The Politics of Autonomy: Indian Experiences

THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY

THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY Indian Experiences

Edited by

RANABIR SAMADDAR

SAGE Publications New Delhi
Thousand Oaks
London

Copyright © Mahanirban Calcutta Research Group, Kolkata, 2005 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. First published in 2005 by Sage Publications India Pvt Ltd B-42, Panchsheel Enclave New Delhi 110 017 www.indiasage.com Sage Publications Inc 2455 Teller Road Thousand Oaks, California 91320

Sage Publications Ltd 1 Oliver’s Yard, 55 City Road London EC1Y 1SP

Published by Tejeshwar Singh for Sage Publications India Pvt Ltd, phototypeset in 9.5/12 pt Calisto MT by Star Compugraphics Private Limited, Delhi and printed at Chaman Enterprises, New Delhi. The assistance of the Ford Foundation in publication of the volume is hereby aknowledged. The views expressed, however, are not necessarily those of the Ford Foundation. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The politics of autonomy: Indian experiences/edited by Ranabir Samaddar. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. India—Politics and government—1947– 2. Democracy—India. 3. Federal government—India. 4. Pluralism (Social sciences)—India. 5. Postcolonialism—India. I. Samåaddåara, Raònabåira. II. Title. JQ231.P65

320.454'049—dc22

ISBN: 0–7619–3452–9 (Hb) 0–7619–3453–7 (Pb)

2005

2005026020

81–7829–602–0 (India–Hb) 81–7829–603–9 (India–Pb)

Sage Production Team: Ridhima Mehra, Ashok R. Chandran and Santosh Rawat

CONTENTS Acknowledgments

7

The Politics of Autonomy: An Introduction Ranabir Samaddar

9

Part I: Genealogy 1. The Birth of the Autonomous Subject? Pradip Kumar Bose

35

2. Women’s Autonomy: Beyond Rights and Representations Paula Banerjee

49

3. Where Do the Autonomous Institutions Come From? Samir Kumar Das

71

4

93

The Constitutional and Legal Routes Ashutosh Kumar

5. Autonomy’s International Legal Career Sabyasachi Basu Ray Chaudhury

114

Part II: Practices of Autonomy 6. The Ethno and the Geo: A New Look into the Issue of Kashmir’s Autonomy Sanjay Chaturvedi

139

7. Silence under Freedom: The Strange Story of Democracy in the Darjeeling Hills Subhas Ranjan Chakrabarty

173

8. Autonomy in the Northeast: The Frontiers of Centralized Politics Sanjay Barbora

196

6 / THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY 9. Autonomy in the Northeast: The Hills of Tripura and Mizoram Subir Bhaumik and Jayanta Bhattacharya

216

10. Resources for Autonomy: Financing the Local Bodies Ratan Khasnabis

242

Bibliography Index About the Editor and Contributors

286 301 311

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The Politics of Autonomy follows up with detailed essays, the research inputs on keywords and key texts on the theme of autonomy (Indian Autonomies —Keywords and Key Texts), published by the Calcutta Research Group (CRG). These two companion volumes bring out, probably for the first time, the dynamics of autonomy in India from various angles, and with that, present the possible future history of autonomous politics in this country. Along with that we have tried to present a general lesson for post-colonial politics, in fact for democratic theory, which had all along considered autonomy as an exceptional measure to keep the undemocratic constituencies in a democracy happy, and at best, an exotic theme for the philosophically minded people. This volume unearths sufficient evidence to show that autonomy cannot be an exceptional measure to be taken in doses to make democracy acceptable; it must be the historicalpolitical ingredient with which democracy is to be built. Thus, notions of federalism, devolution of power, minority protection, rights of the indigenous people, and legal pluralism must now be combined and put in a collective form known as the politics of autonomies. We need to caution our readers of two possible misinterpretations in this context. First, when we speak of the principle and arrangements of autonomies as essential components of the framework of democracy, we are not suggesting thereby, even for a moment, that these are contentionfree principles or contention-free arrangements. Like all other aspects of democracy, this too is an example of contentious politics, as the essays in this volume sufficiently demonstrate. Like all other principles and arrangements, these too are subject to governmental manipulation, negotiation, and contest. Indeed, one form of autonomy may come in conflict with another. Group autonomy may come into conflict with gender autonomy. This brings us to the second caution, which is that the volume speaks of autonomies and not one supreme principle of autonomy, meaning thereby that in this vision, one form or arrangement of autonomy cannot cancel another; autonomies must learn to co-exist in a sort of negotiation, conversation, and daily dialogue. Our political future is moving in that direction.

8 / THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY This work, as in other cases with the Calcutta Research Group, has been a collective exercise. In this work, the contributors to the volume remain mutually indebted, and it remains for the editor to thank the members of the research collective for their continued support to the editor when the laborious work of tidying up the manuscript began. The editor takes this opportunity to sincerely thank Dulali Nag for going through all the essays, offering suggestions on making the manuscript focused, and the essays more rigorous. The other friend to be thanked especially is Bishnu Mohapatra, whose interest in the research program and suggestions were particularly helpful. He acted much more than a representative of the Ford Foundation whose generous assistance saw this research program through. The research program on autonomy was combined with a dialogue program also on the same theme. These papers, from their ideas to their full forms, were discussed thoroughly in three discussion sessions, where the dialogue participants shared various experiences and raised normative questions. These dialogues set the tone and the huge experiential background against which the essays were written and subsequently revised. As a method of research on a topic as this, this was a new and enormously beneficial experience for the CRG. For the success of the three dialogues (Shillong, Varanasi, and Darjeeling), whose reports are available in print and on the web (www.mcrg.ac.in), my thanks go to besides the contributors, Rabindra Kishore Deb Barma, Aditi Bhaduri, Dwaipayan Bhattacharya, Fulan Bhattacharji, Lachit Bordoloi, Tapan Kumar Bose, Linda Chhakchhuck, Khesheli Z. Chishi, Gautam Chakma, Bijoy Kumar Daimary, Gurudas Das, Meenakshi Gopinath, Rajen Harshe, Achumbemo Kikon, Dolly Kikon, Debabrata Koloy, Bani Prasanna Misra, Tilottoma Misra, Udayon Misra, Surajit C. Mukhopadhyay, Soumen Nag, Arun Kumar Patnaik, Pradip Phanjoubam, Abdur Rauf, Gina Shangkham, Bhupen Sarmah, Hari Sharma, Nandini Sundar, Malini Sur, Kumar Suresh, David Syiemlieh, Haliram Terang, C. Joshua Thomas, and Siddiq Wahid. Finally, it remains for me to acknowledge the assistance of Samir Kumar Das, Sabysachi Basu Ray Chaudhury, and the general staff support at CRG, without which carrying out of the long research program would not have been possible. To the members of our staff, my heartfelt thanks are expressed. Kolkata 6 June 2005

Ranabir Samaddar

THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY: AN INTRODUCTION Ranabir Samaddar

A Symbol of Emerging Political Spaces

I

n this age when political thinking is caught between neo-liberal thinking concentrating on the limits of governmental power and functions on the one hand, and the seemingly overwhelming reality of governmental power, functions, and actions on the people turning them into administrable population groups on the other, it is absolutely essential to give proper attention to the visible and half-visible autonomies of the new societies, if we want to trace the emerging patterns of the politics of resistance. Resistance to the power of the state—demand for autonomy in other words—is encountered today among various sections of society such as women, ethnicities, classes, and so forth. This word, “autonomy,” Michel Foucault, if asked about its mechanics, would probably have read as the signature of governmentality. In this essay, however, we would differ with Foucault to read “autonomy” as the symbol for the emerging patterns of new spaces in politics, spaces that speak of rights, and justice, the plank for these rights. The analytics of government are concerned with the “how” of governmental practices, including practices of self-government. The concern is with how these practices form, increase, and intensify governmental relations between individuals and groups, and how issues of life and truth become deeply marked by governmental relations. Seen from this perspective, politics is governmental politics, a specific form of power existing in microform at every level of social life, helping each individual to

10 / RANABIR SAMADDAR regulate and control his/her body and soul. Seen, however, from the angle of those who are being ruled, i.e., the subjects of governmental relations, politics means the agenda of creating autonomous spaces defying the “iron” laws of governmentality and claiming autonomies in life, in particular political life. “Politics of the governed,” to recall the phrase recently used by a political scientist (Chatterjee, 2004), is not politics modelled and bound by governmentality, but politics that, in the face of the seemingly overwhelming nature of governmental power can claim autonomy for itself. It is only in this way that the capability of the individual and the collectives to be autonomous increases, and power relations intensify. The enhanced capacity to reflect on how governmental practices regulate our political existence and eat up the autonomous spaces results in new autonomies, by which I mean thinking on autonomy beyond the conventional question of the self, and perching it on the crucial concatenation of circumstances that create the political subject, who forms the self through political practices, and whose hermeneutics can be understood only in the context of collective actions and contentious politics. In short, autonomy indicates the autonomous practices that give birth to the political subject whose existence is in contradistinction to the existence of the governmental realities of this world. An analytic of autonomy goes beyond the analysis of governmental rationalities, or of relations between freedom and power, or forms of domination. It reflects, to be precise, on the kinds and relations of power that propel the emergence of autonomous spaces. In this way, it helps us to understand the emergence of the political subject who claims autonomy and defines oneself against the dominant form of relation. I am suggesting, therefore, that autonomy is the “Other” of governmentality, it is a stake that marks the existence of the political subject today. It is different from freedom, because freedom is essentially a value, while autonomy is essentially a category of power. It is different from selfgovernment because, while self-government focuses on the ability of the individual or the collective individual to govern oneself, autonomy always points towards the supplement that remains after (the task of) government has been accomplished. The various forms of autonomy that we witness today indicate the way which politics in the future may take, the new forms of contestations, and the new possibility of disentangling democratic theory from its close association with the dominant organization of power that may emerge. Autonomous practices in sum, indicate the way society can be reorganized, the dialogic zone that can be created

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where autonomies may be negotiated, the responsibilities that autonomies may have to bear in order to converse among themselves—a situation that can be described as the daily plebiscite of a democratic personhood. Come to think of it, autonomous practices point to the principle of “autonomy of the autonomies,” to borrow a term from Sanjay Chaturvedi— beyond governmentality and the calculated behavior of the governed. In my earlier work on issues such as peace accords as the basis of autonomous arrangements, the public policy of conducting dialogue with rebels to arrive at regulatory arrangements of a quasi-autonomous nature, and the various successes, semi-successes, and failures of such actions, I tried to show three things: (a) there is a close relation of link and contest between governmentality and autonomy, (b) the autonomous space is a dialogic form towards ensuring “minimal justice,” and (c) there is a consequent renegotiation of the democratic question in autonomous spaces (Samaddar, 2004). Yet, that work threw less light on the way autonomous spaces emerge than on autonomy as a form of self-determination. In the last few years, however, it has become clear that the environment of governmental relations clouds the principle of self-determination everywhere. So we need to study autonomous practices in the light of this reality, and find out how the autonomous spaces are being retrieved and recreated today. We need to pay attention to two aspects of this relation: First, do governmental rationalities apply to the principles and practices of autonomy? Second, can we equate self-government with autonomy?

Autonomy and Government In order to answer these questions we must first of all explore briefly, what is meant by this theory of the overwhelming reality of governmentality, what this governmentalized reality really is, and, consequently, what the concrete historical backdrop is, against which autonomy emerges as the Other, the counter-reality, the name of a politics not subsumed by governmental rationalities of the government. We should of course first note, that Michel Foucault, in discussing the notion of “governmentality” never uttered a word on autonomy.1 He speaks of the “conduct of conducts,” of the “self acting on the self,” of the rules by which self-government is thus learnt, of the way social management is “governmentalised,” of governmental rationality being a

12 / RANABIR SAMADDAR significant aspect of “bio politics” in which governing the body becomes a critical task of government, and the “government that makes the state possible.” It seems that Foucault had in mind the failure of the welfare states in the West, also the early signs of neo-liberalism that argues for a contraction of the state, particularly welfare functions of the governments, and the imprisonment of democracy in these twin developments.2 We cannot of course be certain about this explanation, because his later writings suggest that the roots of the theory of governmentality lay deeper. He, as we know, strove to explain the technologies of politics in terms of “technologies of the self,” and wanted to show that the realities of the art of governing went back to the early days when the political class learnt to dialogue, determined the conditions under which the members of the political class could dialogue and the forms of the contests in the conversation, and the rules that men must make in taking care of the body, because it was in bodily reality that the art of politics lay. Therefore, for Foucault, governmentality did not mean only governing others, or relations of government, or even the tools and practices of governing people that turn the latter into objects, or that field of relations or dynamics that makes every relation into a relation of government; it also meant governing the self, controlling the self, a politics that builds upon this extensive art of managing the self learnt through centuries of rule and government. With this understanding in the background, the question will be—how do we differentiate between the two concepts of self-government and selfdetermination, or self-government and autonomy? Yet, governing the self comes before governing others. As I have pointed out, the theory of governmentality was never discussed from the angle of the autonomy of the political subject. Foucault explicitly brings in his discussion, the late middle age phenomenon of composing advice to the princes of how to rule. There was then no outside morality in the science of ruling; the science had to be learnt to tackle the triple issues of security, population, and government. Government connects security and the people. Self-government, on the other hand, connects with morality, while governing the family connects with economy, and governing the state connects with politics. This self-government has nothing to do, we should note here, with political autonomy. It rather connects with what Foucault would later term as certain “ethical practices”—of how to write, speak, converse, keep the body healthy, address, make judgments, etc. Foucault makes the sense of governmentality further clear when he stresses the connection between a government and the economy in the perspective

The Politics of Autonomy /

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of the relation between family and economy. As he says, “To govern a state will mean, therefore, to apply economy, to set up an economy at the level of the entire state, which means exercising toward its inhabitants, and the wealth and behaviour of each and all, a form of surveillance and control as attentive as that of the head of a family over his household and his goods” (Faubion, 1999: 207). Government, besides indicating processes of governing which its association with economy reveals, also means the right disposition of things. Once again it is being indicated by the term, that there is a field of “intervention through a series of complex processes, which are absolutely fundamental to our history,” and this field also means a right disposition, that is arrangement, of things and men. Because, men governed means men in their relations, their links, their “imbrication with things that are wealth, resources, means of subsistence, the territory with its specific qualities, climate, irrigation, fertility and so on, men in their relation with those other things that are customs, habits, ways of acting and thinking, and so on; and finally men in their relation to those still other things that might be accidents and misfortunes such as famine, epidemics, death, and so on … government concerns things understood in this way, this imbrication of men and things” (ibid.: 208–9). To govern means, then, to govern things, and to stretch the point a little, governing men by turning them into things. One can see that Foucault reads the origins of the government quite narrowly. It is almost a utilitarian reading of the task of governing that has little to do with the tasks of ruling or suppression, or negotiating the facts of mutiny, revolt, refusal to pay rents and taxes, or say for instance, meeting the need for optimization of the colonial practices of an empire, the need to maintain an army, to guard the extraction of resources and revenues, and most important, the need to negotiate the parallel and often-underground language of rights, autonomy, and illegality. If one origin of the idea of governmentality is the utilitarian task of governing, the other origin is sovereignty, once again the explanation arriving from the top. Foucault says that sovereignty may not be enough for ruling, for, in case of sovereignty, obedience to laws is indisposable, and law and sovereignty are inseparable, “for government it is not a case of imposing law, but disposing things.” Governmental rationality extends beyond law, it “uses law like tactics,” “it is statistics,” and the art of government could expand in peace-time after frequent and long drawn-out wars are over. The framework of sovereignty is too large, abstract, and rigid; while the theory of government relied on a model that was initially weak, the art of

14 / RANABIR SAMADDAR government escaped the difficulty by inventing functions that were related to economy, expansion of demography, and appropriateness of scale. Technical developments aided the proliferation of governmental activities, and the knowledge of governing related to the larger process of the economy led to the transition from the art of governing to the science of governing, called political science. Foucault concludes the discussion by saying two things, which have implications for our discussion on autonomy. First, he says that the ensemble of institutions, procedures, calculations, tactics, etc. known as government is aimed at a population and its basis is the knowledge of political economy. It soon overshadows state, sovereignty, etc. so much so, that even the state is governmentalized with increases in the knowledge of government. Second, this phenomenon draws initially on archaic models, drawing support from military models and techniques, and grows with the growth of knowledge of policing and managing, the dual practices being subsumed within the single term governing. We can now see that we cannot progress with our ideas and discussions on autonomy without coming to an understanding of two posers raised in the discussion earlier, namely, do governmental rationalities apply to the principle and practices of autonomy? And, can we equate selfgovernment with autonomy? I think if we leave aside the point that governing began with selfgoverning, and therefore the self is the ultimate (or the first?) object of government, it is true, however, that the practice of autonomy can internalize many of the governmental rationalities, and can become limited or fictive. Also, we can admit that governmental rationalities such as management of economy, quantifying objects of governing thereby turning them into “things,” and complex institutional processes backed by knowledge of the science of governing (much like what Max Weber commented on bureaucracy)3 have become essential for politics. Autonomous movements and political practices for autonomy are infected or invested with these rationalities. Yet, movement after movement for selfdetermination, and more significant new spaces in society claiming autonomy, show the limits of governmentality. Peace talks do not end violence, nor do they produce devotion to the Constitution. Indeed, the Constitution provokes autonomy of the street. Indigenous people demand autonomy. Spaces in society clamor for legal pluralism, which is the other word for autonomy of other forms of legal thinking than the centralized modern legal system, and the sovereignty of the basic law.

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Women claim autonomy, and increasingly feminism is used as a resource for generating and enriching autonomy of spaces. Indeed, as Paula Banerjee makes explicit in one of her recent studies on women’s movements, “Acts and facts of women’s justice,” each time the women’s movement made some progress in ensuring justice for women, law was able to cloud the progress with a governmental form of justice; yet again that factor never satisfied the feminist movements in India. The movements progressed to the extent of giving birth to autonomous women’s organizations whose purpose, dynamics, and style of functioning today defy any governmental straightjacket. Similarly, as the failure of so called peace accords and autonomy packages demonstrates, either these governmental packages fail to satisfy discontent and rouse more desire for a share of sovereignty (the recurrent Bodo and Tripura accords illustrate this), or they incite imagination for an enriched form of autonomy that would redefine the two principles of justice and democracy. The studies by Ashutosh Kumar, Sanjay Chaturvedi, Subir Bhaumik, Samir Das, and Sanjay Barbora on themes such as the history of the constitutional deliberations on autonomy, the interface of geo-politics and the ethno-politics in the emergence of every autonomous space in society, the interplay of constitutionalism and autonomy, and case analyses of autonomy movements in Kashmir, Assam, Tripura, Jharkhand, Mizoram, and the hills of Darjeeling form a bunch of solid historical illustrations of the fact that autonomy represents the element of “excess” that political imagination represents over and above the politics guided by governmentality.4 Thus, beyond the boutique variety of multiculturalism, autonomy has become one of the fundamental principles of reorganizing society. Indeed, today’s political society stands on two related recognitions: (a) politics is autonomous, and it is not always going to listen to economic wisdom, and (b) that political existences or spaces must have some degree of autonomy in order to co-exist with others and make politics meaningful. In event after event, it is clear that raising the demand for autonomy is the most effective way of countering constitutional essentialism, and forcing the agenda of dialogue to come out in the front. We can say in that sense, there is a dramatic transformation in the significance of the word “autonomy.” As in all other cases, here too, signs function in a group; and with the entire field of political actions changing, the signs too are changing in their signifying functions. Locality, difference, modes of sharing sovereignty, street politics, mechanisms of dialogue, new forms of collective actions, and the persistence of the raw physical forms of politics, such as “terror,” have made

16 / RANABIR SAMADDAR a great change in the field of politics, so much so that achieving governmental efficiency and rationality has become the most tenacious but elusive dream of governmental managers trying to discipline wild societies and runaway politics. Politics produces agents; agents claim and produce autonomy. We can now come to the insight provided by the above discussion. Governmental science admittedly produces multiplicities, yet the irony is that it wants to handle this multiplicity on a homogenous scale, by a homogenous standard, at a homogenous level. Yet, autonomy is produced from heteronomy. Heteronomy comes from difference, distance, and inequality. “Difference, distance, and inequality” are not only signs of multiplicities; they are essential to this heteronomic world. Deleuze tells us, We would be criticized for having included all differences in kind within intensity, thereby inflating with everything that normally belongs to quality. Equally we could be criticized for having included within distances what normally belongs to extensive quantities. To us these criticisms do not appear well founded. It is true that in being developed in extension, difference becomes simple difference of degree and no longer has its reason in itself…. In short, there would no more be qualitative differences or differences in kind than there would be quantitative differences or differences of degree, if intensity were not capable of constituting the former in qualities and the latter in extensity, even at the risk of appearing to extinguish itself in both. (Deleuze, 2001: 238–39)

In other words, difference is autonomous. Difference is essential, and it owes its fundamental existence to such physical factors existing at the micro-level as distance, degree, and inequality. Weberian rationality or Foucault’s governmentality cannot suppress differences that propel autonomy. Distinct physical realities of politics defeat Weberian rationality. Autonomy springs from this physicality of politics. Finally we can say, governmentality produces difference from the top; autonomy is the mark of negotiating difference from below. Autonomy is, therefore, not an exceptional principle of democracy conceded to some belligerent section of society or some areas or groups of population, such as frontier populations insistent on autonomy. Autonomy is the organizing principle of the emerging political society, autonomies in perpetual dialogue among themselves, linked by respective responsibilities to retain the autonomous places in a dialogic universe.

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The Paradox of Autonomy in India The fact that autonomy is a meeting ground of governmentalization and difference and the fact that autonomy too can be governmentalized or be another governmental product, yet again the fact that the salient feature of today’s politics is that the political agency claims autonomy from governmental modes and forms (be it statehood or the given form of territory, law, or sovereignty, or the gendered form of politics, or adhering to parliamentary modes of politics, etc.), it should not be surprising that the Indian experiences of autonomy present a paradox, unexplained by the liberal theory of autonomy, or for that matter the neo-liberal theory of governmentality. In order to understand the paradox, we should begin with what the political theory of autonomy fails to indicate. As is commonly understood, the notion of autonomy is seen as belonging to nature, which is to say it is the source or the basis of political morality: claims and obligations. In the political context, individuals or communities as political actors should possess independent self-governing and self-legislative authority. Immanuel Kant thought of rational actors who could be lawgivers or legislators to themselves, and therefore responsible for their modes of behavior. This was to him a universal principle that required that one could set one’s own ends only within a framework that was based on acceptance by all other such beings. Autonomy, the categorical principle, was to lead therefore to harmony, and not discord. Autonomy was the property of the will by which it (was) a law to its own self (independently of any property of the objects of volition), subject only to laws given by him, but still universal. One should notice here that Kant in describing autonomy as “property of the will” was integrally linking it to will. By the same token, however, autonomy was different from freedom, because, as Locke thought, freedom was the condition of a person to think, or not to think; to move, or not to move, according to the preference or direction of his own mind; autonomy implied on the contrary, responsibility, legality, universality, and morality. To be sure, the long liberal thinking of autonomy never came to terms with freedom, will, and the political realities of coercion and management of orders connected with will. Is there then a hierarchy of values involved in this uneasy relation between autonomy and the other values of freedom and will? Can we say then that a person is autonomous with respect to a desire if s/he is not moved by it, or s/he has not identified with it, or if

18 / RANABIR SAMADDAR s/he does not want to be so autonomous? In an autonomous move the actor directs and governs the action. But what explains this autonomous move? Free will? Reason? We can already see the contours of the paradox. If we say, reason governs my life and is thus the source of my autonomy, the problem is, what do we say of the actor who is guided by passion and claims to be autonomous? Clearly, the unease that surfaces the moment we think along that line indicates a confusion here—autonomy suggests freedom, yet it suggests regulation, direction, or to be precise, selfregulation, self-direction, and self-governance. Autonomy is thus only one subject in the empire of conditions. These conditions of management, rule, governance, and admissible forms of politics are so basic and intensely physical or material, that issues of autonomy affect and involve even the body. The Indian experiences of course suggest that there is more to the paradox that I have just suggested above. In the construction of a political society, people or the actors continually face the principle of several autonomies. These autonomies (horizontal, vertical, political, fiscal, cultural) mark the contentions and engagements that make a political society. In this political society, what we term as public sphere is on the one hand regarded as the “habitus” of democracy, and on the other shows itself to be singularly incapable of coping with what I call the “politics of autonomy.” One reason which I do not have the occasion here to discuss at length, is the fact that modern democratic polities with their celebrated public spheres are not all dialogic, therefore they understand freedom much more and are ready to be guided by wills, but cannot cope with autonomies, perched as they are on the old juridical notions of sovereignty. All that these polities can accommodate is a sort of “boutique multiculturalism.” The situation is indeed worse, and even by Habermas’ standards, defies the capacity of “communicative rationality” to be set right. The South Asian experiences of Sri Lanka, India, Nepal, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, or the experiences of Basque, Kosovo, Northern Ireland, all point to the incapacity of democracies to appreciate the paradox and tensions in the politics of autonomy and imagine new forms of political society. In India the political struggles of autonomy led to a wide variety of constitutional forms, in the introduction of which, the colonial administrative practices too had an equal hand. Indeed, the Indian experience is the most instructive because of its diversity and range, the extent of colonial innovations, multiple forms of autonomy, the complex path of constitutionalism, a wide variety of accords, the persistent demands

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for self-determination in various forms, and an unyielding and innovative state determined to keep the destined nation intact while keeping others from gaining nationhood. It is also important to recall in this context, the political and constitutional ways in which the minorities have been negotiated by the Indian state by granting mainly religious minorities limited form of autonomy in personal laws and cultural autonomy, a process discussed in detail in one of my earlier works, A Biography of the Indian Nation, 1947–97 (2001a). Asutosh Kumar’s essay on the constitutional history of autonomy also illustrates the interface of the legal and the political in autonomy’s contentious career. The Constitution provides special status for certain states such as Jammu and Kashmir, Nagaland, Sikkim, Assam, Manipur, Arunachal Pradesh in Articles 370 to 371H. The Constitution also embodies the principle of non-discrimination in Articles 14, 15, 16, 19, and 29. It assures freedom of conscience in Article 25 and freedom to manage religious affairs in Article 26. Article 30 ensures the right of minorities to establish and administer their own educational institutions. Under the special protection clause in Article 371, tribal customary laws, procedures, and land rights are protected. Part XVI ensures special provisions for scheduled castes, scheduled tribes, and other backward classes. There are arrangements for zone councils. The States Reorganization Commission ensured statehood for major linguistic groups. There is provision for autonomous district councils in scheduled tribe dominated districts. The 73rd and 74th Amendments to the Constitution ensured devolution of powers at village and town levels. Similarly, the Constitution arranged for financial autonomy of the states through constitutionally prescribed division of resources and the National Finance Commission. Apart from creating new states (some very recently created) and autonomy for some states in particular, a range of accords and unilateral measures on Darjeeling, Bodoland, Leh, North Cachar Hills, Karbi Anglong district, Khasi district, Jaintia Hills district, Tripura Tribal Areas district, Chakma, Mara, and La districts in Mizoram, created autonomous areas and district councils under the Fifth and Sixth Schedules. The pattern of combining nationhood with exceptional autonomies is significant. Is autonomy a part of the basic features of the Constitution that the Parliament should not touch? There is no clear answer whether the provisions of autonomy are inviolable or not in the context of the erosion of Article 370 providing for autonomy of the state of Jammu and Kashmir. The apex court never had autonomy in mind when commenting upon the violability or the inviolability of the basic features,

20 / RANABIR SAMADDAR that primarily meant fundamental rights, which have only one among it dealing with autonomy.5 In the constitutional thinking, the democratic language is one of rights and not autonomy. Thus provisions such as Articles 14–16 (again combining exceptional discrimination on positive grounds), Articles 22–23, Article 25 (combining exceptional right), Article 29, Articles 38–39 (defining common welfare, securing common good, and indeed laying down the constitutional basis of a welfare state), Articles 46–47, Articles under Part IX (the panchayats)—intend to create a polity that can be said to be based on republicanism—that is, one nation, one people—while allowing autonomies as exceptional measures. It is not surprising, therefore, that even though provisions such as Article 244 (administration of scheduled areas—Fifth and Sixth Schedules) form a part of the Constitution, they are inadequate to counter the wave of majoritarianism that draws legitimacy from the republican ideology. There is more to this unequal co-existence of nationalism and autonomy. For example, there is no uniform civil law. There are, on the contrary, a variety of personal laws and linguistic autonomy in some measure. The Indian constitutional and political system has evolved through at least a 70-year-long history of a range of autonomies—administrative, cultural, religious, fiscal, and legal-juridical. Yet, demands for the right to self-determination, ranging from more autonomy to secession have risen frequently. If some have mellowed, others have persisted and have grown insistent notwithstanding massive state suppression and loss of lives. It began with the Muslim demand for self-determination in the pre-independence time and continues in various forms and at various levels till today. The constituent states have said that their legislative, administrative, and financial autonomy is inadequate or has diminished. Kashmir says its autonomy is fictive. Insurgents in the Northeast have said that the grant of statehood is a ploy to subsume them in the Indian polity. Religious minorities say that they are under unprecedented attack from the fascist communal forces belonging to the majority community backed by the state. The scheduled castes and tribes say that their deprivation, poverty, and disempowerment have only grown. The legaladministrative measures for protection of autonomy, such as the Minorities Commission, Human Rights Commission, Women’s Commission, are severely limited in their powers and functions. These national commissions have their state counterparts even more limited in powers and functions. In short, we have in the Indian instance, the most extraordinary juxtaposition of measures of autonomy and a relentless centralization. Seen from another angle, we have here, the most relentless constitutionalism

The Politics of Autonomy /

21

and governmentalization of the principle of autonomy and the most insistent demand of the political subject to gain recognition. It is also a narrative of how and when a group refuses to accept at some historical moment, the identity of a minority and claims the status of a people, a nation. The paradox of governmentality and autonomy inherent in the emergence of the political subject in India has been evident in the tortuous history of legal negotiation with the notion of autonomy on the basis of certain constitutional principles, which have not been adequate for that purpose. Marc Galanter had commented 30 years ago, The modern legal system has transformed the way in which the interests and concerns of the component groups within Indian society are accommodated and find expression. In traditional India, many groups (castes, guilds, villages, sects) enjoyed a broad sphere of legal autonomy, and where disputes involving them came before public authorities, the latter were obliged to apply the rules of that group. That is, groups generated and carried their own law and enjoyed some assurance that it would be applied to them. In modern India we find a new dispensation—the component groups within society have lost their former autonomy and isolation. Now groups find expression by influence in the political sphere, by putting forth claims in terms of general rules applicable to the whole society. The legal system, then, provides a forum in which the aspirations of India’s governing modernized western-educated elite confront the ambitions and concerns of the component groups in Indian society. In this forum the law as a living tradition of normative learning encounters and monitors other traditions of prescriptive learning and normative practice. (Galanter, 1971/1997: 237–38)

It is of course true that nationalism and democracy have broadened the public sphere and the disadvantaged within the group now have access to justice previously denied to them. Also, Galanter is concerned here with only one kind of autonomy. Primarily concerned with battles within “Hindu” society for legal justice, he neglected the issue of autonomy of other kinds of groups. The main issue is: Can we have a differential system of justice in place of an equal system of public justice with one or the other group dominating the public and turning its norm into its favor? Can the democratic legal system accommodate legal pluralism in the widest possible sense retaining justice as the standard? The question that follows as a corollary to the above is, if we have a differential system, will it be competitive or cooperative? Since a modern constitution is based on the republican system of an equal public sphere that sees autonomy as an exception, how will such a basic law inhere autonomy as an integral

22 / RANABIR SAMADDAR principle of democracy? Also important is the question, how will that equality be pursued on the ground in a society largely committed to the value of hierarchy? Finally, one can take the case of caste as an example of the impossible politics of a constitution producing an enduring form of autonomy in India. Though the Constitution finally did not include the series of draft enunciations relating to lower castes and tribes that aimed at defining them as minorities, and suggested that an entire separate part for this be kept in the Constitution, clearly, the text as we find it today, aims at defining the place of caste in Indian life and the role of law in regulating it. The Constitution takes a dim view of the place of caste in Indian life, is ostensibly not concerned with it, the ties of ascription remain beyond its domain; but it sees itself as the fundamental instrument to ensure that these ascriptions do not lead to hierarchy, inequality, and invidious treatment in public life. Caste, therefore, with its own internal order and rules promulgating powers and functions, may continue as an autonomous association, but this autonomy is supervised so that this does not spill over into public politics. Doctrine, ritual, and culture, all three remain outside juridical bounds till these affect the constitutional mission of promoting equality. If they do, the courts and the law become active. In such a perspective, caste becomes both a religious body in the sense that its own prerogative on such matters such as marital rituals, devotional methods, or representation to bodies like relevant commissions is allowed, and a non-religious body in the sense that the Constitution tries to detach it from the wider perspective of the Hindu society and determines its character (advantages and disadvantages) among Muslims and Christians as well. But in the institution of caste, securely tied to the “Hindu world,” few can opt out of the caste-fold and receive protection. The entire controversy over the right to be converted to another faith shows the limits of the Constitution in upholding the autonomy of an individual or a group to choose faith.6 For instance, Indian law permits different family laws on religious lines, even different public laws according to different religions in matters like religious trusts, permits compensatory discrimination in favor of disadvantaged groups, and is sometimes extremely solicitous to religious sensibilities. The broad regulative powers that the state has (“subject to public order, morality and health” vide Article 25.1, and Article 25.2a) are rarely comprehensively enforced. The result is a paradox: we have on the one hand a publicly equal system with broad state powers to regulate practices of separate identity so that they do not go against equality as

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well as differential provisions to help the disadvantaged. On the other hand, we have a public system accessible to a group determined to impose its values in a large or total measure thereby making the public and group interest almost identical. In such a situation, the stress on the judiciary is excessive. The political failure is sought to be compensated by judicial activism to the extent where a judge is compelled to define “who is a Hindu,” or the boundaries of faiths. In short, as I explained in my earlier work on autonomy and autonomous arrangements as the dialogic form of political existence, the Indian instance in an acute manner shows the South Asian experience, namely, that modern law is not a self-fulfilling prophecy working towards the satisfaction of the political subject. Faced with asymmetries of power it can manage at best the co-existence of various normative orders, at worst become a willing accomplice to the manipulation of the public principles by a particular group. It also shows that beyond the given territorial form of autonomy, South Asia by and large has not been able to discover other forms of autonomy that will combine both spatial and spiritual dimensions. The resultant situation displays the existence of two political idioms. There is a liberal republican idiom of democracy originating in the Constitutional exercises of 1946–49 in India (elsewhere in this region at different times) that tolerates autonomy and dissent to a defined extent. There is also a politics of recognition fundamentally expressed in territorial form, pre-existing and now reinforced by the same liberal idiom, which threatens to break out, and indeed sometimes breaks out, of the imposed confines, resulting in a renewed phase of constitutional frenzy. These two are the quarrelsome duo, one not quite being able to displace the other. Together, they have produced the uneasy reality of accommodation, which is not tolerance, but an accommodation of competing realities till one succeeds in pushing the other out of existence. But this situation, as I shall argue now, impels the issue of justice to surface again and again, and places the question of a new dialogic order at the core of the issue of self-determination. The aporia, which I term as the “democratic closure” is clear, and the situation can be summarized briefly as follows: 1. Autonomy hangs as a categorical principle between freedom and regulation, and likewise between reason and passion; 2. autonomy being subject to rules and regulations is an event in the field of governmentality, where freedom and life become subject to governing codes and rules reflected in the “will to power”;

24 / RANABIR SAMADDAR 3. yet, autonomy indicates the desire of politics to escape these rules and regulations and find new forms of federal and confederal political existence; 4. autonomy is stuck between a republican legal code and a hierarchical order, and is yet to achieve a satisfactory regime of legal pluralism; 5. the juridical theory of sovereignty is strengthened by autonomy as a regulative principle, while in contrast to this, the political theory of autonomy requires as its fulfilment, “autonomy of the autonomies”; 6. the success of autonomy depends on the effectiveness of a dialogic order, while autonomy has to depend on the strengthening and the relentless invocation of constitutionalism, which marginalizes the dialogic spirit; 7. though the history of autonomy seems, in a typically Hegelian glass, the progressive realization of a democratic spirit, its conditions are marked by a combination of geo-politics and ethnopolitics, which go far beyond the twin problematics of territory and identity, and summon the very ingredients of the particular mode of power on which modern politics is based. The experiences of South Asia bear out the closure I am speaking of here.

