped in a succession spiral. Karnataka Karnataka today has two chief ministers - one by office, the other by expectation. The power tussle between Siddaramaiah and his deputy, D.K. Shivakumar, has slipped so completely into the open that the Congress’s ritual denials sound like political farce. A whispered ‘understanding’ after the 2023 victory that each would get the CM’s post after...

Fractured Crown

Between Siddaramaiah’s grip on power and Shivakumar’s restless ambition, the Karnataka Congress is trapped in a succession spiral. Karnataka Karnataka today has two chief ministers - one by office, the other by expectation. The power tussle between Siddaramaiah and his deputy, D.K. Shivakumar, has slipped so completely into the open that the Congress’s ritual denials sound like political farce. A whispered ‘understanding’ after the 2023 victory that each would get the CM’s post after two-and-a-half years has hardened into a public confrontation between a chief minister determined to finish five years and a deputy increasingly unwilling to wait. The recent breakfast meeting between the two men at Siddaramaiah’s residence was presented as a truce where the ‘high command’ was invoked as the final arbiter. “There are no differences between us,” Siddaramaiah insisted, twice for emphasis. Few were convinced and soon, Shivakumar was again hinting darkly at change. For weeks, Shivakumar’s loyalists have been holding meetings, mobilising legislators and making pilgrimages to Delhi to get the Congress high command to honour its promise. They insist that the Congress leadership agreed to a rotational chief ministership in 2023 and that November 2025 was always meant to mark Shivakumar’s ascent. The high command, for its part, has perfected the art of strategic vagueness by neither confirming nor denying the pact. This suggests that the Congress does not merely hesitate to act against Siddaramaiah, but increasingly lacks the capacity to do so. From the outset of his second innings, Siddaramaiah has given no signal of easing aside. As he approaches January 2026, poised to overtake D. Devaraj Urs as Karnataka’s longest-serving chief minister, the symbolism is unmistakable. The mantle of social justice politics that Urs once embodied now firmly sits on Siddaramaiah’s shoulders. And it is this social coalition that shields him. His fortress is AHINDA - minorities, backward classes and Dalits. Leaked figures from the unreleased caste census suggest that these groups together approach or exceed two-thirds of the state’s population. Lingayats and Vokkaligas, once electorally dominant, are rendered numerical minorities in this arithmetic. Siddaramaiah governs not merely as a Congress leader, but as the putative custodian of Karnataka’s demographic majority. That claim is reinforced through policy. Minority scholarships have been revived, contractor quotas restored, residential schools expanded. More than Rs. 42,000 crore has been earmarked for Scheduled Castes and Tribes. Kurubas, his own community, have been pitched for Scheduled Tribe status, with careful assurances that their elevation will not disadvantage others. DK Shivakumar brings organisational muscle, financial clout and control over the Vokkaliga heartland. In electoral campaigns, these are formidable assets. But in a confrontation with a leader who embodies a 60–70 percent social coalition, they are blunt instruments. The Congress high command understands this equation, even if it publicly pretends otherwise. It also remembers, uneasily, what Siddaramaiah did the last time his authority was constrained. In 2020, when the Congress–JD(S) coalition collapsed after 16 MLAs defected to Mumbai,13 of them hailed from Siddaramaiah’s camp. At the time, he held the post of coordination committee chairman. Instead, he emerged as the principal beneficiary of collapse, returning as Leader of the Opposition with a tighter grip on the party. If the Congress high command could not punish him then, it is doubtful it can coerce him now. Shivakumar’s predicament is thus more tragic than tactical. He is not battling a rival alone, but an entire political structure built to outlast him. The promised coronation looks increasingly like a mirage drifting just ahead of a man condemned to keep walking. For the Congress, the cost of this paralysis is already visible. A government elected on guarantees and governance is consumed by succession. The party’s authority is dissolving while its factions harden. The Congress returned to power in Karnataka after years in the wilderness, only to re-enact the same leadership dysfunction that has crippled it elsewhere. Regardless of whether Siddaramaiah survives this storm, it is becoming increasingly clear that the Congress cannot survive the slow corrosion of its command in one of the few states it holds today.

Reclaiming Identity

Updated: Oct 21, 2024

India’s ongoing project of renaming places reflects the country’s efforts to assert its national identity, cleanse itself of historical baggage, and reconnect with its civilizational roots. The latest move — the renaming of Port Blair to Sri Vijaya Puram — signals a broader intention to shed vestiges of foreign domination, both from the period of British imperialism and earlier Muslim invasions. The symbolism in these name changes is unmistakable, part of a wider cultural and political push to reassert India’s indigenous history, which many feel has been sidelined for centuries.

Names are not mere labels on maps; they carry the weight of history, legacy, and identity. When Indians traverse through streets, towns, and cities, many still encounter names that echo colonial or Islamic invader legacies. A substantial number of places in Delhi, the capital of modern India, are named after rulers of the Delhi Sultanate and Mughal dynasty, dynasties that came through conquest and imposed their authority on the land.

For many, these names represent more than just historical figures; they symbolize domination, violence, and a legacy that is at odds with India’s present aspirations as a confident, resurgent power. The act of renaming is thus seen as part of a broader cultural reclamation.

Renaming places is not merely an academic exercise in historical correction but a politically charged one. Advocates of renaming argue that India must celebrate its own heroes - like Chandragupta Maurya, Rana Pratap or Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj — leaders who resisted foreign domination and defended India’s sovereignty rather than glorifying invaders who sought to erase it.

Delhi is a stark example of this historical disconnect. Despite being the seat of modern India’s political power, few public spaces are named after Shivaji Maharaj, who defied Mughal authority, or Maharana Pratap, who stood against Akbar’s empire. The names of foreign conquerors dominate the urban landscape.

Critics of the renaming drive often accuse the government of pandering to a narrow, sectarian agenda. They argue that renaming places will not change history and risks inflaming communal tensions. But such criticism overlooks the fact that every nation has the right to shape its narrative. France does not honour the names of Napoleon’s enemies in its street names, nor does Britain name its landmarks after those who sought to subjugate it.

The challenge for India is to strike a balance between renaming that honours its indigenous history and avoiding erasure of its Islamic past. After all, the Mughal and Sultanate periods are integral to India’s complex history. In many cases, India can follow a path of dual recognition, acknowledging both the indigenous heritage and foreign influences by honouring people with a syncretic legacy. History is not monolithic, and India’s national identity is shaped by myriad influences. The renaming of streets and towns must not turn into a wholesale erasure of the past but should be a thoughtful reconsideration of which legacies are honoured in public spaces.

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