A government loses little by talking to peaceful protesters, says OSWALD PEREIRA. It risks much by refusing to listen. For the true measure of a democracy lies not in the power a government wields, but in the dissenting voices it is prepared to hear
For weeks now, the Cockroach Janta Party (CJP) has been protesting against what it describes as a deepening crisis in India’s education system. At the centre of the movement is educationist and activist Sonam Wangchuk who is on an indefinite hunger strike for the eighteenth day today.
The CJP and Wangchuk seek to draw national attention to recurring examination paper leaks, alleged irregularities in educational institutions and the need for greater accountability. Among the movement’s demands is the resignation of Union Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan.
Whether one agrees with those demands is besides the point. The real question is this:
How should a democratically elected government respond when citizens reject violence, embrace peaceful protest and place their own lives at risk to awaken the nation’s conscience?
India need not look elsewhere for an answer. The principle that those who govern must remain attentive to the people’s voice is deeply embedded in our own civilisational imagination.
The ideal of Ram Rajya—as portrayed in the Ramayana and interpreted over centuries—is that of a ruler who placed raj dharma above personal preference. Lord Rama, revered as Maryada Purushottam, is remembered not merely for ruling justly but for accepting personal sacrifice in what he believed to be his duty towards his subjects.
The episode of Sita’s exile remains one of the most debated in Indian tradition, yet it has long symbolised a ruler who treated public opinion not as an inconvenience but as a solemn responsibility. Whether one accepts that interpretation or not, its moral lesson is enduring: good governance demands humility before the people.
That ideal found its most powerful political expression in Mahatma Gandhi.
No one transformed fasting into a more potent instrument of moral persuasion like Gandhi did. During his public life, Gandhi undertook seventeen major fasts, though only a handful were true fasts unto death. They were not acts of political blackmail but appeals to conscience—sometimes directed at the British Government, often at his own followers, always grounded in the belief that voluntary suffering could awaken moral responsibility.
His 1932 fast in Yerwada Jail against the Communal Award triggered intense negotiations that culminated in the Poona Pact. His twenty-one-day fast during the Quit India Movement challenged detention without trial. The British Government did not concede to his political demands, but neither did it ignore them. Doctors monitored his health continuously, and senior officials debated his demands, so that channels of communication remained open. Even a colonial administration understood that moral protest could not simply be dismissed.
His final fasts in Calcutta and Delhi during the communal violence of Partition demonstrated the extraordinary power of conscience over coercion. Gandhi held no office and commanded no force, yet political and community leaders responded to his appeal, pledged peace and persuaded him to end his fast. It was not victory through power but through dialogue.
Independent India has witnessed a similar lesson.
In August 2011, Gandhian activist Anna Hazare began an indefinite fast at Delhi’s Ramlila Maidan demanding a strong Lokpal law to combat corruption. The Congress-led United Progressive Alliance government did not immediately accept his demands, nor was it obliged to do so. But as public support grew, senior ministers entered into negotiations while Parliament debated the issues he had raised. After Parliament adopted a “Sense of the House” resolution broadly endorsing key principles of the proposed legislation, Hazare ended his twelve-day fast. Neither side secured everything it wanted. Democracy, however, was strengthened because engagement prevailed over estrangement.
That history invites reflection on the present.
The Government of India may reasonably argue that concerns over examination paper leaks and educational irregularities should be addressed through investigations, institutional reform and constitutional processes rather than ministerial resignations secured under public pressure. It may also contend that yielding to every hunger strike would create an unhealthy precedent.
Those are legitimate constitutional considerations.
But they do not preclude dialogue.
Meeting peaceful protesters is not a sign of giving in to their demands. Governments routinely engage with farmers, trade unions, students, industry and civil society without accepting every demand placed before them. Listening does not weaken authority; it strengthens democratic legitimacy.
That, ultimately, was Gandhi’s genius. His fasts were never alternatives to conversation; they were invitations to it. Their purpose was not to defeat opponents but to awaken conscience.
From the moral ideal of Ram Rajya to Gandhi’s satyagraha, from Anna Hazare’s anti-corruption movement to today’s hunger strike by Sonam Wangchuk, India’s public life offers a remarkably consistent lesson. Governments need not concede every demand raised in protest. They have a constitutional duty to govern for all, not merely for those who protest the loudest. But they also have a democratic duty to listen, especially when dissent remains peaceful and seeks persuasion rather than confrontation.
Power may command obedience. It cannot command legitimacy. That is earned differently—through openness, humility and the willingness to engage even those who disagree. A government loses little by talking to peaceful protesters. It risks much by refusing to listen. For the true measure of a democracy lies not in the power a government wields, but in the dissenting voices it is prepared to hear.
Some images are AI-generated
OSWALD PEREIRA 