Dialogic Politics as the Third Dimension of Autonomy As in all situations of aporia, we need as a way out, a third dimension here, which is latent but mostly shut out by contending forces and pulls. Dialogic politics that emerges from the quest for minimal justice is the third dimension or the third way. Important from the point of view of a dialogic order, is the shift implied in the politics of autonomy itself, that springs historically from what I term as the quest for minimal justice. Justice moderated by acknowledgment of rights is achieved, every time it is conversed and contested, minimally. The success, semi-success, and failure stories of autonomy are actually narratives of five broad rules of minimal justice. These are: First, all stories of autonomy reflect the requirement of the principle of compensation for past injustices, wrongs, and gestures on behalf of the

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national state to convince the other of its desire to continue with the principle of compensation. Second, they tell us of the need for the principle of supervision which means deciding on the right and agreeable way to supervise the introduction of autonomy. Third, they suggest the principle of custodianship, which is crucial to settle the balance between the territorial sovereignty of the state and the autonomy of the dissenting community. Fourth, and this follows from the preceding principle, the principle of guarantee against future erosion of autonomy and of a mechanism for continuous conversation,7 is very important. Fifth, there is the principle of innovation of federal and autonomous practices along non-territorial lines towards federalizing the political society. Yet, we must understand, that these are not mere abstract principles. They are the products of the experiences mentioned above, and will remain historically conditioned. Minimal justice is “minimal,” not only because it does not make claim to redress all wrongs, but accepts the fact that justice is always historically produced and therefore contingent. These principles require a dialogic order at an increasing scale because, besides other reasons, in this age of globalization they require international guarantee and flexibility of forms of accommodation. This becomes possible when the state is irreversibly linked to an order that propels such an evolution of forms of shared sovereignty. Minimal justice is “minimal” also because the liberal order does not allow justice to play out its possibilities to the maximum. All that minimal justice does is to lend a critical edge to politics that is attempting to come out of the closure placed before the masses in the form of the imperial theory of nationhood, dramatically evident since the miraculous year of 1989. It may very well be that with economic integration helping the recolonization of the “excluded” areas through autonomy packages and devolution, and with the historic growth of a political class that sees the merits and more importantly the possibility of a revision of rules of governance, these principles will be in practice in many parts of the world, and the chronicle of the success and semi-success stories of autonomy will be seen as one of a phase of revision of liberal political rule worldwide. Fifty years later, political and constitutional historians will say that the principle and practices of self-determination occasioned the revision of rule. The issue of justice thereby will not be exhausted; politics is a matter of self, and will continue its vocation of being just, that is seeking

26 / RANABIR SAMADDAR new standards of justice. For, after all, the theory and the reality of the juridical form of sovereignty in the form of a territorial democratic state exists as a “state of nature” whence all things follow and to which all things return. It is this immanent significance of the dialogic form of justice, which I term as “minimal justice” that helps autonomy come out of the governmental bind as the conceptual illusion of a liberal order. One can notice in this context, that researches on democratic experiments in this country have largely ignored the given theory of (national) sovereignty. While democracy in practice brings in a notion of shared sovereignty and autonomy, the theory of (national) sovereignty per se has refused to adapt to the changing circumstances. The republican idea of citizenship has not always met the requirements of democracy. The history of the thinking on sovereignty has been highly uneven. Similarly uneven has remained our thinking on related themes such as the norm of autonomy, its philosophy and its practices, autonomy and the current state of international law, gender and autonomy, experiences of autonomy, autonomy as the product of peace accords, fiscal autonomy, autonomy and decentralization, and the Indian juridical-political thinking on autonomy as a means of accommodation and pluralism. We also have had little thinking on one of the very significant questions of democracy: is local governance necessarily to be understood from within the purview of state institutions? And therefore, the question is, is autonomy for local self-government or autonomy for governing the local? The paradoxical fact that while autonomy can become governmentalized, the imperative of autonomy is to become autonomous of governmentality, is central to many of these questions. Thus, we have seen that the state’s responses to demands for autonomy are not the same in every case. In some cases it has a relaxed attitude to such demands, in others it expresses a “pathological anxiety,” as in the case of demand of religious communities. Likewise, while citizenship in India is multi-layered and a mosaic of many ethnic and linguistic identities, yet, constitutionally, it is still guided by a very official republican idea that cannot grasp the need for renegotiating the principle of citizenship in the light of autonomous and semi-autonomous realities. Similarly, autonomy-enhancing institutions may not necessarily always be democracy-enhancing institutions internally. Autonomy of the group and democracy within the group do not necessarily follow from each other. In this context it is instructive to see how granting autonomy can become part of a governmental exercise in administering inter-ethnic and inter-regional relations. And above all, what is the final test of autonomy in a gender unjust polity and society?

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How should one judge in this respect the issue of women’s autonomy? What is at the heart of the question of women’s autonomy: representation/ justice/rights—all these in relation to the existing patriarchal politics and the state, in relation to the movement? One can further notice in this context, that similar to the way in which the given theory of (national) sovereignty has been largely ignored in political studies of democracy, and least attention has been given to the phenomenon of emerging claims and forms of sharing sovereignty, the theory of justice too was ignored in studies of the claims for autonomy. Because some of these claims are pronouncedly territorial, our thinking on autonomy too has been largely confined to territorial arguments, form, and solutions. Yet, the conflict-ridden history of autonomy in India demonstrates two things: First, the non-territorial forms of autonomy are as important as the territorial forms of autonomy (gender, fiscal, etc.); Second, the reorganization along territorial-autonomous lines can be effective only when these claims of autonomy have the scope to position themselves in a dialogic space and certain standards of justice are available for the dialogue to be meaningful. I have shown elsewhere (Samaddar, 2003) how population flows in different parts of the country, most pronouncedly in the Northeast, have provoked demands for homelands—a demand whose only official or governmental form of expression is autonomy.8 The borders of these “homelands” can be as murderous and conflictive as the borders and boundaries of nations are; they can be as effective lines of partition as real national partitions have been. They can produce xenophobia and mass murders in the same way nation state formations have produced. Yet, we cannot ignore the democratic aspirations in these demands for autonomy and the claims for territorial guarantees for autonomy that these claims have led to. How can democracy settle those claims without the “final solution” of partition? In a situation like this norms of justice are the only means to institute the dialogic space in which autonomies can emerge. Such a dialogic space gathers strength on two realizations: First, the language of rights is inadequate in such a circumstance and hence must be conditioned by the accompanying language of justice; Second, this dialogic space cannot emerge through the Westminster model of representative democracy which runs by numbers, and in which a representative has to create a “mass” which will send him/her to the parliament, and therefore, can easily become the catalyst for mixing communalism, anti-migrant hysteria, and majoritarianism with democracy. The geo-politics and the ethno-politics of autonomy, which Sanjay

28 / RANABIR SAMADDAR Barbora and Sanjay Chaturvedi discuss threadbare, form the inflammable material for the politics of autonomy. Dialogic justice assumes even greater significance in this context. In the solar universe of sovereignty, everything—autonomy, self-determination, nationhood, minority rights, devolution—moves in a confusing circle, at times even losing its distinctive position, but never losing its vocation of circling around sovereignty. And as Sabyasachi Basu Ray Chaudhury points out in the course of tracing autonomy’s international legal career, the political notion of autonomy is caught between various legal ideas of the right to self-determination, minority rights and minority protection, obligations of the state to offer autonomy to the indigenous population groups, etc., and we still do not know if the right to autonomy is unambiguously a legal right in democracy or not. In any case, all these issues, questions, and historical experiences of autonomies in Indian politics call for a new theorizing of the theme of autonomy, which can take into account the tensions and the virtues of dialogue, dialogic forms and dialogic order, the immense significance of territorial and non-territorial forms of autonomy, and can make a fruitful negotiation with the paradox inherent in the politics of autonomy: that it is the dual site of regulation and freedom, power and will.

Conclusion To conclude, understanding the contradictory history of autonomous practices in politics is the key to understanding its significance as a principle of politics. In the first decade of the 21st century, in which we live, autonomy has become one of the major concerns of our social and political existence. Right to autonomous life is now a political, cultural, and social call for both individuals and groups—a rare con-formity that points to the critical importance of the problematic of autonomy in the agenda of critical thinking, as well as its inextricable relation with the philosophy of our time. The term autonomy began to be applied primarily or even exclusively in a political context to “civic communities” possessing independent legislative and self-governing authority. Then the term was taken up again in the context of individual rational persons in the context of their individual rights and existences, and their individual modes of behavior. In the background of the upsurge of anti-colonial movements, the term gained

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new perspectives and meanings, which would now imply not only new rights, but also new responsibilities (autonomy of whom, for whom, with respect to what?). It became the emblem of group rights, in particular, minority rights. In time the idea of autonomy became not only the standard of rights or responsibilities, but also an issue of governmentality, something that denotes transaction, government, negotiation, and relating to others on the basis of set rules. It is this contradictory history of autonomy that has generated the questions mentioned briefly in this introduction and in detail in the book. To recast some of those issues born of the paradox, we have to ask if autonomy has been emblematic of rights, whether it takes into account the gendered nature of the term. Can we trace the birth of the autonomous subject? What are the relevant constitutional and juridical thoughts shaping the universe of autonomy? Why is autonomy, an idea that holds universal attraction for mass politics, related to so much violence? Is autonomy one more regulated term, or is the concept autonomous, so that we can speak of autonomy of the autonomies? And, is private property, to go to the fundamentals, a problematic for autonomy? What is autonomy without access to resources? On the other hand, if forms of ownership of resources determine autonomy, what is left of autonomy as a norm? Once again, historical illustrations point to both possibilities: First, autonomy as autonomy of politics and a particular form of ethics derived from private property and its arrangements; second, autonomy of life that one can enjoy only when access to property makes that enjoyment possible. We have a number of studies on financial devolution and financial autonomy at the village level that point to this paradox. The study by Ratan Khasnabis (in this volume) makes the point clearer. If we relate the concept of autonomy to the more familiar notions of freedom or self-determination, we can locate in this case, the questions of responsibility and the conditions of freedom. We know that autonomy is generally held as a valued condition for persons in liberal cultures. We uphold autonomous agents as the exemplar of persons who, by their judgment and action, authenticate the social and political principles and policies that advance their interests. But the sceptic may ask if we are not being blinded by the ideal of autonomy. Therefore the question: What happens if we value autonomy too much? In autonomous action the agent herself directs and governs the action. But what does it mean for the agent herself to direct and to govern? In the context of the emerging demands for group autonomy, the further question to be probed is if this is not now the occasion to investigate and re-envision the concept of

30 / RANABIR SAMADDAR democracy with the norms, principles, and various forms of autonomy and more importantly in a way, where the standards of minimal justice become the foundation for a new democratic outlook inscribed by practices of autonomy perched on an understanding of each other. Accommodation becomes the form of responsibility for the agency that wills autonomy. In the history of thought, reason has co-opted our conception of autonomy. Given this history, it can be argued that the task is now to set autonomy free, make autonomy autonomous. But the question is how? Surely, the problem is in the way the self defines the claims for autonomy, the way in which it relegates the issue of justice and understanding from considerations of autonomy. Law becomes in such conditions the most assured site of autonomy, and the juridical arrangement handed down from the top becomes its only possible form. We can then repeat, or redefine the paradox in this way: If we are governed by reason in what we choose and how we choose, it means we subject ourselves to reason in this business of what and how we choose; we are not in that case autonomous. Yet, if we say that we are not governed by reason but by desires and passions, then in that case we are not governing ourselves in what we are choosing, and we are not therefore autonomous. The way out of the closure has to be sought in historical understanding of the way in which the two principles of autonomy and accommodation have worked in political life, and the way in which standards of justice have provided the negotiating ground between autonomy and accommodation. Demands for new statehoods, new autonomous arrangements, newer forms of financial autonomy of the political units below, autonomy of feminist politics of recognition and justice, autonomy of the indigenous people and the common property resources, new notions of legal autonomy, autonomy of ethics from recognized and legitimized forms of constitutional politics, and finally the autonomy of dialogue and dialogic forms, all these demands illustrate the point that autonomy is one of the cardinal principles on which democracy will have to be redefined and reshaped. We require both historical and analytical understanding of the issue for such a critical enterprise. We require, moreover, a deeper and more rigorous understanding of the geo-political and ethno-political grounds on which the call for autonomy is now articulated and which modulate the self ’s understanding of the norm. Similarly, the need is to inquire into the ethical grounds on which the call for autonomy is made and practices of autonomy continue. The purpose of a critical political inquiry

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is to look into conditions and dimensions of autonomy, their historical nature, and their political significance in terms of enriching democracy. Because, today democracy cannot proceed without autonomy; indeed the test of democracy is how much autonomous its constituents are, and how much dialogic space it has created for the working out of the standards of justice and rights, the demands for which have brought the autonomous spaces to life.

Notes 1. Though in several of his fragmentary writings and speeches in later years Michel Foucault spoke of governmentality, for my purpose here, I shall in the main rely on his essay, “Governmentality” presented as part of a course on “Security, Territory, and Population” given in 1977–78 at the College de France, and later published in Faubion (1999: 201–22). 2. This is the explanation that broadly emerges from Dean (1999). The first wave of discussions of course is created by Burchell, Gordon, and Miller (1991); later comes Barry, Osborne, and Rose (1996). 3. Weber noted the technical superiority of bureaucratic organization over administration by notables, and attributed this superiority to factors like speed, precision, knowledge of the files, reduction of material, personal costs, etc. He also noted that legal reorganization had to precede or accompany such rise of bureaucratic structures, and that statutes became more effective than grace and gratitude. Administration became administration of rational laws and rational procedures. See, Roth and Wittich (1968: 973–75). 4. Each of the essays on autonomy referred to here is a commentary on autonomy’s other, namely governmentality. 5. The “basic features” of the Constitution cannot be amended by exercising the power of amendment under Article 368. The Constitution 42nd Amendment Act, 1976 had inserted in Article 368(5), a provision that there was no limitation on the constituent power of the Parliament to amend the Constitution. Though the Supreme Court invalidated this, ambiguity still remains. See Keshavananda Bharati v. State of India (AIR 1973 SC 1461), Minerva Mills v. Union of India (AIR 1980 SC 1789), and Srinivasa v. State of Karnataka (AIR 1987 SC 1518). 6. On the legal complexities arising out of the position that caste occupies in public life, see Bailey (1957); Galanter (1963: 544–59); Smith (1996). 7. The importance of this principle is evident from the way in which Kashmir’s autonomy was eroded; see in this connection, text of T. Muivah’s interview with Karan Thapar in BBC program, “Hard Talk India.” 8. Sanjib Baruah has analyzed the situation with exceptional clarity and perspicacity. See, Baruah (2005: 183–208).

PART I Genealogy

1 THE BIRTH

OF THE

AUTONOMOUS SUBJECT?

Pradip Kumar Bose

Introduction

T

he idea of autonomy, addressing theoretical as well as practical public policy oriented issues, occupies a central place in contemporary political and philosophical debates (such as the concept of personhood or moral responsibility) and is often recognized as a central value in moral and political philosophy. In the domain of public policy, autonomy has been invoked to address a variety of issues, beginning from the right to privacy (Kupfer, 1987: 81–89), to right to freedom of association, and freedom of religion. It has also been central to public policy debates concerning the public provision of opportunities for its exercise, such as minimum standards of welfare or subsidized cultural activities (Taylor, 1979). The idea of autonomy is today an important issue in medical ethics too, where the claim has been raised that practicing medicine should no longer be primarily concerned with the well-being of the patient but with restoring her autonomy (Komrad, 1983: 38–44). The important question to ask at this stage is: how did it come about that the idea of autonomy plays such a major role in so many debates. One possible reason could be that in the contemporary world we structure our world upon this concept, since it is now (May, 1998) recognized as the central characteristic of a person (Frankfurt, 1971). It follows, therefore, that we must temper our actions towards a person who expresses

36 / PRADIP KUMAR BOSE this will to direct her/his own personal commitment as a sign of our respect for her/his autonomy. Autonomy then becomes the essential value characteristic of personhood, a “super-value” rather than simply one value among many other competing ones. When in conflict with other values, autonomy will override the others for its essentiality. Respecting autonomy, then, comports well with the values of a democratic society that places individualism and freedom over communitarian solidarity and authority. But, of course, to acknowledge this position is not to concede the ground for its theoretical defensibility. History tells us that autonomy as an ideal has not always been valued nor is its primacy among all other human values accepted by everyone. Individual autonomy is an idea that is generally understood to refer to the capacity to be one’s own person, to live one’s life according to reasons and motives that are taken as one’s own and not the product of manipulative or distorting external forces. The idea of autonomy of the individual, in the sense of the individual’s capacity to live her own life according to her own reasons and motives as opposed to being the product of external forces, is at the center of the Kantian tradition of moral philosophy. It is also accorded a fundamental status in John Stuart Mill’s version of utilitarian liberalism. Examination of the concept of autonomy also figures centrally in debates over education policy, biomedical ethics, legal freedoms and rights as well as moral and political theory. It is in the last two fields that the centrality of autonomy in the human value system has been countered with alternative frameworks such as an ethic of care, utilitarianism of some kinds, and an ethic of virtue. It is possible that in the morally pluralistic modern world the centrality of the idea of autonomy has a functional utility that ensures that certain groups within society do not try to impose their own views upon others. What is important, however, is that the concept of autonomy is controversial and has been much debated, the disputes generating from the concept of personhood in general. Hence, a proper analytical framework on autonomy has to select certain key conceptual domains and relate these with the basic premises of liberalism. The two fundamental questions are: is there a coherent meaning of autonomy? Is the concept of autonomy theoretically defensible? As we shall show in this chapter, the answers to both the questions are negative in nature. The idea of a self-constituting subject as contemporary theories show is an effect of power, which brings forth the subject. While the paper denies the possibility of the autonomy of the subject, it explores the conditions of agency of the subject.

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Autonomy and Liberalism What in earlier times were debated as “free will” and “moral responsibility” have today morphed into the question of “autonomy” for political and social theorists. This later incarnation is linked to the idea of selfgovernance, a concept of the individual possessing an inner structure representing her/his true self, a self-critical and self-mastering entity, producing desires that motivate free action. If we survey various theoretical attempts to conceptualize autonomy, we find there is no single meaning to the term, though concern for self-governance underlies the use of the concept. Gerald Dworkin notes that the term “autonomy” is “used sometimes as an equivalent of liberty (positive or negative in Berlin’s terminology), sometimes as equivalent to self-rule or sovereignty, sometimes as identical to freedom of the will ... it is identified with selfassertion, with critical reflection, with freedom from obligation, with absence of external causation, with knowledge of one’s own interests” (Dworkin, 1989: 54–62). This conceptual confusion about the meaning of the term reinforces the suspicion that there is no unified account of autonomy. Feinberg too doubts that autonomy has a single coherent meaning. He claims that there are at least four different meanings of autonomy in moral and political philosophy: the capacity for self-governance, conditions for self-government, a set of rights expressive of one’s sovereignty over oneself and a personal ideal (Feinberg, 1989: 27–53). These four “meanings” of autonomy all share a conceptual core of actual conditions of autonomy that include the ability to self-govern. The question here is, however, whether rights are prior to actual conditions of self-governance as described by Feinberg. Autonomy can also be viewed as a system of negative rights against actions that disrupt the conditions of self-government. In this sense the status of right-autonomy is ambiguous. A little reflection will also show that this distinction between positive and negative rights ultimately collapses because autonomy will include the factors that must be absent to facilitate self-direction. There is also a much discussed charge, that the idea of autonomy and the moral and political principles built upon it are overtly individualistic in their requirements and implications. Some have sought to replace this individualistic idea of autonomy with another concept called “relational autonomy” to establish the integral role that relatedness plays both in persons’ self-conceptions (relative to which autonomy must be defined) and self-governance itself (Mackenzie and Stoljar, 2000). These views,

38 / PRADIP KUMAR BOSE however, contain certain ambiguities as well: on the one hand, relational accounts rest on a non-individualistic conception of the person and then claim that insofar as the meaning of autonomy is self-governance and the self is constituted of relations with others, then autonomy is relational (and therefore not self-governed); on the other hand, these views may be understood as claiming that whatever selves turn out to be, autonomy fundamentally involves social relations rather than individual traits. The idea that individual autonomy is a basic moral and political value is very much a modern development which is the product of the enlightenment humanism of which contemporary liberal political philosophy is an offshoot.1 The view that moral principles and obligations, as well as legitimacy of political authority should be grounded in the self-governing individual can raise many skeptical eyebrows because it becomes difficult to argue for autonomy as an unqualified value for all individuals when one tries to precisely specify the social conditions for the existence of an autonomous individual, even though in a general sense autonomy, is certainly desirable since its opposite—being guided by forces external to oneself—is the definition of oppression. Autonomy, therefore, can be identified as being in the eye of the storm in the complex (re)considerations of modernity. Another related but important issue regarding the property of autonomy pertains to its scope. Sometimes it is viewed as a property of preferences or desires as employed by economists. Others, however, regard autonomy as a property of whole persons or persons’ lives. Dworkin, for example, calls it a “global concept” and, therefore, not applicable at localized levels. The scope of autonomy thus remains undetermined. The idea of autonomy is central to certain frameworks of morality, both as a model of the moral person and as an aspect of persons that ground others’ obligation to them. In Kant, these ideas imply each other. But it can be argued that this equivalence is not a necessary one. For Kant, the self-imposition of a universal moral law is the ground of both moral obligations generally and the respect others owe us. That is, practical reason—our ability to use reasons to choose our own actions—presupposes that we understand ourselves as free. Freedom means the absence of barriers external to our will. Such freedom, however, also requires a Law to guide our decisions, a Law produced by an act of our own will. This self-imposition of a moral Law is the essence of autonomy. And since this Law must have no content provided by sense or desire, it must be universal. Hence we have the Categorical Imperative, meaning that

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by virtue of our being autonomous we must act only on those maxims that we can consistently will as Universal Law. Since autonomy thus defined is not a property of groups or collectives, the autonomy that grounds basic rights and connects to moral responsibility is assigned to persons without essential reference to other people, institutions, traditions, or the like. Critics argue that this runs counter to the manner in which all of us in some ways define ourselves with reference to other people/institutions/traditions to motivate ourselves to act and to ground our moral commitments. These challenges have focused most pointedly on the relation of the self to its culture. What is at issue from a policy perspective is, that emphasis on the individual’s right to selfgovernance makes it difficult, if not impossible, to ground rights to the protection and internal self-government of traditional cultures themselves. This is problematic because the assumption that the autonomous person is able to separate himself from all cultural commitments forestalls moves to provide state protection for cultural forms themselves insofar as such state policies rely on the value of autonomy. This critique has been countered from a liberal position to say that autonomy need in no way require that people step away from all their connections and values to critically appraise them.2 This liberal response though, fails to take seriously the permanent and unalterable aspects of the self and its social position. In contrast to the individualistic conception of the self proposed by liberals, communitarians have argued that our selves are constituted of various social attachments. The implication of this position is that politics cannot be only about securing conditions for exercising autonomous choice, but also about promoting social attachments and community ties for the well-being of the subjects. Taylor, for instance, objects to the liberal view that “men are self-sufficient outside society” and calls this view “atomistic.” The liberal image of a subject who imposes his will on the world, according to the communitarians, neglects the reality of individuals who are embodied agents, who act in ways specified by their social backgrounds, a priori routines and habits. Liberals have countered by pointing out that liberal politics is concerned with securing the conditions for individuals to lead autonomous lives by making choices with respect to things that are valued. It is not always that communal practices ought to be valued though they may be instrumental in guiding our behavior. This modified version, however, still implies that moral outlooks are products of individual choices. Communitarians, however, insist that individuals do not invent moral choices and preferences. Our social space provides

40 / PRADIP KUMAR BOSE some sort of moral orientation. In this sense, the liberal ideal of free, autonomous, self-inventing moral choices and outlook cannot do justice to actual moral experience. The concept of the autonomous person plays a variety of roles in liberal political theory. Principally, it serves as the model of the person whose perspective is used to formulate and justify political principles, as in social contract models of principles of justice (Rawls, 1971). One manner in which debates concerning autonomy directly connect to controversies within and about liberalism is by the role state neutrality is to play in the justification and application of principles of justice. Neutrality is a controversial standard, of course, and the precise ways in which liberal theory is committed to a requirement of neutrality are complex and controversial. The question to be asked here is: Since the reliance on autonomy in the justification and specification of liberal theories of justice render them non-neutral simply because of this reliance, should liberal theories attempt to utilize the concept of autonomy in a neutral manner in relation to other concepts of morality and value? A liberal position claims that the validity of a value depends on its reasonable endorsement by the person in question. It follows, therefore, that the legitimacy of the principles guiding the institutions of social and political power depends on being reasonably endorsed by those subject to them. This commitment of liberalism is known as the “endorsement constraint.”3 This structuring principle is mirrored in the liberal condition that a person is autonomous relative to some actionguiding norm or value only if, upon critical reflection of that value, the person identifies with or approves of it. Taken together, these two conditions of liberalism assert that a culture of autonomy is to be respected only when the guiding values or principles in a society are embraced as reasonable by those governed by them. Perfectionists, however, reject this set of claims. Perfectionism argues that values are valid for an individual or a population even when that value is not endorsed or accepted from the subjective point of view of these agents or groups. That is, such values are seen as entirely objective. This position generally resists the liberal claim that the autonomous acceptance of the central components of political principles is a necessary condition for the legitimacy of those principles (Wall, 1998). Historically, liberalism arose out of the social contract tradition of political philosophy that rests on the idea of popular sovereignty. Popular sovereignty implies that justice must be an extension of people’s rule of

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themselves, a free and rational pursuit of people’s own conception of morality and the good, assuming pluralism among such conceptions. The concept of autonomy figures centrally in at least one dominant strand in this tradition, the strand that runs through the work of Kant. The major alternative version of the liberal tradition sees popular sovereignty as a collective expression of rational choice where the principles of the institutions of political power are merely instruments for maximizing aggregate welfare of the citizenry. This is the strain that runs from Hobbes through the classical utilitarian philosophers. In this tradition, individual self-government, insofar as that is understood as over and above simple rationality, is of only instrumental value: autonomous individuals tend to be better able to pursue welfare. But it is the Kantian brand of liberalism that places the autonomy of the individual at the center-stage. Rawls’ Theory of Justice was a later manifestation of this Kantian approach to justice, where justice was conceived as those principles that would be chosen under conditions of unbiased rational decision-making. The original position where such principles would be chosen was said by Rawls to mirror Kant’s Categorical Imperative. That is, it is a device by which persons choose principles to impose upon themselves in a way that is independent of contingencies of social positions like race, sex, or conception of the good. But the Kantian foundation of Rawls’ theory of justice rendered it vulnerable to the charge that it was inapplicable to those populations where deep moral pluralism abounds. For under such conditions, no theory of justice which rests on a metaphysically grounded conception of the person could claim full allegiance from the members of the population whose deep diversity causes them to disagree about metaphysics itself. Communitarians, for instance, have argued that standards of justice must be found in forms of life and traditions of particular societies and hence can vary from context to context. MacIntyre and Taylor have argued that moral and political judgment will depend on the language of reason and the interpretative framework within which agents view their world. It therefore makes no sense to begin the political enterprise by abstracting from the interpretative dimensions of human beliefs, practices, and institutions. In closing, a few words about the relationship between autonomy, justice and democracy. Liberal conceptions of justice have evolved to include reference to collective discussions and debates (public reason) as one of the constitutive conditions of legitimacy. Autonomy here remains a part of the background conditions against which justice is to operate.

42 / PRADIP KUMAR BOSE Some thinkers, like Habermas, have highlighted the connection by making a distinction between the individual or “private” autonomy and collective or “public” legitimacy (Habermas, 1990). Legitimacy and justice, according to him, cannot be established in advance through philosophical construction and argument. Justice is delivered by a set of principles established in practice and legitimized by the actual support of affected citizens. Systems of rights and protection (private, individual autonomy), will necessarily be postulated through institutionalized frameworks of public deliberation that render principles of social justice acceptable to all affected. This view of justice provides an indirect defense of autonomy and, in particular, conceptualizes autonomy in a way that assumes reflective self-evaluation. Insofar as autonomy is necessary for a functioning democracy, and democracy is a constitutive element of just political institutions, then autonomy must be seen here as reflective self-appraisal. Critics have argued that the concept of an autonomous person assumed here is open to contest and not internalized by all participants in contemporary political life. Others motivated by postmodern considerations concerning the nature of the self, rationality, language and identity, are also opposed to the manner in which the basic concepts operative in liberal theories of justice (“autonomy” for example) are understood as fixed, transparent, and without their own political presuppositions (Butler, 1990). The fundamental problem with the divergent and somewhat inconsistent conceptions of autonomy is that the self is here conceived as prior to society, outside of regimes of power. Autonomous subjects are outside any norms and techniques prescribed by a regime of power/ knowledge. Instead of asking how natural subjects get together to constitute a sovereign state and its practices, we can ask, following Foucault, how subjects themselves are constituted through a multiplicity of forces, powers, desires, and thoughts. The question of autonomy then, can raise practical and ethical issues of a new sort. The characteristic of modern power is that it is local and multiple in its applications, normalizing, individualizing, invisible, and anonymous. The modern subject on the other hand believes in autonomy, in the importance of comprehending itself and designates itself through both self-scrutiny and the practices of human sciences. The question of autonomy is thus intimately linked with the birth of the modern subject. Is it then a product of technologies of self built in the history of the last two centuries?

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De-centering the Subject: Agency and Ethical Conduct One of the key features of Enlightenment philosophy was to redefine the status of the human individual. The Cartesian system confirmed the centrality of the autonomous human individual, a percept that separated the subject from the object, thought from reality, and Self from the Other. “Cartesian Individualism” posited the autonomous “I” that acted in the world through this separation. This “I” was no longer to be seen as merely operated upon by divine will or cosmic force. This Self was separate from the world and could be viewed as a source of human understanding, action, and meaning. The Self was equipped to employ intellect and imagination in producing knowledge and representation of the world. This particular view of the autonomous individual obviously downplayed the role of social relations or language in the formation of the self. The critique of the subject-object duality in Western philosophy culminated in Nietzche with his critique of subject-centered reason. The position later continues in Foucault in his problematization of the Western subject. Consider, for instance, his critique of the Kantian subject. The Kantian subject cannot know but only represent objects through its own reason, and knows only its own representation. Thus Kant’s critical philosophy analyses the representational subject. In contemporary transformation within the Kantian project, instead of reason, language is posited as the logos of subjectivity. Foucault points out that this uncovers the subject of representation as itself a metaphysical construction, because Kant’s analysis then is not an absolute essence but a particular kind of linguistic construction. The identity of the Kantian subject produced by unifying subjective reason is thus a construction of a particular historical period. However, the inadequacy of such a position was shown both by Freud and Marx. Freud, in his theories of unconscious dimensions of the Self, revealed that everything about the individual’s formation is not accessible to thought, thereby blurring the subject-object distinction. Marx pronounced that it is the social being that determines the consciousness of men. Both these views significantly disturbed the notion of integrity and autonomy of the individual. This eventually resulted in the elaboration of the theory of subjectivity by their followers. The idea of subjectivity draws our attention to the production of the human subject through ideology, discourse, and language. Individual identity here is seen as an effect rather than as the cause of such factors.

44 / PRADIP KUMAR BOSE This position has destabilized the Enlightenment assertion of individual autonomy and interrogated the capacity of the subject so formed. The psychoanalytic theory of Lacan, for instance, would argue that the Subject is produced in language and subjected to the laws of the symbolic that pre-exists it. As Sassure had argued, signs produce a reality through a system of differences, the Subject is produced by a system of differentiations between “I” and “not I.” In brief, both the structuralist and the poststructuralist positions assert that it is better to think of the Subject as a “site” rather than a “center” or a “presence.” Here the subject is deprived of his role as source of meaning because meaning is deciphered in terms of systems of signs—systems that the subject does not control. That is why Levi-Strauss declared that the goal of the human sciences is not to constitute man but to dissolve him. Such theoretical ventures began with making man an object of knowledge, but on deeper analysis they found that the Self dissolves as its functions are traced to various impersonal systems that operate through it. In fact, summarizing the poststructuralist analyses, Culler writes: “As the self is broken down into component systems, deprived of its status as source and master of meaning, it comes to seem more and more like a construct: a result of systems of convention. Even the idea of personal identity emerges through the discourse of culture: the ‘I’ is not something given but comes to exist as that which is addressed by and relates to others” (Culler, 1981: 37). Derrida offers a more radical critique of the subject when he challenges the Cartesian notion of a fixed subject and individuality. The phenomenological view in the post-war period was dominated by the philosophy of the subject and argued that all knowledge and principles of all significations originated from the meaningful subject. Foucault points out that the centrality of the subject in this philosophy was derived from the Cartesian idea but was also linked to an institutional context. The absurdity and brutality of the wars compelled the individual subject to give meaning to his existential choices. The philosophy of consciousness, however, could not found a philosophy of knowledge, and a philosophy of meaning failed to take into account the structure of systems of meaning. There were two possible paths to go beyond the philosophy of the Subject: the first was the theory of objective knowledge, the path of logical positivism; and the second was an analysis of systems of meaning or semiology, the path chosen by certain schools of linguistics, psychoanalysis, and anthropology. In his attempt to liberate himself from the philosophy of the Subject, Foucault took another direction of investigating the Subject across history through a genealogy of this Subject.

