Hate-filled invective has become common parlance in our socio-political conversations. This gets reflected in our legislatures, parliament and media.
There was a time when Indian television debates were supposed to enlighten the viewer.
That was a charming idea.
Today, much of prime-time television resembles a badly supervised family quarrel, except the family has several hundred million spectators, the participants have microphones, and somebody somewhere is selling advertising slots between the insults.
The latest controversy involving an ABP News debate anchored by Chitra Tripathi has once again raised an uncomfortable question. When a panellist allegedly abuses another person by invoking his caste identity, what exactly is the role of the anchor?
To moderate? To intervene? Perhaps, to say that a television studio is not a medieval wrestling pit? Or simply to allow the spectacle to continue because outrage, after all, has become the most profitable form of public entertainment?
The controversy surrounding remarks allegedly made by Sangeet Ragi against an Ahir or Yadav panellist is disturbing not merely because an individual was insulted. The reported use of caste identity alongside words such as “gawar” exposes something much deeper about our political culture.
India has spent decades congratulating itself on becoming the world's largest democracy. Yet increasingly, our public discourse seems to be asking a more primitive question:
What are you before we listen to what you have to say?
Are you Hindu or Muslim?
Upper caste or lower caste?
North Indian or South Indian?
Bihari or Maharashtrian?
Insider or outsider?
And once we have placed you in the correct box, apparently, the discussion can begin.
Or, more accurately, the abuse can begin.
The Anchor Who Becomes Furniture
Let us be clear. Television anchors are not innocent pieces of studio furniture.
They have microphones, control rooms, producers, delay buttons and, one assumes, vocal cords.
When a debate crosses the line from disagreement into identity-based abuse, an anchor has both the authority and the responsibility to intervene.
But modern television has discovered a remarkable new theory of journalism: the louder the argument, the less responsibility anyone has for it.
The anchor can sit back and say, metaphorically if not literally, “Look what these terrible people are saying!”
Yes. But you invited them.
You gave them the microphone.
You put the programme on air.
And when they began insulting somebody's caste, religion or community, you had the power to stop them.
The problem is not confined to one channel or one anchor. India's broadcasting standards mechanism has, on several occasions, taken action against programmes where communal rhetoric was amplified rather than restrained.
News18 India, for instance, faced regulatory action over debates on the hijab controversy. The News Broadcasting and Digital Standards Authority found fault with the communal framing of the programme and with the failure to maintain appropriate standards of moderation.
Another debate built around the poisonous political arithmetic of “80 versus 20” was criticised for turning India's religious demographics into a television weapon.
Think about that phrase for a moment.
Eighty versus twenty.
Human beings reduced to percentages.
Citizens converted into rival teams.
And democracy transformed into a population census conducted by a boxing referee.
The real danger is not simply that irresponsible words are spoken. It is that repeated exposure makes them sound normal.
Yesterday's outrageous slogan becomes today's television catchphrase.
Today's catchphrase becomes tomorrow's political speech.
And before long, the country is arguing about whether a particular slur was technically offensive, rather than asking why anyone thought it was appropriate in the first place.
From Television Studio to Parliament
Unfortunately, Parliament has not always provided the antidote.
It has sometimes provided the sequel or the prequel.
One of the great ironies of Indian democracy is that the building designed for reasoned debate periodically becomes a place where identity itself is used as a political weapon.
The controversy surrounding remarks about Rahul Gandhi's caste during the Lok Sabha debate in 2024 was a striking example. The argument ostensibly concerned caste politics and the demand for a caste census. But instead of remaining a debate about public policy, it descended into questions about an individual's caste identity.
Some remarks were later expunged. There was outrage. There were demands for apologies.
And then, naturally, everyone moved on to the next outrage.
Expunction is one of Parliament's most elegant forms of political time travel.
Something is said.
It is broadcast live.
It is clipped for social media.
It circulates across the country.
Then it is expunged from the official record.
Wonderful.
The words may no longer exist in Hansard, but they have already taken a holiday across WhatsApp, YouTube, X and Facebook.
The horse has not merely bolted. It has opened a social-media account.
The same pattern appears repeatedly. Political opponents are described as anti-Hindu, pro-Pakistan or sympathetic to terrorists. These labels are casually flung into the air like confetti at a particularly unpleasant wedding.
And when the Speaker intervenes, it is often after the political damage has been done.
The presiding officer faces a difficult task, of course. Legislatures are supposed to permit passionate disagreement.
But there is a difference between passion and prejudice.
Democracy does not become stronger when elected representatives turn religious identity into an insult.
It merely becomes noisier.
The State Legislatures: Local Democracy, Local Abuse
If Parliament offers a national stage for these performances, state legislatures frequently provide regional versions.
Recent controversies in Telangana and Bihar have once again shown how quickly arguments about public policy can slide into accusations and counter-accusations involving caste.
In Bihar, a debate over issues connected with educational equity reportedly led to a confrontation over caste-oriented remarks, with the Speaker eventually ordering disputed words to be expunged.
Again, notice the sequence.
The insult.
The uproar.
The intervention.
The expunction.
The headlines.
This has become almost a constitutional ritual.
Punjab too has witnessed controversies over alleged casteist language involving political leaders and legislators, followed by demands for apologies.
