I awaken, disoriented in a haze of swirling lavender. The world around me shimmers with ephemeral geometry, as though I have stumbled into the very skeleton of creation. Before me looms a colossal form that is radiant with countless eyes and has its luminous limbs reaching beyond the horizon. Fractured shards of light pierce out and pulse in sync with a heartbeat. I sense an ancient presence orchestrating these transformations like a cosmic sacrifice. I rub my eyes in disbelief, confident that I am merely trapped in a vivid dream, for how could the infinite stand so clearly before me?   

Abruptly, I jolt awake in a dimly lit room, breath ragged. The memory of that unfathomable figure lingers with its vastness undermining my grip on reality. Four tall bookshelves occupy each wall, loaded with worn volumes. A lone circular desk stands in the centre, polished yet forbidding. No windows, no doors, no exit. I circle the room in alarm, my heart thumping. Could this still be a dream?

A voice whispers, "Read", though I cannot locate its source. Reluctantly, I approach one bookshelf bearing gilt letters: "Ṛgveda Saṁhitā." The others, also Saṁhitās, read "Yajurveda", "Sāmaveda", and "Atharvaveda". I possess only rudimentary Sanskrit skills, yet these ancient texts seem entirely legible. Over countless days, I consume every hymn. I neither hunger nor thirst. My only craving is knowledge. At last, I replace the final book onto its shelf, and the entire room dissolves.

I now stand in an immense courtroom, columns stretching into a sky etched with shifting script. Seated at the centre is Varuṇa, draped in oceanic blue and gold, a luminous noose in his hand. He poses a single question, his voice resonating in my core: "What manner of theism do the Vedas uphold?"

Before I can respond, Varuṇa's form glitches into Indra, then Mitra, then Agni, then Yama, each flickering like flames. In that wave of transformations, I sense they are many yet one: henotheism, gods converging on a single divine essence. At once, the cosmic court shatters, and I find myself back in the same room, but the shelves are different.
 
They now house the Brāhmaṇas, elaborate commentaries explaining the force of Vedic mantras. Alongside them appear the six Vedāṅgas: Śikṣā, Vyākaraṇa, Chandas, Nirukta, Kalpa, and Jyotiṣa. As I read the Brāhmaṇas, understanding dawns like a slow-burning flame. The mantras I hold are not just words, they are power, woven into the very fabric of ṛta, the cosmic order. With the knowledge of the auxiliary texts, I am no longer a mere observer. I can compel the gods I met earlier, bend the forces that govern existence. Gold, grain, prosperity, they are no longer beyond my reach. Yet my confinement remains. What use is such power if I cannot escape?
  
The shelves vanish, replaced by a corridor lined with narrow windows. Through each pane, I see a horrifying vision unfold. First, I witness a hundred sages chanting around a fire, the same mantras now etched into my mind. Their unified voice fuses with the dancing flames, pulsing in ancient rhythm. I blink. The image warps into a chain of dogs, each biting another's tail, locked in ceaseless, mindless pursuit. Suddenly, a shrill cry redirects me.
 
On the other side, I see a blood-soaked horse sacrifice, princes cheering the violent ritual. Another blink and the horse transforms into a cosmic being with dawn as its head, sun as its eye, air as its breath, and time as its body. A cosmic principle emerges: these rites are not mere acts but living symbols that must be internalised, not just observed.
 
The corridor narrows into a twilight forest inhabited by the Āraṇyakas, bridging outward ritual and inward exploration. Past that, I plummet into star-filled space. The Upaniṣads float before me with their luminous verses that capture the ultimate truth. Touching them floods me with insight, culminating in the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad, the last of the texts I seize. At once, the cosmic tableau rearranges.
 
Varuṇa reappears, and asks me about Brahman: "What is it? How does it manifest?" "Brahman… is that which expands. It is the principle from which all emerges, into which all dissolves. It is the unseen force that manifests as the universe itself.", I reply. I mention the saprapañca conception from the Chāndogya Upaniṣad, describing Brahman's real transformation into the world, and niṣprapañca from the Bṛhadāraṇyaka, revealing Brahman as utterly transcendent and its transformation being only apparent.
 