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Foucault argues that it is not enough to understand the genealogy of the Subject only through techniques of domination. One must take into account the techniques of the Self as well. To quote Foucault: Let’s say: he has to take into account the interaction between those two types of techniques—techniques of domination and techniques of the self. He has to take into account the points where the technologies of domination of individuals over one another have recourse to processes by which the individual acts upon himself. And conversely, he has to take into account the points where the techniques of the self are integrated into structures of coercion or domination. The contact point, where the individuals are driven by others is tied to the way they conduct themselves is what we can call, I think, government. Governing people, in the broad meaning of the word, governing people is not a way to force people to do what the governor wants; it is always a versatile equilibrium, with complementarity and conflicts between techniques which assure coercion and processes through which the self is constructed or modified by himself. (Foucault, 1993: 203)

Foucault denies the possibility of a sovereign founding Subject. “The Subject is constituted through practices of subjection, or, in a more autonomous way, through practices of liberation” (Foucault, 1988: 50). A hostility to the Subject runs throughout Foucault’s work. He attempted to efface the idea of the self-constituting Subject and construct a history of the different modes by which human beings are made into subjects. For Foucault, the individual and the Subject are arbitrary constructs of a social formation. It is the ubiquity of power which brings forth the Subject, and no individual possibly could constitute himself as an autonomous agent free from all regimes of power. The liberal idea of the individual located outside or coming before the society is thus precluded by Foucault. He instead argues, that to believe in the Subject as an autonomous agent is to have internalized the technique of the Self that makes one see Confession falsely as a way of unlocking the inner selves. “The obligation to confess is now relayed through so many different points, is so deeply ingrained in us, that we no longer perceive it as the effect of a power that constrains us; on the contrary, it seems to us that truth, lodged in our most secret nature “demands” only to surface” (Foucault, 1990: 60). In other words, Foucault’s critique of the Subject is thus a critique of autonomy as well. As we have seen, many recent trends in social philosophy such as communitarianism and postmodernism have stressed the implausibility of the autonomous Subject outside of society. However, some have argued,

46 / PRADIP KUMAR BOSE that while Foucault denies autonomy of the Subject, his rejection of autonomy does not entail a rejection of agency.4 In contrast to autonomous Subjects, agents only exist in specific social contexts. In this view, therefore, the Subject is an agent even though not an autonomous agent. Insofar as modernity is understood in terms of an ideal of autonomy and liberty, Foucault presents a forceful critique of modernity that is associated with Enlightenment and liberalism. The undifferentiated concept of power in Foucault is deployed as a critique of modernity understood as providing an ideal of autonomy. This concept of power, however, implies that subjects and knowledge are simply products of social power and leaves no room for an alternative model to the modern one of autonomy. While Foucault in his earlier phase talks of disciplinary power, the later Foucault shifted his focus to power that operates in terms of techniques of the Self. One might presume that this form of power recognizes the value of the Subject as an Agent, although Foucault never describes things quite in these terms. One can say that in such a framework power has to pass through the consciousness of the Subject implying recognition of the Subject as an Agent, though not an autonomous agent. In this particular scheme, Foucault traces the genealogy of the Self: its constitution through a continuous analysis of one’s thoughts under a hermeneutic principle of making sure they are really one’s own. Foucault in his analysis of sexuality analyzed how the techniques of confession allow for the Self to be related and subjected to the relations of power that constitute modern social institutions. In this context, Foucault’s distinction between morality and ethics is important. While morality for him refers to a set of rules that specify what individuals should or should not do, ethics, in contrast, refer to the ways individuals conduct themselves in relation to such sets of rules. Morality consists of requirements and restrictions for the individual, while an ethic constitutes a practice through which an individual negotiates such rules and restrictions. In other words, an ethic is not a set of rules but an orientation toward a set of rules. A society, ancient Greece for example, with a loose set of rules, an open system of laws, permits an individual to develop a variety of ethical behavior. Today’s social norms lack the flexibility that can be interpreted through ethical conduct. They are law-like requirements imposed from outside leaving little freedom in relation to morality. The task of morality is not to allow agency but to regulate conduct, while an ethic allows the subject to constitute himself in an active fashion through a critique of the moral

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rules, by interpreting them creatively. Ethical conduct, thus, has the possibility of establishing a relation to the Self such that one devises a personal style to enhance one’s beauty and pleasures in life. This freedom, attained in ethical conduct, is not a liberation of the true Self from all social influences, but rather an ability to modify the Self in the context of social influences at work. As Foucault said, “the subject constitutes himself in an active fashion by the practices of the self ” but these are not “practices invented by the individual himself. They are models that he finds in his culture and are proposed, suggested, imposed upon him by his culture, his society and his social group” (Foucault, 2000: 291). By exploring the limits of authorized forms of subjectivity, by questioning the rules and developing an ethic of conduct one can escape the normalizing effects of modern power. It is thus that the Subject produces himself through his conduct. It is then possible to question established identities and norms through our conduct to produce ourselves. A good society thus requires ethical conduct more than any given moral system, because to act ethically is to transgress current rules of behavior. Foucault insists that the Subject is “not a substance. It is a form, and this form is not primarily or always identical to itself ” (ibid.: 290). This means that subjects are constituted differently in different discursive situations; it also means that different forms of relationship with the Self are established through these different modalities of subjectivity. “You do not have the same type of relationship to yourself as a political subject who goes to vote or speaks at a meeting and when you are seeking to fulfil your desires in a sexual relationship” (ibid.). In his practices of self-making, Foucault also distances his account of constituting oneself as a Subject from any humanist notion of self-”discovery.” He is interested in the ways subjects constitute themselves “in an active fashion by the practices of self.” He is not suggesting that subjects are “free” to create themselves at will. The subjects are agents but not autonomous agents. Thus, ethics are not just a theory, they are a practice, a style of life, and hence the real problem is to give liberty “shape in ethos.” That is why he says: “what is ethics, if not the practice of freedom, the considered practice of freedom” and “Freedom is ontological condition of ethics. But ethics is the considered form that freedom takes” (ibid.: 284–86). Why should we be moved to accept Foucault’s art of the Self as a social possibility? Because we agree not on a new conception of a Self but with the analysis that the modern system of power normalizes individuals by linking universal norms to rational and quasi-metaphysical truths about man. In analyzing the processes by which we have been constituted as

48 / PRADIP KUMAR BOSE our-Selves, Foucault sought to raise questions about who we might become—in our thinking as in our lives. As Foucault writes: “May be our problem is now to discover that the Self is nothing else than the historical correlation of the technology built in our history. May be the problem is to change those technologies. And in this case, one of the main political problems would be nowadays, in the strict sense of the word, the politics of ourselves” (Foucault, 1993: 222–23).

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4.

For See See See

historical discussions of autonomy, see Schneewind (1998). Kymlicka (1989). Kymlicka (1989). Bevir (1999).

2 WOMEN’S AUTONOMY: BEYOND RIGHTS AND REPRESENTATIONS Paula Banerjee

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ary Wollstonecraft took England by storm when she published her radical work, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman in 1792, locating the notion of women’s rights within the context of universal human rights. Within half a century this question of women’s rights assumed center-stage in debates of social reform in both England and India. While these debates led to some changes in the situation of women, more importantly, they led to a social construction of the woman as more a member of a community than as an individual. Questions of women’s autonomy, therefore, were historically subsumed within questions of religion, community, and personal law and hardly ever treated as a matter of either individual right or justice. Autonomy for women thus remained hostage to community rights. Any critique of women’s situation would always be addressed as a critique of one particular group of women whose group affiliation would be on lines of religion, ethnicity, or race and the critique would emerge as a critique of a specific community. My chapter will address questions of women’s autonomy in the Indian context and analyze its location within different discourses of which the legal discourse is but one. Discourses on women’s autonomy always remained subsumed within other discourses such as those on rights and representations because Indian society even until the recent past, did not

50 / PAULA BANERJEE treat women as autonomous subjects. It was only after women successfully led autonomous movements in different parts of India from the 1980s that there emerged a realization that women are autonomous subjects even in representing their communities. Women’s movements have often put forth the question of women’s autonomy through exploring women’s position in law. There are, however, other traditional social indicators of women’s position as analyzed through marriage, divorce, and property acts. This chapter will explore how the question of women’s autonomy appeared through different discourses in Indian politics. It will analyze the evolution of a number of acts, that have had tremendous impact on women’s legal position, to ask if these have led to women’s autonomy or suppressed questions of autonomy leading to further marginalization of women in the polity. The paper is founded upon two crucial observations. These are: patriarchal forces deny not just social rights to women but also political rights, and that location matters and law affects different women, differently. This is particularly true of women in India because Indian women are traditionally located within different communities.

Women’s Question and the Colonial Discourse The official discourse on Indian women in the post-colonial period has often been shaped by the colonial discourse and “the way it entered into the nationalist discourse in the pre-independence period” (Mahanta, 1994: 88). In the 19th century, gender was far from being marginal to the new world. It was continually being rearticulated through social reforms that began with the abolition of Sati and ended with the Age of Consent Bill in 1892. It was around the same time that there was emerging a division between public law and personal law. “Public law was designed to encourage and safeguard the freedom of the individual in the marketplace and was established by statutes, personal law was intended to limit the extent of freedom” (Tharu and Lalita, 1991: 157). Yet, as revealed by the Indian Marriage Act, 1864, even statutory acts were considered to be part of the personal realm where women’s issues were concerned. It scrupulously avoided any modification of the Hindu and Muslim personal laws, thereby creating procedures for only Christian marriages as the community leaders of the other two communities were opposed to it.

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Other acts, such as the Hindu Widows Remarriage Act and the Age of Consent Act did affect notions of marriage at least among the Hindus, but made no effort to put issues of marriage within the realm of the civil. The Indian Succession Act of 1865 was one of the first efforts to systematize civil law in India. It declared that no person “shall by marriage acquire any interest in the property of the person that he or she marries,” thereby challenging husbands’ right over their wives’ properties, but it did not stipulate any maintenance for the wives, which would later lead to destitution of many women. Even this Act was not applicable to the Hindus, Muslims, or even the Parsis who had a separate legislation for their community. The first Indian Divorce Act came into effect in 1869. It followed the 1850s Divorce Act1 in England, not to ensure equality of the sexes but to make provisions so that marriages legalized in England could be dissolved in India, if needed. But it also needs to be said here that notions of equality of sexes had already appeared in the political and legal discourses of the time. For example, Sir Henry Maine, who was one of the chief architects of these Acts, was said to have commented rather sarcastically upon the Parsis’ partial Civil Code that allowed their daughters to inherit only one fourth of what they allowed their sons to inherit. However, no effort was made to translate these sentiments into legal provisions for any communities in India. Even the Age of Consent Bill that raised the age of marriage for women from 10 to 12 was severely criticized by Hindu leaders who considered it a severe encroachment into their “personal” domain, thereby relegating questions of women’s autonomy into the domain of the personal that later came to be defined as group rights. There is an argument that in the late 19th century, the nationalists resolved the women’s question by creating the hierarchical opposition of spiritual/Indian and material/Western realms and relegating questions of women’s rights into the realm of the spiritual. Since women’s questions fell within the spiritual realm it became imperative to protect it from changes that did not reassert the spiritual purity of Indian women. As a result, women could take part in public life only when they were able to adequately demonstrate their purity. Such an argument assumes that the nationalist voice was actually a male voice and ignores the materiality and material practices in the lives of women where women’s question was never resolved. It also ignores how women subverted notions of spirituality to create spaces for themselves in the realm of the public. Hence, even though proscriptive literature of the time seemed to be obsessed with the theme of Western influence in education, threatening

52 / PAULA BANERJEE the spirituality in the lives of women, middle class women were constantly reclaiming education as an essential aspect of their training as nationalist and autonomous beings. Writings by women such as Rashsundari reveal that one cannot unproblematically argue that women had to assert their spirituality to legitimize their aspirations to be literate and consider it exhausted of any other possibility.2 One has to consider how through such writings she reclaims her right to be an individual who is over and above an autonomous being rather than a wife or a mother. Therefore, within women’s own politics of protest, education assumed the centerstage for a short while. That women embraced education even at the cost of displeasing others in the family was clear from many autobiographies written at the time. Rashsundari learnt how to read secretly without anyone knowing that she could do so. Ramabai Ranade learnt how to read even after facing stiff opposition from older women in her family. In her autobiography, she wrote that although her husband was in favor of her learning, the other women within her family hated it. Ramabai wrote of her experiences: … some woman or the other in the house was bound to be eavesdropping, standing either on the staircase or at the door. They used to memorize the tunes and stanzas I had sung at night and mimic my singing the next day. They used to make faces at me, mock me, and put me to shame in front of the other women in the house. But I never retaliated…. I knew they had the secret support of the elders. But neither did I agree with them nor did I argue back. I just quietly did what I wanted to. (Ranade, 1991: 283–84) (emphasis mine)

Little wonder then, that education became a priority for some of the first women’s groups that were formed. In 1926, Margaret Cousins gathered together some eminent Indian women such as Sarojini Naidu, Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay, Begum Sheba of Bhopal, Rajkumari Amrit Kaur and Muthulakshmi Reddy to discuss the problems faced by Indian women at that time. They formed the All India Women’s Conference (AIWC) in 1927. The AIWC began as an organization for promoting women’s education as education was considered the most important means for improving the status of women. The Educational League was formed in various provinces such as Gujarat, Bengal, Hyderabad and Indore. In 1928, the All India Fund for Women’s Education (AIFWE) was set up. In the first meeting of the AIWC, women such as Gool Bahadur opposed the resolution, “teaching in the ideals of motherhood.” But the proposed amendment that teaching for men should therefore be in the ideals of fatherhood got only three votes. What is important is not

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that there were only three women who questioned the notion that women’s education should be geared towards making women better mothers, but the understanding that even in these early times there were three women who were thinking of equity. However, there were other resolutions that worked beyond constructing women’s roles as that of being only a good wife and a mother. Among such resolutions was the one demanding compulsory physical training in all girls’ schools. Therefore, although the over-arching stereotype for educating women was the “ideals of motherhood,” or “making a beautiful home,” a few women had already started to subvert that stereotype through education (Basu and Ray, 1990: 8). One of the landmarks in the incipient Women’s Movement in India happened when the AIWC took up questions other than those dealing only with women’s education. There was a proposal to raise the age of consent for women to 16 years from where “came the realization that these questions could not be separated from India’s political subjection. Thus, the AIWC came to a point where it stressed the political goal of national self-government as a means to achieve women’s aspirations” (Menon, 1999: 8). Women participated in the anti-colonial movement in huge numbers. Although, the story of women’s participation in large numbers has been repeated innumerable times, only recently have feminist scholars explored the ambivalence of women’s responses to the movement. Thanks to the writings of feminists such as Madhu Kishwar, we know that although nationalist leaders such as Gandhi encouraged women’s participation in the movement in large numbers they did almost nothing to help women liberate themselves from the patriarchal stranglehold or question their position within their communities. That women enjoyed some autonomy of action was made clear in a number of ways and not least by members of the AIWC who negotiated with the state to come up with a new curriculum for women at the time of the Quit India Movement when the rest of the Congress leaders urged them repeatedly to boycott the government. In the official realm too, any changes favoring women’s position in society were few and far between and there was no question as to whether women could be treated as individuals and not as members of a particular community. Legislative Assembly Debates during the first half of the 20th century also concerned themselves with discussions over the position of women. Both during the 1920s and 1930s there were heated discussions over the situation of Hindu women in the assembly debates. In 1939, two crucial bills in this regard were introduced. One of these was the “Hindu Women’s Right to Divorce Bill” and the other was the resolution

54 / PAULA BANERJEE to set up a committee to investigate the position of women under existing laws. Discussions over both these resolutions portrayed how questions of women’s autonomy were addressed. G.V. Deshmukh, who introduced both resolutions, was often at pains to explain that he had consulted orthodox religious opinion. No one challenged the concept that for any legislation on women’s position in society, orthodox religious opinion needed to be not just consulted but addressed as well. There were others belonging to the orthodox opinion such as M. Ananthasayanam Ayyangar, who were totally against encouraging any changes in the lives of women. He opposed wives receiving maintenance in case of divorce because that meant they would be provided for, even when they lived away from their husbands. In fact, he even said, that if they lived away from their husbands even when their husbands meted out “ill-treatment” he saw no reason for women being allowed to claim maintenance. He loudly complained that: So far as the wife is concerned, when does her right of maintenance accrue? It is only when she wants to live away from her husband that the question of maintenance comes in. Is there any Member of this House including the Leader of the House who is unconditionally prepared to allow any woman to live separately from her husband even though there may have been ill-treatment?…. Therefore, all this is moonshine and let no ladies be tempted by it. (Ayyangar, 1939: 3674)

There were some members even in the Congress Party, such as Bhulabhai Desai, who showed concern that if the position of women changed to any great extent it will result in chaos as among the Parsi community. He said that “recently, my friends, the Parsis, have gone just as far as they could and some 300 odd Parsi ladies who were waiting for it, got themselves divorced as soon as the Bill was passed” (Desai, 1939: 3662). Therefore, most of the members were against any large-scale changes that might have substantive effects in the lives of women as individuals. Herein was the crux of the problem. Women were to be treated as part of their families or communities but not as individuals.

Late-Colonial Developments in the Women’s Movement In another quarter of a century, however, there were new and unprecedented developments. But that was largely outside the purview of middle

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and upper class/caste women who were agitating for educational reforms or lobbying for legislative reforms. Women’s activism was now noticeable among the working class during their strikes in 1928 and 1929. In an article, Tanika Sarkar describes these actions as sporadic and violent (Sarkar, 1989: 231–40). For example, during the scavengers’ strike in Calcutta, it was the women who were most violent in their protests confronting the police, and attacking them with buckets of excretion. Their strategies were so novel and actions so violent that for a while the administration was at a loss as to how to confront them. Even in jute mill strikes of the period women’s activism was noticeable. Sarkar attributes it to the presence of a large number of migrant women within the working class population. However, the fledgling Women’s Movement of the time did little to encourage any dialogue between the working class and the middle class women. Even in the rural areas, women were particularly visible in the Tebhaga and the Telengana movements. Although both these movements were Left-leaning and women leaders from the Left were in the leadership roles, the urban middle class Women’s Movement could not establish strong linkages with these movements. These were not feminist movements insofar as there were no conscious attempts to provide an alternative gendered framework. However, women either within or outside these movements did not even imagine claiming their individual land rights. They participated because, as Kavita Panjabi comments, they were claiming their “bhalobashar jami.”3 However, alternative gendered frameworks were established nevertheless as a result of these movements. In Tebhaga for example, “urban middle class women within MARS (Mahila Atmaraksha Samity) and the Communist Party united with village women as activists in an anti-imperialist and class struggle,” thereby challenging the patriarchal paradigm of the bhadramahila (ibid.). Also, women did not participate as appendages of men but as individual activists thereby portraying the limitations in the Gandhian construction of sahadhormini (helpmate) (ibid.). In the late 1940s, however, both these movements had run their course and the emerging Indian state was as patriarchally unsympathetic to these movements as the colonial state. Meanwhile, debates on Indian women’s status were taking place in another site. At the Constituent Assembly Debates, they appeared in unprecedented forms during the debate on Article 31 on the question of people’s right to livelihood. Article 31, clause (I), as proposed read “the citizens, men and women equally (should), have an adequate means of livelihood.” The first amendment that was suggested was that “men and

56 / PAULA BANERJEE women equally are unnecessary and redundant.” When the member proposing this amendment was questioned as to why he thought the clause was unnecessary, he replied “the masculine, as it is well known, embraces the feminine.” He went on to explain that “if we are to make it clear that any law shall apply to men and women equally and if we are forced to declare it everywhere, then this expression has got to be used unnecessarily in many places” (Ahmad, 1948). Such a disregard about issues crucial for women often cut across religious and ethnic lines. During the debate on the Uniform Civil Code, it was decided to be placed in the list of Directive Principles making sure that it would probably never see the light of the day even though Rajkumari Amrit Kaur and Hansa Mehta opposed it. According to Aparna Mahanta, the “failure of the Indian state to provide a uniform civil code, consistent with its democratic secular and socialist declarations, further illustrates the modern state’s accommodation of the traditional interests of a patriarchal society” (Mahanta, 1994: 95). The Indian state’s attitude to women was further revealed over the question of abducted women. The partition of the Indian subcontinent in 1947 witnessed probably the largest refugee movement in modern history4 accompanied by horrific violence. Some 50,000 Muslim women in India and 33,000 non-Muslim women in Pakistan were abducted, abandoned, or separated from their families.5 The two states of India and Pakistan embarked on a massive Central Recovery Project during which some 30,000 women were recovered by their respective states. Even when the two countries decided on little else, they decided that the abducted women must be restored to their families. Problems arose over the process and progress of recovery. An Abducted Persons (Recovery and Restoration) Bill was brought in the Indian Parliament. Boys below the age of 16 and women of all ages were brought under this Bill that gave unlimited power to police officers regarding abducted persons. If police officers detained women under this Bill they could not be challenged by any court of law. The women thus lost agency over their own persons as their speech was silenced. Although numerous amendments were proposed in the House, the Bill passed unchanged on 19 December 1949 (Banerjee, 1998: 8–9). According to Rameshwari Nehru, adviser to Government of India, Ministry of Rehabilitation, many abducted women showed extreme unwillingness to leave their “captors” (Rameshwari Nehru Papers). Ritu Menon and Kamla Bhasin observe that women were “abducted as Hindus, converted and married as Muslims, recovered as Hindus but required to relinquish their children because they were born of Muslim fathers, and disowned as ‘impure’ and ineligible

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for marriage within their erstwhile family and community, their identities were in a continuous state of construction and reconstruction, making of them ... ‘permanent refugees’” (Menon and Bhasin, 1993: 13). Menon and Bhasin explain these forced repatriations as national honor being bound to women’s bodies (ibid.). According to Jan Jindy Pettman, repatriation was made a nationalist project because women’s bodies became markers of male honor and thus a “part of other people’s agendas” (Pettman, 1996: 194). India made claims of moral superiority over Pakistan or the Other and vindicated that by the state’s ability to protect/control female bodies. This control was essential for the self-definition of the male identity that was in a state of crisis. Abducted women were not considered legal entities with political and constitutional rights. All choices were denied to them and while the state patronized them verbally by portraying their “need” for protection it also infantilized them by giving decision-making power to their guardians who were defined in the Act by the male pronoun “he.” The state marginalized them from the decision-making process and made them non participants. Since it was their sexuality that threatened their security and the honor of the nation, their vulnerability was focused on their bodies. By denying agency to the abducted women, the state made it conceivable to deny agency to all women under the guise of protecting them. This Act, therefore, frontally challenged notions of women’s autonomy. In fact their own families often refused to accept forcibly repatriated women, but they still had to be brought back. Because, what needed to be stressed was, that women belonged to their families, the kin, and the nation and never to their own persons. In the context of increasing women’s militancy and activism in Tebhaga, Telengana, and their further assertions of personhood in the Constituent Assembly Debates, this Act was necessary to symbolize their subjection and challenge their growing expectations of autonomy.

Women’s Movement in Post-Colonial India The Abducted Persons Act remained in operation until 1956. The militancy that was visible in the working Women’s Movement and the Tebhaga and Telengana movements remained a thing of the past and the legal correctives6 reiterated women’s social positioning as wives and mothers. The Hindu Law Code contained the Hindu Succession Act that

58 / PAULA BANERJEE came into force in 1954–56. But immediately motions were on to curtail women’s right to inherit agricultural land. Many women leaders met the Chief Minister of Punjab to press their views against such a measure. Though the Hindu Marriage Act, 1955, gave women and men equal right to divorce on such grounds as adultery, the implementation of the Act remained skewed. What is more, the Act applied only to Hindu women. Women from other communities remained under their own personal laws. For example, Muslim women continued to be guided by Shariat laws that decreed that women might not inherit agricultural land. The legal correctives failed to control rampant social discrimination. For example, under the Special Marriage Act, 1956, both the husband and the wife were given equal rights to divorce on the ground of cruelty, but in its implementation, the courts did nothing to revise the patriarchal paradigm of a “good wife.” According to one observer: The recognition of cruelty as a ground for divorce was significant as it expanded the grounds on which women and men could exit from a difficult marriage. However, the courts have interpreted this ground against the norm of familial ideology. When applied to women, this amounts to a moral evaluation of her conduct, and whether it conforms to the norm of a good mother and wife. A wife who fails to perform her marital obligations, which are primarily concerned with caring for and obliging her husband, is vulnerable to a charge of cruelty. (Kapur and Cossman, 1996: 110–11)

Women also could not effectively challenge the paradigm created by the state of a good woman until a much later time. That The Hindu Law Code did not in any way challenge that paradigm is evident from the New Educational Policy set up by the Government of India under a National Committee on Women’s Education in 1959 which argued that the courses likely to interest women were home science, music, drawing, painting, and nursing. The new laws thus practically changed nothing in women’s situation in society. The only way out was to rescue women’s rights from being placed in opposition to group rights but as yet women’s groups had not developed strategies whereby women’s rights could be negotiated not in opposition, but in tandem with other rights such as minority rights or ethnic rights. The Citizenship Act of 1955 reiterated the male-centrism of the project of state-formation in India. Dealing with modes of acquiring, renouncing, termination, and deprivation of citizenship, the Act did not produce the

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category of universal citizen that it was supposed to. The section on citizenship by registration stated that “women who are, or have been, married to citizens of India” were to be given citizenship if they applied for it. No such stipulations were made for men marrying women who were Indian citizens. In the section on the termination of citizenship it was stated that where a male person “ceases to be a citizen of India under sub-section (1), every minor child of that person shall thereupon cease to be a citizen of India” (Consul, 1962: 179–85). Citizenship was acquired and transferred through the male line giving women a second class citizenship. Although in later acts women could transfer citizenship rights to their spouses and to their children, it did not alter the maleness of the Indian state, as conceived in the formative years. This Act too, entrenched women’s location within essentially patriarchal sites such as the family or the community. The one thing that the state consistently refused to consider was a Uniform Civil Code that could have challenged women’s location within a kin and a community. Demands for women’s autonomy were successfully contained by the state until the 1970s when these demands resurfaced. The context was both internal and international. The United Nations declared 1975–85 as the decade for women and Indian women activists used the occasion to explore the actual situation of women in India that revealed that despite legal victories over the years, political, economic, and social disparities between men and women continued. There was extensive evidence of increasing violence against women despite such measures as the amended Factory and Mines Act of 1953, the Dowry Prohibition Act, 1961, and its amendment in 1964. These gaps between women’s formal legal rights and their substantive inequality in practice could no longer remain unnoticed. The Towards Equality Report of 1975, brought women’s marginalization in society to popular perception. That women were slowly becoming aware of their lack of control over resources and their distance from the trade union movements largely led by men is clear by some of the initiatives that they undertook in the 1970s of which the Self-Employed Women’s Association (SEWA) is but one. SEWA, a women’s trade union movement, started in 1972 with the objective of making it possible for poor women to have access to and ownership of economic resources. Their intention was “overcoming exploitation by men, society and state policies” (Bhatt, 1999: 34). As a result of these developments, the Equal Remuneration Act, 1976, was passed. But even these legislations succeeded only upto a point. Newer initiatives

60 / PAULA BANERJEE were necessary both in the field of legislation and in other forms of politics for more substantive changes in women’s social and political lives. That legislation might also be a double-edged sword was further proved by the events following the Shah Bano case. Shah Bano, a Muslim woman of 73 years, was divorced by her husband after 40 years of their marriage. She brought a petition for maintenance from her husband under Section 125 of the Criminal Procedure Code of 1973. In April 1985, the Supreme Court held that she was entitled to maintenance of Rs 179.20 per month. This judgment created a furor in the country. For Shah Bano, victory came after 10 long years of struggle. She was not the first Muslim woman to apply for and be granted maintenance under the 1973 Criminal Code. But the repercussions of this judgment surpassed any other, perhaps because the Supreme Court called for the enactment of a Uniform Civil Code. When some by-elections took place in December 1985, a sizeable Muslim vote that traditionally voted in favor of Congress-I, turned against it. From Kishengunj constituency, the opposition Muslim candidate Syed Shahbuddin came to power. Soon, an independent Muslim Member of the Parliament introduced a bill to “save Muslim personal law.”7 The Congress-I, the ruling party, issued a whip to ensure the passage of the Bill. The Women’s Movement, some Muslim organizations, and even the Hindu Right vigorously campaigned against the Bill. “The government, initially supportive of the Supreme Court decision, reversed its position, and supported the enactment of the Muslim Women’s (Protection of Rights on Divorce) Act in May 1986, which provided that Section 125 of the Criminal Procedure Code did not apply to divorced Muslim women” (Kapur and Cossman, 1996: 63). The Shah Bano case strongly brought forth the question of the sanctity of personal law. At the initial stage of the debate, a Member of Parliament argued that since this issue pertains to Muslim religion “only a Muslim judge should decide such cases because in such cases only a Muslim got the right to do iztihad, i.e. right to give opinion where there is a conflict between the order of the law and that of the Prophet” (Owaisi, 1985: 399). Such claims asserted that the right of the cultural community was greater than that of the political community. Meanwhile in a dramatic turn around, even Shah Bano dissociated herself from this judgment. She said “I, Shah Bano, being a Muslim reject it (the SC judgment) and dissociate myself from every judgment which is contrary to the Islamic Shariat” (Shah Bano in Jayal, 1999: 120). Her rejection of the Supreme Court judgment symbolized women’s capitulation to the cultural community when

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arrayed against patriarchal forces that work across cultural and political communities. In a recent interview, Sona Khan, who acted as Shah Bano’s lawyer commented that “one cannot make a Shah Bano of a rich woman. It is only the poor and uneducated who get taken in by what religious fundamentalists say. Also, it is not fair to criticize the discriminatory personal laws of one community while discriminatory laws of other communities are not paid attention to.”8 Women’s apprehensions that the new law was retrogressive proved correct the next year. In March 1987, the Minister for Social Welfare, Rajendra Kumari Bajpai, reported that not a single woman in India was granted maintenance by the Wakf Board in 1986 (Jayal, 1999: 135). But the controversy helped women to organize themselves into a movement as never before. The motion that was started by the Towards Equality Report gathered momentum because of the Shah Bano case. This can be gleaned from the debates led by women Members of Parliament exactly at the time when the Shah Bano case was on. It started with the Lok Sabha Debates on “Progress of Indian Women in Social, Educational, Political and Economic Fields in the International Women’s Decade” which made an occasion for the women members to place the situation of women in India before the apex law making body of the state. It was revealed that the number of illiterate women in India had increased from 215.3 million in 1971 to 241.6 million in 1981 (Mukherjee, 1985: 288). The number of women cultivators was on the decline and women agricultural laborers on the increase proving that land was progressively being taken away from the hands of women. In India, “more boys are born than girls but more girls die than boys and the expectation of life is lower for girls. The death rates of females particularly in the age group of 0 to 4 is much higher” (Patnaik, 1985: 307). More girls suffer from malnutrition than boys. Members also pointed out that the “number of women workers is decreasing every year,” even in traditionally womendominated industries such as cashew, tobacco, bidi, matches, and tea (Mollah, 1985: 312). In jute and textile industries, 30–60 per cent women workers were displaced (ibid.). It was said that 43.5 per cent of all marriages in India were marriages of girl children. Also, members reported the link between “commercialization of agriculture and nutrition deprivation of females” (Sinha, 1985: 318). This was perhaps the first time that there was an effort to make a holistic audit of women’s position in society in the Indian Parliament. Even the legal status of women came under fire. Women activists felt that within the Indian context, the “main problem is that there (are) many laws but

62 / PAULA BANERJEE women are dominated not by secular laws, not by uniform civil laws, but by religious laws” (Mollah, 1985: 314). But another insidious trend was noticeable with the Shah Bano case that entrenched women within their own communities. While the debate over Muslim personal law was on, there were calls from some women candidates such as Abida Ahmed who argued that the “Government should frame a law which should prohibit interference with Personal Law time and again and may end the disturbed atmosphere that has been created in various quarters as a result of the Shah Bano case” (Ahmed, 1984: 333). Leaders such as Jaffar Sharief even argued that “today, in the Shah Bano’s case, I am finding that many people are more sympathetic towards Muslim women than their own women. This is very strange” (Sharief, 1985: 7) (emphasis mine). The whole question of women’s rights was subsumed within the question of group rights defining our women and their women. The politicization of the question led to a realignment of politics. The Left and the Hindu Right were aligned together and the Congress and the Muslim conservatives were on the other side. The new political realignments reflected that patriarchal forces cut across party politics where women’s self-definition was consistently marginalized. Movements for women’s autonomy once again focused on parliamentary reforms, which due to a number of new legislation had become one of the most contested sites for the issue of women’s rights. Demands for reservation of seats for women began in the early 1970s and culminated in the 1980s. According to one observer, “Ramakrishna Hegde’s government in Karnataka started the process in 1983 before Central legislation mandating representation for women was passed. It provided for 25 per cent reservation for women at village Panchayat levels. This was before any powerful women’s lobby emerged in Karnataka to press for this move” (Kishwar, 1999: 135). After the Shah Bano case, women within political parties seized on the issue of representation as the only way to change the situation of women. This was followed by the 73rd Amendment in 1992 that reserved 33 per cent seats for women at the Panchayat level. This led, in September 1996, to the introduction of a Bill in Parliament that called for the reservation of one-third of the seats for women in Parliament. Debate over this issue continues till today. Women’s demand for equitable representation started with the Towards Equality Report. The Nairobi Declarations in 1985 also called for increased representation for women. The 73rd Amendment therefore responded to women’s long-standing demands for representation. Once the 73rd Amendment was passed, however, the Women’s Movement felt a backlash

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because it was argued that only the female relatives of political leaders could benefit from such reservations. This backlash caused the majoritarian Women’s Movement, that was substantially weakened by legislative reversals due to the controversy generated by the Uniform Civil Code, to all but dissipate. But women’s activism did not. The Women’s Movement found new defenders of women’s rights from a number of autonomous women’s groups that emerged in the 1980s. The 1980s witnessed unprecedented women’s activism both along party and non-party lines. While political parties were concerned about the issue of representation, other women’s groups emerged to concentrate on other issues such as violence. These autonomous women’s groups emerged because most political organizations gave minimal attention to women’s questions and relegated what they considered women’s issues to women cadres. Although many of these autonomous women’s groups largely supported the 73rd Amendment, as it gave space to more women to come to the political forefront, their own agenda was often different. They were separate from either the state or political parties and this was “a statement about their desire to remain independent” (Gandhi and Shah, 1999: 337). It all started with the protest against rape and violence faced by many Indian women even in the 1980s. The Mathura rape case brought forward such an alliance in Mumbai. Soon, there were a number of women’s autonomous groups such as Stri Shakti Sangathan of Hyderabad, Nari Nirjatan Pratirodh Mancha in Kolkata, Meira Paibies in Manipur, Naga Mother’s Association (NMA) in Nagaland, etc. that brought to the forefront of politics, the pervasive marginalization of women, particularly tribal and dalit women, in India. Ideologically heterogeneous, these women’s groups did not have to toe the party line and could have new kinds of debate. That most of the recent creative political responses have been undertaken by these groups of women is made clear by their performance in Northeast India, particularly in their fight against laws such as the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA), as is clearly revealed by the situation in Nagaland and Manipur.