Now, apologies are welcome. Nobody should complain when a public figure admits wrongdoing.
But we must ask why the apology has become the second half of the political performance.
First, say something inflammatory.
Second, wait for the cameras to record it.
Third, watch supporters and opponents fight over it for forty-eight hours.
Fourth, issue a carefully worded apology.
The modern political apology is often less an expression of remorse than a press release wearing a sad face.
The Old Disease of Regional Chauvinism
And then there is regional identity.
India's political history has repeatedly shown how easily economic anxiety and electoral opportunism can be converted into hostility towards migrants.
The anti-North Indian campaign associated with Raj Thackeray and the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena in 2008 remains one of the most notorious examples.
Migrants from Uttar Pradesh and Bihar were portrayed as invaders rather than fellow citizens exercising their constitutional right to live and work anywhere in India.
Chhath Puja, a religious and cultural festival cherished by millions, was dragged into the political firing line.
The message was brutally simple: some Indians were apparently more Indian than others.
Bal Thackeray's reported description of Biharis as an “unwanted lot” represented the same ugly instinct.
Imagine the absurdity.
A country that proudly advertises itself as a civilisation of unity in diversity periodically discovers that unity becomes difficult when somebody with a different accent is looking for a job in Mumbai.
Regional chauvinism is perhaps the most intellectually lazy form of politics.
Instead of asking why there are insufficient jobs, blame the people seeking them.
Instead of improving infrastructure, blame those using it.
Instead of questioning government policy, find an outsider.
Every failing system loves an outsider.
The outsider cannot vote in sufficient numbers, cannot always defend himself and is wonderfully convenient when the real questions become uncomfortable.
Religion as a Political Insult
Religion, of course, is the most combustible identity of all.
Television has repeatedly demonstrated how easily a discussion involving crime, terrorism, clothing, food or even a neighbourhood can be turned into a referendum on an entire community.
Regulatory bodies have criticised programmes where anchors and panellists used language that unnecessarily communalised an issue.
Terms linking ordinary crimes to Islam, references to a “Hijabi Gang”, or the habit of portraying every dispute as evidence of some larger religious conspiracy do not constitute serious journalism.
They constitute storytelling for people who have already decided who the villain is.
And that is the tragedy.
Once identity becomes the central frame, facts become an inconvenience.
If the accused belongs to the “wrong” community, the community is put on trial.
If the victim belongs to the “right” community, outrage becomes mandatory.
If the facts complicate the narrative, someone simply shouts louder.
This is not journalism.
It is identity politics with studio lighting.
The Silence of the Referee
But let us return to the central issue: the silence of those responsible for maintaining order.
A referee who watches a foul and does nothing is not a neutral observer.
A Speaker who repeatedly permits personal abuse to overwhelm debate cannot simply claim that democracy is noisy.
And an anchor who allows caste or religious invective to continue unchecked cannot hide forever behind the excuse of being “impartial”.
Neutrality is not the same as passivity.
If one panellist abuses another person's caste, cutting him off is not taking sides.
It is enforcing a minimum standard of civilisation.
If a guest attacks an entire religious community, stopping him is not censorship.
It is moderation.
That, after all, is why the person is called a moderator.
Not a spectator.
The Deeper Problem
Perhaps the deepest problem is that India has developed an enormous appetite for political humiliation.
We no longer merely want our side to win an argument.
We want the other side to be destroyed.
We do not want disagreement.
We want demolition.
We do not want facts.
We want viral clips.
And caste, religion and regional identity provide the easiest ammunition because they strike at something deeper than political opinion.
An argument can be answered.
An identity can be targeted.
That is why identity-based abuse is so dangerous.
It tells the individual: you are not wrong because of what you said. You are wrong because of who you are.
That idea is fundamentally incompatible with a constitutional democracy.
Closing
The ABP controversy, therefore, should not be treated as an isolated television accident.
It should make us examine the larger culture we have created.
A culture where anchors sometimes confuse chaos with debate.
Where legislators confuse personal identity with political argument.
Where regional leaders confuse migrants with enemies.
And where religious identity is increasingly treated as a political shortcut.
India does not lack loud voices.
What it increasingly lacks are responsible referees.
The next time a politician, panellist or television guest reaches for caste, religion or regional identity as an insult, the person in charge must intervene immediately.
Not after the commercial break.
Not after the social-media storm.
Not after the legal complaint.
Immediately.
Because democracy is not a shouting competition in which the loudest bigot wins.
And a television debate is not successful merely because two people have shouted so loudly that neither the audience nor the participants can remember what the original question was.
India is a country of astonishing diversity. That diversity is not our weakness.
But it can become one if cynical politicians, reckless television performers and silent moderators continue to turn every difference into a weapon.
The real test of a democracy is not whether people can shout.
People have always been able to shout.
The real test is whether those entrusted with power have the courage to say: Enough.
Perhaps that is the most revolutionary word missing from Indian public discourse today.
Enough.
Enough of turning caste into an insult.
Enough of treating religion as ammunition.
Enough of making migrants the scapegoats for political failure.
Enough of confusing abuse with courage and noise with truth.
Because if the people holding the microphones, the Speaker's chair and the anchor's desk cannot draw that line, then we may eventually discover something profoundly ironic.
The world's largest democracy still has a debate.
It just no longer has a moderator.
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