"And what of Ātman?", Agni asks. I inhale sharply. “It is the self, the essence within. The Upaniṣads say the search for the ultimate truth is not merely outward, but inward. The Taittirīya Upaniṣad describes five sheaths, but beyond all these is Ātman itself. It is not seen, but it sees. Not heard, but it hears. Not thought, but it thinks.”
 
A final question by Yama: "What is the ultimate truth?" "That Brahman and Ātman are one," I say, the words coming as though not from me, but through me. "Tat tvam asi. Aham brahmāsmi. The fullness beyond and the fullness within are not two, but one."
 
Gods vanish like doused flames, the courtroom collapses, and I awaken again to shattering glass.
 
My friend stands over me, holding in his hands a shattered phone. He claims I was out for twenty minutes. I recoil: aeons of cosmic exploration squeezed into that span. He laments lost photos and data and mentions something about being in the middle of watching an anime about someone trapped in philosophical interrogation. My mind lurches, questioning whether that was me or if I still remain trapped in overlapping illusions. The edges of my awareness blur.

A soft chuckle sounds. Ādi Śaṅkara stands before us, his presence serene yet commanding. My friend gapes at him. He explains that according to Advaita Vedānta, only Brahman is sat, the absolute, unchanging reality. Mere non-existence, or asat, has never been real at any point. The world, however, is sad-asad-vilakṣaṇa, distinct from both reality and non-reality, it functions within empirical experience but lacks absolute permanence. This appearance arises due to māyā, which veils Brahman, and avidyā, the ignorance that binds individuals to illusion. He further elaborates that all Vedāntic schools derive from the same Prasthāna-trayī: the Upaniṣads, the Bhagavadgītā, and the Vedānta-Sūtra. Yet, their interpretations differ as Advaita asserts non-duality, while Dvaita affirm real distinctions.

I asked him if the vivid dream, which felt so real before I woke up, was just as illusory as what I am experiencing right now. He smiles and explains that while all experiences lie within the realm of sad-asad-vilakṣaṇa, experiences such as dreams are considered prātibhāsika, sublated the moment one awakens. My friend counters that his broken phone feels concrete. Śaṅkara confirms daily life is vyāvahārika, where cause and effect operate. Yet from the pāramārthika level, distinctions vanish into nirguṇa Brahman, free of any attribute. Saguṇa Brahman, endowed with qualities, is how the limited mind conceptualises the absolute under the veil of māyā. Prayer, devotion, or moral duty revolve around saguṇa Brahman, which remains valuable for spiritual growth.
 
At this point, my friend's eyes light up with curiosity: "What are the two views on cause and effect?"
 
Śaṅkara inclines his head. "Satkāryavāda, which Advaita Vedānta accepts, holds that the effect pre-exists in its cause in a subtle form. Asatkāryavāda, favoured by Nyāya-Vaiśeṣika, contends the effect is produced anew, not latent in the cause." He conjures two more terms: pariṇāmavāda (Sāṃkhya) and vivartavāda (Advaita). "In pariṇāmavāda, the substance actually transforms. In vivartavāda, the change is an appearance. The rope never becomes a snake; perception alone shifts." My friend, seeking confirmation, asks "So Brahman doesn't literally become the universe, it just appears so?" "Precisely," Śaṅkara confirms. "Brahman remains unaltered, while forms are mere vivarta."
 
Śaṅkara expounds on adhyāsa, superimposition, which is the process by which an individual mistakes one thing for another by projecting certain qualities onto what is actually there. In the context of the Self, adhyāsa involves ascribing non-self qualities (like bodily attributes, emotions, or limitations) onto the pure consciousness that is one's true nature. We discuss spiritual practice. Śaṅkara outlines the path of śravaṇa (listening), manana (reflecting), and nididhyāsana (meditating), culminating in the direct realisation of "tat tvam asi".
 
My friend wonders if calling the world an appearance excuses moral disregard. Śaṅkara clarifies that true realisation fosters empathy, seeing all beings as the one Self. Only a superficial reading would produce apathy. Authentic knowledge, anchored in the scriptural basis, intensifies compassion.
 
His words trail off. I sense a faint fragrance of sandalwood. Then Ādi Śaṅkara vanishes like a candle flame in the wind. My friend and I lock eyes. The phone's shattered screen glints on the floor, a testament to vyāvahārika reality. Yet an undercurrent of something vast hums around us, reminding me of the corridor of cosmic illusions, the swirling galaxies of knowledge.
 
We gather the phone shards, preparing for the mundane task ahead, every motion echoing with the truth we have tasted: that behind every fleeting form lies the eternal Brahman.
 


A Dream of Eternity, A Conversation Beyond Time

“I want to create a movie that plays with perception again, like I did in Inception, but in a different way. A film where the audience never quite knows if the protagonist is experiencing reality or simply dreaming”, Nolan said, tapping his fingers against his cup of chai. 

I reply, intrigued, “I have just the thing for you”, and begin by giving the historical context of Buddhism.

The historical Buddha lived around 500 BCE. Following his death, three senior monks (arhats) recounted from memory the oral discourses delivered by the Buddha.

These teachings were eventually compiled into the Tripiṭaka (Three Baskets), believed to have been assembled around 240 BCE during the Third Council in Pāṭaliputra. The Tripiṭaka Pāli Canon consists of three distinct baskets: the Sutta (Sūtra) containing tales and discourses, the Vinaya covering monastic discipline, and the Abhidhamma  (Abhidharma) presenting doctrinal exposition. 

The Theravāda school, or School of the Elders, relies exclusively on the Pāli canon as authoritative scripture, whereas Mahāyāna Buddhism expanded by incorporating new texts. A key distinction is Theravāda's ideal of the Arhant, emphasising individual liberation, contrasted with Mahāyāna's Bodhisattva ideal, stressing universal liberation and compassion for all beings.

“Picture a protagonist in a philosophy class, deeply intellectually stimulated by Buddhist metaphysics but who returns home to struggle with depression and existential questions. In his dreams, the protagonist is shot by an arrow, symbolising the Buddha's parable that emphasises prioritising healing over unresolved metaphysical questions (avyākṛta)—such as the world's eternality or the existence of the self—which the Buddha considered distractions from the path to liberation. The Buddha himself then appears in the protagonist's dream to heal the wound and gives his essential teachings.”

Nolan sips his chai. “So what did the Buddha consider essential?” 

“He focused on the Four Noble Truths,” I say.

The first noble truth concerns the reality of suffering (duḥkha ). 
The second noble truth identifies suffering's cause (duḥkha-samudaya ). 
The third noble truth describes suffering's cessation (duḥkha-nirodha ).
The fourth noble truth presents the Eight-fold Path to cease suffering (duḥkha-nirodha-mārga ).

“Your protagonist could begin following this eightfold path after his dream experience,” I suggest, “yet struggle with faith. He wants to heal the arrow wound but only trusts it if he understands how the healing works.”

I pause thoughtfully. “Interestingly,” I continue, “the sophisticated philosophical exposition developed by later Buddhists is something I believe was uniquely fostered by the rigorous intellectual environment of ancient India. It arose precisely from questions similar to those troubling your protagonist. Although this speculative and metaphysical direction may seem to diverge from the Buddha’s fundamentally pragmatic stance, aimed primarily at liberation rather than abstract theorising, later Buddhists found such metaphysical truths necessary for addressing doubts and defending Buddhism against rival philosophical systems.”

“Let me set the stage by asking you a few questions,” I say, leaning forward slightly.

“Christopher, tell me, how did you get here today?”

“I came by car.”

“Alright, what exactly is this 'car'? Is it the wheels, the engine, the seats, the frame, or the steering wheel? Is it all of these parts combined, or something separate from these parts?”

“No, it's not any single part individually, nor all these parts merely lumped together, nor something completely separate.”

“So, despite examining every part, we can't seem to find your 'car.' If that's true, then isn't 'car' simply a sound—a convenient label? By your own logic, your statement that you arrived by car must also be false, for no real 'car' exists!”

“It's because of all these various components—the wheels, engine, seats, frame, and steering wheel—that we use the practical designation 'car'. It's just a commonly understood term.”
“Exactly. In the same way, because of your various components, you are referred to by the practical name 'Nolan.' Yet, ultimately, there is no permanent, individual self to whom the name truly refers.”

“This dialogue exemplifies the doctrine of anātman,” I explain. 

It posits that a person or self (pudgala/ātman) has no synchronic or diachronic essence. 'I' is just an empty word like 'car' or 'army'. A person comprises of five skandhas  or aggregates.

“So I do not exist as a real substance but am merely a combination of these five skandhas?” Nolan asks. “How, then, by that logic, do these five skandhas also exist? Surely they must also be empty words?”

“Yes, precisely,” I reply. “The skandhas are mere heaps—'aggregates' of dharmas.”

“So what are the dharmas?” Nolan asks.

Dharmas are the simplest, indivisible elements of reality. They are absolute simples from which everything else is composed. They are not qualities attached to substances, nor are they relations or quantities inherited from something else. Instead, Buddhism views reality as composed entirely of these momentary, simple units termed “property-particulars,” with each dharma representing an individual instance of a property rather than a substance that bears properties.

Accordingly, Buddhism teaches that the self is merely a collection of these dharmas, which means it lacks inherent existence. 

“So, do these dharmas last forever?” Nolan asks.

“Before answering this, I want you to familiarise yourself with the theory of dependent origination, of which you already had a glimpse in the second noble truth,” I respond.

Dependent origination (pratītya-samutpāda) means that all phenomena arise only through specific conditions and cease when those conditions vanish. Nothing exists independently or permanently.
Because everything depends on changing conditions, it follows that nothing remains stable—this is impermanence (anitya). Therefore, pratītyasamutpāda explains why everything is impermanent (anitya): no dharma has inherent stability. This interdependence ensures that reality itself is constantly in flux, each moment and state giving way immediately to the next, like a stream (santāna).

“Your protagonist could begin to see this chain of dependent origination in his dreams, with the Buddha appearing to explain these philosophical concepts whenever doubt arises,” I suggest. 

The two sub-schools of Sarvāstivādins (generally clubbed with Theravāda) disagree on the duration of dharmas. For the Vaibhāṣika, some dharmas must extend in time, passing through at least four moments: birth, duration, decay, and destruction. The Sautrāntika school, by contrast, maintains that external dharmas exist but only for an instant—this is their inherent nature (kṣaṇabhaṅgavāda). The Sautrāntikas also believe that the Vaibhāṣikas have been excessive in their enumeration of dharmas.

This obviously leads to an epistemological difference as well.

“Well then,” Nolan asks, “if everything is just composed of dharmas, why do I see something as being 'me,' 'you,' or a 'car'? Shouldn't I just be observing all the dharmas since they are what ultimately exist?”

The primary explanation is that we conceptualise (kalpanā) discrete dharmas and remain ignorant of the world's true nature, characterised by impermanence (anitya) and dependent origination (pratītyasamutpāda). 

There is a distinction between conventional truth (samvṛtisat), which includes entities like chariots and persons, and ultimate truth (paramārthasat), which concerns skandhas, dharmas, and so forth.
When we identify objects through perception (such as recognising “this is red”), both the Vaibhāṣika and Sautrāntika Buddhist schools argue that our determinate perceptions (savikalpaka) are partly erroneous. Genuine perception occurs only at the initial, indeterminate stage (nirvikalpaka), characterised by passive, raw sensory input of the bare, unrelated particular (sva-lakṣaṇa, e.g., the immediate sensation of redness). The subsequent stage of perception involves active mental elaboration (kalpanā), introducing conceptual attributes (sāmānya-lakṣaṇas, e.g., “redness”), which are merely mental constructions lacking authentic ontological status.

Yet the ontological commitments of these two schools lead to distinct theories of perception. The Vaibhāṣika asserts that dharmas extend in time, and thus, the sva-lakṣaṇa is directly perceived. In contrast, the Sautrāntika position, grounded in the doctrine of momentariness, considers dharmas instantaneous, implying objects can only be indirectly perceived (anumeya). 

For Sautrāntika, perception is an inference drawn from mental impressions left by a previous, already vanished instance within an object series. Thus, while the perceived object is real, it exists only in a prior moment and never concurrently with the act of perception. 

The Vaibhāṣika strongly rejects this stance, arguing it contradicts direct experiential knowledge (since they maintain dharmas endure over time), thereby undermining perception and, ultimately, the reliability of knowledge itself.

Despite these differences, both schools agree that genuine reality lies solely in the sva-lakṣaṇa, whereas conceptual features exist merely as pragmatic mental constructions.

“This is where it gets interesting for you,” I say. “I want you to know about the Yogācāra school, which will most fundamentally influence your movie and its focus on dreams.”

“I am excited,” Nolan responds.

While both Vaibhāṣika and Sautrāntika schools espouse pluralistic realism, the Yogācāra school, founded by Asaṅga and Vasubandhu around the 4th-5th century CE, takes a different approach. Yogācāra asserts a radical doctrine known as consciousness-only or vijñāna, holding that consciousness itself is the sole ultimate reality and that everything perceived as external content is false or illusory. 

Yogācāra denies reality to both subject (knower) and object (known). Instead, it reduces experience exclusively to a stream of momentary cognitive episodes. According to Yogācāra, perception does not arise from external objects but emerges internally through latent impressions or vāsanās, which are accumulated through past experiences in an infinite, beginningless (anādi) cycle. Cognition is thus self-generated, continuously triggered from within rather than externally stimulated. 

Central to Yogācāra's argument is the idea of self-aware cognition (svasaṃvedana), wherein cognition is intrinsically conscious of itself, demonstrating the inseparability or identity of knower and known. This principle is extended to all forms of experience, exemplified by the analogy of dreams, where apparent externality is proven unnecessary. 

Moreover, Yogācāra emphasises the principle of sahopalambha-niyama, or the invariable simultaneous appearance of cognition and its perceived content, further supporting the claim of their fundamental unity. Additionally, the relative variability of perception among individuals and even within a single individual at different times is presented as evidence against the objective reality of external objects possessing inherent characteristics (svabhāva).

“Your protagonist could be meditating on these teachings,” I tell Nolan, “moving from basic concepts toward the increasingly sophisticated ideas of Yogācāra idealism. The film could end as he finally realises that there is no distinction between dream and non-dream cognition.”

“While the Yogācāra school maintains that at least knowledge (or the 'subject-series') is real, the Mādhyamika school, with Nāgārjuna as its primary teacher, argues that knowledge itself is fraught with contradictions. However, that is a discussion for another day.”

“That's exactly the kind of philosophical tension I look for in my films,” Nolan says thoughtfully.



The Arrow in the Dream: A Buddhist Exploration of Self and Reality

BJP’s weaker than expected performance in the 2024 national elections is a result of the party’s overreliance on Modi’s brand, which led it to ignore economic discontent and regional issues. Furthermore, in UP, the united opposition was more successful in harnessing caste identity to mobilise votes, in contrast to the BJP, which tried it on Hindutva lines.  

Ideological politics in India can be measured along the axes of statism and recognition. The BJP positioned itself higher on the statism axis, promoting centralisation, in contrast to the opposition, believing in greater decentralisation. Similarly, the BJP advocates for a unified Hindu nationalist identity, in contrast to the opposition, that positions itself as a secular, inclusive alliance. Hindutva nationalism might have been successful for the BJP in the previous elections; however, by 2024, states such as Uttar Pradesh made it clear that religious identity may no longer work. BJP’s religious identity politics fell short of the INDIA bloc’s caste identity politics, which mobilised and consolidated large portions of OBCs, Dalits, and Muslim voters.

Moreover, Lallu Singh, BJP’s Ayodhya MP candidate, commented that they ‘Need 2/3rd majority to change or make new Constitution’. Such comments helped the opposition portray the BJP as an authoritarian party that threatens the Indian constitution. INDIA bloc leveraged this comment to position themselves as trying to protect the constitution, democracy, and reservations.

Accountability politics, or the politics of vikaas, refer to voters’ judgement on government performance. This can be in the form of economic performance, inflation, unemployment, etc. In the previous two elections, the BJP successfully capitalised on the narrative of vikaas, highlighting its developmental achievements. However, in 2024, the vishwas element took centre stage, overshadowing economic concerns such as unemployment and inflation. The opposition picked up these issues. According to the CSDS-Lokniti pre-poll study, 62% of participants thought it was tougher to get a job, and 71% were unhappy with prices going up. Younger voters, who can be classified as retrospective egotropic, were especially unhappy because they felt that the government was not providing enough job prospects, especially in light of the regular exam paper leaks that caused delays in hiring for government positions. Since Indian voters post the 2000s have become more sensitive to economic performance in judging governments, it is not unusual that perceived economic failures caused a lower expected performance in this election.

Leader-driven politics, or the politics of vishwas, involve keeping Modi at the party's centre. This translates into the concentration of resources into developing his brand. For far too long, the BJP relied simply on Modi’s charisma and branding to gain voters. This has made it complacent in addressing other issues the opposition took advantage of. In Uttar Pradesh, where the BJP’s seat share dropped from 62 in 2019 to 32, voters grew tired of campaigns solely based on Modi’s persona and highlighted the poor candidate choices of the BJP. Unpopular candidates from the BJP that relied on Modi’s name competed against the opposition’s candidates who were carefully chosen to ensure they connected with the constituency.

Moreover, slogans such as “ab ki baar 400 paar” signalled to voters the growing overconfidence of the party and created more rifts. Modi’s branding was also challenged by that of Akhilesh Yadav, who was more involved in raising issues that directly affected voters, particularly the “Pichde-Dalit-Alpsankhyak”. Modi’s nationalistic appeal fell short of Yadav’s localised appeal among the lower castes and minorities. The same dynamics can also be perceived in West Bengal, where Mamata Banerjee’s appeal among voters was key to the Trinamool Congress winning seven more seats than the previous election, as opposed to the BJP, which lost six.  

References:

Chhibber, P. K., & Verma, R. (2018). Ideology and identity: The changing party systems of India. Oxford University Press.

Jaldi, A. S. (2024). Retrospective analysis of the 2024 Indian elections: BJP wins the general elections against the strengthening opposition of the INDIA bloc (Policy Paper No. 10/24). Institute for South Asian Studies. https://www.policycenter.ma/sites/default/files/2024-06/PP_10-24_Jaldi.pdf

Lewis-Beck, M. S., & Paldam, M. (2000). Economic voting: an introduction. Electoral Studies, 19(2-3), 113-121.

Sen, R., & Khattri, R. (2024). The BJP debacle in Uttar Pradesh. Institute of South Asian Studies, National University of Singapore. https://www.isas.nus.edu.sg/papers/the-bjp-debacle-in-uttar-pradesh/

Sircar, N. (2020). The politics of vishwas: political mobilization in the 2019 national election. Contemporary South Asia, 28(2), 178–194.

Vaishnav, M., & Swanson, R. (2015). Does good economics make for good politics? Evidence from Indian states. India Review, 14(3), 279-311.

Venugopal, V. (2024). Why BJP lost Lok Sabha polls in Uttar Pradesh: 6 reasons in party report. NDTV. https://www.ndtv.com/india-news/why-bjp-lost-lok-sabha-polls-in-uttar-pradesh-partys-report-highlights-6-reasons-6130273 


The Limits of Vishwas: How Overcentralisation Hurt the BJP

This piece is based on the following interview with Dr. Jagdeep Chhokar.
Link: https://caravanmagazine.in/politics/chhokar-democracy-elections-funding

Representative democracy, a form of governance designed to overcome the challenges of direct democracy, is neither “representative” nor “democratic” in India, owing to the structure of political parties and electoral institutions.

The Assembly (Ekklesia) of Ancient Athens was a central institution of Athenian democracy. Important decisions, such as lawmaking, war, foreign policy, and financial matters, were taken through direct participation by each citizen. Anyone had the right to step forward and speak (ho boulomenos) directly without any representative. However, this means of democracy faced several limitations that representative democracy aimed to solve.

With the world transitioning from city-states to nation-states, it became impractical for citizens to gather and vote on each decision, as the ancient Athenians did. Therefore, representatives—elected by the citizens—would gather in legislative bodies to make decisions on behalf of the electorate. However, as Chhokar argues, if candidates from a constituency can be elected by winning only 15% of the votes, how can they “represent” the constituency?

Another criticism of direct democracy was the limited expertise of the masses and their vulnerability to persuasion by a charming orator, resulting in poor decisions. With the division of labour being applied in all professions, it seems logical to also consider politics a profession that requires expertise, which goes against the beliefs of Athenians, who distrusted “career politicians.” By adding representatives, a layer of filtration was created to enable the best among the citizens to be representatives. However, what prevents representatives from swaying voters, just as speakers could sway the masses in the Ekklesia? James Wilson and James Madison articulated that larger constituencies would solve this problem since the risk of electing demagogues who could manipulate smaller groups would be reduced.

Larger constituencies, while addressing one problem, create another. They create a barrier to entry since large amounts of financial capital are required to mobilize and reach voters. This filters out candidates who may be poorer. Indeed, as Chhokar points out, it is usually richer candidates who get elected. This principle of distinction was explicitly intentional in earlier US, UK, and French political systems. However, despite the elimination of a legal landowning requirement, it is still visible today.

The principle of distinction, intended to bring forth citizens with more virtue and integrity, instead manifests itself as electing candidates with criminal cases against them. Ordinary people, according to Chhokar, perceive failure in the state and the court’s ability to deliver justice, resorting to “Robin Hoods.” There is a clear distinction between representatives with muscle power and will and the powerless electorate. It was believed that by having representatives from a wealthier class, they would be less likely to be influenced by corruption and foreign influence. However, as Chhokar points out, candidates who win and become ministers see their wealth increase by more than three times, a rate far higher than that of an ordinary citizen.

At the time when the French and American constitutions were drafted, the existence of political parties or factions was limited. However, their existence now creates yet another filter for representation. Political parties enable candidates to utilize party machinery to mobilize voters, reach more people through the media, and take advantage of voters’ party preferences. Individual candidates simply cannot compete at this level. This is true; as Chhokar points out, people would rather choose a criminal politician if they are part of the big parties (BJP, Congress) and have a role in governance than choose an independent candidate.

From direct democracy, where anyone could participate in decision-making, to initial representative democracies, where voters could choose any representative, we move to our current system, which has strangled voter choice. As Chhokar points out, the choice of MPs is completely controlled by the political party. A candidate, therefore, must vote for bills proposed by their parties, even if they are harmful to their constituency. In this manner, the representative is no longer serving the interests of the voters but of the parties. This is further exacerbated by the problem of corporate lobbying through donations and electoral bonds. The loopholes in donation disclosures allow parties to serve the interests of the wealthy while the voters have limited knowledge of these transactions. Chhokar concludes by saying that addressing these challenges requires political parties to be more democratic in choosing to give out tickets.

References:

Manin, B. (1997). The Principles of Representative Government. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Ashraf, A. (2019). Forget being a rich man's democracy, we are not even a democracy: ADR's Jagdeep S Chhokar. The Caravan. https://caravanmagazine.in/politics/chhokar-democracy-elections-funding



Representative democracy in India is neither “representative” nor “democratic”

"The Tragedy of the Commons" is a type of market failure relating to common resources such as lakes, rivers, pastures, etc. Each individual with access to the common resources tries to maximise their benefit beyond a certain threshold at the cost of other individuals' benefits, eventually leading to the depletion of the common resource. This form of market failure has only been exacerbated recently with the advent of the Industrial Revolution and large-scale production technologies. While preserving common resources is an argument in its own right, it also has a close relationship with development problems.
 
The Ganges River is a common resource which provides fresh water to millions of Indians that is used for drinking and other domestic purposes. It is also a source of livelihood for many who rely on fishing and agriculture. Industries also gain utility from the river as it is an easy outlet to expel effluents and waste. 
 
Despite the river's tremendous cultural, religious, ecological, and economic significance, it continues to be severely polluted. More than a billion litres of raw sewage flow into the river daily, in addition to wastewater from tanneries on the banks. One might argue that these can be classified as negative externalities rather than "Tragedy of the Commons". However, water for irrigation is also being extracted at an unsustainable rate, faster than when monsoon rains can replenish it. This is a clear example of "Tragedy of the Commons". If each farmer / agricultural producer tries to utilise more water than a certain sustainable threshold, it can dry up and jeopardise the needs of future generations. Similarly, if industries pollute more than a specified limit, it can damage the marine ecosystem to a point where fishermen can no longer fish. 
 
The effects mentioned till now were only surface level. This also has deeper implications for the nation's long-term development. Firstly, the pollution has an adverse effect on human capital since it affects people's health reliant on the Ganges' water for drinking. This will weaken people's productivity and strain the nation's healthcare system. 
 
Secondly, it will adversely affect the livelihoods of fishermen and farmers, who generally earn low incomes. This will exacerbate existing inequality. Inequality in itself is an indicator of underdevelopment. However, inequality also causally hinders future development, as economist Debraj Ray points out in his theories of Aspirations.
 
Collective action involves stakeholders making a decision that serves to be in the best interest of the collective group rather than the individual. The main issue in this scenario is that it would be extremely difficult for the various stakeholders to cooperate since the river serves so many people. This creates a need for some form of government intervention. The 'Namami Gange Programme' involves several facets such as sewage treatment, afforestation, public awareness, etc. This can help restore the river to a certain extent. However, there needs to be a framework that deals with the economic incentives of stakeholders to prevent degradation proactively. In 2017, the Uttarakhand High Court declared Ganges a "living entity", giving it the same legal rights as a person. The definition of these additional rights changes the incentives of economic agents since polluting now has a more severe legal repercussion. It would violate the river's "right to life". The results, however, depend greatly on the enforcement and execution of this court ruling. It is easy for me to come up with various theoretical solutions. However, the main challenge lies in the enforcement and execution of those solutions. Our judicial and bureaucratic system itself is an example of market failure relating to institutions.
 
Until now, I had considered market failure to be a deviation from the norm since we first learned the models of perfect competition and introduced market failure as a unique discrepancy. Previously, my view on economic development was heavily biased as I placed greater weightage on GDP per capita and considered other indicators such as health, education, and inequality as secondary. However, upon considering the functional role of inequality in development, I developed an alternative perspective. Moreover, considering underdevelopment as formal institutions replaced by "imaginative" ones gives us an insight into making effective policies that go beyond the superficial levels of "increasing healthcare, education, etc.". 


Hi, I’m Moksh Kushal Shah.

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