Tribal and Dalit Women in the Movement Despite the 73rd Amendment, it became clear in the 1990s, that the situation of women among the scheduled castes and scheduled tribes remained extremely precarious. Among the tribal people who were giving

64 / PAULA BANERJEE up jhum cultivation, the women were the poorest, though there are differing opinions regarding the relative position of women in tribal India. Although there are great disparities among women’s status in Northeast India, due to their different historical experiences and hence different social construction of their roles, recent researches show that since most of these women practiced jhum or shifting cultivation, they enjoyed a better position in society. A noted woman scholar of Assam is of the opinion that, “because of the practice of shifting cultivation, women are considered as assets to the families and partners of men in jhum cultivation” (Debi, 1994: 2). Population movements and pressure on lands have impacted heavily in areas where people practiced jhum cultivation before forcing a stop to it. Therefore, the situation of women who were the majority among the cultivators is becoming worse as is the case of Naga women or Reang women in Tripura. Both their social and economic positions are affected by this transition, yet, there are hardly any programs to retrain them for income generation, leading to the pauperization of tribal women. The situation of most of these tribal women is further exacerbated by the political climate that they live in. Often their communities are living under siege because many of them are embroiled in state versus community conflicts and are therefore forced to live under the Armed Forces Special Powers Act of 1958 (AFSPA amended in 1972). In terms of creative political actions, those undertaken by autonomous women’s groups against AFSPA have perhaps been most significant. The best known among these organizations is the Naga Mothers’ Association (NMA). It came into existence on 14 February 1984, with a preamble that stated, “Naga mothers of Nagaland shall express the need of conscientizing citizens toward more responsible living and human development through the voluntary organization of the Naga Mothers’ Association” (Constitution of the Naga Mothers’ Association, 1992). Membership of NMA is open to any adult Naga woman irrespective of whether she is married or single.9 Members can join through the women’s organizations of their own tribes. The organization encourages human development through education and its efforts are directed towards eradicating social evils and economic exploitation, and working towards peace and progress. The NMA has rendered valuable service for the cause of peace. It mediated between the Government of Nagaland and the Naga Students’ Federation over age limit for jobs and came to an equitable settlement. An achievement of the NMA is the formation of the Peace Team in October 1994 to confront the deteriorating political situation. Their theme was “Shed No More Blood.” The NMA spoke against killings not only

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by the army but also by the militants. In a pamphlet released on 25 May 1995, representatives of the NMA wrote that “the way in which our society is being run whether by the overground government or the underground government, have become simply intolerable.” Apart from peace initiatives, the NMA has worked for social regeneration. In Nagaland there is rampant abuse of alcohol and drugs. The NMA collaborates with the Kripa Foundation of Mumbai for rehabilitation of drug-doers. The NMA is probably the first women’s organization in the Northeast to test pregnant women for HIV virus and provide pioneering service for the care of patients afflicted with AIDS. An NMA spokesperson is of the opinion that conflict in Nagaland is a result of chronic underdevelopment. Therefore, the NMA believes that without addressing developmental issues there cannot be any peace in Nagaland.10 The NMA’s greatest achievement is that most Naga women’s organizations are its collaborators. The members of the NMA also collaborate with the Naga Women’s Union of Manipur and work very closely with the Naga Hohos. That the NMA has an enormous influence in Naga politics is borne out by the fact that it is the only women’s group in South Asia which has participated in a cease-fire negotiation. In 1997, they mediated between the GOI and the NSCN (IM) faction and facilitated a cease-fire. The other group that has shown tremendous political initiatives is the Meira Paibies (The Torchbearers) who symbolize women’s activism in the Manipur Valley. Manipuri women trace their origin from the military deeds of Linthoingambi of Ningthou Khomba, who was known to have saved her palace from attacks by the enemy. During the last century, there were two women-led uprisings against the British in Manipur known as the Nupi Lal. Today, there is a women’s bazaar in Manipur known as Nupi Keithel where women meet, sell their wares, and discuss problems of the day, including politics. This bazaar has served as a launching pad for collective revolt by women. According to Yumnam Rupachandra of the North-East Sun, the Meira Paibies have become an institution in their own right today. They started as nasha bandis or combat groups for the ever-increasing consumption of alcohol by the men. Slowly they captured the imagination of the Peoples Liberation Army (PLA). The PLA imposed a ban on bootlegging and booze in January 1990. Two months later, succumbing to this pressure, the United Legislative Front government declared Manipur a dry state. This was a victory for the Meira Paibies. According to some critics, Meitei militants actively support these women’s groups. But recent events have proved that Meira Paibies enjoy the support of most of the civil society in Manipur. In the last two years the Meira

66 / PAULA BANERJEE Paibies have expanded their area of action through campaigning against atrocities by the security forces, keeping nightlong watches to foil raids, and by communicating with security forces to convince them from picking up innocent bystanders for questioning as a part of counter insurgency operations. In July 2004, a group of Manipuri women protested in the nude in front of Assam Rifles Headquarters in Imphal. The event that triggered this protest was the rape and killing of a 32-year-old Manipuri woman called Manorama who was in the custody of Assam Rifles. When Manipuri women protested in the nude, they said, “the silence of the State authorities and negligence in redressing their woes forced them to go beyond shame” (The Sentinel, 17 July 2004). Their protest touched the core of male-centrism of the Indian state structure that has unleashed unprecedented violence against women. Their activism succeeded in the formation of Apunba Lup, a coalition of civil society groups in Manipur against the AFSPA and extracted an assurance from the Prime Minister that more humane laws will replace the AFSPA. The actions of the Maira Paibies and the NMA portray that they have mastered the art of creating a common platform for all civil society groups thereby producing an alternate vision of peace. The naked protests of the Maira Paibies show that they are acting not just against the AFSPA but also against the masculinist militarized machinery. Through such a process these women have successfully created their own space in the politics for peace. The Naga women also did the same through their Shed No More Blood campaign. These protests show that women’s negotiations for peace have the potential to change the situation of women and lead to a democratization of society inasmuch as democracy can be equated with social justice. Therefore my contention is that these autonomous women’s groups have not only redefined peace but their own situation is redefined by the politics of peace through an enlargement of the space for democratic actions. They have worked against the binary that women’s rights are always in contention with group rights by establishing, that increasing the space for women’s action also means an increase in the democratic space for communities.

The Women’s Movement as it Stands Today Women’s demands for autonomy have taken different forms from the colonial period onwards. At times they focused on questions of education and at other times on legislative reforms. With every achievement it was

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revealed that something yet was left to be done. The legal reforms of the 1960s led to the Towards Equality Report that portrayed that if there are acts there are facts too. Institutionalized marginalization of women came to the political forefront in the 1970s leading to women’s militant activism in the 1980s. The 1980s activism focused on questions of Uniform Civil Code. As it became more and more apparent that Uniform Civil Code would remain a distant dream, participants in the Women’s Movement then focused on adequate representation of women in the legislature taking this to be the only substantial way to empower women. But for this women needed the support of political parties that were guided by their own patriarchies. These patriarchies would support the question of equitable women’s representation only up to a point and would definitely not support women’s increased representation if it encroached on their space. No wonder then, that after the 73rd Amendment was passed, there was an effort by these men to keep the reins of decision-making in their hands. Hence, the criticism that women let their men rule from behind in the Panchayats. It was ironical that all those who were criticizing women for not exerting their autonomy had traditionally challenged the autonomous persona of women and tried to confine them within their families, kin, and communities. Even women’s rights activists themselves fell prey to this doubt and started to think that increased representation in Panchayats did not resolve the issue of women’s marginalization. Later evidences from places such as Kultikri in West Bengal and Vitner in Maharashtra suggested that women’s Panchayats have often led to success stories. Yet, opposition to reservation for women in the Parliament continued. Many participants in the Women’s Movement, therefore, switched their strategy, from bringing in reservation for women in parliamentary politics to supporting women’s autonomous groups for furthering the question of women’s autonomy.11 This does not mean that support for reservation of seats for women was abandoned, but that many women decided to expand the movement for autonomy by looking at other avenues. In the Parliament, women continued to be viewed as being different from men justifying different treatment, even legally. The last Prime Minister of India, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, has often made statements with the implicit assumption that there is natural difference between them. His statement that “women who want to become men and want to make other women men are worthy of ridicule,” is particularly revealing (quoted in Kapur and Cossman, 1996: 246). The debates in Parliament over the 85th Amendment Bill showed that in institutional politics women could

68 / PAULA BANERJEE not remove themselves from being considered merely as members of their communities or families. Women leaders appealed to the Parliament to pass the 85th Amendment Bill on the grounds that it would lead to political peace in the family, community, and country. Girija Vyas, while arguing for the Bill stated that “woman is also mother and her home is temple, mosque, gurduwara and church for her and she prays for welfare and well being of entire family. She would never wish that her children, in to husband or brother should die.” Hence, giving in to women’s demands for 33 per cent would lead to peace and so it should be supported and passed (Vyas, 2000: 709). Thus, even in women’s self-assertions in the Parliament, a woman remains an integral part of her community. As for those who opposed the Bill in its present format, did so again, by situating women within their communities be it that of caste, class, or religion. One such person has argued, “today women too are known by their castes as who is a Brahman, who is a dalit and who belongs to the backward class. Therefore, in view of this fact if we are really concerned about the upliftment of women then there should be reservation for women of every class for strengthening their position” (Choudhury, 2000: 712). Neither could they oppose the primacy of personal law in guiding women’s lives. Parliamentary debates portray that even recently while introducing amendments to marriage and divorce acts, all efforts were made to follow the guidance of personal law. Arun Jaitley, the Minister of Law, highlighted the importance of personal laws by stating that although it was decided that the maximum amount of maintenance “that could be given to a wife would be capped to one-fifth of the husband’s income, this is not the position with regard to the other personal laws and, therefore, there was a demand that this one-fifth cap should be removed. This has also been sought to be removed” (Jaitley, 2001: 392). In areas where there are no personal laws there are customary laws. For example, the Autonomous District Councils that came into being under the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution have made no special provisions for women who are often living under repressive customary laws.12 These are the laws that guide women’s participation in institutional politics. Therefore, when women’s participation in institutional politics seemed to have reached a dead end, autonomous women’s groups took up the issue of women’s autonomy. Agitation for representation, therefore, created closures in the Women’s Movement for autonomy. Autonomous women’s groups in some parts

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of Northeast India seem to be showing the way out of such closures. They have created an alternative to representational politics by challenging the notion that women’s autonomy can only be achieved in contradiction to group autonomy. They have proved that women’s activism against violence creates more space for other civil society groups and for democracy. This does not mean that their politics is in opposition to parliamentary politics and against questions of representation, only that their agenda is different. They feel that for any substantial changes in women’s lives, women need to embark on a politics for justice rather than parliamentary politics of representation. By focusing on justice they have expanded both the scope of civil society movements and Women’s Movements. This is not to say that by focusing on violence and justice, Women’s Movements for autonomy could address all challenges. According to Gabriele Dietrich, such a focus did not help the Women’s Movement to build bridges with caste based movements. She is of the opinion that in the Women’s Movement there is a tendency to “play down the caste factor” (Dietrich, 2003: 57). There might be many other lacunae but one thing can be said with certainty, that is, the autonomous Women’s Movements could make spaces for raising questions of women’s autonomy within different kinds of politics of which the politics of peace is one. True that these collectives did not question women’s group identities but they rather fought against closures that were created by putting women’s rights in opposition to group rights. These groups also expanded the scope of Women’s Movements from their limited focus on questions of representation. However, the effects of such initiatives are still emerging and it is early to figure out the full impact of such movements. It would suffice to say for now, that autonomous women’s groups were able to raise debates on women’s autonomy from paying attention to only issues of women’s representation in parliamentary politics to a larger focus on women’s interventions in the politics for justice. In this manner women’s autonomous groups created greater space for women’s voices in political decision-making and greater scope for women’s participation and activism in different modes of politics; thereby these groups both problematized and diversified questions of autonomy. They also made space for women’s participation in different kinds of politics, thereby diversifying movements for women’s autonomy and raising them from questions of rights and representation to those of justice.

70 / PAULA BANERJEE Notes 1. Although the Bill was introduced because of pressures from women’s groups, yet, it treated men and women differently as women could obtain divorce only on grounds of aggravated adultery and men needed to prove only simple adultery. 2. See Sarkar (2001: 85–124). 3. Literally translated as “terrain of love” in Kavita Panjabi, “Before Nation, After Partition,” presented in the Seminar entitled The Line Between: The Experience of Partitions and Borders, Seagull Arts and Media Resource Centre, Calcutta, 10 April 2004. 4. About eight million Hindus and Sikhs left Pakistan to resettle in India while about six-seven million Muslims went to Pakistan. 5. For a scholarly account of gender in the politics of partition refer to Menon and Bhasin (1998) and Butalia (1998). 6. These legal correctives or measures did not go beyond what one analyst calls the “typecasting women as wombs to bring forth babies, lips to utter sweet nothings, and laps to cuddle infants.” 7. This phrase was used by a number of scholars writing on the Shah Bano case including Zakia Pathak and Rajeswari Sunder Rajan, “Shahbano.” See Butler and Scott (1992: 257). 8. Interview of Sona Khan with Deepti Mahajan, 6 July 2004, New Delhi. 9. Statement made by Neidonuo Angami, President NMA, in Second Civil Society Dialogue on Peace, organized by Calcutta Research Group, Shantiniketan, 14 July 2002. 10. Interview with Ms Kheseli, Secretary NMA, 27 January 1999 and 10 October 1999, Kohima and Calcutta. 11. For an analysis of women’s representation in Panchayats, see Mohanty (1999: 19–33). 12. At present, an initiative is on to codify these laws. That customary laws are discriminatory becomes clear when one sees how it deals with the issue of rape. Perpetrators of rape often get away by paying a minimal fine of about Rs 500 after raping women.

3 WHERE DO THE AUTONOMOUS INSTITUTIONS COME FROM? Samir Kumar Das

Introduction

P

eace accords1 may be defined as those that are signed between the state and its adversaries involved in some form of discord in an attempt to bring about “peace” between them. A few qualifications, however, should be kept in mind while thinking about accords: (a) Accords are necessarily preceded by discords, but at a point where the discordant parties feel it expedient, for whatever reasons, to sign an accord. Charles Tilly (Tilly, 2003: 194–220) warns us against the commonplace tendency of viewing accords as the logical culmination of any linear progression and intensification of discords to make a distinction between violence that culminate in accords and those that do not. (b) Accords are meant for bringing about peace between otherwise discordant parties. Whether peace achieved or sought to be achieved through accords is “war continued through other means” or not, is an altogether different story. (c) While accords specify the mutual obligations of the parties, they are also expected to provide some form of autonomy that the state evidently promises to grant to accommodate its adversaries into its legal and political framework. Autonomy provided through accords is first and foremost

72 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS an acknowledgment that those who have now been provided with it were hitherto denied it. Keeping these qualifications in mind, this review will be constrained by the following conditions: First, it will restrict itself only to those accords in which the state (whether the Government of India, or the respective state governments, or both) is one of the signatories. It does not bring under its purview, those accords that are signed between say, rival community leaders (like, the Nagas and the Kukis in the hills of Manipur) in their bid to bring the internecine warfare to an end. For the purpose of this chapter, we propose to locate autonomy as a space that is sought to be created within the realm of the state’s institutions and practices. This is not to say that autonomous spaces are not created outside the state’s realm or for that matter, the spaces thus created necessarily attract opposition from the state. I have shown elsewhere how the Jatiya Unnayan Parishad or “National Development Council,” acting reportedly in close collusion with the United Liberation Front of Asom (ULFA), provided leadership to village development works particularly in the late 1980s by way of mobilizing the rural masses, that forced the wealthy local contractors, traders, and middlemen, hitherto prospering on commissions and kickbacks from public sector expenditures, to pay for them independently of, but not necessarily in opposition to, the state agencies. There is no reason to believe that the government agencies did not know of their works and activities. But there is hardly any case of the government agencies ever deciding to crack down on them (Das, 1994: 83–84). Second, since we are more concerned with the constitutional and legal provisions of autonomy, we take only the intra-state peace accords, signed between the state on the one hand and its adversaries on the other, into account. For our convenience, we define the Indian state in the broadest possible sense to include all of its agencies or any combination of them having the authority of signing and executing the accords and/or carrying out the responsibility of monitoring and implementing them, at times jointly with others. There is always some difficulty involved though in stretching the distinction between intra- and inter-state accords beyond a certain point. Inter-state accords have their implications for intra-state accords and vice versa. The Indira–Mujib agreement, reportedly reached between the two Prime Ministers of India and Bangladesh in 1972, was always cited as the reason why the Indian state could not accede to the demands of the student leaders during the Assam movement (1979–85).2 The center seemed averse to the students’ demands for detection, disenfranchisement, and deportation of the “foreigners” who had migrated

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mainly from erstwhile East Pakistan during 1947–71 and settled in different parts of Assam, supposedly on the ground that Mrs Gandhi had promised to accept their responsibility on India’s behalf. A comparison between the intra- and inter-state peace accords, though enormously insightful, would definitely be beyond the scope of this study. Third, the chapter restricts itself mainly to an analysis of the institutions and practices of autonomy as enshrined in the accords. It is interesting to see how varieties of institutions and practices are offered by the accords and how they also read back into the accords signed between otherwise contending parties (Das, 2001a). Viewed in this light, it will be difficult, if not impossible, to make any rigid distinction between the provisions offered by the accords and their implementation. Accords fail not because there are failures in implementing them, but because such failures in implementation are built in them. Texts of accords are therefore to be seen as relatively vast and open sites where varieties of institutions and practices enact and play themselves out.

Autonomy as Difference The relation of accords to autonomy has received some, though very sketchy, attention. On the one hand, accords are viewed as the means of “normalizing” the adversaries into a nation of fully autonomous and rights-bearing citizens. These are primarily instrumentalities through which the state builds its nation, brings in ever-newer ethnicities and bodies of people, hitherto lying outside, into the orbit of nationhood by way of entitling them to the constitutional and legal provisions of autonomy. Accords, from this point of view, prepare the adversaries for entitlement (Dasgupta, 1995). From another point of view, accords are seen as “strategically deployed” means alongside force and coercion by the state in order to establish and perpetrate its “domination” over the adversaries. “Strategic deployment,” therefore, involves an intelligent mix of force and coercion on the one hand, and negotiation, consensus building, and accords on the other. But essentially, both are geared to the same objective of keeping the instability inherent in any asymmetrical and iniquitous social formation within limits and thereby helping in reproducing the status quo (Singh, 1999). Thus, a distinction is made between peace, established through accords by disarming the adversaries, and autonomy promised but not (meant to be) implemented through accords.

74 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS Peace accords, hence, are more peace accords than autonomy accords. The point is often stretched a step further to argue that what we call “autonomy” takes place essentially within a “modular form” in which the main policy demands and the aspirations for rights of the ethnic communities not only remain unaddressed but are transformed into issues of “managing conflicts and monitoring peace” and of governmentality (Samaddar, 2004: 159–96). The promise of autonomy is made to accomplish the cessation of hostilities and disarming the militants. Once status quo ante is re-established and peace is restored, the promise is conveniently forgotten and the accords are allowed to gather dust. Accords therefore play a role in relegating autonomy into governmental technology. Indeed, there is ample evidence in support of such a conclusion. Accords are believed to have failed because of their singular failure in addressing the issue of autonomy independently of their utility as a technology. To cite an example, an investigating team, representing as many as eight Human Rights organizations spread over six states of India, visited Jammu and Kashmir in 1995 and its conversations with various crosssections of people living in the valley as well as in Rajouri and Poonch of Jammu led it to conclude that “the people there have held the Government of India responsible for having trampled the demand for autonomy within the Indian state” (APDR, 1995: 12). Autonomy viewed in these studies oscillates between the twin extremes of existing constitutional and legal provisions and their hitherto unimplemented or often unimplementable promises. By confining the autonomy project to the existing structure of constitutional and legal provisions, these studies have not been able to break new grounds in our understanding of autonomy and its complex and uneasy relationship with the already existing constitutional and legal provisions. Thus, the argument that the Constitution is a superordinate body of laws, absolutely untrammeled by and impervious to the demands of autonomy (Omar, 2004) may have its juridical value; but fails in reading it as a political document. Such a view obviously goes against the body of work that sensitizes us to the continuous process of constitutional engineering initiated by the Indian state while addressing and responding to the changing political realities in different parts of the country. According to Ghosh, “... the process of Constitutional engineering was a necessary requirement for managing the heterogeneity of India” (Ghosh, 1998: 60). I want to argue that the Constitution is neither an absolutely inflexible legal document nor a constantly changing political document that can be and is subjected to any and every conceivable form of experimentation

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and engineering. While there is always the imperative of changing the Constitution in keeping with changing and hitherto unforeseen political realities—a process better known as constitutional engineering—it cannot be, and does not have to be, so flexible as to extend its seal of approval to all the changing political realities around the country. The relation of accords to the country’s constitution in that sense is always complex and tenuous and the state can acknowledge it only at its own peril. Not all that the state does in order to facilitate the peace process enjoys constitutionality in the strict sense of the term. Peace is what pushes the state to bend but not necessarily to break its norms in ways not acknowledged publicly by it (Das, 2003: 10–28). We will have occasions to reflect on this relationship in the concluding section of this chapter. Governmentality is the story of how norms are bent and inflected in order to create and provide for spaces of autonomy, albeit selectively, within the body politic as a means of “managing conflicts and monitoring peace.” It is not predicated on an inevitable denial of autonomy. At any given point of time, it operates through a veritable combination of autonomy and a denial of it. Governmentality, therefore, is not merely a technology; it also has implications for the substantive question of continuously renegotiating the norms and principles embodied in the constitution and the system of laws while responding to ever-newer and of course ever-widening demands for autonomy, though there is no denying that such renegotiations are only secondary to governmentality. In short, the existing studies shed more light on the nature of the state and how it governs and less on the quality of autonomy guaranteed or sought to be guaranteed by the state. The state as we know it is not a given datum. It grows and develops through the government of autonomy (among other things). These tensions within the state on the question of autonomy are reflected in the very texts of the accords as well as the constitutional and legal provisions that the state promises to be guided by. The signing of accords is necessitated by the accommodation, albeit with varying degrees of success, of these tensions, which we describe as difference. Accords are attempts to institutionalize the difference. An appreciation of the difference between what we call the “original” contract and its subsequent renegotiation brings certain aspects of an accord to light. First, the “original” contract is seldom executed in an explicit and overt manner. The entitlement of the contracting parties to execute a contract on their behalf at the time of the making of the Constitution was taken to be too obvious to require any ratification by way of actually signing an accord. Thus, when the Sikh leaders demanded some

76 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS form of “reservation” in order to outweigh their minority status, they were reportedly told by the Advisory Committee of the Constituent Assembly that there was hardly any room for it in a federal polity with a parliamentary democracy based on adult suffrage and Fundamental Rights guaranteed in its Constitution, and the Sikhs “in any case being a highly educated and virile community” needed no weightage (quoted in Grewal, 1994: 183). In other words, the argument is that since “a highly educated and virile community” like the Sikhs is already a part of the polity, its demand for any right to dictate the terms of incorporation sounds redundant. The Sikh members of the Constituent Assembly as a result refused to sign the draft Constitution to be adopted by the “people of India” on 26 January 1950. Parties that sign the “original” contract are taken to be so natural to it that they do not have in fact to sign it in order to prove their incorporation. A nation gets formed around this core that consists of the natural parties to the “original” contract. India’s position with respect to Kashmir’s accession may serve as a case by contrast. Indian leaders, particularly Nehru, were committed more to the democratization of Kashmir than its accession to India. For him, release of political detinues including Sheikh Abdullah was a precondition for holding free and fair elections in Kashmir.3 In Jha’s words: “Nehru felt reasonably confident that an election would bring the Sheikh to power and that, given his opposition to the creation of Pakistan, his strongly professed secularism, and his personal friendship with Nehru, Abdullah would prefer to join India rather than Pakistan, but was fully prepared to accept his decision if it went the other way” (Jha, 2003: 39). Sheikh Abdullah vindicated Nehru’s “confidence” when he observed in his inaugural address to the Jammu and Kashmir Constituent Assembly on 5 November 1951: The real character of a State is revealed in its Constitution. The Indian Constitution has set before the country the goal of secular democracy based upon justice, freedom and equality for all without distinction. This is the bedrock of modern democracy. This should meet the argument that the Muslims of Kashmir cannot have security in India, where the large majority of the population are Hindus. (reproduced in Kaul, 1999: 282)

But, in the same address, he also expressed his apprehension that there were certain tendencies nevertheless active in India, that sought to “convert her into a religious State” and in that case, the “interests of Muslims will be jeopardized.” Notwithstanding these apprehensions, India’s selfdefinition as a democratic country was expected to be the natural choice

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of the Kashmiris once democratic institutions were established in that state. Nehru, in other words, seemed to have felt that the actual process of signing on the dotted lines of the Instrument of Accession (that subsequently became the bone of contention between the two countries) would lose its significance once democratic institutions had made their entry into Kashmir, and Kashmiris were allowed to make their choice through a free and fair election, and that democratic reforms would make Kashmir a natural part of India. Our nationalist leaders did not hold Kashmir in the days of the Maharaja as “democratic.” Kashmir per se, therefore, was not eligible for being a part of India; she was to be rendered eligible through democratic reforms. Second, the “original” contract is signed, albeit implicitly, between parties which do not raise their demands in explicitly ethnic and most importantly, ethnically exclusivist terms. Indeed, the responses of the jurists and constitutional commentators are informed by an extreme fear of ethnically exclusivist demands. Durga Das Basu, a pioneering commentator on the Indian Constitution widely known for his liberal views observes: All this (the Khalistan movement) is anti-federal and looks like a prelude to the setting up of an independent Khalistan, for, had it been a mere agitation for wresting greater autonomy for the Punjabi-speaking State of Punjab, the Akali leaders should have sought to carry Punjabi-speaking Hindus with them.… The only conclusion that can be drawn is that it is not a political agitation, but a religious crusade (dharma yudh) to carve out a semi-independent State for the Sikhs which might lead eventually (at some opportune moment) to a fully independent State of Khalistan. (Basu, 1985: 13)

It was thus imperative that the demand for autonomy be couched in broad and general terms and in a language that keeps communication with the potential minorities within the proposed territorial unit always open. This is evident in the Report of the States’ Reorganization Commission. Third, parties to the “original” contract have a genealogy that they seem to share with the Indian nation. Thus, their genealogies get enmeshed in that of the nation and vice versa. Notwithstanding their demands for autonomy, they would never trace their existence to a history independent of that of India or that of the Indic civilization at large. But, wherever an ethnic community has sought to put forth a distinct genealogy, the state felt the necessity of formalizing its incorporation through the signature of accords. The Mizo National Front (MNF) in its “Declaration of

78 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS Independence” signed on 28 February 1966, pointed out that the Mizos were an “independent nation” before the establishment of colonial rule. They considered the Mizo Union-led merger of Mizo Hills with India, an “act of political immaturity, ignorance and absence of farsightedness” and portrayed India as a land of Hindus and Mizoram as a land of Christians facing persecution under Hindu hegemony. The case of ULFA is quite interesting in this regard. The insurgency of Assam led by ULFA is usually regarded as the first of its kind, challenging the mainstream Hindu society from within itself. Most of its leaders speak Assamese as their mother tongue that has strong Sanskrit-Prakrit (Indo-Aryan) roots and, though many of them have ethnic Mongoloid origins, they have become an integral part of the Assamese peasantry whose ancestors had adopted Hinduism of the Vaishnavite variety as their religion long back in history. Thus it is argued: The emergence of this movement from the mainstream therefore represents a real crisis in the mainstream concept of Indian nationalism and nation building. Hence, the predictable reaction of the Indian State ... is one of luring the movement back into the mainstream with promises of riches to the returnees on the one hand and crushing the movement out of existence by brute force on the other. (Bora, 1997: 292)

While the two-fold strategy pointed out by Bora had had a differential impact on the tribal and Hindu sections of its leadership, it is interesting to note how ULFA seems to have distanced itself from the mainstream Hindu society as insurgency gathered momentum in Assam. One has to keep in mind that “most of its leadership was of Muttock origin and belonged to Upper Assam” (Verghese, 1997: 57). It is no surprise that as the organization cracked literally down the middle in the wake of several consecutive rounds of army operations since 1991, it was mainly, though not exclusively, the Hindu elements of the leadership that chose to give way. According to some,4 the organization was not only unable to survive the schism that exists in the Assamese society between the tribals on the one hand and the Varna-Hindu mainstream on the other, but gradually tribalized itself by way of getting rid of its Hindu elements. We do not have any independent way of verifying this hypothesis, but there is reason to think that ULFA’s newfound tribalism was aimed more at building bridges with other tribal insurgents of Mongoloid origin across the region, than at directly striking at its Hindu roots. Its alienation from the so called Varna-Hindu mainstream is only incidental to its need for entering

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into a tactical alliance with others. Viewed in this light, while it may not reflect the already existing schism that exists in the Assamese society, it definitely highlights the need for broadening the scope of its tactical alliance with like-minded insurgent organizations.5 An organization intending to execute an accord either is situated outside the framework of Varna-Hindu mainstream beyond any doubt or has to assert its outside nature by way of discarding its traces.

The Moments of Difference It is interesting to note how the measure of difference between the nature of autonomy promised in the accords and that enshrined and enumerated in the Constitution and other laws of the land is worked out in the course of the peace process that sets the accords in motion. The point may be appreciated if we keep at least three moments of this difference in mind: recognition, constitution, and ethnic space. We have to keep in mind that moments are more to be regarded as particular configurations of forces than neat and chronologically sequenced stages.

RECOGNITION First, there is the moment of recognition. That the necessity of signing an accord is felt, indicates that the state confers recognition on its adversary as a collective and ethnic agency represented by an authoritative organization. At times, the recognition verges on an implicit recognition of separate nationhood. The leadership’s initial vacillations on the questions of Kashmir and Nagaland seem to suggest that there was an implicit recognition of difference. The recognition is not always easily forthcoming. The Indian state’s early refusal to be involved in any kind of dialogue with the All Party Hurriyat Conference (APHC) sprang from its hesitation to recognize it as the representative of the Kashmiri people. We know that the representative character of the APHC has always been a bone of contention that has separated them. Morarji Desai, the then Prime Minister, did not have any problem in talking to the Nagas who identified themselves as Indian citizens. But he refused to hold any discussion with Angami Zapu Phizo, whom he described as a “foreigner” and who also had made the same claim of representing the Nagas as a collectivity, for

80 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS he did not want to be informed about the conditions of Nagas from a “foreigner” (Das, 2001a). In almost every case, what we call recognition in fact, stands for recognition on the state’s part that the administration of the relevant community cannot be conducted in the way it is done in the rest of the country.

CONSTITUTION Second, there is the moment of constitution. We have discussed elsewhere how the act of making peace and signing peace accords effects certain transformations in the composition and nature of the organizations that sign them, and also, of those of the communities on whose behalf they are signed (Das, 2001a). Two of these transformations are quite evident: One, every peace accord is prefaced by a disarmament clause. Article 18 of the Bodo Accord, 1993, for example points out: ABSU (All-Bodo Students’ Union)-BPAC (Bodo Peoples’ Action Committee) leaders will take immediate steps to bring overground and deposit all arms, ammunition and explosives in the possession of their own supporters and will cooperate with the administration in bringing overground all Bodo militants along with their own arms and ammunition etc. within one month of the formation of BEC (Bodoland Executive Council). In order to ensure the smooth return to civil life of the cadre and to assist in the quick restoration of peace and normalcy, such surrenders made voluntarily will not attract persecution.

Every accord thereby points to a neatly made distinction between “civil life” and “underground.” Two, every accord includes a protection clause that commits the state to work for the protection and preservation of the tradition and culture of the relevant community. But it is interesting to see how the community that is sought to be protected is constituted through the accord. Article 6 of the Assam Accord, 1985, provides for such protection, but its Bengali, English, and Assamese versions, all officially published, were at variance with each other. While the English and Assamese versions called for the “protection, preservation and promotion of the cultural, social, linguistic identity and heritage of the Assamese people (Asomiya raij ),” the Bengali version—presumably meant for the Bengali-speaking public of Assam and elsewhere—referred to “the people of Assam” (Asamer janasadharan) as the beneficiary. Asomiya raij and Asamer janasadharan are by no means

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the same: It is quite apparent that the latter is a wider category that includes not only the Assamese (-speaking) people but also many others who do not necessarily speak Assamese as their mother tongue (like the Bengalis) living in the state. These ambiguities obviously leave room for the constitution of a wide variety of ethnic groups and communities. As the Asom Gana Parishad (AGP) came to power with the promise of implementing the Accord and the Bodo movement gathered momentum, the “political hazards of this confusion” (Baruah, 1999: 116) began to be felt. Conversely, wherever such constitutive ambiguities are avoided, the ethnic subject gets a chance of being “entrenched.” The entrenchment clause is believed to be the key to the apparent success of the Mizo Accord, 1986. Since factionalism within the Mizo National Front (MNF), that spearheaded Mizo insurgency in the pre-Accord era, was reportedly much less and by all accounts, Pu. Laldenga, its Chief, took his comrades into account almost at every step, it was possible for him to get his organization to accept it (Nunthara, 2002). The Mizo peace process was unusually long primarily because such intra-MNF discussions were an integral part of the Mizo peace process. Further, comparatively low level of in-migration is also believed to be responsible for a certain homogeneity amongst the Mizos, resulting in a reduction of constitutive ambiguities.

ETHNIC SPACE Third, there is the moment of ethnic space. Every peace accord tends to work out how the adversarial ethnic community is to be provided with a distinct geo-political space it can claim as its “homeland.” Viewed in this light, an adversarial ethnic community is not simply a minority (like the Muslims in contemporary India) but an ethnicity that also intends to carve out a distinct geo-political space for itself where it will no longer be considered and treated as a minority.6 It seems to be born of an apprehension that the institutions and practices of democracy in India heavily weigh against the minorities. Since it is only with reference to a predemarcated geo-political space that one community becomes a minority (or not), ethnic minorities, almost without any exception, pursue the agenda of political and administrative reorganization in a way that will be unlikely to relegate them into minorities. Whether it is a demand for statehood, or a demand for the establishment of an autonomous district council, or even a demand for the detection, disenfranchisement, and

82 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS deportation of the foreigners/outsiders in a bid to retain the demographic balance in one’s favor or any of their combination, the concern for an ethnic space is what puts an ethnic community into some sort of a conflict with the state. If the existing borders have reduced them to a minority status, they seem to turn the same logic of bordered space on its head by way of demanding the same for themselves where they would not feel constantly threatened as a minority. But, the desire for bringing the ethnic cousins under a single geopolitically compact and homogeneous entity is not necessarily driven by the fear of having to live as or being reduced to a minority in the near future. The Memorandum of Settlement signed between the Prime Minister of India and the President of the Shiromani Akali Dal on 24 July 1985, is illustrative of this point. Punjab’s exclusive claim over the capital city of Chandigarh, shared now with Haryana, does not seem to have issued from any immediate fear of losing the demographic edge enjoyed now by the Sikhs over other communities living in Punjab. The 18th session of the All India Akali Conference held in Ludhiana on 28–29 October 1978, for example, resolved: “Chandigarh originally raised as a Capital for Punjab should be handed over to Punjab.” Besides, there were also demands for including certain “Punjabi-speaking areas” of the contiguous states in Punjab. The working committee of the Shiromani Akali Dal in its meeting, held at Sri Anandpur Sahib on 16–17 October 1973, expressed its “determination to strive by all means to constitute a single administrative unit where the interests of the Sikhs and Sikhism are specifically protected.” All these demands reflect a desire on the part of the Akalis to unify the Sikhs under one single political and administrative unit but not necessarily as a means of tiding over any demographic challenge whatsoever, within Punjab. Inclusion of the “Punjabi-speaking areas,” however, would have saved the “Punjabi-speaking” people from the compulsion of having to live as minorities in other states. Chandigarh interestingly was an altogether different issue. Punjab’s exclusive claim over the common capital city is hardly based on any demographic argument. It was more of fulfilling an assurance that was made to Punjab at the time of reorganizing the state. Article 7, Clause 1 of the Memorandum of Settlement mentioned above points out among other things: “The Capital Project Area of Chandigarh will go to Punjab.” Chandigarh’s transfer to Punjab was never thought to be a unilateral affair. The Hindi-speaking areas of Punjab territorially and linguistically contiguous to Haryana were to be transferred to the latter in lieu of the award of Chandigarh. Two things of importance stand out: First, the Memorandum not only

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speaks of the bargain but states that this is struck at the instance of Indira Gandhi, the former Prime Minister of India, that “when Chandigarh is to go to Punjab some Hindi speaking territories in Punjab will go to Haryana.” The question of whether Haryana wants these areas to be included in it or not is clearly irrelevant. This case shows how difficult it is to actually put the terms of a bargain into practice. In pursuance of the Memorandum, the Mathew Commission was set up for the purpose of determining the territorially and linguistically contiguous Hindi-speaking areas. Although it was well known that a Punjabi-speaking village intercepted between Abohar Fazilka villages and Haryana, the Commission recommended their transfer to the latter, while many other Hindi-speaking areas lying contiguous to it, remained undemarcated by the Commission. The Commission suggested that another Commission be instituted to identify the remaining Hindispeaking areas of this nature. Mathew’s successor, Venkataramiah, ruled that 70,000 acres in total should go to Haryana in lieu of Chandigarh, but was successful in identifying only 45,000 acres as Hindi-speaking areas and recommended that the remaining 25,000 acres “should somehow be given to Haryana.” This was unacceptable to the Chief Minister, Surjit Singh Barnala, because such areas could only be Punjabi-speaking ones. The territorial issue was thus messed up and Chandigarh could not be transferred to Punjab. Ethnic space is likely to create a difference in two rather complementary senses: The first is that it is expected to consolidate the collective self by way of bringing the divergent sections of the community (like the Nagas in the Northeast and the Kashmiris in the Northwest) strewn between divergent political spaces closer together. The Naga case aptly illustrates how the demand for integration of the Naga-inhabited areas of the Northeastern region into a single political and administrative unit is informed by the desire of bringing the divergent Naga groups and communities together and articulating them into a grand pan-Naga solidarity. The NSCN-IM has been demanding a “sovereign” Naga state comprising an area of 120,000 sq. km. It is, in fact, seven times more than the present state of Nagaland including Ukhrul, Tamenglong, Senapati, and Chandel districts of Manipur, Karbi Anglong, North Cachar Hills, Sivasagar, Jorhat, and Golaghat districts of Assam, and Tirap and Changlang districts of Arunachal Pradesh. The demand is for recognition of the centrality of the political in promoting and fostering pan-Naga solidarity. While NSCN-IM is presently engaged in peace talks with the Government of India, a unanimous resolution was passed by the Nagaland Assembly in

84 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS December 1994, that urged the Government of India to integrate all Nagainhabited areas of Manipur and Arunachal Pradesh with the present state of Nagaland. Such a demand for the integration of the Naga-inhabited areas under one single and separate/“sovereign” unit is based on the argument that, although diverse and heterogeneous by nature, the Naga groups and communities of the region have been concentrated since precolonial times within a single continuous habitat that was subsequently vivisected by the British as well as the Indian and Burmese (presently Myanmarese) governments into multiple and sovereign political and administrative units with the motive of socially and politically fragmenting and weakening them. When Nagas raise the demand for the formation of a single “Nagalim,” their demand, if conceded, is expected to correct the “wrongs” historically done to them. The Naga peace process, thus, may be regarded as only complementary to what is called the Naga Reconciliation Process. The peace process makes it imperative on the part of the Nagas to consolidate their community and strengthen the bonds of pan-Naga solidarity amongst their diverse groups and communities. Formation of the Naga collective self does not precede the peace process; it gets constituted through it. The necessity of initiating a separate reconciliation process whereby all the diverse Naga villages and communities can come together and bridge their mutual differences was also felt by the insurgent organization presently engaged in peace talks with the Government of India (Solomon et al., 2002: 6). The second is that in a multiethnic country like India, it is expected to create newer ethnic minorities in the proposed ethnic spaces. The fiasco over the Bodo Accord, 1993, provides a classic illustration of this point. By all accounts, it was a non-starter. The central problem was the question of delineating the territorial jurisdiction of the Bodoland Autonomous Council (BAC). Its jurisdiction was kept vague in the text of the Accord and its precise delineation was left to the state government. Over and above the 2,570 villages that would come under the BAC jurisdiction on the basis of mutual agreement, the Bodo leaders asked for the incorporation of another 515 villages into it. The Assam Government refused to accede to the demand on the ground that the “Bodos constitute not more than 2 per cent of the total population in these villages.” In order to maintain physical contiguity of these villages with the already agreedupon BAC jurisdiction, even villages with only 30 per cent Bodo population have been added to the list. Moreover, non-Bodos account for about 25 per cent of the total population coming under the jurisdiction of BAC.

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Two militant organizations, the Bodoland Army and Bodo Liberation Tiger Force refused to recognize the Council and described it as “a stooge of Dispur.” The Government’s apprehension that the Bodo militants would target the villages with substantial non-Bodo population in their bid to cleanse them of ethnic minorities came true in the wake of organized attacks on the ethnic Muslims and adivasis (mostly the Santhals) in the proposed Bodoland area. The Sanmilit Janagoshthiya Sangram Samiti (SJSS) serves as the coordinating body of the non-Bodo organizations opposing the institution of the new Bodoland Territorial Council (BTC). Autonomy as difference during this moment is elaborated through the principle of territoriality. While territorial demarcation was at the heart of the intense inter-ethnic strife in the proposed Bodoland area, this proved to be a stumbling block to the implementation of the Tiwa Accord in Assam signed on 14 June 1995. The Tiwas (Mishings) were aggrieved by the exclusion of certain forest and riverine areas, and other villages that they felt belonged to them. We may refer back to the Naga case for further illustration. As a part of the Naga peace process, the Government of India has entered into cease-fire agreements separately with the NSCN-IM and NSCN-K, two of the organizations spearheading the Naga movements in recent years, in 1997 and 2001 respectively. The scope of the cease-fire with the former remained limited to the territorial borders of the present state of Nagaland. It was only on 18 June 2001, when the cease-fire was given a new lease of life for another year, that a source of the Government of India declared in Bangkok its extension “without territorial limits.” This actually opened up a Pandora’s box. Many of the communities viewed it as the first step towards realization of the integration of the Naga-inhabited areas. The All-Manipur United Clubs’ Organization (AMUCO), a social and voluntary organization brought into existence with the sole purpose of safeguarding the territorial integrity of Manipur, and the Monitoring Group on Territorial Integrity of Manipur strongly opposed the extension of the cease-fire to the territory of Manipur and asked the BJP-led National Democratic Alliance Government at the center to retract its stand in the interest of the people. On 6 May 1995, the Manipur Assembly too adopted a resolution upholding the territorial integrity of the state. It re-ratified the same resolution on 17 March and 11 July 1997. Six organizations including AMUCO, AMKIL, IPSA, NIPCO, and UPF in their declaration, known as “People’s declaration to defend the territorial integrity of Manipur,” pointed out that any attempt at alteration of the existing boundary would “necessarily initiate the process of disintegration of the

86 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS Republic of India duly constituted in 1950.” In another development on 19 June 2001, the All-Assam Students’ Union (AASU) decided to take up a tough course of action against the Bangkok Declaration. They threatened to launch a mass movement if the decision of extending the ceasefire to Assam was not withdrawn immediately. All-Nyishi Students’ Union held a five hour dharna in Itanagar (Arunachal Pradesh) on 29 June 2001, in protest against the extension of the cease-fire beyond Nagaland. Neither the Assamese of Assam nor the Nyishis were under any real threat of losing out their majority status had integration come into effect. It seems that more than the fear of being turned into a minority in the near future, the threat to the demographic edge being thinned out loomed large in the protesters’ minds. In the face of these protests, the Government of India decided to withdraw the controversial part of the statement and the cease-fire was made effective only with respect to the Indian state of Nagaland. Each of these accounts testifies to the logic of the nation state. While the state logic is bound to create this drive for autonomy, it is also forced to remain perpetually fluid and ambivalent. For if it leads one community to carve out an ethnic space for itself, it literally traps many others who are yet to carve out ethnic spaces for themselves into it. What once was a state logic contributing to the creation and formation of ethnic space now begins to work against itself. It unleashes certain forces over which it hardly has any control. The state is pitted, as it were, against its own self. Brajendra Kumar Brahma, the then President of Bodo Sahitya Sabha and a moderate Bodo leader, refers to the same paradox. On the one hand, he finds “justification” in the non-Bodo misgivings about the newly constituted Bodo Territorial Council (2002). On the other hand, Brahma likened their fears with “our fears when we started feeling neglected and exploited by the Assamese people. It is the same fear” (Das, 2002: 15). The fear is built into the very institution of the Indian state. Besides, such an ethnic space is intended to protect the customary laws (“the Naga way of life” as they have phrased it) and retain ownership over land and resources. These two are secondary to the principle of territoriality. It is interesting to see how the accords address the critical question of territoriality. The Punjab Accord of 1985 mentioned above may serve as a case in point. We know that the Akali agitation had actually brought the issue of sharing of inter-state river waters to a head. Article 9, Clause 1 of the Memorandum, first of all, establishes the principle that none of the disputing states (Punjab, Haryana, and Rajasthan) will get

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water “less than what they are using from the Ravi-Beas system as on 1st July 1985,” be it for agriculture or for consumption, and provides for the institution of a tribunal for the verification of the quantum of usage by them. On 1 July 1985, the Bhakra-Beas Management Board had provided the figures as 9.655 maf for Punjab, 1.334 maf for Haryana, and 4.500 maf for Rajasthan. The total water available was estimated to be 18.28 maf. According to the terms of the Memorandum, only less than 3.00 maf could be distributed between Punjab and Haryana. Punjab was therefore to get at least 10.00 maf. But it was awarded only 5.00 maf by the Commission, which was less than even the actual usage. Haryana was awarded a much larger share than it actually used: 3.83 maf. The share of Rajasthan remained 8.6 maf.7

Government of Autonomy In the existing literature on accords, autonomy and peace are seen as two divergent axes of peace accords. While the promise of autonomy helps in restoring peace, peace has its own way of deferring autonomy. Militant organizations, for example, are unwilling to be trapped in prolonged spells of cease-fire (Perera, 1999: 18). Today, however, it is no longer possible to view their relation in dichotomous terms. Peace is not the enemy of autonomy. For us it will be interesting instead to see how autonomy and peace form part of government: government by the state today implies renegotiating the terms of the original contract by way of selectively creating spaces and terrains of autonomy within the body politic. The states all over the world have learnt, sometimes at great cost, that they cannot operate with the fundamentals that they have promised to adhere to and be guided by in the course of their day-to-day operations. Government, as Foucault argues, is not about the fundamentals and principles of building and organizing the state in post-colonial India but about convenience and order. According to him: “... government (is) not a question of imposing law on men but of disposing things: that is, of employing tactics rather than laws, and even of using laws themselves as tactics—to arrange things in such a way that, through a certain number of means, such-and-such ends may be achieved” (Foucault, 1994: 211). Government, therefore, is not premised on peace through the necessary denial of autonomy. In fact, it makes autonomy one of the key imperatives of peace.

88 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS There is reason to believe that the state finds it difficult to continue to uphold and abide by the early doctrine of indivisible sovereignty and seems to have modified it. “Governmentalization of the state” in Dean’s words, refers to a “process whereby the art of government is separated from the theory and practice of sovereignty and whereby that theory and practice must reconcile itself with this burgeoning and proliferating art of government” (Dean, 1999: 102). While all this goes on quietly, the state cannot concede in public, ULFA’s demand for including the right of national self-determination by making a suitable constitutional amendment. ULFA, it may be noted, sets this as a precondition for holding talks with the Government of India. While ULFA has consistently shunned the idea of holding talks with the Government on this ground (along with a few others), the Nagas engaged themselves in a series of talks with the Government since 1997, notwithstanding their assertion of the “right to self-determination irrespective of what the Constitution said” (Perera, 1999: 16). Unlike NSCN-IM, ULFA has taken a very legalistic stand in this regard. One has to understand that peace process is more than, if at all, a legal and constitutional process. It may be true that many of the provisions enshrined in the accords may have their bearings on the Constitution necessitating amendments. Ernest Gellner has described a “Hidden Deity” that is “inversely related” to social coherence (Gellner, 1995: 38). This idea of Gellner fits very well with our idea of the Constitution,8 which does not (have to) take cognizance of all these instances of necessity. Logical coherence is regarded as an essential juridical virtue, but it is not necessarily a social virtue. Viewed in this light, the reference to the Constitution in almost every ethnic accord may sound ritualistic. The Bodo Accord, 1993, for example, promises “maximum autonomy within the framework of the Constitution.” Similarly, Article 8, Clause 1 of the Memorandum of Settlement signed between Rajiv Gandhi, the then Prime Minister of India, and Sant Harchand Singh Longowal, the President of the Shiromani Akali Dal, states that the Anandpur Sahib resolution that served as the basis of the Akali agitation in Punjab in the early 1980s, was “entirely within the framework of the Constitution.” As a result, the notion of “indivisible sovereignty” has undergone significant transformations in recent years: First, the state today has no difficulties in conducting negotiations with the rebel leaders in foreign countries. Bangkok, Chiangmai, Geneva, and Amsterdam have already become favorite destinations for talks between the rebel leaders and

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the Government of India. In most cases, these talks are held in complete confidence and with very little media coverage, if at all. Second, the state too feels that government depends on the success of accords and not their failures. Success of accords in its turn depends, not so much on handling the demands of autonomy from within the given federal structure, but on some adventurous experimentation with our institutions. The debate has already begun. In other words, efforts are being made to break free from the institutional paradox in which consolidation of a particular ethnic community within a geo-political space necessarily creates its minorities. The vicious circle in which a minority becomes a majority by way of getting the borders redrawn and thereby creates its own minority and the circle continues to roll with nauseating regularity is inherent in our established federal setup. Attempts are now being made to explore newer institutional alternatives. We may refer to at least three interesting strands, not necessarily mutually exclusive, of this debate: First, reform-minded scholars and activists like B. K. Roy Burman (2001) recommend a Scandinavian SAMIlike multi-layered parliamentary system in which ethnic communities will have the right to represent themselves instead of being bound by the majoritarian commands of our existing parliamentary system. Second, some have argued that the “first-come-first-served” electoral system in which the minorities dispersed over a large space are constantly under the subjection of the numerical, and therefore political, majority is incompatible with the pluralistic nature of our society (Narayan, 2003: 38). Even reservation of seats for them will not help the situation. Narayan advocates introducing proportional representation as a means of protecting these groups from majority rule and retaining their autonomy. Third, a case has been made for widening the consociational base of our democratic system. Lijphart (1996), for example, shows how the basic preconditions of a consociational (power sharing) democracy were met during the first few decades of our Independence and how that base has been weakened as a combined result of “centralization of the Congress Party and the federal system” in the 1980s and growing “attack on minority rights” in different parts of India. He, in fact, pleads for resuscitating the institutions and practices of consociational democracy that protected India reasonably well in the first few decades against inter-group violence and communal riots. Governmentality today does not necessarily exclude the people and civil society as it once did. The Shillong Accord, 1975, for example,

90 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS coincided with some of the worst repressive measures that sent the Naga civil society underground. For one thing, a national emergency was declared immediately after the Accord was signed. In the words of Luingam Luithui and Meredith Preston, “there was no political space to function under such circumstances” (Luithui and Preston, 1999: 4). For another, there were reported attempts at rallying the Naga civil society behind the Accord leaders in order to get them to “rubberstamp” the Accord. According to Luithui and Preston, the Government was wrong in taking the Accord leaders as representing the Naga civil society. Nowhere in the Northeast is the civil society so much vigilant as it is in Nagaland. And it will not be an exaggeration to say that the civil society vigilantism is a part and parcel of the Naga peace process. It is interesting to see that peace process in today’s India is an unusually long haul. It means that there is an eagerness on the part of both parties to let the civil society grow and develop and civil society is seen as the guarantor for enduring peace and autonomy. It is to be noted, however, that a civil society driven by the community’s concern for autonomy can seldom create a civil space. While civil societies amongst both the Nagas whether of Nagaland, or of Manipur, and Meiteis of Manipur are unusually strong and vibrant, there is little or hardly any interaction between them. In the turbulent days of June 2001, very strongly worded statements were exchanged between both sides, which resulted in the burning of bridges between them. A Convention represented by the United Naga Council, Manipur, Naga People’s Movement for Human Rights (Manipur Sector), Naga Women’s Union, Manipur, All-Naga Students’ Union, Manipur, and Naga People’s Convention held in Senapati on 28 June 2001, for example, noted with concern “the belligerent and confrontationist approach of the Meitei [sic] community towards the extension of ceasefire in the Naga areas outside the present Nagaland state including Manipur” and “concluded that the well articulated agenda for the territorial integrity of Manipur by the Meitei community is a move to deny the rights of the Naga people.” It seems that neither of them is in a mood to engage in any civic interaction in order to reconcile the conflicting rights claims. It has to be noted, that recently some initiatives have been adopted particularly by some women’s organizations to build bridges between the two communities. It is sadly ironical for the civil societies in the Northeast, that wherever they have refused to “rubberstamp” the state-crafted (non-)accords9 and act as stooges of the state, they have turned into one of its parties.

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Governmentality, in that sense, also engulfs the civil society. While drawing a distinction between the old and the new forms of power, Dean shows how the emergence of the new “disciplinary” power regards “the subjects, the forces and capacities as living individuals, as members of a population, as resources to be fostered, to be used and to be optimized” (Dean, 1999: 20). If peace and autonomy are how we can harness, foster, and optimize our resources, present day peace accords may be cited as only one of their illustrations.10

Notes 1. Unless otherwise indicated, I have depended on Datta (1995) for the texts of the accords cited in this chapter. 2. Very recently, Jairam Ramesh (2004) made the plea for investing states of the Indian Union with the power of independently signing agreements and entering treaties with foreign countries. What is considered as “good” for the constituent state often becomes unacceptable to the Government of India due to its “national compulsions.” While India is “a mythical idea,” he argues that the states like “Bihar or Assam are a reality.” Thus, it will be perfectly in the fitness of things if Bihar or Uttar Pradesh (UP) wants to sign any river water sharing treaty with such upper riparian states as, Nepal and Bhutan, as a step towards controlling devastating annual floods in the region. 3. Sheikh Abdullah was arrested during the prime ministership of Ramchandra Kak on 20 May 1946. 4. I am thankful to Devabrat Sarma for having brought this to my attention. 5. For an understanding of the tribal turn of ULFA, see Das (2001: 48–69). 6. This is not to say that the demand for a separate and at times “sovereign” geopolitical space did not ever emanate from any section of the Muslims in postcolonial India. The examples of proposed “Swatantra Muslimsthan” (separate land for the Muslims) and “United States of Bengal” consisting of the bordering districts of West Bengal and Assam in India on the one hand and parts of Bangladesh on the other, obvi-ously come to our mind. While these proposals are primarily meant for protecting the interests of Bengali-speaking Muslims living in the bordering areas under the perceived threat of being marginalized by both Muslims and nonMuslims of the respective mainlands of these two countries, neither of these spaces is supposed to provide a refuge for all Muslims or for that matter, all marginalized Muslims all over the two countries. Their identity as borderlanders sharing a common Bengali language seems to prevail over that as Muslims per se. 7. The figures are adopted from Grewal (1994: 234).

92 / SAMIR KUMAR DAS 8. In Gellner’s words: “... it had to be a Hidden Deity which would set the rules and norms, but be too proud or too distant to interfere in day-to-day management of the world. It had to scorn making exceptions, it had to be distant and orderly, it could not be a kind of head of a bribable and interfering patronage network, which is what High Gods are in many other systems” (Gellner, 1995: 38). 9. Subir Bhaumik for example, describes the Shillong Accord, 1975, as “the accord that never was.” 10. All translations from non-English sources are mine.

4 THE CONSTITUTIONAL

AND

LEGAL ROUTES

Ashutosh Kumar

T

he endurance of democracy in India is remarkable given that very few post-colonial states of Asia and Africa, including those who shared the same colonial legacy, have been able to remain actually existing democracies.1 Being the largest and the most diverse democratic republic in the world, the other obstacles in the pathway to the building of democracy in India were her traditional hierarchical social order that resisted the idea of political equality and the actual unequal economic structure of Indian society.2 The introduction of the formal principles of representation, rights, and equality seemed impossible in the face of the twin obstacles. The segmented nature of the society further deepened in the run up to partition, as ethnic, linguistic, religious, and cultural distinctions flared up.

Indian Federalism: Institutional Features The members of the Constituent Assembly adopted the idea of federalism to assuage communal, ethnic, and cultural sectarianism. This “ethnofederalism” was less a choice than a necessity in post-colonial India given the vast size and diversity and history of repeated colonization (Jalal, 1995; Smith, 1995). Federalism was enshrined in the Indian Constitution in the form of a written Constitution, a dual polity, a division of legislative and

94 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR executive powers between the center and the state, an independent judiciary, and supremacy of the Constitution and electoral rules (Basu, 1999). A range of formal institutions such as state and national legislatures, National Finance Commission, Planning Commission, National Development Council, Inter-State Council, and numerous other inter-state coordinating bodies further embodied the federal political structure in the Indian Constitution. The acrimonious discussions on community and nation in the course of the nationalist movement as well as the informed deliberations in the Constituent Assembly, meant that the Indian Constitution was well ahead of its time not only in recognizing diversities but also in providing for representation of the diverse collectivities in the formal democratic structures (Jayal, 2002). The special provisions for affirmative action in favor of historically disadvantaged groups, a variety of personal laws, and the decision to desist from imposing a uniform civil code, protection of cultural and educational rights of the linguistic and religious minorities, secular citizenship defined by civic and universalistic criteria, all were among the significant constitutional measures, legislative enactment, and government policies indicating the constitutional/legal recognition of four different categories—religion, language, region, and caste. These forms of cultural autonomy, however, hardly extended to the territorial form. The Constituent Assembly finally adopted a Constitution that in the famous words of Ambedkar could be “both unitary as well as federal according to the requirements of time and circumstances” (Constituent Assembly Debates, 1949: 34). In colonial India, concerted efforts were made from the early 1930s up to the Cabinet Mission proposals in 1946 to set up a national federal structure that could provide for the dispersal of authority in order to accommodate the territorially based ethnic groups. The thinking at that time was that the interests of the Muslim majority provinces, the princely states, and the provinces ruled by the Congress Government after the 1937 elections, were not identical. That necessitated a loose federal arrangement that would enable them to enjoy autonomy of each other while co-existing either as a colony or a dominion or an independent state.3 Three significant efforts to set up a loose federation with the Muslim majority provinces forming a kind of separate unit were made between 1944 and 1946. The first was the Rajagopalachari Plan followed by the Sapru Committee. Finally, it was the Cabinet Mission that proposed the setting up of a three-tiered federal system wherein some units could group together to have a different level of federal linkage with the center on the line of the Austro-Hungarian federal arrangement.

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These units were to work out the political and constitutional modalities within themselves, with the center only having jurisdiction over communications, currency, foreign affairs, and defence. Such a federal arrangement was unlikely to succeed in pre-partition India, reconciling the conflicting agenda of the variants of nationalism and that of the feudal princely states.4 None of the above three Indian groups, however, showed any inclination to adopt such a formulation that remained basically the brainchild of the colonial regime having its own agenda. That the Objective Resolution moved by Nehru at the initial stage of the Constituent Assembly did envisage the formation of a loose federation with a minimal center with vast residuary powers to be with the constituent units and should be viewed as a matter of necessity to ensure the participation of the Muslim League and the princely rulers in the Constitution-making process (Austin, 2002: 33). The withdrawal of the League from the Constituent Assembly followed by partition finally brought to an end this mode of federal thinking. In the changed circumstances, the Constituent Assembly, with the overwhelming presence of the Congress, resurrected the idea of federalism that had first evolved in the form of the Nehru Committee Report of 1928.5 The extraordinary situation prevailing in newly independent India6 called for the Indian federation to have an inherent mechanism to convert itself into a unitary state during a period of emergency eventually provided for in the form of Article 352 in the Indian Constitution. The powerful allIndia presence of the Congress as the single dominant party, the absence of strong regional or provincially-based political parties, and most significantly, the departure of the Muslim League, contributed to this tendency. That is why the term “union” substituted the term “federal” in the Indian Constitution, making it distinct from the “model” federal constitutions, as argued by Ambedkar while introducing the draft Constitution.7 He emphasized that the Indian federation essentially stood for a division for convenience of administration while the country remained one integrated whole. Explaining the usage of the term “union,” Ambedkar said: “though India was to be a federation, the federation was not the result of an agreement by the states to join in a federation, and the federation not being the result of an agreement no state had a right to secede from it” (Rao, 1968: 435). The 1950 Constitution thus exhibited quasi-federal features. It adopted a dual polity with a single citizenship. The Constitution was to be much less rigid in nature. Under Article 249, the Parliament was empowered to legislate on state subjects in “national interest” even during “normal”

96 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR times if the Rajya Sabha passed a resolution to that effect. The Parliament can also enact laws regarding any state subject vide Article 252 if two or more state legislatures pass a resolution to this effect. The laws made, however, would be applicable only to the states concerned. The constitutional provisions relating to the division of subjects, imposition of emergency, the appointment and tenure of governors, comptrollers and the Auditor General of India, the Chief Election Commissioner of India and the functionaries of the all India services, taxation and revenue distribution between the center and the states, all contributed to the difficulty of promoting the idea of federalism in India in the classic institutional sense.

Reading the Indian Constitution: Forms of Autonomy in Jammu and Kashmir and the Northeastern States Notwithstanding the above, the Indian Constitution did include provisions as exceptional measures providing for a certain degree of autonomy to certain states, following the principle of asymmetric federalism in Part XXI under the heading “temporary, transitional and social provisions.” The Constitution provided for a variety of autonomy arrangements vide Article 371 along with the Fifth and Sixth Schedules which are applicable to the Northeastern states, namely Nagaland, Sikkim, Assam, Manipur, and Arunachal Pradesh. Article 370 accorded special constitutional status to Jammu and Kashmir (Basu, 2001: 1663–79). Such recognitions were in deference to the historical specificity of these states as well as to the then historical conjuncture.

JAMMU

AND

KASHMIR

At the time of independence, the state of Jammu and Kashmir was the only state that negotiated the terms of its accession to the Union of India. The state signed the Instrument of Accession that was limited to the area of defence, external affairs, and communication. Furthermore, the state did not accept the constitutional provisions of the independent Indian republic and retained its own institutions and its autonomy vide Clause 5 of the Instrument of Accession. Article 370 has been at the core of the

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constitutional relationship between India and Kashmir which says that the Indian state “... acknowledged the distinctiveness of the state of J&K in terms of its religion and cultural diversity and historical and political specificity, thereby allowing an asymmetrical relationship within the Indian federal structure” (Tremblay, 1995). The implications of Article 370 have been that it extended the state within the Indian Union. Moreover, it restricted the Parliament’s legislative power over Jammu and Kashmir to three subjects: defence, external affairs, and communication. This was confirmed in Article 152 of the 1956 version of the Constitution where it was specified, that the expression state, “does not include the state of Jammu and Kashmir,” making this state an autonomous polity under Indian protection (Kaur, 1992: 94). Third, prior concurrence was, however, required if other constitutional provisions were involved. Such concurrence by the Head of the state of Jammu and Kashmir was subject to ratification by the Constituent Assembly of the state. Fourth, the concurrence clause was supposed to lapse once the state’s Constituent Assembly had finalized the scheme and dispersed. With the dispersal the President’s extending power was to come to an end too. Sheikh Abdullah’s observation in this regard is most instructive: “The fact that Article 370 has been mentioned as temporary provision in the constitution does not mean that it is capable of being abrogated, modified or replaced unilaterally. In actual fact, the temporary nature of this article arises merely from the fact that the power to finalize the constitutional relationship between the state and the union has been specifically vested in the Jammu and Kashmir Constituent Assembly.” Abdullah went on to caution: “it follows that whatever modifications, amendments or exceptions that may become necessary either to Art. 370, or any other article in the Constitution of India in their application to the Jammu and Kashmir state are subject to the decision of this sovereign body” (Report of the State Autonomy Committee, 1999: 34). As per the National Conference’s perception, thus, it was obvious that once the Constituent Assembly dispersed after framing the Constitution of Jammu and Kashmir, no amendments to the Constitution of India could be made in their application to the state for the simple reason that “any other interpretation would have reduced the terms of Article 370 to a naught” (ibid.). Subsequently, the end of hereditary rule in Jammu and Kashmir as recommended by the Basic Principles Committee of the Constituent Assembly paved the way for the Delhi Agreement. The main features of the Delhi Agreement signed between the Governments of Jammu and Kashmir and India were as follows: residuary powers were to continue

98 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR to be vested in the state as provided in Article 370; the state legislature was to retain power to regulate the rights and privileges of the permanent residents or the state subjects as defined in the 1927 state order; the fundamental rights chapter of the Indian Constitution was to be applicable to the state with modifications and exceptions such as enabling transfer of land to the tiller without payment of compensation, jurisdiction of Supreme Court was to be extended to the state; the state flag was not to be treated as rival to the national tricolor; the power to grant reprieve and commute sentences was to lie with the President of India; Head of the state was to be recognized by the President on the recommendation of the legislative assembly of the state; financial arrangements to be evolved between the state and the union; national emergency under Article 352 was to be applicable to the state in case of external aggression only. In case of internal disturbances, emergency could be proclaimed only at the request of or with the concurrence of the state government; the Election Commission of India’s jurisdiction with regard to the state was to be only with regard to holding elections of the President, Vice President, and the Members of Parliament.

NORTHEAST INDIA Along with Jammu and Kashmir, the Indian Constitution also envisaged autonomy, though in a different form, vide its Articles 371 A, B, C, D, F, G, and H for the Northeastern states, namely Nagaland, Assam, Manipur, Sikkim, Mizoram, and Arunachal Pradesh respectively. Based upon the recommendations of the Bardoloi Committee in the Constituent Assembly, the Constitution provided for the Special Protection Clause of the Article 371 for the tribal customary laws, procedures, and land rights. It also provided for the creation of an autonomous region within an autonomous district in case a minority tribal group resided in the jurisdictional area of the district. The Constitution also made special provisions for the administrations of the tribal areas in the states of Assam, Meghalaya, Tripura, and Mizoram under the Sixth Schedule vide Article 244(2). In the table appended to the Sixth Schedule, the tribal areas after the reorganization of the Northeastern states are mentioned as autonomous districts, i.e. North Cachar Hills, Mikir Hills, Karbi Anglong, Khasi Hills, Jaintia Hills, Garo Hills, Pawai, Lakher, Chakma, Tripura tribal areas, and Lai. These districts were either under the popularly elected district councils

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or the regional councils which exercised certain legislative and judicial functions with regard to the management of unreserved forest, land, water bodies, the regulation of shifting cultivation, appointment of chief or headmen, inheritance, marriage, and social customs. These councils were given the power to assess and collect land revenue and to impose specified taxes (The Constitution of India, 1996: 124–30). The autonomy of the district councils/regional councils is protected by the Sixth Schedule by stipulating that no legislative act of the state shall be applicable to them without their consent. The applicability of parliamentary laws to these districts/regions requires the assent of the Governor in the case of Assam and that of the President in the case of other Northeastern states (Basu, 1999: 280–81). The institutional arrangements for autonomy were, however, organically related to other institutions of federal structure in terms of the devolution of power and responsibilities that put the exercise of autonomy under strain. For instance, notwithstanding the financial powers mentioned above, the management of the district/regional fund was to be regulated as per the rules and regulations determined by the governor. The central grants to the councils had to be routed through the state government. Like the Panchayati Raj Institutions (PRI), the councils had to remain dependent on the state government for funds. In a comparative mode, while providing for autonomy at the grassroots level, the PRIs lay down the republican principle of one nation, one people, and one land whereas the autonomy arrangement under the Fifth and Sixth Schedules appear as exceptions.

Redrawing the Territorial Map of the States: Demand for Linguistic Homeland in “Nehruvian” India It was almost inevitable, that as early as in the 1950s, the first irritants erupted in the form of demands for homelands urging the center to reorganize the states. The demands had a historical basis as the demarcation of the states as political administrative units by the British colonial regime was the result of “a process of annexation, and on the basis of strategic and political considerations rather than on any rational basis ... the infrastructure of the polity that we inherited in 1947 was a confused mosaic created by a foreign imperial power unmindful of the valid basis for the

100 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR territorial organization of the sub-continent” (Khan, 1992: 39). What led to the flaring up of regionalism was the reluctance of the Congress national leadership to concede the demands for the reorganization of the administrative units, despite the Party accepting the idea of reorganization of provinces along linguistic and cultural lines long back in 1905, in the wake of the Bengal partition. Since 1908, it started the process of reshaping its organizational structures in terms of linguistic units i.e., Bihar (1908), Sindh, and Andhra (1917). The Home Rule Movement was the forerunner in recognizing “the integrity of language areas” and demanding to “adopt the linguistic principle as determining the provincial delimitation” (Sitaramayya, 1969: 130). The Report of the Nehru Committee in 1928, strongly advocated the idea of linguistic reorganization (Chitnis, 1990). The Congress Party reaffirmed its commitment to the idea as late as in its election manifesto of 1945–46. The hesitance on the part of the national leadership was more surprising given the fact that “the boundaries formed after the integration of princely states and former British provinces were economically, administratively, linguistically and culturally illogical” (Vanhanen, 1992: 70). It was with much reluctance that the Linguistic Provinces (Dar) Commission was constituted to make recommendations about the demand of the linguistic states. In its Report submitted in December 1948, it said that “nationalism and subnationalism are two emotional experiences, which grow at the cost of each other” and therefore “all sub-national tendencies in the existing linguistic provinces should be suppressed.” It further stated that “in view of the dangers which now surround our country, and in the circumstances that now exist, the Congress stands relieved of all past commitments and it is its right as also its duty to come to a fresh decision on the subject in the light of the present circumstances” (Dar Commission Report, 1948, in Rao, 1968: 479). The Commission’s Report, with all its weaknesses, stands out for pointing out the lack of unanimity among different groups and within different groups regarding the redistribution of territory. It also raised apprehension about the fate of linguistic minorities. The Dar Commission Report notwithstanding, the center was compelled to set up a high powered political committee at its Jaipur session in 1948. The Committee, known as JVP and headed by Pattabhi Sitaramayya, did acknowledge the long standing promise of the Congress to reorganize the states on linguistic basis in its report in April 1949. However, it suggested taking up the issue only after the integration of the princely states was completed. Holding the security and unity of India paramount, the Committee cautioned that language could equally be a unifying as well

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as a divisive force. Therefore, mutual agreement was to be the basis of the creation of new states. The delay in reorganizing India according to language and culture has been explained in terms of the intention of Nehru to resolve first the other pressing concerns and more importantly to “prove that it could be a viable country; to prove that there was something concrete and not merely metaphorical and mystical in the idea of unity of India” (King, 1998: 211). It was only after persistent demand from the regional elite, the local party leaders, and the people—that found expression in the form of the violence in the state of Madras in 1953—that the center was forced to divide the state of Madras into Andhra Pradesh (for the Telugu speaking people) and Madras (for the Tamil speaking people), something that had already been suggested by the JVP Committee. Facing similar demands from other regions, the center subsequently set up a States Reorganization Commission headed by Fazal Ali in December 1953, to look into the matter of territorial reorganization. The four principles guiding the Commission were: the preservation and strengthening of the unity and integrity of India; linguistic and cultural homogeneity; financial, economic, and administrative considerations; successful working of the Five Year plans. Besides language being the main criterion, cultural and economic viability also influenced the recommendations of the Commission submitted in 1955, that were implemented particularly in south India. However, there remained a reluctance to divide the bigger states under the belief that the development planners would take the diversities into consideration to achieve regional balance in terms of development. In sociological terms, under the influence of the post-war Western liberal modernization/political development theory, it was thought that modernization would reduce the linguistic diversities, secularism would do away with the religious identities and affirmative actions would make caste wither away. Thus, the suggestion by K. M. Panikkar to divide Uttar Pradesh on the ground of greater administrative efficiency and development was vehemently opposed by Nehru and Pant (Mawdsley, 2003: 40). Subsequently, religion and ethnicity were also granted recognition as “informally valid” bases for the reorganization of the states under certain circumstances, as in the case of the formation of Punjabi Suba after splitting post-partition Punjab as well in the formation of several new states in the Northeast of India, i.e. Meghalaya in 1971, Manipur and Tripura in 1972, and Arunachal Pradesh and Mizoram in 1986.

102 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR Another major expression of regional autonomy on ethnic basis in south India took place in the form of the Dravidian parties led movement in the 1950s and early 1960s against what was dubbed as imposition of Hindi from above by the center. The issue was finally resolved by the center’s decision to adopt a three-language formula with the passage of the Language Act by the Parliament in 1963, on the basis of the Report of the Kher Commission.8 English was allowed to continue as an official language along with Hindi for an indefinite period, besides allowing the usage of the regional language. It has been well argued that “the political prudence, legal flexibility, institutional inclusion, and interactive opportunities incorporated in the federal design (has) accounted for an important measure of the durability of Indian federalism” (Dasgupta, 2001). As one can observe with the benefit of hindsight, conceding the demand of linguistic communities for the reorganization of the states preserved the unity of the nation rather than balkanized it as apprehended initially. “In creating a system of essentially linguistic states, India has provided a local political milieu that is conducive to the flowering of many linguistically-rooted cultures and thereby evolved a system which greatly enriches the cultural life of the nation as a whole” (Schwartzberg, 1985: 177).

Thinking about State Autonomy: The Constitution Review Commissions The decline of the Congress Party in the late 1960s as a dominant party both in terms of ideology and organization was a direct result of the centralist leadership by Indira Gandhi. The overemphasis on the centralist character of the Congress eroded the ability of the state-level leaders to effectively articulate regional sentiments and aspirations within the party, unlike during Nehru when the regional leaders enjoyed autonomy within organization. Moreover the breakdown of the social coalition so assiduously built up over the first three decades of Indian independence meant that the Congress Party, despite retaining power both at the Center and in most of the states no longer remained the natural party of governance. The increased level of the electoral participation of the peripheral social groups of the civil society along with the economic empowerment of the neo-rich intermediate peasant castes paved the way for the growth of regional parties as well as national parties with a concentrated regional base, a process aptly described as the “federalization of party system”. (Saha, 1999: 21)

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This was the backdrop to the Rajamannar Commission (RC) formed by the ruling DMK government in Tamil Nadu in 1969, to make recommendations about the nature of the allocation of powers between the union government and the states. RC based its report on the responses of Chief Ministers, party leaders, and all representatives of Tamil Nadu in the Parliament and the state legislature to a questionnaire about the true nature of Indian federalism. In its Report, the RC observed that “there are unitary trends and in the allocation of powers there is a strong bias and tilting of the scales in favour of the centre” (Rajamannar Report on Centre–State Relations, 1971: 16). It held the presence of the Congress Party, as the ruling party both at the center and in most of the states, responsible for the development of the unitary trends. The RC recommended reworking of the federal relations by transferring some union subjects to the state list in the Seventh Schedule of the Constitution, abolition of Articles 249, 356, and 357 of the Indian Constitution on the ground that the latter two provide for the extension of the executive power of the union government to act on a failure of the constitutional order in any state, and vesting of the residuary power of legislation and taxation solely to the state legislatures. The working of Indian federalism came under close scrutiny once again in 1977 in the form of a Memorandum on Centre–State Relations submitted by the Left Front Government of West Bengal. Following in the footsteps of the RC, the Memorandum dubbed the Indian Constitution as being “essentially unitary in character” as it empowered the federal government “with some powers at the expense of the autonomy of the states.” Significantly, it argued that the decentralization of powers would pave the way for the outlet of the democratic urges at the regional level thus helping to “ward off fissiparous tendencies instead of encouraging them” (Government of West Bengal, 1978). The rise and growth of regional parties like the DMK, AIADMK, SAD, NC, AGP, and the TDP in the 1970s and 1980s, further accentuated the demands for decentralization in the form of an increased sharing of sovereignty. It was such sentiment that found expression in the form of the Anandpur Sahib Resolutions of 1973 and 1978 and later in the form of the autonomist/secessionist movement in the decade of the 1980s. The core of Akali demands relating to the political, economic, and social relationship between the center and the state of Punjab are to be found in the Anandpur Sahib Resolution adopted by the Working Committee of the Akali Dal in October 1973 (Kumar, 2004). The Resolution incorporated seven objectives aiming at establishing the “preeminence of the Khalsa through creation of a congenial environment and a political set

104 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR up” (Singh, 1981: 346). These were: (a) transfer of the federally administered city of Chandigarh to Punjab; (b) readjustment of the state boundaries to include certain Sikh majority Punjabi-speaking territory presently outside but contiguous to Punjab; (c) autonomy to all the states of India with the center retaining jurisdiction only over external affairs, defence, and communications; (d ) introduction of land reforms, subsidies, and loans for the peasantry as well as measures to bring about heavy industrialization in Punjab; (e) enactment of an All India Gurudwara Act to bring all the historic gurudwaras under the control of the SGPC; ( f ) protection for the Sikh minorities living outside the state; ( g) reversal of the new recruitment policy of the center under which the recruitment quota of Sikhs in the armed forces was reduced from 20 per cent to 2 per cent (Deol, 2000: 101–3). The Working Committee of the Akali Dal finally submitted a set of 45 demands to the center in September 1981. These included, among others, the halting of reallocation of available waters of riparian Punjab to non-riparian states. Under the federally regulated arrangements, 75 per cent of the river waters of Punjab were being allocated to other states (Pettigrew, 1995: 5). In the wake of the Anandpur Sahib Resolution asking for regional autonomy as well as the March 1983 Conclave of opposition parties held in Bangalore, the center constituted a Commission on Centre–State Relations in June 1983, popularly known as the Sarkaria Commission (SC), after the name of its chairman, Justice R. S. Sarkaria, to undertake a study of center–state relations. Like the RC, SC also based its study on a detailed questionnaire responded to by all the state governments, political parties, and community leaders regarding issues related to economic and social planning, industry, commerce, and inter-governmental relations. The SC, in its Report submitted in 1987, significantly began by recognizing that “there is considerable truth in the saying that undue centralization leads to blood pressure at the centre and anaemia at the periphery. The inevitable result is morbidity and inefficiency.” As for its recommendations, the SC proposed that an informal convention of consulting the state governments whenever the union parliament intends to enact on a subject in the concurrent list “should be strictly adhered to, except in rare and exceptional cases of extreme urgency or emergency.” Regarding the appointment of governors, the SC recommended that the appointed one should be “eminent in some walk of life, should be a person from outside of the state, and should be detached and not too intimately connected with local politics of the state.” It also held it desirable that “a politician from the ruling party at the union is not appointed as governor of a state which is being run by some

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other party or a combination of other parties.” More significantly, the SC sought to curb the political abuse of Article 356 by recommending its use only in extreme cases, as a measure of last resort, when all available alternatives fail to prevent or rectify a breakdown of constitutional machinery in the state. The SC categorically asked for amendment of the Article so that the assembly cannot be dissolved either by the president or the governor “before the proclamation issued under Article 356[1] has been laid before parliament and it has had an opportunity to consider it.” As for institutional reforms, the SC recommended the constitution of the Inter-State Council (ISC), the reconstitution of the National Development Council, and the revival of the regional councils to enable both the center and the states to work out a consensus on federal issues. At the grassroots level, it recommended the restructuring of the local, self-governing Panchayati Raj Institutions to create a third tier of government. In the aftermath of significant party realignment, both at the federal and the state levels, heralding an era of coalition politics in India, ISC was finally constituted by the Janata Dal government in 1990. However, over the last one and a half decades it has had a mixed legacy. Hardly viewed as an independent high-powered body, ISC, in the absence of professional representatives, has been unable to provide academic inputs along with an objective view on center–state issues (Saez, 2002: 129). The SC proposed recommendations to be accepted by the union Government—130 recommendations without change and 25 with reservations. So far, however, only two out of 247 recommendations of the SC have been actually implemented: one of these two being the constitution of the ISC itself under Article 264 and the other being the introduction of local self-governing bodies vide the 73rd and 74th Constitutional Amendments. The National Commission to Review the Working of the Constitution (NCRWC) in its Report submitted in March 2002, has also reiterated the significance of the ISC in providing a constitutional forum for the center to undertake “individual and collective consultation with the states.” It also suggests providing explicitly for the taxation powers of the states in respect of certain specified services falling exclusively under their domain. For the purpose of facilitating inter-state trade and commerce, NCRWC recommended the establishment of the “Inter-State Trade and Commerce Commission.” It also recommended the resolution of inter-state disputes especially the water dispute by arguing in favor of the abolition of the River Boards Act, 1956 and the enactment of another comprehensive act under entry 56 of List 1 in the Seventh Schedule vide Article 246. The Commission also suggested consultation with the chief minister

106 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR before the appointment of a Governor. Significantly, the Commission asked for the use of Article 356 “sparingly and only as a remedy of the last resort and after exhausting action under other Articles like 256, 257 and 355” (Majeed, 2004: 171–78).

Reading the Autonomy Commission Reports: Constitutional Form of Autonomy in Jammu and Kashmir T H E S T A T E A U T O N O M Y C O M M I T T E E (SAC) 9 Constituted in 1996, by the National Conference Government of Farooq Abdullah, the SAC in its Report submitted in 1999 observed that the process of erosion of the state’s autonomy started with the dismissal and arrest of Sheikh Abdullah in 1953 that ultimately destroyed the content of the Instrument of Accession and the Delhi Agreement. The Report argues that the successive Chief Ministers of the state, namely Bakshi Ghulam Mohammad, G. M. Sadiq, and Mir Kasim slavishly maneuvered the Jammu and Kashmir Legislative Assembly’s approval of the extension of the jurisdiction of several union institutions and acts to the state as well as the application of various entries in the union and concurrent lists of the Constitution of India. In the process, Article 370 “acquired a dangerously ambiguous aspect. Designed to protect the state’s autonomy, it has been used systematically to destroy it” (Report of the State Autonomy Committee, 1999: 35). The Report illustrates it by stating, as to how in 1986 during the President’s rule, “the President made an order under Article 370 extending to the state Article 249 of the Constitution in order to empower the parliament to legislate even on matters in the state list on the strength of a Rajya Sabha resolution” (ibid.). The process of the erosion of autonomy started with the Constitution (Application to Jammu and Kashmir) Order, 1954. The Order extended the jurisdiction of the union Parliament from three subjects to almost all the subjects in the union list amounting to a reversal of that and the 1950 Constitution Order. Part II and Part III of the Indian Constitution now became applicable to the state and so were Part V and Part XI. The Report observes that the people of Kashmir remained mute observers to the political events taking place in the state. The extension

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of constitutional provisions to the state of Jammu and Kashmir beyond the original scope of Article 370 and the Delhi Agreement of 1952 has had no reference to the people of Kashmir. In the nationalist discourse in India, the complete constitutional integration of the state is considered to be imperative for the survival of India as a nation. Pertinently, when Article 306(A), which later became Article 370, was adopted by the Constituent Assembly of India on 17 October 1949, Gopalaswami Ayyangar had assured those who denounced this special provision “that in due course Jammu and Kashmir will become ripe for the same sort of integration as has taken place in the case of the other states” (quoted in Korbel, 1966: 220). Such expression of hope about complete integration was indicative of the true nature of the Indian government’s policy towards the state’s right from the beginning. A reading of the Report enables us to understand that it was the federal context of India that was more relevant to the people of Kashmir than its “nationalist” context. Having pragmatic and functional reasons for preferring India to Pakistan, the Kashmiri leadership was emphatic on maintaining the distinctiveness of Kashmir. Autonomy as guaranteed under Article 370 not merely symbolized a “special status” but was also the basis of the federal “contract” that the state had with the Indian state. What the Report problematizes is not so much the substantive effect of the constitutional and legal provisions extended to the state as, the very process of integration, that took away the notion of parity in a negotiated relationship. That most of the constitutional changes leading to the process of integration took place during the period 1953–75, when the legitimacy of the local political elite responsible for initiating the process of integration was suspect, is reiterated in the Report. It is in this context that the Report recommended maximum autonomy. “The best course is for the President (of India) to repeal all orders which are not in conformity with the Constitution (Application to Jammu and Kashmir) Order, 1950 and the terms of the Delhi Agreement of 1952” (Report of the State Autonomy Committee, 1999: 111).

R E G I O N A L A U T O N O M Y C O M M I T T E E (RAC) The state of Jammu and Kashmir has been witness to the perennial demand for regional autonomy that has emanated from two of its regions, Jammu and Ladakh. The simmering discontent has been a consequence of the asymmetrical relations these two regions have always shared with

108 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR the Kashmir Valley. The popular feeling of deprivation and discrimination in these regions, especially in Jammu, has resulted in periodic regional agitations dating back to the early 1950s. It was in the above context that the state government set up four Commissions to analyze the contentious regional issue. These were the Gajendragadkar Commission (1967), the Qadri Commission (1972), the Sikri Commission (1979), and the Wazir Commission (1981). While the Commissions appointed in 1972 and 1981 examined the demand for carving more districts in Jammu, the other two commissions were to recommend measures that could rectify the regional imbalances to harmonize inter-regional relations. The Gajendragadkar Commission, in its Report, recognized the widely-held feeling of regional discrimination in the two regions of the state by stating that “even if all the matters were equally settled, we feel that there would still be a measure of discontent unless the political aspirations of the different regions of the state were satisfied. In fact, we consider that the main cause of irritation and tension is the feeling of political neglect and discrimination, real or imaginary from which certain regions of the state suffer” (Report of the State Autonomy Committee, 1999: 73). Regional discontent led to the demand for devolution of political power within the state since the state’s accession to India. Sheikh Abdullah had responded to such misgivings by assuring in a public address in 1953, that his government would “give autonomy to the different cultural units of the state as would be provided in the constitution that is being drawn up…. This would remove all the fears of domination of one unit over the other and will make for the voluntary unity and consolidation of the people of the state” (ibid.: 2). The fact that the RAC was constituted in response to compelling political circumstances prevailing in Jammu and Ladakh should have made it imperative to refer to the political sensibilities of the regions of Jammu and Ladakh. Yet, the Report of the RAC did not refer to these regional sensibilities. It, in fact, negated the very notion of the regions of Jammu and Ladakh as such. The central argument of the Report, ironically, revolved around the logic of counteracting the existing understanding of the regions. It did not use the term “Region” to define the political status of Jammu or Ladakh or for that matter even Kashmir. Defining them as “Provinces” or “Divisions” created for administrative convenience, the Report called the earlier attempts to define these as “the distinct regions” as erroneous in nature (ibid.: 11). The Committee came to the conclusion that it is urgent to demarcate the regions in the state for the purposes of political and economic decentralization of power. The administrative

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classification of the provinces should be recognized as the genuine and real classification of the regions (Report of the State Autonomy Committee, 1999: 8). By problematizing the claims of Jammu and Ladakh to their regional status, the RAC Report virtually jettisoned the whole political logic of “regional autonomy.” And in order to do that it took upon itself the task of redefining “Region” and on the basis of that definition, “mapping” the regions of the state (ibid.: 15). This, despite acknowledging that “internal autonomy has been a constant demand of different ethnocultural-linguistic groups” (ibid.: 13). Significantly, the recommendations of the two reports are based on premises that are fundamentally at odds (Wirsing, 2003: 208). “There is ... SAC report which offers maximalist version of the secular demand for autonomy for Jammu and Kashmir as a whole ... and then there is the ... RAC report advocating the reorganization of the state into eight new ‘provinces’ whose boundaries are defined on ethno-religious lines” (Aijaz, 2000: 17). The RAC reveals a mindset that explains why Jammu and Ladakh have grown to resent the special treatment accorded to Kashmir by the center at the expense of the minorities in Jammu and Ladakh. The latter two, therefore, have favored full integration with India while Kashmir clamors for autonomy or azadi. The flawed RAC Report brings home the understanding, that to attain greater autonomy, it is imperative that effective measures be taken up by the Kashmiri leadership to end the ongoing discrimination against the regions of Jammu and Ladakh.10 Such measures would help the Kashmiri cause for autonomy as Jammu’s discontent against the dominant Kashmiri leadership has often been used by New Delhi to force the pace of constitutional integration of the state with the union.

Indian Federal Democracy and the Autonomy/Self-Determination Movements: Kashmir and Northeast A reading of the constitutional provisions related to the special constitutional status granted to Jammu and Kashmir and the North-eastern states, avowedly to accommodate the aspiration of autonomy of the

110 / ASHUTOSH KUMAR territorially organized ethno-religious groups, leads us to think of other commonalties as well. The two regions do have similarities in terms of geographical, historical, and sociological elements (Manor, 2001: 100). Kashmir as well as the Northeastern states are border regions and share boundaries with hostile neighboring countries who have been keen on extending help to the secessionist ethno-religious movements in these states. Both the regions were not a part of the mainstream polity of British India. The colonial regime had adopted the policy of “least interference” towards both regions and had allowed the remote regions to be governed by the traditional institutions. In sociological terms, the Northeastern states have had tribal communities as the majority but who are minorities in the rest of India. Jammu and Kashmir is a Muslim majority state. Economically, as well as in terms of politics, these border regions remain marginal to mainstream India. There is another commonality between the two regions and that is the breach of contract by the Indian state. The state of Jammu and Kashmir was the last princely state to be annexed to an independent India. It was also the only state to negotiate its annexation with India. The same can be said about the Northeastern states. The people of both regions perceive their federal context primarily in terms of contractual relations. The terms of contract enshrined in the form of the constitutional provisions and accords have, therefore, been always sacrosanct for them. Their federal perceptions have been defined by concepts of “parity” and “negotiability.” Hence, they have remained averse to the processes leading to “hierarchy” and “assimilation” that have been the bane of the working of federal democracy. The autonomy promised under the constitutional articles mentioned above, however, has not been honored. The incompatibility between the normative and existential order is reflected in the fact that the Indian state has never allowed Kashmir or the Northeastern states to function even like any other state, let alone under Articles 370 or 371. Trying to solve regional movements demanding recognition of their distinct identities and rights by merely amending the Sixth Schedule11 has not worked. Political alienation characterizes these regions in the absence of any credible guarantee against further erosion of autonomy or the guarantee of a mechanism for dialogue based on the “principles of rights and shared sovereignty.” Post-colonial experiences reveal that India’s Kashmir and Northeast policy has been marked by the politics of coercion (deployment of armed forces and repression of the autonomist and the secessionist forces by taking recourse to the extraordinary laws),

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economic populism (in the form of economic packages), ad hocism (in the form of having short term security-centric policy), and cooperation (with the locally discredited “nationalist” leadership in the form of failed accords). Moreover, given the socio-political heterogeneity of these states, the regional discontents over the perceived domination of the majority community leadership, have often been used as pretexts by New Delhi to force the pace of constitutional integration with the union. In the above context, the ongoing ethnic conflict in Kashmir based on the right to self-determination and similar movements in the Northeast should be viewed primarily as the peoples’ demand to exercise their democratic right to participation, representation, and self-government as envisaged under the relevant autonomy clauses of the Constitution or the accords.

Concluding Observations The Constitution of India was framed under the shadow of partition. The very real fear of disintegration of a country of India’s diversity along with the vision of a homogenized modern nation state resulted in a constitutional document in India that, though had federalism as its “chief mark,” reflected a pronounced unitary bias (Bagchi, 2000: 3052). As the experiences of Jammu and Kashmir and the Northeastern states show, even in the case of the states which were granted autonomy by the Constitution, the center has been playing a much more dominating role than what even the Constitution makers had envisaged for the “mainstream states.” The idea of genuine autonomy being granted to the states has not been given a proper chance nor has its potential been appreciated in providing solutions to the regional problems. It is in the context of the ongoing movements for autonomy or secession in these states as well as the shortcomings revealed over the years in the working of the Constitution that the core issues of Indian federal democracy need a critical rethinking.

Notes 1. While viewing federalism as “a means of launching colonies into independence,” Hicks has drawn attention to the failure of most of the post-colonial federal democracies. He has analyzed, in particular, the east African federations of Kenya,

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2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

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Uganda, Tanzania; the Caribbean federation; and those of Malaysia and Singapore. See Hicks (1978: 37–38). Drawing attention to it, Ambedkar had argued on the occasion of the adoption of the Constitution: “On the 26th of January 1950, we are going to enter into a life of contradictions. In politics we will have equality and in social and economic life we will have inequality.... How long can we continue to deny equality in our social and economic life? If we continue to deny it for long, we will do so only by putting our political democracy in peril.” Quoted in the Constitutional Assembly Debates (1968: 944). In the words of Aiyar: “federalism emerged as a means of reconciling conflicting elements in the Indian polity, and came to prominence in the nineteen thirties. Federalism then seemed to be the only political device for bringing together the Indian states and the British Indian provinces and for integrating politically the Hindus and the Muslims—the two major communities of the sub-continent.” See Aiyar (1965: 1). Even if the proposed federal scheme would have come into existence it would have faced “considerable constraints due to the absence of a common set of values such as representative government, democracy, secularism and so on. The system would no more be a skeleton-like framework of guarantees and safeguards without a sense of shared purpose, leave alone nation-hood, it would have been more remains of an empire.” See Banerjee (1992: 5). While providing for a division of powers between the provinces and the union, the Nehru Report had shown a tilt towards the union as it granted certain emergency powers to it. See Banerjee (1989: 26). The communal bloodbath followed by partition had created a concern for the critical need for a dominant center to prevent further dismemberment of the country. Historical precedents were also cited in this regard. The highly centralized nature of the Constitution and the lukewarm response to political decentralization was also due to the urgent need felt by the Constitution makers to deal effectively with acute food crisis, integrate more than 560 princely states in India and their administrative consolidation, and undertake the agenda of nation building by implementing the development planning model. Introducing the draft Constitution to the Constituent Assembly, Ambedkar argued that the federal provisions in the Indian Constitution compared better than their counterparts in the sense that they did not suffer from two common drawbacks of the federal constitutions namely, rigidity and legalism. The Constitution had an amending procedure that was far simpler than its counterparts in the world. As for the second, excessive diversity of laws, administrative styles, and judicial procedures was done away with the constitutional provision of a single judiciary, uniformity in fundamental laws, and a common All India services. See Rao (1968: 422–27). Nehru in his speech in the Lok Sabha on the Official Language Bill observed: “The makers of our constitution were wise in laying down that all [the regional] languages were to be languages of equal status. There is no question of any one language being more a national language than another.” Quoted in King (1998: 219).

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9. The state government formed the Committee “to examine the question of restoration of autonomy to the state of Jammu and Kashmir.” The Committee had the following terms of reference: (a) To examine and recommend measures for the restoration of autonomy to the state of Jammu and Kashmir, consistent with the Instrument of Accession, the Constitution Application Order, 1950, and the Delhi Agreement of 1952. (b) To examine and recommend safeguards that would be regarded necessary for incorporation in the union/state constitution to ensure that the constitutional arrangement that is finally evolved in pursuance of the recommendations of this committee, is inviolable. (c) To also examine and recommend measures to ensure a harmonious relationship for the future between the state and the union. See Rao (2002: 238). 10. Balraj Puri, who was sacked by the NC government as chairman of the RAC, to be replaced by the then state finance minister, in his own draft of the Report, recommended the devolution of the state’s administrative powers in such a manner that would preserve the unity of the state and leave the three communally heterogeneous regions essentially intact. Autonomy at the grassroots level was to be realized by promoting local (village, block, and district) self-government along the lines of the Panchayati Raj institution. Puri suggested such a measure not only to achieve decentralization of state power but also to enhance the institutional representation of the ethno-linguistic minorities, i.e. Gujjars, Baltis, Paharis, Gaddis, Ladakhis, etc., without strengthening the communal identities of the three regions of Jammu, Ladakh, and Kashmir. See Puri (1999). 11. Most of the ethnic movements for autonomy/secession in the Northeast have veered around the provisions of the Sixth Schedule. The Khasis, Garos, Jaintias, Mizos, and Nagas while rejecting the limited scope for autonomy envisaged under the schedule have demanded and achieved separate statehood. The Karbis and Dimasas have been asking for greater autonomy. The Bodos, Chutiyas, and Tiwas have asked for their inclusion in the Sixth Schedule. See Misra and Misra (2000: 112).

5 AUTONOMY’S INTERNATIONAL LEGAL CAREER Sabyasachi Basu Ray Chaudhury

O

ne of the most sought after, and at the same time, resisted, devices for conflict management in the contemporary world is autonomy (Ghai, 2000: 1). The promise to consider or negotiate autonomy has been used successfully to bring about truces between warring parties (ibid.). Autonomy arrangements have sometimes been considered as an interim solution, as a breathing space while long-term solutions are explored and negotiated (ibid.). Yet, autonomy remains a contested concept as it has been used to separate as well as to bring people together (ibid.). There is no developed or reliable theory of autonomy. Modern but contested justifications revolve around the notion of identity. But the structures or the mechanisms of autonomy are still hazy. Our increasing preoccupation with autonomy has made us opportunistic in use, overambitious in our expectations, and excited by the variations and flexibility to which it will lend itself (Ghai, 2000: 4). Keeping this in mind, we shall examine the international legal discourses on autonomy that emerged in the 20th century. Since the questions of self-determination, and rights of minorities and those of the indigenous people are closely linked to the question of autonomy, we need to pay adequate attention to these issues as well.

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If the human rights movements across the globe in the second half of the last century have helped the individual secure a status in international law, the use of autonomy as a species of group rights has changed the character of international law in another significant way (Ghai, 2000: 2). In the late 1980s, it was realized that a purely individualistic approach to human rights was inadequate to respond to various demands of ethnic minorities and other collectives claiming greater recognition of and protection for their culture, and in some cases, greater political authority over their own affairs. Against this backdrop, in the post-Soviet world, a few significant developments in international law have served to provide legal foundations for autonomy, although its legal basis appears to be somewhat unclear (Hannum, 1990). There is a growing recognition that international instruments should include the possibility of autonomy, in the form of self-government, for minorities and indigenous peoples within a state. Therefore, a “new principle of international law can be discerned in the interstices of contemporary definitions of sovereignty, self-determination, and the human rights of individuals and groups” (ibid.: 473).

Self-Determination The notion of self-determination is central to the normative debate in international political theory. If nations have a right to statehood, then the international community cannot deny some nations this right and privilege others. Yet, that is what happens in reality (Samaddar, 2001b). Traditionally, self-determination was external in character and applied to situations of colonial domination or racist regimes in the form of independence. Hurst Hannum, a leading expert on international law, argued in the early 1990s, that no non-colonial people “had yet acquired the right to independence or self-determination in international law.” But, as he was confining his observation to independence from the state, the question as to whether other modes could be applicable to noncolonial peoples as well, remained open. Following the disintegration of the Soviet Union, the demands for the self-determination of people started reaching a new high (Archibugi, 2003: 488). In the process, different and often contradictory aspirations were grouped under the single banner of self-determination (ibid.).

116 / SABYASACHI BASU RAY CHAUDHURY But before proceeding further it is better to look at the different categories of the “right to self-determination.” The first category, according to Daniele Archibugi, is the more or less widely accepted self-determination of colonial peoples. The second meaning encompasses the demands of minorities intending to break away from the state they belong to, and has been the most in vogue since the end of the Cold War and directly associated with the armed conflicts and civil wars of the late 1990s. This is the meaning, in particular, that clashes with the concept of state sovereignty. Finally, the third meaning refers to certain ethnic or cultural groups, which, although intending to remain part of the state they belong to, wish to achieve certain collective rights. This is the most innovative meaning and has of late triggered a fierce debate (Archibugi, 2003: 488). But, in all these three meanings, self-determination is a subjective right that still fails to be precisely matched by a body of law. As the right to selfdetermination cannot be self-assessed by conflicting political communities, mainly reflecting the power of the contending parties rather than the interests of the peoples, the concept of self-determination should be fitted into a legal system far broader than that of a single state and even of inter-state law in order to retain its validity. Self-determination requires a cosmopolitan legal order in order to play a progressive role in the global community and to avoid the risk of entertaining particularistic and chauvinistic demands contrary to fundamental human rights. But such a cosmopolitan legal order is unlikely to be achieved soon (ibid.: 488–89). The Romans and the Spanish at the time of the discovery of the New World, and the European states before and after the French Revolution, all felt the need to guarantee certain rights to “peoples” even if they lacked a “state” (ibid.: 489). But at the beginning of the 20th century, a major divide emerged between “states” and “peoples.” At the Paris Conference of 1918, as President Woodrow Wilson mediated between the views and interests of the European governments, self-determination for peoples could not really entail the creation of one state for every people. In a Europe founded upon nation states, new states like Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Poland, and the Baltic republics were created with sizable ethnic minorities where people were forced to live together (Arendt, 2003: 489–90). The mediating great powers were aware of the potential problems, and at the Paris Conference they had the governments of the new states pledge to recognize and guarantee certain rights to minorities,

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and accept a limitation on the exercise of their sovereignty domestically with the new born international organization, the League of Nations, acting as a guarantor of the rights of minorities (Archibugi, 2003: 490). After the tragedy of World War II, the UN Charter was much more cautious in accepting the dichotomy between states and peoples. But even then it failed to address the problem of ethnic minorities inside the already existing states. The case law of the International Court of Justice (ICJ) on selfdetermination was initially restricted to cases of colonialism or alien domination. In the case of Namibia, the ICJ affirmed the principle of self-determination for non self-governing territories, a decision generally interpreted as giving the right to self-determination to colonies. This view of the “Namibia case” was endorsed in the ICJ’s Advisory Opinion in the Western Sahara case, where the court held that the right of selfdetermination requires a free and genuine expression of the will of the peoples concerned. This cannot be taken to endorse a general right to self-determination in situations not concerned with decolonization and alien domination. But since the late 20th century, self-determination has increasingly been recognized as having an internal aspect that requires full and effective participation by all groups in a society. And autonomy is being considered as a method of allowing internal self-determination to minorities who form a part of the peoples of an existing state.

Minority Rights Most of the post-1945 international arrangements regarding the treatment of certain western European minorities, such as the Paris Agreement of 1946 between Austria and Italy on the German-speaking south Tyroleans, resulted from very particular political and territorial circumstances where the emphasis in international Western practice was almost entirely on human rights for all, while minority rights were looked upon with great suspicion. But over the years, the right to self-determination has increasingly been reinterpreted in terms of internal constitutional arrangements for the political and autonomy rights of minorities (Ghai, 2000: 3). The Canadian Supreme Court has given a new twist to the right of secession in its answer to the reference from the federal government

118 / SABYASACHI BASU RAY CHAUDHURY as to whether Quebec has a right to unilateral secession. The court held that under neither the Canadian Constitution nor international law did Quebec have the right but that, once a part of Canada declared emphatically that it wished to secede, all parties had to enter into negotiations over this claim (Ghai, 2000). A number of constitutions now recognize an entitlement to selfgovernment, such as the Philippines in relation to its indigenous peoples and the Muslim minority; Spain, which guarantees autonomy to three regions and invites others to negotiate with the center for autonomy; Papua New Guinea, which authorizes provinces to negotiate with the central government for substantial devolution of power; and Ethiopia, which gives its “nations, nationalities and peoples” the right to seek wideranging powers as states within a federation and even guarantees their right to secession (ibid.: 3–4). The Chinese Constitution entrenches the rights of ethnic minorities to substantial self-government, although in practice the dominance of the Communist Party negates their autonomy. In other instances the Constitution authorizes, but does not require, the setting up of autonomous areas, with China as an interesting example, in order to provide a constitutional basis for the “One Country, Two Systems” policy for the reunification of Hong Kong, Macao, and Taiwan (ibid.: 4). On the other hand, some constitutions prohibit or restrict the scope of autonomy by requiring that the state be “unitary” or some similar expression. Such a provision has retarded the acceptance or the implementation of meaningful devolution in, for example, Sri Lanka, Papua New Guinea, and China (ibid.). Moreover, the distinction between peoples and minorities in international instruments remains a purely legal creation without any acceptable definition of either type of entity. In such a situation, a particular group may be treated as a minority within a state and, at the same time, qualify as a people. Some minorities briefly enjoyed the rights to culture, language, and education under the League of Nations minority system. But, the League minority system applied only to a few new or reconstituted states of central and eastern Europe, the Aaland Islands, and Iraq. The guarantees it recognized, were never intended for universal application but only as a specific and limited response to a series of problems arising in particular states (Preece, 2001: 10). Interestingly, the post-war document of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 1948, made no mention of the

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special minority rights, but endorsed the principles of equality and nondiscrimination (Preece, 2001). However, its Articles 18 (freedom of thought and religion), 19 (freedom of expression), 20 (freedom of peaceful assembly and association), and 27 (the right to freely participate in the cultural life of the community) have some relevance for the minorities (ibid.). Even Article 27, directed at the preservation of the cultural communities, is not clear about the nature of the cultural community— whether it includes the minority cultures or simply the dominant culture (ibid.: 10–11). This ambiguity has given rise to an idea that it guarantees participation in the dominant culture. So it could not prevent the assimilationist policies directed against the minorities (ibid.: 11). However, there are indications that the initial draft of the Universal Declaration included a guarantee that “in all countries inhabited by a substantial number of persons of a race, language or religion other than those of the majority ... minorities shall have the right to establish and maintain, out of an equitable proportion of public funds ... their schools, cultural institutions, and to use their language before courts, organs of the state and in the press and public assembly.” But, the final draft did not contain this guarantee for the minorities (ibid.: 11). Prior to 1989, only the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) 1966, incorporated a specific minority rights clause.1 Article 27 of the ICCPR provides that, “In those States in which ethnic, religious or linguistic minorities exist, persons belonging to such minorities shall not be denied the right, in community with the other members of their group, to enjoy their own culture, to profess and practise their own religion, or to use their own language.” It is interesting to note that this provision refers to “minorities” rather than, as does ICCPR Article 1, to “peoples,” and protects “persons belonging to” minorities rather than the minorities themselves, although the right is exercised “in community with the other members” of a minority. But many argue that this provision gives the state signatories the freedom to determine whether or not the ethnic groups in their jurisdictions constitute such minorities by will. Therefore, many states, possessing minorities, have avoided their international obligations in this context by redefining these groups as “immigrant” or “aboriginal” (ibid.: 12). In 1994, the ICCPR Committee on Human Rights adopted General Comment No. 23 on Article 27 of the Covenant (CCPR, 1994). Paragraph

120 / SABYASACHI BASU RAY CHAUDHURY 3.2 says that, “Enjoyment of rights under Article 27 ‘does not prejudice the sovereignty and territorial integrity of a State party.’ Nonetheless, the aspects of rights of individuals protected under this article, such as enjoyment of a particular culture, ‘may consist of a way of life which is closely associated with territory,’ particularly for members of the indigenous communities” (Steiner and Alston, 2000: 1292). Paragraph 6.2 says that, although the rights are individual, they depend on the ability of the minority group to maintain its culture. “Accordingly, positive measures by States may also be necessary to protect the identity of a minority” and the rights of its members (ibid.). Paragraph 7 says that cultural rights under Article 27 extend to ways of life “associated with the use of land resources, especially in the case of indigenous peoples.... The enjoyment of those rights may require positive legal measures of protection and measures to ensure the effective participation of members of minority communities in decisions which affect them” (ibid.). The post-colonial states in Latin America, Africa, and Asia generally assumed that the absence of minority rights was more conducive to state success defined in terms of territorial integrity and internal political stability (Preece, 2001: 12). So it is not quite surprising to note that the American Convention on Human Rights, 1969, reiterates almost all of the rights included in the ICCPR although it does not include any reference whatsoever, to minority rights along the lines of Article 27 (ibid.). This absence of explicit minority provisions is also apparent in the Additional Protocol to the American Convention on Human Rights in the Area of Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights (Protocol of San Salvador), 1988 (ibid.). The African Charter on Human and People’s Rights, 1981, incorporates a people’s right to self-determination. But, here “people” has been identified with the already existing African states and not the various tribal groups within them (ibid.). Similarly, the Association of Commonwealth States emphasized its commitment to individual human rights and racial equality but said virtually nothing specific about the circumstances of the minorities by will and their desire for protection against unwarranted policies of assimilation or oppression. Although the Singapore Declaration of the Commonwealth Principles of 1971 affirms “equal rights for all citizens regardless of race, colour, creed or political belief,” and recognizes “racial prejudice as a dangerous sickness,” “self-determination” is mentioned only in the

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context of “non-racialism” and in opposition to “all forms of colonial domination” (Preece, 2001: 13). There is no reference at all to minority rights as distinct from equal citizenship (ibid.). While the 1979 Lusaka Declaration of the Commonwealth on Racism and Racial Prejudice acknowledges that “everyone is free to retain pluralism in his or her culture and lifestyle,” this statement is made only in the context of such pluralism being no justification for “the perpetuation of racial prejudice or racially discriminatory practices” (ibid.). Moreover, there is no mention of what actions, if any, a state ought to take to promote pluralism of culture and lifestyles within its jurisdiction or whether these might include provisions that would help perpetuate the minorities by will (ibid.). Even within Europe, where international minority rights had been recognized under the League system, there was no revival of special minority guarantees till 1989. Even the Council of Europe (COE), the creator of one of the most successful regional human rights systems in the world, was quite hesitant to pursue a specific minority rights protocol to the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR), 1950 (ibid.: 13). But, outside the auspices of the COE, a few member states entered into minority agreements to resolve the outstanding minority questions.2 On another plane, the Helsinki Final Act, establishing the Conference for Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), specifically mentions minorities in three different parts of the document—the Declaration on Principles, Principle VII, and in the section entitled Cooperation in Humanitarian and Other Fields (ibid). But, the initial interest in minority issues was not sustained in the various “CSCE Follow-up Meetings” that took place between 1975 and 1989 (ibid.). Instead, these meetings were dominated by a concern for the violation of the individual human rights—particularly those civil and political liberties associated with the movement towards human rights and democracy in the communist states (Mastny, 1992: 13–14). Therefore, once again, “legitimate” minority interests did not include any rights in cultural, educational, religious, and linguistic matters over and above those of equal citizenship (Preece, 2001: 14). So, it has been argued that the international actors by and large ignored the question of minorities during the Cold War due to the widespread conviction that the continued existence of such groups posed a threat to the territorial integrity and social cohesion

122 / SABYASACHI BASU RAY CHAUDHURY of existing states and also to the order and stability within the states system (Preece, 2001).

Rights of the Indigenous People Indigenous peoples assert that they should not be treated as minorities but as a discrete group-entity within international law. Nevertheless, there is nothing to stop them from benefiting from minority rights guarantees, although the converse is not true vis-à-vis minority groups. The change in tenor of the ILO Conventions on Indigenous Peoples between No. 107 of 1957 and No. 169 of 1989 is noteworthy as regards recognition of the collectivity. The earlier convention was concerned with the assimilation into the rest of the population of individual members of indigenous groups as they “became civilized,” whereas No. 169 seeks to preserve the “integrity and identity of those communities. Hence the ‘individualistic’ approach has made way for a ‘collectivist’ approach which gives priority to the preservation of the traditional group identity.” Moreover, the UN Draft Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples provides for an independent right to autonomy, defined for these purposes as selfgovernment.3 Autonomy for indigenous peoples, in general, is less contested than for other groups (Ghai, 2000: 7). Still, the incorporation of territorial and cultural autonomy for indigenous peoples has posed various difficulties. They invariably create asymmetry and are hard to fit within the national norms of human rights. This is because the autonomy they seek preserves customary law and practices which imply unequal rights or discrimination against outsiders as well as insiders. Their demands can have a major effect on other federal arrangements—the “aboriginals” in Quebec, a minority within a minority, have resisted the Quebecan independence (ibid.: 7–8). They can also raise difficult sovereignty issues— just as the Canadian Francophones want an acknowledgment of their “distinct society,” indigenous peoples want a recognition of their prior sovereignty. Yet, the exercise of this sovereignty is difficult in the modern context, not only for the reasons mentioned above but also because of the lack of technical resources and expertise and the size of the territory (ibid.: 7).

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Globalizing Fragmentation With the end of the US–Soviet Cold War, ethnic conflict appears to be re-emerging as sub-national groups fight to be heard and represented. Imperatives of globalization make the daily practice of political accommodation difficult and subject it to universalized constitutional practices that push the political-ethical task of accommodation to the margins of political rule (Samaddar, 2001b: 12). Economic integration creates new ghettos, therefore new exiles, new selves, and a declining legitimacy of the political rule (ibid.: 13). In others words, globalization is not unidirectional. In its latest avatar, it has led to a continuous de-territorialization and re-territorialization of social and power relations in the new global economy. Globalization, on the one hand, has undermined the national state, not only by shrinking the resources under national control for shaping economic and social outcomes, but also by reducing government’s legitimacy and authority in the eyes of the public. By destroying national control over information flows, it has weakened a government’s ability to influence its public. Internationalization of the media, the marketing and export of Western popular culture, and the deregulation of information have all combined to weaken national values and, in so doing, dry up the springs of support for national action. The effects of changes in the international economy are experienced through the national political leaders’ diminished control both over the material determinants of a country’s prosperity and over the vehicles for reaching common public understandings of national well being. But, the dominant spatial paradigm of territoriality still determines whether we treat some identities and attachments as authentic or not. The term “post-national” has been deployed to describe the new architecture of international law under globalization. Individuals no longer identify themselves primarily with a state, or at least not nearly to the extent that they have in the recent past. But the binding force of international law and legal status is still in question. The international community, instead of a community governed by law, appears to be nothing else than a collection of states and other entities with certain international powers, living in a state of nature, where the most powerful are free to impose their own rules. In the international community of states, there is an ultimate rule of recognition composed of a rule pacta sunt servanda

124 / SABYASACHI BASU RAY CHAUDHURY and of the obligation to comply with the rules of customary international law. These two rules should respect the community’s basic public policy of jus cogens. In standard textbooks, international law is described as the law that governs the relations between states. New international legal subjects emerged during the 20th century—international organizations and individuals. Nevertheless, states still are the principal actors in the international legal system retaining a great measure of control over international law making processes. International organizations can hardly be said to have changed the situation. Indeed, international organizations are made of states and they adopt decisions only. Hence, the states lead international law making in the context of international organizations. The contemporary international legal experiences on autonomy may be assessed against this backdrop. Since 1989, the previous international response to pluralism within states has come under growing criticism challenging the liberal theory of state and power. New configurations of power, fresh claims for recognition, and imaginative “layerings” of territories constantly press against established principles and practice, offering accommodation to identity claims within the interstices of the state threatening to break it apart (Ghai, 2000: 2). Therefore, recently the liberals have modified the idea of democracy so that it does not appear to be simply “majoritarian” any more. The democratic assumptions so far tended to discredit the minority claims for special rights in addition to those of equal citizenship. Moreover, the changed global context and growing public pressure have resulted in a greater willingness of the Western democracies to interfere in the domestic jurisdictions of “non-democracies” in eastern Europe. Minority rights have also started featuring in these attempts (Preece, 2001: 15). The international actors have now begun to realize that the only way to successfully resolve the “problem” of pluralism is to create circumstances in which minorities and majorities can flourish side by side (ibid.). Against this backdrop, a major development in the global standards on minority rights took place in 1992, when the UN Declaration on the Rights of Persons Belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious, and Linguistic Minorities was officially proclaimed by the UN General Assembly. Persons belonging to minorities were recognized in this Declaration as having rights to existence, identity, and the enjoyment of culture, religion, language, social affairs, the economy, and public life. These basic

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provisions were supplemented by special minority rights to participate in the relevant national and regional decisions, to establish and maintain associations, and to have contacts both within and across national frontiers. Moreover, the 1992 UN Declaration reinforced a certain collective element by acknowledging that these rights could be exercised individually as well as in community with other members of the group. It also remedied the 1966 failure to specify state measures to promote minority rights. Henceforth, the states were required to adopt provisions for minority language instruction and the promotion of knowledge concerning minority cultures and languages amongst the majority population. At the same time, minority concerns were to be taken into consideration in both domestic programs and international cooperation (Preece, 2001: 16). But, the 1992 Declaration reiterated that minority rights were not intended as vehicles to further minority secession. Therefore, sovereignty remains the cornerstone of the international system in the foreseeable future and modifications of sovereign jurisdictions, except by constitutional means and with the consent of all concerned, will not be recognized or encouraged (ibid.: 17). The European regional organizations have also recognized the need for multilateral minority rights standard setting and enforcement. These include the Copenhagen Document, 1990, as well as the Charter of Paris for a New Europe, 1990, the Geneva Report on National Minorities, 1991, the Moscow Document, 1991, the Helsinki Document, 1992, and the Budapest Document, 1994. Moreover, in December 1992, the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE) created the Office of the High Commissioner for National Minorities (HCNM) to assist in the member states’ implementation of international minority standards and to help resolve ethnic conflicts (ibid.: 18). While most OSCE and COE provisions for minority rights augment the post-1945 human rights regime and the global minimum standard outlined in the 1992 UN Declaration on Minorities, the 1990s European regional response to this problem also reveals both an important reappraisal of the League of Nations linguistic and cultural guarantees, and the nascent formulation of rules with no clear precedent in the international agreements. The COE’s Charter for Regional or Minority Languages, 1992, for example, contained far more extensive provisions

126 / SABYASACHI BASU RAY CHAUDHURY for the use of minority languages than did the UN Declaration on Minorities (Preece, 2001: 18–19). However, the Copenhagen Document went beyond the international status quo in this regard. It clearly stated that, “persons belonging to national minorities have the right freely to express, preserve and develop their ethnic, cultural, linguistic or religious identity … free of any attempts at assimilation against their will.” Paragraph 30 of the Document says that, “the questions relating to national minorities can only be satisfactorily resolved in a democratic political framework based on the rule of law, with a functioning independent judiciary.” Similarly, the Convention of National Minorities specified that states shall refrain from both “practices aimed at the assimilation of persons belonging to minorities against their will” and “from measures which modify the proportions of the population in areas inhabited by persons belonging to national minorities.”4 But, the Copenhagen Document identified autonomy as only one of the possible means to achieve the promotion of minority identities and acknowledged that all such measures must be in accordance with the policies of the state concerned. Nevertheless, quite significantly, the inherited political beliefs and prejudices of the 19th century are now being challenged within the European organizations (ibid.: 20–21). However, the regional organizations in other parts of the world have not yet addressed the issues raised by the minority at will, in any significant way. Both the Commonwealth’s 1991 Harare Declaration and the 1995 Millbrook Action Program make special reference to “equal rights for all citizens,” “racial prejudice and intolerance,” and “problems of migration and refugees,” but say nothing with respect to minorities at will and their desire for, among others, minority language rights and freedom from forced assimilation. The proposed American Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, 1997, definitely extends recognition to both indigenous peoples and “peoples whose social, cultural and economic conditions distinguish them from the majority,” but adds the requirement that such peoples must have a status which is regulated “wholly or in part by their own customs, or traditions or by special law and regulations.” The African and Asian organizations are similarly reticent on this pressing issue (ibid.: 21). In fact, the fear of secession clouds the relationship between the state and the minority group. Nevertheless, autonomy is increasingly viewed

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as a proper response to meeting the needs of a group within a state, as evidenced by the 1998 Northern Ireland Peace Agreement and the establishment of Nunavat in Canada in 1999. After 20 years of negotiations, Canada established a new province, Nunavut on 1 April 1999, giving self-government to 25,000 people, 85 per cent of whom are Inuits. But autonomy is also seen as less drastic than secession, the true measure of last resort. Therefore, Canada established Nunavut, but refused Quebec secession. Similar instances are found in France, Italy, Finland, and the UK.5 In all these cases, territorial autonomy enables national minorities to establish and govern their own language, including schools, universities, courts, and regional parliaments. Despite these initiatives, there is no explicit right to autonomy in international law for groups within states. But, the presence or absence of an entitlement in either international or national law to autonomy, as well as provisions limiting its scope, can play an important role in the conduct of negotiations and the relative bargaining position of parties, especially when there is international or third party mediation (Ghai, 2000: 3). The case for autonomy rests on three major principles: minority rights, indigenous rights and, more controversially, the right to self-determination (ibid.). In some cases, the treaties provided for special rights for a particular minority population, including territorial autonomy. The Dayton Agreement of 1995 reasserted the sovereign status of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina in Article 1 of the General Framework Agreement for Peace, but created two autonomous entities, the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Republika Srpska. The Dayton Agreement shows that minority rights may, in the eyes of the international community, require autonomous self-government.

Dimensions of Autonomy—Territorial and Non-territorial Autonomy is a device to allow ethnic and other groups claiming a distinct identity to exercise direct control over affairs of special concern to them, while allowing the larger entity those powers which cover common interests. Autonomy can be granted under different legal forms. There is no uniform use of terms for the different kinds of arrangements for

128 / SABYASACHI BASU RAY CHAUDHURY autonomy (Ghai, 2000: 8). Yash Ghai, on the basis of different experiences of autonomy, has identified a few features: 1. The prospects of establishing autonomy arrangements are strongest when the state undergoes a regime change. 2. Autonomy arrangements are likely to be established if the international community becomes involved in conflict resolution. 3. Autonomy arrangements are most likely to succeed in states with established traditions of democracy and the rule of law. 4. Autonomy is easier to concede and likely to succeed when there is no dispute about sovereignty. 5. Autonomy is more likely to be negotiated and to succeed if there are several ethnic groups rather than two. 6. Autonomy arrangements, which have been negotiated in a democratic and participatory way, have a better chance of success than those, which are imposed. 7. An independent dispute settlement mechanism is essential to longterm success. 8. Careful design of institutional structures is essential for the success of autonomy. 9. Autonomy does not promote secession; on the contrary, true autonomy prevents secession (ibid.: 14–23). The federal model of autonomy may be regarded as unnecessary if the need is to accommodate only one or two minority groups. In these situations, special powers may be devolved only to that part of the country where the minority constitutes a majority; these powers are exercised by regional institutions. Normally very significant powers are devolved and the region, unlike in a federation, plays relatively little role in national government and institutions. This kind of autonomy is referred to as “regional autonomy” (ibid.: 9). By its nature, regional autonomy is asymmetrical (ibid.). But, both federalism and regional autonomy are characterized by constitutional entrenchment of autonomy. When territorial devolution of powers is not constitutionally protected, or not sufficiently protected, the arrangements are sometimes referred to as “regionalism” or “decentralization” (ibid.). But the contemporary world strongly emphasizes the notion of sovereignty and the majority of the scholars are unwilling to imagine a conceptualization of sovereignty apart

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from the state as its exclusive locus. These together complicate the legal position of autonomy to a considerable extent (Zumbansen, 2004: 207). Participation encompasses the idea of power sharing within the state. Power sharing might be reflected in a federated state through selfgovernment of a region where the group is in a majority or through participation in the political process and the right for the group to run its own affairs. Whereas political autonomy is usually understood as selfgovernment of a region of a state, participatory autonomy embraces this and other forms as well. It has the dual aspect of providing the group with the political means to preserve its own culture and identity whilst bringing it within the political processes of the state. For instance, the United Kingdom is going through a process of extending participatory autonomy. One example is to be found in the Northern Ireland Peace Agreement of April 1998. Given that the nationalist and unionist populations could not have separate administrations within the province, autonomy is granted to the province as a whole with participation and control for both communities provided through various mechanisms. The Agreement provided not only for an assembly elected by proportional representation that is to be inclusive in its membership and operate with due regard to both traditions, requiring cross-community support for “key decisions,” but also for avenues for the Republic of Ireland to influence developments directly. There is the North-South Ministerial Council to discuss issues of concern to Belfast and Dublin and a British-Irish Intergovernmental Conference. Territorial autonomy has also been given to the people of Scotland through the Scotland Act 1998. In many ways, cultural autonomy is the most important right of groups within the state that has drawn considerable attention within Europe in the 1990s. The Hague Recommendations Regarding Minority Education Rights deals mainly with mother tongue education, but also expects states to ensure the teaching to all, the histories, cultures, and traditions of national minorities. Beyond schooling, a minority cannot preserve its identity and culture if it is not permitted to use its own language, the topic addressed in the Foundation on Inter-Ethnic Relations’ Oslo Recommendations of February 1998. Finally, the need for financial autonomy cannot be denied. It is a necessary prerequisite to participatory and cultural autonomy although it is often the most difficult to achieve. Common Article 1.2 of the two

130 / SABYASACHI BASU RAY CHAUDHURY Covenants provided that, “All peoples may, for their own ends, freely dispose of their natural wealth and resources without prejudice to any obligations arising out of international economic cooperation, based upon the principle of mutual benefit, and international law. In no case may a people be deprived of its own means of subsistence.” Under Article 31 of the 1994 Declaration on Indigenous Peoples, such peoples were to be provided with autonomous government along with “ways and means for financing these autonomous functions.” Having said this, we need to consider that the notion of territorial autonomy faces some serious problems. As many different national communities can claim almost any given territory that could form a viable state, a universal principle of territorial self-determination for nations may easily be considered as a recipe for endless war (Gellner, 1983: 1). Under the circumstances, many experts have argued in favor of nonterritorial autonomy also. Most advocates of non-territorial solutions do not regard them as fully replacing territorially based politics, but envisage instead a dual form of self-governance where individuals would be both citizens of territorial states and members of autonomous non-territorial communities. Nations could thus no longer aspire to sovereignty, which is just as well, because such downgrading of their claims is probably conducive to more peaceful relations between them (Baubock, 2001: 4). The idea of non-territorial cultural autonomy was first systematically developed by Karl Renner (in 1902) and Otto Bauer (in 1907) who saw it as a way of overcoming conflicts that paralyzed the socialist movement within the late Habsburg Empire. Later authors have occasionally hinted at the desirability of non-territorial solutions as a remedy for endemic violence in nationality conflicts. Gidon Gottlieb, for example, suggests a functional approach to the territorial disputes that avoids the all-ornothing features of territorial sovereignty and “involves the demarcation of different layers of lines for different purposes” (Gottlieb, 1993: 47). In a later commentary he goes far beyond this modest proposal by advocating “the eventual extension of the system of states to include alongside it a system of nations and peoples that are not organized territorially into independent states at all” (quoted in Baubock, 2001: 5). The idea of non-territorial solutions to national conflicts is prima facie attractive and plausible. However, many have argued that all national conflicts are driven by a desire for self-government. While cultural liberties

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and protection can and should be offered on a non-territorial basis, the desire for self-government has always a territorial component that must not be ignored in the design of institutions and settlements that are meant to prevent the escalation of these conflicts (Baubock, 2001: 5). According to Hurst Hannum there are many advantages to “autonomy” as a solution to ethnic conflicts. Perhaps the most obvious is the flexibility of the term. For instance, autonomous entities in Bosnia and Herzegovina have a broad range of independent authority, although autonomy in that instance was designed to maintain the façade of a unified state, rather than to integrate a new territory into an existing state. Autonomy in Belgium and the Aland Islands is expressed through territorially based powers over language, education, culture, and, in the latter case, residence (Hannum, 2001: 1). Hannum argues that autonomy may also respond to concerns about minority rights, particularly when minorities are territorially concentrated in significant numbers. Territorial autonomy is mentioned as a possible option in the Copenhagen Document, although its formulation is fairly minimal and reflects the sensitive nature of such proposals.6 Territorial autonomy has also discussed in some detail in the Lund Recommendations on Effective Participation by National Minorities in Political Life, which were adopted in 1999 in conjunction with the office of the OSCE’s High Commissioner on National Minorities (Lund Recommendations, 1999). In this discussion, functions that might fall under the non-territorial arrangements include education, culture, use of minority language, environment, local planning, natural resources, economic development, local policing functions, and housing, health, and other social services (ibid.: para 20). The Recommendations noted that all democracies have arrangements for governance at different territorial levels, but urged states to “favourably consider” territorial arrangements “where it would improve the opportunities of minorities to exercise authority over matters affecting them” (ibid.: para 19). The Lund Recommendations also specify that territorial self-governance institutions should be based on democratic principles rather than ethnic criteria and should respect the human rights of all persons within their jurisdiction, including minorities (ibid.: paras 16 and 21). Moreover, autonomy maintains the territorial integrity of the existing states. Even comparatively more powerful autonomous units are not sovereign on the international level and remain ultimately subject, in

132 / SABYASACHI BASU RAY CHAUDHURY varying degrees, to the jurisdiction of the state in which they are found. This is obviously attractive to the states concerned who fear the destabilizing effect of the proliferation of even smaller, ethnically defined states. Therefore, Hurst Hannum argues that autonomy contributes to the stability of the existing international order (Hannum, 2001: 2). A strong commitment to autonomy solutions within states also obviates the need to develop criteria for secession, since secession (except by mutual consent) is simply not available as an internationally sanctioned outcome (ibid.: 3). Since autonomy is potentially responsive to both majority concerns—providing the integrity of the state—and minority demands— exercising a meaningful degree of self-government—it is often seen as inherently feasible politically and therefore useful as a means of halting conflict (ibid.). But, in some cases, pre-existing forms of minority autonomy were scrapped. Serbia revoked the autonomy of Kosovo/Vojvodina. Georgia revoked the autonomy of Abkhazia and Ossetia. Azerbaijan revoked the autonomy of Ngorno-Karabakh. Indeed, the revoking of minority autonomy was often one of the first things that these countries chose to do with their new found freedom after the collapse of communism.7 Indeed, as Hannum has pointed out what may appear to one observer as desirable flexibility, may lead others to criticize the very vagueness of autonomy as unlikely to encourage a meaningful dialogue. To him, since neither minorities nor states understand exactly what autonomy comprises, autonomy itself may end up being little more than a slogan, used by one side or the other to substitute for other, equally vague, slogans, such as sovereignty and self-determination. Demands for autonomy may therefore make it more difficult to identify the actual interests of the parties, such as linguistic or educational rights or a greater share in economic life (ibid.). But, the state-centric position discourages necessary thinking about what the criteria should be for statehood and secession, precisely when such thinking should be in the forefront of international attempts to deal with internal ethnic conflicts. Hannum points out that states resist wideranging autonomy that has the effect of removing a part of the country from the effective control of the central government and psychologically dividing rather than integrating the country’s population (ibid.: 5). In Hannum’s opinion, therefore, autonomy should neither be seen as a panacea nor as a provocation. Autonomy will not necessarily lead to a

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permanent solution that will end all ethnic tensions, nor will it inevitably encourage demands for even greater political power and eventually independence. Instead, autonomy is simply one tool in the arsenal of constitutional drafters, politicians, and diplomats that must be suited to the particular task at hand (Hannum, 2001: 5). In brief, autonomy is a means, not an end (ibid.). After all, the morality/politics binary helps to define the dominant discourse on autonomy. The dominant discourse on autonomy in an era of globalization and in the latest phase of global capitalism risks assimilating and/or silencing different groups of people including women, thus reproducing the same oppressive politics as the liberal and patriarchal mainstream in which morality operates as a mask for power. Therefore, while examining the issue of autonomy in the contemporary global context, there is a need to move beyond the assimilationism of liberalism, in which differences of power, culture, and identity are bracketed out of the dialogic context through assumptions of formal civil and political equality. When minority issues are securitized the space for moral argument and democratic debate is drastically shrunk. After all, democracy comes principally on the basis of rights and not justice, though they are closely inter-connected. But the discourse of rights does not address the grave issue of justice in its complexities (Samaddar, 2001b: 13). And, laws can help codify the notion of justice at least minimally and thus facilitate politics in addressing the issue of self and the recognition of self (ibid.).

Notes 1. Three other UN Conventions are in varying degrees relevant to the national minorities—the 1948 Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, the 1957 ILO Convention Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Populations, and the UNESCO Convention against Discrimination in Education. 2. In this context, one can refer to the De Gasperi–Gruber Agreement of 1946 between Austria and Italy giving various rights to the German-speaking minority by Bolzano and Trento. On the basis of this Agreement, the Italian government provided primary and secondary education to the members of these national minority communities in Germany and ensured parity of the German and Italian in public affairs. The 1955 Agreement between Denmark and the Federal Republic of Germany guaranteed the German minority in Denmark and the Danish

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3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

minority in Germany equality before the law. Therefore, they both had the right to establish their educational institutions, the right to maintain cross-border religious, cultural and professional relations, the right to an appropriate share of public broadcasting facilities, and the use of Danish or German in the law courts and public offices of either state. The Austrian State Treaty of 1955 recognized Slovene and Croatian as official languages alongside German in Carinthia, Burgenland, and Styria, and gave minority language education rights to these communities. Similarly, the 1954 Special Statute for the Territory of Trieste gave a number of special privileges to the Slovene and Croatian minorities in the Italian administered zone, especially in the context of the minority language education. Consult Preece (2001) for further details. Article 31 of this Declaration says, “Indigenous peoples, as a specific form of exercising their right to self-determination, have the right to autonomy or selfgovernment in matters relating to their internal and local affairs including culture, religion, education, information, media, health, housing, employment, social welfare, economic activities, land and resources management, environment and entry by non-members, as well as ways and means for financing these autonomous functions.” The Copenhagen Declaration also made reference to “appropriate local or autonomous administrations corresponding to the specific historical and territorial circumstances of … minorities.” Article 11 of the Draft Minorities Protocol put forward by the Parliamentary Assembly of the COE in 1993 recognized the right of persons belonging to minorities to have at their disposal appropriate local or autonomous authorities or a special status matching the specific historical and territorial situation. See Preece (2001), for further detail. France set in motion a process to accord Corsica limited powers to run its own affairs. While Italy and Finland are not federations, they have adopted special forms of territorial autonomy for the Austrians in South Tyrol, and for the Swedes in the Aland Islands, respectively. In the UK, various degrees of autonomy were accorded to Northern Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Recently a quasi-federal system of devolution has been adopted for Scotland, and Wales, which now have their legislative assemblies. See Document of the Copenhagen Meeting of the Conference on the Human Dimension of the CSCE (Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe), adopted on 29 June 1990. In other cases, requests to restore historic forms of autonomy were rejected. For example, Romania refused to restore autonomy to Transylvania which had been revoked in 1956. In some other cases, requests to create new forms of autonomy were dismissed. Estonia rejected a referendum supporting autonomy for the Russian-dominated Narva. Kazakhstan rejected autonomy for ethnic Russians in the north. Ukraine rejected a referendum supporting autonomy for the ethnic

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Romanian areas. Lithuania rejected requests for autonomy by the ethnic Poles. Macedonia rejected a referendum for autonomy for the Albanian-dominated Western Macedonia in 1992. In yet other cases, countries have redrawn boundaries to make it impossible for autonomy to be adopted in future. Slovakia redrew its internal boundaries so that ethnic Hungarians would not form a majority within any one of the internal administrative districts, and would have no platform to claim autonomy. Croatia redrew internal boundaries in Krajina and West Slovenia to dilute the Serbian-populated areas.

PART II Practices of Autonomy

6 THE ETHNO AND THE GEO: A NEW LOOK INTO THE ISSUE OF KASHMIR’S AUTONOMY Sanjay Chaturvedi

Whether the state withdraws or is re-imagined, the reinforcement of identities is often at stake. The new trans-national economic reality seems not to diminish the need for a local or national political discourse. The essential question is whether the resulting geopolitical visions and discourses will interface with the new trans-national economic “reality” or remain just a rhetoric accompaniment that serves essentially to boost pride and diminish pain.... It requires much optimism to believe that international relations in the future will remain free from the ideological perspectives of particular groups. The end of history has not yet arrived. (Dijkink, 1996)

Introduction

A

pparently, growing contestations over the question of autonomy relate to the complex interplay between the ethno-cultural moorings of an individual or group identity and a rather seductive appeal of geopolitical reductionism and territoriality. Territoriality, as pointed out by Robert Sack “… is the attempt by an individual or group to affect, influence, or control people, phenomena, and relationships, by delimiting and asserting control over a geographical area …” (Sack, 1986: 19–20, 216).

140 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI The geographical concentration of a group is generally considered essential to territorial autonomy. The same consideration, however, becomes highly problematic in places characterized by heterogeneity. Yash Ghai has defined autonomy as “a device to allow ethnic or other groups claiming a distinct identity to exercise direct control over affairs of special concern to them, while allowing the larger entity those powers which cover common interests” (Ghai, 2000: 8). It is needless to say perhaps, that the success of this device for conflict management would require some consensus on what constitutes “common” interests among the actors concerned. However, despite its universal appeal, the concept of autonomy remains controversial, both in terms of understanding and operationalization. This study tries to map the key guiding principles of what I would like to describe, both in a generic sense and in the specific context of Jammu and Kashmir, as “Autonomy of autonomies.” Such principles, I will argue and illustrate, relentlessly question the assumption that bordered state sovereignties are the fulfillment of a historical destiny, rather than a particular, and in some quarters, historically contingent and controversial phenomenon. I would critically examine various representations and discourses of autonomy, both past and present, in and about Jammu and Kashmir in the light of these principles. Drawing upon the insights offered by critical geo-politics, I would argue further that the experience(s) of autonomy in regard to Jammu and Kashmir have been deeply influenced by the two dominant geo-political visions of India’s “national” identity (though not entirely exhausted by them): the secular-nationalist and the Hindu-nationalist. More specifically, the intention behind this chapter is two fold. First, to expose the partiality of a territorialized geo-political vision, a hostage to colonial-imperial ethnographic mapping practices and the resultant “categories” rooted in governmentality.1 Second, while critiquing the manner in which various competing, often colliding, definitions of autonomy continue to be imprisoned by such categories (related to religion, ethnicity, caste, color, creed, and gender), this chapter intends to show that autonomy is not something that is determined, dictated, and driven structurally from above by the intellectuals and institutions of statecraft. On the contrary it is, or at least ought to be, integral to a process of democratization, enabling people to make as well as realize choices of their own without compromising their legitimate moral and political claims to human dignity and diverse socio-cultural identifications, as citizens practicing without fear or favor the norms of reciprocal civility.

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Critical Geo-political Perspectives on Autonomy Critiques of the field of geo-politics attempt to bring to light, the complexities of the ways in which power relations are periodically asserted to normalize the structures of nation states. Increasingly being questioned are concepts of fixity, domination, and entrenchment, to be replaced by notions of fluidity and hybridity. An attempt to portray the world as inherently heterogeneous and amorphous requires nothing short of a “paradigm” shift in the geo-political imagination from place to mobility, while recognizing social organization as essentially unfinished, in transition, or in motion towards a perpetually receding horizon. This process of decolonization of the conventional cartographies of the subcontinent produces reasons to change the character of colonial boundaries rather than their physical appearance. Through a critical analysis2 of the ethno-geo-political dualism of the autonomy question, I would examine the policy manifestations of both the “hardening” and “softening” of the borderlands and the discourses which support them. It is important, however, not to lose sight of a rather intricate intersection of power and space, which demands a sustained engagement with both the discursive and the material. Many conceptualizations of autonomy are themselves products of diverging, contested discourses, discourses that are a part of the process of place-making. Consequently, it may be worthwhile to explore how various conceptualizations of autonomy are embedded in everyday practices of life and of collective, contested identity narratives. At the same time, we should not be oblivious to stubborn fixities and the complex interlocking of continuity and change. Enough space needs to be created for the study of localized geo-political narratives and their critical engagement with a politicized and politicizing agenda of top down projects of autonomy at a variety of geographical scales. Whereas it could be misleading to overgeneralize experiences of autonomy globally, the “local” or “place-specific” characteristics of Jammu and Kashmir’s experimentation(s) in search of autonomy need to be examined with reference to certain “universal” features. What appear to be of general applicability are the territoriality-dominance-mutuality alternatives. The ethno-geo-political contestations over autonomy in places as diverse as Andorra in the eastern Pyrennes in south western Europe, South Tyrol, Hong Kong, Tibet, the Nunavut in Canada, Catalonia, Scotland, Quebec, Northern Ireland, Basque, Palestine, and the XinjianUighur Autonomous Region of China, illuminate three of the most

142 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI fundamental choices in considering the puzzle of autonomy: whether it can be resolved or regulation is a more realistic objective; whether ethnic minorities should be assimilated into the general culture, or their differences recognized through pluralistic institutions; and whether minority aspirations can be better satisfied by secession or by internal constitutional reform. A critical examination of the autonomy question in Jammu and Kashmir should be grounded, therefore, in a geo-historical assessment of how the various autonomy choices in case of Jammu and Kashmir were molded by historically determined geo-political readings and representations of space and identities.

Geo-political Visions and India’s “National” Identity: Secular-Nationalists versus the Hindu-Nationalists A geo-political vision may be defined as, “any idea concerning the relation between one’s own and other places, involving feelings of (in)security or (dis)advantages (and/or) invoking ideas about a collective mission or foreign policy strategy” (Dijkink, 1996: 11). The state may at times be perceived as an “external” source of insecurity by some of its citizens, who continue to live within its territorial borders but do not subscribe to the reasons of the state. There might also be alterative geo-political visions within a nation state. A geo-political vision may or may not require a Them-and-Us distinction, but it does invariably refer to an emotional attachment to a place; a motherland, fatherland, and/or a holyland (Figure 6.1). Whether an analysis of geo-political visions can be separated from a meticulous treatment of national identity, with several defining features such as a historic territory, common myths and historic memories, a mass culture, a common economy, and common legal rights and duties for all members, is more difficult to answer. It is equally difficult to imagine a national identity without the feelings of trauma and pride that involve some reference to “external” entities or relations. In this respect, feelings of national identity and geo-political visions are intricately intertwined, and thus difficult to separate for the purposes of “granting” autonomy to the subordinate parts of the dominant whole. Moreover, the fact that geopolitical visions are, more often than not, the concrete translations of such feelings into various debates on autonomy is seldom acknowledged.

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Figure 6.1 Mother India implanted on the map of India

A geo-political vision includes the representation of a country’s (a people’s) territorial limits. The experiences of autonomy in the border states of the Indian Union, including Jammu and Kashmir cannot, therefore, be entirely divorced from predominant constructions of the geo-body3 of an “Indian” nation. Since territory is only one of the necessary

144 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI conditions of the nation state, it follows that “borderlands” are far more complex than often assumed. Since the dawn of the modern era, states have adopted various spatial strategies to forge a homogenous nation from the disparate cultural and regional groupings within their domains. The processes of nation-building and state-building are thus two parallel, but not necessarily twin, tracks in the construction of a “nation state.” Despite meticulously conceived constitutional engineering, a precise fit between nation and state may not occur. More so, as Satish Deshpande puts it, “even after it has been successfully produced, this sense of nationness needs to be continually nurtured, partly through efforts to ensure that ideology and geography stay in synchrony with each other” (Deshpande, 2004: 75). Consequently, a state’s borders never function precisely according to the model outlined above. As pointed out by Paula Banerjee (2001: 299) “By designing a line on the map a border cannot be made or stabilized…. But once demarcated a border can become ideologically sacrosanct even while remaining politically unstable, thereby containing seeds of dissensions, conflict and change … this is what has happened to the Line of Control in Kashmir.”4 I further wish to emphasize that the process of designating a line on the map as boundary/border is invariably implicated in the dominant geopolitical vision(s) of the country concerned. Whereas each geo-political vision gives the impression that it is based upon a “true” geographical knowledge, in reality there is no such thing as the geographical knowledge of autonomy. On the contrary, there are several geographical knowledges produced by various actors at multiple sites and for different reasons. David Harvey describes the “supposed neutrality of geographical knowledge” as at best a “beguiling fiction” and at worst “a downright fraud.”5 However, Harvey acknowledges that the “facts” of geography can also be used to promote humanitarianism and cosmopolitanism. Significant in this regard is the need to overcome what Yves Lacoste describes as a “lack of knowledge about conflicting conceptions, unexpressed mutual fears and above all the ignorance of those who, confident of their rights, are unaware or refuse to accept that an opposite opinion to their own might exist, in equally good faith” (Lacoste, 2000: 121). In post-colonial, post-Partition India, two principal geo-political visions are in contest, namely the secular-nationalist and the Hindu-nationalist. Aiming to achieve a fit between the nation and the state, both construct

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and propagate a particular geographical knowledge about the geo-body of India, her identity, and unity. It is important to note, however, that for both, the defining principle of national identity is territory. In the “secularnationalist” version for 2,500 years, since the times of the Mahabharata, the territory of India has been of a land stretching from the Himalayas in the north to Kanyakumari (Cape Comorin) in the south, from the Arabian Sea in the west to the Bay of Bengal in the east, where the uniqueness of the civilization lies in the virtues of syncretism, pluralism, and tolerance reflected in the cultural expression: Sarva Dharma Sambhava (equal respect for all religions). One good example of the secular nationalist construction of India’s national identity is Jawaharlal Nehru’s The Discovery of India (1946).6 Nehru’s secular-nationalist construction of India stands in sharp contrast to the religious notion of India as originally the land of Hindus, and it is the only land which the Hindus can call their own (Pattanaik, 1998: 43–50). The Indian landscape is united by the sacred geography of Hindu holy places (Benaras, Tirupati, Rameswaram, Puri, Haridwar, Amarnath, Badrinath, Kedarnath, and now Ayodhya) and the holy rivers (Kaveri, Ganga, Yamuna, and the confluence of the last two in Prayag). This map of pilgrimage is another kind of religious map based on a particular belief system of relationship of sacred shrines in various places. The term Hindutva was coined by Vinayak Damodar Savarkar to both indicate and vindicate its distinctiveness from Hinduism. Hindutva to Savarkar was both the lifestyle and the destiny of a great race. It was not simply a term but an entire history, encompassing the religious, cultural, and racial identities of the Hindus. The basic tenets of Hindutva were refined and propagated by Savarkar, who, in this sense, represents the high-water mark of ideology driven towards the establishment of a Hindu nation (Sharma, 2003: 7). In the geo-political vision of Hindutva, one finds a systematic construction of Hindu identity in the service of Indian nationalism (Jaffrelot and Hansen, 2004). The first and the most important feature of the Hindutva project remains the transformation of Hinduism into a regimented, codified, monochromatic order with little scope or space for diversity of opinions, practices, rituals, observances, and individual choices. The Hindu nation is to be founded and united on the basis of racial and doctrinal purity. The understandings related to inclusions/ insiders and exclusions/outsiders of this unity, however, varied. Savarkar was willing to include the Sikhs, Jains, and the Buddhists in his definition

146 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI of Hindu. But Christians and Muslims could not qualify as Hindus since they had potentially “extraterritorial loyalties,” and their “holy lands” were outside the territory of India. A project of controlling the popular imagination through rewriting of history and manipulation of memories (Thapar, 2004) is always challenged by a multitude of alternative imaginations and hence forever incomplete. Hindutva’s rewriting of history intentionally undermines the long standing patterns of peaceful coexistence of differences in India. There were (and are) aspects of life in which religion was an identifier but there were (and are) also many other aspects in which more broad based cultural expressions, evolved over time through an admixture of various elements, gave an identity to a social group. These processes are never recognized in the discourse of Hindutva. Savarkar’s writings, for example, are replete with images of the Muslims as aggressors and expressions such as “pratishodh” and “pratikar,” all synonyms for revenge, retribution, and retaliation.7 In India, Hindu nationalism has grown from an apparently minor communal presence to being the party of the government over a short time. Despite loss of power at the center in the recently held elections, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) continues to maintain its hold in a number of states of the Indian Union. The 1998 manifesto of the BJP said: “Our nationalist vision is not merely bound by the geographical or political identity of Bharat, but it is referred by our timeless cultural heritage, this cultural heritage which is central to all religions, regions and languages, is a civilizational identity and constitutes the cultural nationalism of India which is the core of Hindutva. This we believe is the identity of our ancient nation ‘Bharatvarsh’…” (cited in Noorani, 2004). It is important to note that the boundaries of India, as suggested by the secular-nationalist, are coterminous with the “sacred geography” of the Hindu-nationalist. Hallowed pilgrimage sites mark off essentially the same boundaries of the country, although the Hindu-nationalist would go much further into mythic history than two and a half millennia to date the origin of these sites.8 As a result, both the secular-nationalist and the Hindu-nationalist geopolitical visions share what Sankaran Krishna has termed “cartographic anxiety” (Krishna, 1996: 193–216). Such anxiety, surrounding questions of national identity and survival, reaches its zenith in the borderlands. According to Krishna, the term “cartography” implies more than the technical and scientific mapping of the country; it refers to the “representational practices that in various ways have attempted to inscribe something

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called India and endow that entity with a content, history, a meaning and a trajectory” (Krishna, 1996). More recently, Krishna has argued that, “the nation-building efforts of the era of decolonization, especially in societies such as India, emphasized pluralism, multi-ethnicity and, despite limitations, an incipient critique of capitalism. Contemporary postcolonial nation-alism in the era of globalization is marked by ethnic or religious major-itarianism, an aggressively competitive attitude towards ‘others’ in an anarchic international milieu, and a reconstitution of the model citizen primarily as middle-class consumer in a national/global capital space” (ibid.: 310).

It is in the border states of the Northeast and Jammu and Kashmir that cartographic anxieties are vociferous and expressed violently at times. It is not surprising, therefore, that the question of autonomy, depending upon the text as well as context of a particular demand, appears simultaneously appealing and appalling to various actors and institutions concerned. Could we then argue that the search for “common grounds” among allegedly diverse demands for autonomy is at best an exercise in futility or at worst a non-starter? Yash Ghai has argued that “autonomy” as a conflict-defusing mechanism is a double-edged instrument and could also be (ab)used by the powers that be to fragment, pigeonhole, and divide communities and the so called “regions.” Moreover, points out Ghai, “sometimes, in order to preserve the integuments of a state, autonomy is so structured that it is difficult to find the common ground on which the communities can find a moral and political basis for co-existence.”9 This point demands, in my view, further critical attention, especially with regard to the constructed nature of ethnic commonalities and differences, among categorically framed “communities” and “regions” in the dominant discourses on autonomy in Jammu and Kashmir. How does one negotiate the disjuncture between the commonality and the differences expressed, defended, and even contested through dominant ethnographic categories that, along with power, were transferred by the departing colonial power to the post-colonial states of South Asia? The state of Jammu and Kashmir began its life under Indian rule with substantial, even radical, autonomy. The basis for its autonomous status was explicitly acknowledged in the early days of dispute with Pakistan over Kashmir as the conditional nature of the state’s accession to India

148 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI as well as in the unique status granted to the state under Article 370 of the 1950 Indian Constitution. By the middle of the 1950s, however, any substantive autonomy Kashmir had managed to carry over from its earlier princely statehood, had more or less evaporated, leaving in its wake, a strong memory among Kashmiris themselves of the state’s beginning with a conspicuously strong package of autonomy. The recent rejuvenation of the issue of autonomy for Jammu and Kashmir could be attributed to the electoral victory of the National Conference (NC) Party in September 1996, which had, as the centerpiece of its manifesto and campaign, the restoration of the state’s autonomy. Soon after coming into power, Farooq Abdullah appointed two state-level committees to examine the issue of autonomy—one, the State Autonomy Committee (SAC), entrusted with the issue of inter-state or “external” aspect (the relationship between the central government and the state of Jammu and Kashmir), the other, the Regional Autonomy Committee (RAC), responsible for its intra-state or “internal” aspect (the relationship among the three ethno-religiously polyglot regions, Jammu, Ladakh, and Kashmir Valley). The discussion to follow shows how the two Committees (SAC and RAC) set up by the National Conference government were concerned, by and large, with access to power and institutions of governance. Both failed to conceive autonomy as a continuum and to acknowledge that it is the people at the grassroots who are asking for space to meaningfully participate in the decision-making processes which affect their lives and livelihoods on a daily basis. In short, both the committees appear to have lacked a broad transformative agenda, being more inclined towards a politics of positional change rather than a reform of principles and structures of governance.

The State Autonomy Committee Report: Centripetal or Centrifugal? The Report of the State Autonomy Committee (SAC) was formally accepted by the National Conference government in January 2000. In the ensuing heated debate, the twin issues concerning the autonomy of the state of Jammu and Kashmir within India and of the regions within the state surfaced for scrutiny. In many respects, it was a “reflection on the present political climate of Jammu and Kashmir that such a debate should degenerate into polemics” (Puri, 2000, 2004). The nationalist media

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expressed a concern that granting autonomy would mean a serious threat to the integrity of the country with the possibility of balkanization (Kumar, 2000). A critical geo-historical perspective on the SAC and its Report shows how its architects selectively produced a geographical-historical knowledge about the places comprising the state of Jammu and Kashmir. It narrates, at some length, the history of the center’s relationship with Kashmir from partition onwards, highlighting how this “history” was one of nearly ruthless and remorseless assault by the center on the genuinely autonomous status with which the state of Jammu and Kashmir began its career within the Indian Union. The central argument of the SAC revolves around the demand for the “restoration” of the “lost” autonomy and its recommendations are numerous, highly specific, and broad in coverage, urging maximum autonomy (demanding that the center’s writ in the state be confined to the three subjects of defense, foreign affairs, and communications) similar to the one that prevailed in the period prior to 1953. It could well be that by forming the two committees, the then Chief Minister, Farooq Abdullah, wanted to simultaneously address two different constituencies. Whereas the State Autonomy Committee (SAC) Report demands the maximalist version of the secular demand for autonomy for Jammu and Kashmir as a whole vis-à-vis Delhi, the Regional Autonomy Committee (RAC) Report advocates the reorganization of the state into eight new “provinces,” whose boundaries are defined on ethno-religious lines, framing it more in terms of a “grant” of autonomy rather than “demands” for autonomy. After Karan Singh’s resignation from the SAC as its first Chairman on 31 July 1997, the State Assembly’s strong support of the Report in June 2000 produced a loud opposition. Perceiving that the status of Jammu and Ladakh would be further marginalized in the new ethno-geo-political order, the “representatives” of the state’s Hindu and Buddhist minorities demanded an absolute rejection of the Report. On 4 July 2000, the BJPled Union Cabinet termed the State Assembly’s so called autonomy resolution “unacceptable.” While the Cabinet reaffirmed its commitment to “devolution of power” to the states of the Indian Union, it argued that, “the acceptance of this resolution will set the clock back and reverse the natural process of harmonizing the aspirations of the people of Jammu and Kashmir with the integrity of the nation” (The Tribune [Chandigarh, 5 July 2000]; The Hindu [Delhi, 5 July 2000]). On 30 June

150 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI 2000, the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council unanimously passed a resolution at its general council meeting demanding “separation” from Jammu and Kashmir and the status of a Union Territory.

Regional Autonomy Committee Report: Realities, Categories, and Contestations Is the place inscribed on the map of India as Jammu and Kashmir one “region” or a “region of regions,” and/or a “region of sub-regions and communities?” Apparently, the central idea underlying diverse geopolitical definitions of Jammu and Kashmir is that there is some contiguous space that has the character of an “entity” of some sort defined by special attributes. David Harvey says, “... it is important to recognize that regions are ‘made’ or ‘constructed’ as much in imagination as in material form and that though entity-like, regions crystallize out as a distinctive form from some mix of material, social and mental processes.” (Harvey, 2001: 225). Since the scale problem also enters in, with a hierarchy of labels often inscribed beginning with neighborhood, locality, and place and proceeding to the broader scale of region, territory, nation state and globe, the “Region” then becomes territorialized at a certain geographical scale. Harvey’s insights lead me to critically examine both the context and the texts of autonomy as conceptualized and advocated by the Regional Autonomy Committee (RAC). The RAC Report, 1999, begins by outlining “approaches to Regional Autonomy” and concludes by pointing out that, “there can be more than one approach to autonomy, self-rule and decentralized development. A great caution has to be observed that the social cohesion and territorial solidarity is not put under strain in pursuit of realizing the objectives of regional autonomy” (Report of the Regional Autonomy Committee, 1999: v). It is significant to note that the RAC Report does not look at autonomy as a continuum. It is rather obvious that the issue of “regional” autonomy is being seen as an exclusive domain of the government of Jammu and Kashmir. In other words, there is a tacit acknowledgment of the “fact” that diverse regions/provinces of the state of Jammu and Kashmir have to negotiate their understandings and demands of “autonomy” with the center of power located in the valley. Some critics have also accused the RAC Report of turning a blind eye to the “regional” political sensibilities of Jammu and Ladakh. Rather than using the term “Region” for defining

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the political status of Jammu and Ladakh, or for that matter Kashmir, it chose to deploy categories such as “Provinces” or “Divisions.” The RAC came to the conclusion that, … a sharp sense of neglect and discrimination among the diverse ethnic groups of the regions of the State exists. This sense of discrimination is sharper in the regions of Jammu province particularly in the hilly and far flung areas of the province. There is an urgency in demarcating the regions in the State for the purposes of political and economic decentralization of power…. The memorandums submitted by people from Doda, Rajouri and Poonch indicated that these groups perceive themselves belonging to different regions. The history of these regions and their particular ethnic profiles substantiate their claims of belonging to different regions. (Report of the Regional Autonomy Committee, 1999: 8)

The central argument of the Report, ironically, revolved around the logic of counteracting the existing understanding of the regions. It did not use the term “Region” to define the political status of Jammu or Ladakh or for that matter even Kashmir. Defining them as “Provinces” or “Divisions” for administrative convenience, the Report called the earlier attempts to define these as “distinct regions” as erroneous in nature (ibid.). The Committee came to the conclusion that the administrative classification of the provinces should be recognized as the authentic classification of the regions (ibid.). Reading between the lines, one finds a deliberate, yet, subtle attempt to redraw the “internal” map of the state of Jammu and Kashmir but without any meaningful departure from the predominant, territorialized governmentality. The “regions” of yesteryears, such as Jammu, are being discursively transformed into provinces, allegedly composed of various “regions.” There is much more behind the manipulation of “scale” than meets the eye. The human-cultural mobility and intercourse of centuries is subjected to the geo-political reductionism of territoriality with the aid of a “new” reading and interpretation of the “history” of newly discovered “regions” of Doda, Rajouri, and Poonch, which, we are told, “existed as small kingdoms independently or have been parts of Kashmir Kingdom.” The RAC thus went on to conclude that, “the histories of these regions and their particular ethnic profiles substantiate their claims of belonging to different regions of the State” (ibid.). The RAC Report has been criticized by a number of analysts on account of its strategic deployment of the so called “regional” territorial

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Figure 6.2 Map provided in the Regional Autonomy Report

identities on the geopolitical chessboard by the state elite (Chowdhary and Kumar, 2000; Engineer, 2000; Kumar, 2002; Wirsing, 2003). According to Robert Wirsing, The RAC report is painstakingly (and, in its critics’ eyes, disingenuously) drafted to define the project of redrawing internal boundaries entirely in terms of “ethnic diversity” and what it calls “ethno-cultural-linguistic groups”… it denies that religious identity either motivates the demand for restructuring the state’s boundaries or seriously figures in the restructuring plan. The report manages somehow to discuss Kashmir’s ethnography for thirty-odd pages, in fact, while only once employing the word Muslim and not even once the words Hindu and Buddhists. (Wirsing, 2003: 205)

It has also been argued that, “this discourse was perceived to be ‘Kashmircentric’” (Chowdhary, 2000: 39). A critique of the RAC Report needs to be placed, therefore, in the larger context of an “alternative” discourse on “regional interests,” “internal coherence,” and “internal reconciliation”

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(Puri, 2004). To quote Puri, one of the leading and relentless voices from Jammu on the “regional” dimensions of the autonomy debate in Jammu and Kashmir, “The Delhi Agreement on the autonomy of the state in 1952, with overwhelming popular support of the people of Kashmir valley, it may be recalled, was wrecked, not by the Government of India, but by massive opposition to it by the people of Jammu…. The only alternative is to split the state, which inevitably would tend to be on religious lines” (ibid.).

A Homeland for Kashmiri (Hindu?) Pandits: Imaginations of the Displaced The mental as well as physical odds and hardships faced by the displaced Kashmiri Pandits are well documented. What, however, has not received adequate critical attention is the manner in which the debate on autonomy has been approached by those who claim to represent the plight and the rights of the displaced. Drawing extensively upon the website “Kashmir Pandit Diaspora worldwide,” (the term “Diaspora” reminds us of its Jewish connotation, underpinned by the dismemberment and displacement of a victimized “scattered” nation), I wish to offer in this section, a rather sketchy account of the Panun Pandit homeland discourse, paying special attention to the categories that the discourse deploys in order to represent the “Self ” as well as resist the “Other.” The narrative runs as follows: Kashmiri Hindus (Pandits) have been in exile since early 1990 after Islamic religious fundamentalists in the valley of Kashmir took to terrorism and drove them out of their centuries old habitat. Hundreds of thousands of Kashmiri Pandits who were forced to leave their sacred land must now live in despicable conditions in their own country and are on the verge of extinction as a race. Called “migrants” by the administration, the Kashmiri Pandits are in fact refugees in their own country due to total failure of the Indian State to provide security and safety to them when they were ruthlessly persecuted, threatened, tortured and murdered by the Islamic terrorists. PANUN KASHMIR (meaning our own Kashmir) is a struggle to re-conquer that Kashmir which is almost lost. PANUN KASHMIR is an effort to Save Kashmiri Pandits to Save Kashmir to Save India. Besides being a struggle for survival as a cultural entity and an ancient race, PANUN KASHMIR is described as a movement for the political survival of over 700,000 Kashmiri Pandits in their birthland.

154 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI A visitor to the cyberspace of “invisible refugees”—a website that claims to provide a “complete repository of information on Kashmiri Hindus”— is exposed at the outset, to four expressions: Culture, Heritage, Traditions, and Religion. We are told that during 1989–91, as many as 400,000 Kashmiri Pandits were forced to flee their homeland after a combination of violence and explicit threats by Islamic terrorists aided and inspired by Pakistan. This is yet another example of fear-driven discourse rooted in the following premise: “It is clear that the return of the nearly half a million Kashmiri Pandits to their native land will not be facilitated simply by the end of Pakistani-inspired terrorism in the state. While a cessation of the targeting of Pandits by Islamic terrorists in the state is the essential first step, an end to the oppression by majority Muslims would be the next essential step to enable the Pandits to return as equal citizens” (http://www.ikashmir.org/ Refugees/) (emphasis mine). Maps are visual narratives interweaving history, territory, and identity, and are powerful instruments of both representation and resistance. The map of the Panun Pandit Homeland (Figure 6.3) is a good example of how the resistance of the silenced and displaced gets framed and articulated in terms of those very ethno-geo-political categories of which the Kashmiri Pandits are a victim in the first place. The cartographic silences of the map also speak loudly about the manner in which the demand for a Union Territory status is expressed through religious symbols and idioms. There are good reasons to believe that the geo-political vision behind the Panun Pandit Homeland is deeply implicated in the Hindunationalist vision of India and Indianness. It is not surprising, therefore, that the map highlights only “Hindu” places of worship. Excluded from the ethno-political categories mentioned above are people internally displaced due to mining, shelling, and militarized border landscapes. These are people, one might argue, who suffer from geopolitics, while not having the privilege of having a geo-political vision of their own. Once it is acknowledged that borderlands too are homelands where Indian citizens, similar to those who live in hinterlands, have a right to live a dignified life without fear, the anxieties and sufferings of these bordered communities become easier to appreciate. Some of the heavily mined areas include Hiranagar, Ramgargh, Samba, R. S. Pora, Akhnoor, Pallanwala, Chicken Neck, Nowshehra, Laam, Sunderbani, Bhawani, Kalal, Hangargh, Chingus, Kerni, Balakote, Krishengangi, Bhimbergali, and Mighla.

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Figure 6.3 Map of the Panun Pandit Homeland Source: http://www.panunkashmir.org/.

According to the findings of an 11 member Parliamentary Standing Committee on Defence (PSCD), led by Madan Lal Khurana, that visited Jammu and Kashmir in March 2002, over 200 villages of Jammu, Kathua, Rajouri, and Poonch districts have been affected by the build-up on the borders in general and laying of mines in particular. According to Khurana, after the terrorist attack on the Indian Parliament, the army took over 70,100 acres of land in the border areas of which 23,000 acres have sprawling minefields (The Tribune, 4 March 2002). It was pointed out by the

156 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI Committee that the loss suffered by border villagers in Jammu, Kathua, Poonch, and Rajouri districts, owing to the military build-up, was to the tune of Rs 120.52 million. Whether resorted to by the counter insurgency forces, including the army and para military, to bring down the suspected hideouts of militants and “securitize” the borderlands, or deployed by the militants themselves as a cheap and easily available weapon against the security forces, mine explosions are constantly adding to the population of the crippled and maimed in Jammu and Kashmir. In many areas landmines have been laid in agricultural and pastoral lands and civilians have been displaced from these areas. Apart from a large number of civilian casualties, deaths of livestock in large numbers on both sides of the border have also been reported, adversely affecting both agricultural and pastoral communities in India and Pakistan. Armed groups in Jammu and Kashmir indiscriminately use landmines on public highways and thoroughfares to ambush army convoys and injure hundreds of civilians in grenade attacks. Some of the worst affected in such cases are the Gujjars (The Daily Excelsior, 22 July 2004). The displacement of border villagers has been a common phe-nomenon since 1947 due to shelling and military build up along the Line of Control (LoC) and the border areas. Whereas the displacement of Kashmiri Pandits (with a large number still braving the hardships of the camps) is better known and relatively well documented, there is not enough awareness about other kinds of conflictinduced displacements. Each war, like Kargil, or even the fear of war, has dislocated people, many of whom await rehabilitation while living in places like Devipur. Those living in the Beli Charana camps are the ones displaced due to militancy in the upper ridges and otherwise difficult hilly terrains. Apart from these, “there are numerous others whose displacement has remained invisible as they do not want to be identified for a variety of political reasons” (Chowdhary, 2004: 1). The displaced, especially women, are seldom allowed a right to live in peace with dignity and be heard (Butalia, 2002). In most cases, “state policies refuse to accept that the displaced population is largely a feminine population and so often rehabilitation programmes are couched in gender-neutral terms thereby creating greater problems for women.... When human rights groups criticize state policies regarding the displaced it becomes easier for the state machinery to invoke the rationale of national security thereby diverting attention from the plight of displaced women, as in the case of the displaced in the LoC between India and Pakistan” (Banerjee, 2004: 306).

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The Trifurcation Plan: Towards Internal Partitions! The proposal of the Kashmir Studies Group for a trifurcation of the main regions of the state, namely Jammu, Kashmir, and Ladakh, into separate administrative units has been favorably received by certain ideological groups in India as an imaginative solution. If conceded, this territorial reordering could result in violent social disruptions throughout the state, further strengthening the ongoing communal polarization and cause irreversible damage to the cultural and social fabric of the state. Such internal partitions are bound to have serious consequences for communal harmony in the rest of India and even beyond. In addition, trifurcation would forever end the possibilities of reviving the plural traditions of communal harmony in the state that had once made it a symbol of the very core of India’s image of itself: unity in diversity. It is not surprising that not everyone will agree with such an assessment. The Kashmir Study Group proposal has its supporters too. In the opinion of those who strongly supported the trifurcation plan in mid1990s, time was “running out” and there was and is no logic in maintaining the state as a single political unit (Om, 1995). The people of Jammu and Ladakh, we are told, do not feel any more that they belong to Kashmir and those who had some immovable property anywhere in Kashmir have already sold it and settled down permanently in Jammu and Ladakh. A few employees from Jammu and Ladakh, who once held positions in the Government and semi-Govemment departments in Kashmir prior to the militancy there, too have either got themselves transferred to Jammu and Ladakh or have resigned. If there are some officials from Jammu and Ladakh still in the Valley, their number is almost insignificant. What is the solution then to the alleged separation and polarization? The trifurcation of the state, it is argued, “would remove all negative trends, and promote in each region sound politics based on purely democratic and economic issues. In such a situation, the Kashmiri Muslims would become less vulnerable to the ‘syncretic’ pulls of fundamentalism from Pakistan. R. Venkataraman, former President of India, it may be recalled, had in 1983 urged the then Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi, to make Ladakh a ‘Union Territory as demanded by the local people,’ confer the status of ‘statehood’ on Jammu and deal with the Valley as a ‘separate entity’” (ibid.).

158 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI The demand for a division of the state is not new. The UN mediator, Sir Owen Dixon, had recommended a partition of the state in 1950, and elements within the Praja Parishad agitation of the early 1950s had also sought that Ladakh and Jammu be detached from the Valley if full integration of the state was not achieved quickly. But, behind its more recent reincarnation, several factors and forces have coalesced to generate potentially centrifugal forces. Most obvious is the widespread feeling of deprivation and discrimination at the hands of politicians from Kashmir within Jammu and Leh. While this perception of neglect and deprivation may have some grounds, it is being politicized by sectarian political groups demanding separate statehood for Jammu and Union Territory status for Ladakh. They argue that separation from Kashmir would not only result in better governance, greater economic opportunities and a larger share of political power, but Jammu and Ladakh will also be able to distance themselves from militancy. In its most aggressive form, the demand is being expressed in highly nationalist terms. We are told that it is in national interest to limit the “area of operations” of the security forces to the valley of Kashmir, and such disciplining would ensure that only one-sixth of the state remains in the vortex of violence. At a time when the National Conference was demanding the restoration of pre-1953 constitutional status, the VHP countered it by demanding a vivisection of the state having a provision for a separate homeland for displaced Kashmiri Pandits within the valley, a demand first voiced by Panun Kashmir as early as 1996 (The Tribune, 2 July 2002). The demand for a separate homeland set many political analysts and intellectuals, not only in India but also in several foreign countries, rethinking the matter. The RSS too lent its support for the trifurcation of the state, though it chose to remain silent on the demand for a separate homeland for Kashmiri Pandits. The state unit of the BJP appeared shy of making its stand on the trifurcation known. Outwardly, following the line adopted by the central BJP leadership, its leadership had been opposing it, but inwardly it appeared that it was in favor of statehood for the Jammu region. The Congress, like the National Conference, was opposed to the demand for trifurcation of the state on the ground that it would promote disintegration of the state and division on communal lines. The National Conference leadership too opposed the plan of trifurcation. The then National Conference President, Mr Omar Abdullah, is reported to have said that trifurcation would amount to handing over of Kashmir to Pakistan.

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Dr Farooq Abdullah had earlier stated that Kashmir, Jammu, and Ladakh continuing as one entity would continue to frustrate the Pakistani game plan of seeking the valley’s incorporation with Pakistan on the basis of Kashmir being a Muslim-dominated area. But the VHP and Bajrang Dal leaders, besides senior functionaries of the RSS, argued that the demand for the trifurcation of Jammu and Kashmir took roots after the National Conference started campaigning for the restoration of greater autonomy to the state. They said those in Jammu and Ladakh, besides the Kashmiri Hindus, had become skeptical of the National Conference plan of securing restoration of pre-1953 status. Those who support the trifurcation, which includes the Mukti Morcha, argued that this is the only way to end the discrimination suffered by people in the Jammu region. They have been dishing out figures in support of their contention that Jammuites had been given a raw deal in governent services, in professional colleges, and in public sector undertakings. The supporters of the theory favoring the division of the state put forward the following geo-historical reasoning in support of their arguments: 1. Historically, the present conglomeration of three heterogenous regions of Jammu, Kashmir, and Ladakh was never an organic political entity. 2. There are inherent inter-regional contradictions in terms of history, physiography, ethnicity, language, and culture. 3. This sharp inter-regional contradiction has a “spillover” in the political perception of the three dominant communities of the respective regions and integration is absent. 4. Political domination of Kashmiri Muslims and their discrimination against Jammu and Ladakh kept the latter feeling neglected. Ladakh has persistently raised the issue of Islamic domination. 5. The Hindus and Buddhists of the state are apprehensive of the likely demographic change in their respective regions due to largescale Muslim influx from the Kashmir Valley. The Doda district, for example, has changed from a Hindu majority to a Muslim majority district. One stunning example of a highly territorialized geo-political reasoning with regard to Jammu and Kashmir, is the following. This quotation, in

160 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI my view, deserves critical attention for several reasons. It glorifies internal partition as the most durable and “final” solution to what it perceives as an inherently irreconciliable divide between the people categorized as the “Hindus” and the “Muslims.” It revives the two-nation theory, also in support of the contention that the 1947 partition is not yet complete. Indeed, within the Kashmir Study Group proposal for the communal trifurcation of Kashmir lie the seeds for a final solution to the Hindu-Muslim problem all across south Asia. Perhaps the Hindus may wish to set aside 12 per cent of the territory of the Indian Union for the Muslims, who form 12 per cent of the population and hence could claim to have a “right” to 12 per cent of the land. This land would sensibly comprise the already Muslim-dominated and historically Islamicised regions of northern UP (Rohilkhand, North Oudh) and northern Bihar (Seemanchal), where Hindus already live in fear of Muslims. There are numerous advantages for both sides in this solution. For the Muslims, these regions would then be free to join Bangladesh and Pakistan, leading to a resurrection of the territorial limits of the Mughal Empire. It is proposed that this region be named “Mughalstan,” and it is hoped that this new nation would experience a cultural efflorescence as the glorious Mughal civilisation is restored. For the Hindus, their faith and culture would be safe in the remaining 88 per cent of the Indian union as the Muslims would have left these regions for Mughalstan. This would be effectively a “Hindu Rashtra” ... Most importantly, the all-pervading blood-shed and constant loss of lives would stop as no Muslims would be living in this Hindu Rashtra.... This is of greater importance for Hindus, since the total casualties amongst this community are likely to be much higher in case of a full-blown jihad. State law would protect Hindu religion, and legislation could be enacted preventing conversions from Hinduism so that the present fear of a “Muslim takeover” by out-breeding and/or conversion would be permanently set at rest. (Abbas, 2000)

According to such a reasoning, the history of Jammu and Kashmir is full of heterogeneity, contradictions, dominations, and apprehensions. Consequently, it is futile to look for commonality, synthesis, pluralism, tolerance, and reconciliation among communities with a back-to-back relationship.10 Regional harmony, it should be clear from experience, cannot be ensured through partitions, but through decentralization and devolution of financial and economic power that will treat the panchayat as the primary unit of governance. It is rightly observed that, “Jammu and Kashmir is not Assam or Uttar Pradesh where the carving of smaller states will provide for better governance; it is a recipe for disaster” (Mattoo, 2000).

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The Borderlands of Autonomy Discourse: “Voices” of the Gujjars Beyond territorially fixed, categorically demarcated, and defended “official identities,” are certain social identities, which do not seem to have made any meaningful difference to the dominant discourses on autonomy in Jammu and Kashmir. As the dominant ethno-political categories compete and clash with one another for greater political salience and power sharing, they continue to exclude, in a rather callous fashion, voices and faces that are yet to matter politically. A question worth raising in my view is: who gains/loses what, when, where, and how from territorial restructuring/reshuffling as various groups negotiate demands in terms of their respective geo-political visions of autonomy? The “Muslim” Gujjars of Jammu and Kashmir, equally entitled to fundamental rights enshrined in the Indian Constitution as citizens of India, continue to suffer from educational, social, and economic backwardness. Categorized as Baniharas or Dodhi Gujjars, and Bakerwals, a vast majority of these “tribal” people continue to live with poverty and deprivation, and are conveniently, but not unknowingly, left out of increasingly communalized, binary geographies of the “Hindus” and the “Muslims” underpinning the dominant discourses on autonomy. According to estimates provided by the Jammu and Kashmir Gujjars United Front, “about 20 lakh [two million] Gujjars and Bakerwals have been crying for the benefits they are entitled to for being Scheduled Tribe since April 1991 when the status of the ST was given to them but the successive governments have not initiated any step in this regard so far” (Daily Excelsior, 12 December 2003). It has also been pointed out that about half a million Gujjars and Bakerwals have no homes or hearths of their own and several of them live in temporary huts (ibid.). For most part of the year, these Baniharas or Bakerwals are on the move from lower to higher or higher to lower altitudes in search of greener pastures and grazing grounds. Even a vast majority of those Gujjars who do not move physically stand “displaced” in terms of their socialcultural spaces. Refusing to take to guns and genuinely reluctant to get implicated in the “law and order problem discourse” or for that matter the practices of trans border terrorism, the Gujjar communities demand and deserve autonomy, at least to an extent that enables them to adapt to circumstances much beyond their making as well as control (Chowdhary, 2004).

162 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI It is important to note that neither the Commission on State Autonomy nor the Regional Autonomy Commission paid any serious and systematic attention to the plight of the Gujjars, especially the nomadic communities. According to Navnita Chadha Behera “Gujjars were first politicized in the 1970s when Prime Minister Indira Gandhi cultivated them and propped them up as a possible counter weight to the Valley Muslims. The first step in this direction was the recognition of the Gojri language and allocation of time on J&K radio for its programs. The Gujjars’ quest for a Scheduled Tribe status under the Indian Constitution, which provides recognition and some privileges, however, took a long time to achieve and was finally granted only by the Chandra Shekhar government, in 1991” (Behera, 1996). Is this enough? It goes to the credit of Balraj Puri (who felt compelled to resign as the Working Chairman of the Regional Autonomy Committee but decided to publish, what in his view was the original version of the Committee’s Report, as a book) to have forcefully argued that cultural autonomy of various ethnic identities, which transcend the boundaries of the districts and regions, cannot find full expression through political institutions alone. What is needed, therefore, are institutions of cultural autonomy and development, such as cultural academies. The Committee strongly recommended that, “Gojri should be included in the 6th schedule of the State Constitution and efforts should be made to get it recognized by the Sahitya Academy” (ibid.: 35). The Gurjar Desh Charitable Trust, a voluntary organization committed to speedy upliftment of the Gujjars, remains at the forefront of a campaign to realize due recognition to Gojri language and persistent in its protest against the non inclusion of the language in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution. According to its mouthpiece magazine called Awaze-Gurjar (January 2004: 4), the main demands of the Gujjars include, “political reservations in the high democratic institutions of the country, launching of massive program for educational development, providing adequate loans, subsidies and incentives for reorientation of their traditional vocations, a speedy drive for their employment both in the Army, Police and Civil Sectors, promotion of Gojri language and its inclusion in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution and raising of special colonies for the Gujjars.” The role of civil society in providing voices to the voiceless remains crucial. In the current context in Jammu and Kashmir, where Gujjars have been marginalized in the political sphere, the role that civil society can play in providing the necessary space for them to articulate their

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needs is particularly relevant. Hence it is critical that civil society reexamines its current understandings of minority rights by going beyond the dominant categories of “minorities” to focus on issues of inequality and identity, placing minority communities within a web of socioeconomic structures, opportunities, and denials. While moving away from the current emphasis on identity and cultural difference towards a more nuanced understanding of minority rights, the civil society will have to pay greater attention to insightful questions raised by Mohapatra (Awaze-Gurjar, January 2004) who strongly argues that a critical engagement with minority rights must begin with the proverbial billion dollar question(s): Who are the minorities? How are they differentiated from other groups? What is their numerical strength? Who shapes, articulates, or constructs the discourses on minorities? What are the best ways to defend and justify minority rights? How does one unpack the questions of minority rights in practice and recommend different ways of protecting their interests? These are the questions that need to be asked for the Gujjars of Jammu and Kashmir, sooner the better, in view of their status as a minority within a minority. Deprived of a geo-political vision of their own, located at the border and periphery of the modern nation state, the voices of the Gujjars often problematize nationalist and/or regionalist hegemonic narratives of history and identity. They also remind us, as pertinently reminded by Jayadeva Uyangoda, that “without constitutional protection, local and cultural minorities that are not resourceful enough ... would suffer insecurity, discrimination and even oppression” (Mohapatra, 2003).

Militarized Imaginations and the Geographies of Fear The partitioned state of Jammu and Kashmir has entered the 21st century in a climate of all-pervasive fear. The post-Cold War geo-graphical imaginations about Jammu and Kashmir, including “nuclear flash point,” and “most dangerous place on earth,” “unfinished agenda of partition,” etc., are much more than sensational rhetoric. They carry far reaching implications for conflict resolution and various pursuits for autonomy. Equally consequential are the meta-geo-political narratives such as “clash of civilizations” propounded by Samuel P. Huntington (1996, 2004), powerfully propagated by the like-minded in various parts of the world,

164 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI and ruthlessly pursued by the neo conservative intellectuals of statecraft under the Bush administration. Wirsing raises some interesting questions: Is either India or Pakistan—or are both of them—heading into an era of increased religious nationalism, in which the sectarian identities of the people of the region will play an ever important role than at present? Are the civilizational fault lines that transect Kashmir currently deepening, so that the parties to the Kashmir “dispute” will soon have even greater incentive to exploit the susceptibilities to communal rivalry and violence that presumably deepen with them? