It is a matter of grave concern when the highest constitutional court of the country begins to prescribe how a “true Indian” should think, behave, or express their love for the nation. Going further, it also prescribes where such articulation is to be made. In the case of the Leader of the Opposition in the Lok Sabha, it has to be a forum no less than the Parliament of India. The role of the judiciary, in a democracy as vast and diverse as India, is paramount in upholding the Constitution by safeguarding the spirit of plurality and freedom of expression. Yet, recent observations from the apex court, which appear to describe a singular view of a “true Indian”, raise troubling constitutional questions. While some people may like to celebrate the nation as it is — and that is fine — others may want to ask sharp questions and find solutions to challenges confronting it. When the judiciary begins prescribing normative standards for who is a “true Indian”, it not only oversteps its institutional boundaries but also risks legitimising a narrow and exclusionary nationalism.

The Constitution does not lay down a singular prescriptive idea of what it means to be Indian and how patriotism is to be measured. On the contrary, it guarantees the right to freedom of thought, conscience, expression, and belief. Citizens are not required to conform to a particular cultural or political ethos to prove they belong to the nation. In a previous article (IE, September 9, 2024), I had argued that “government is not the nation”. If the government harms national interest or deliberately conceals facts, it becomes the duty of every citizen to speak out. If Parliament is indicated as the only designated forum for this, it will only muzzle free speech.

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India’s strength lies in its constitutional morality, not cultural uniformity or dominant narratives being perpetuated by the regime. We are a nation of contradictions and coexistence, of overlapping identities and negotiated differences. From Kashmir to Kanyakumari, from Mizoram to Mumbai, there is no one way to love this country, nor a single idiom through which to express national belonging, nor a singular definition of “national interest”. Any attempt, especially by the courts, to define or delineate how a “true Indian” should behave sets a perilous precedent. It threatens to narrow the bounds of citizenship, delegitimise dissent, and marginalise citizens that may already feel excluded from the dominant narrative.

What is equally critical is the need to maintain a principled distinction between the interests of the government and the interests of the nation. These are not synonymous. A government represents a temporary political mandate. A nation like India is a continuing, collective aspiration rooted in democratic values, constitutional norms, and the rights of all citizens, especially the marginalised. When courts fail to see or draw this line clearly, and appear to uphold government positions as though they represent national interest, they risk eroding public confidence in judicial independence and democratic fairness.

The observations of the honourable judge directed towards the LoP lay bare something deeply troubling about how our highest court now views democratic discourse. “Whatever you have to say, why don’t you say in the Parliament? Why do you have to say this in the social media posts?” the honourable judge asked. The framing of the alleged offence itself reveals the problem. Democracy does not come with a rulebook that designates where citizens can raise concerns about national security or territorial integrity. If it did, we would not be a democracy at all.

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Let us consider what was actually being questioned here: Statements about the Chinese occupation of Indian territory. The court’s suggestion that such concerns should be confined to Parliament misses a fundamental truth about democratic accountability. Parliament sessions are limited, question hours are restricted, and governments routinely duck uncomfortable questions. Social media, for all its flaws, remains one of the few spaces where immediate public scrutiny can still function. To suggest that “true Indians” would not air such grievances publicly is to create a certification system for patriotism, one where compliance with procedural propriety matters more than the substance of the concern being raised.

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Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt, in their study of democratic backsliding across the world, hold that the real threats to democracy rarely come from dramatic coups or violent takeovers. Instead, they emerge from the slow erosion of what they call the “soft guardrails”, the unwritten rules of mutual toleration and institutional forbearance that prevent everyday political competition from becoming a zero-sum bloodsport. Mutual toleration means accepting that your rivals have an equal right to exist, compete, and govern, as long as they play by constitutional rules. Forbearance means exercising “patient self-control”, avoiding actions that may be technically legal but violate the spirit of democratic norms. The moment these guardrails crack, political opponents come to be regarded as existential enemies. We see this pattern playing out when courts begin policing the boundaries of acceptable dissent and when criticism of government policy, or lack of one, suddenly requires articulation only in designated forums.

We have seen this erosion play out in other democracies, where institutions that are meant to act as checks on executive overreach become gradually aligned with the state narrative. Dissent becomes anti-national, criticism becomes sedition, and patriotism is judged by conformity rather than conviction. India, with its long and rich tradition of judicial activism and civil liberties jurisprudence, must resist such a slide.

The Supreme Court and other constitutional courts are meant to interpret and uphold the Constitution, defend individual freedoms, and ensure that all organs of the state remain within the bounds of law and accountability. The legitimacy of the judiciary rests on its fidelity to constitutional principles and its commitment to justice.

At a time when political rhetoric is increasingly polarising, when institutional autonomy is under strain, and when democratic dissent is being delegitimised, the judiciary must stand as the last bulwark of constitutional democracy. It must not waver in its duty to protect the space for difference, disagreement, and dissent.

The writer is Member of Parliament (Rajya Sabha), Rashtriya Janata Dal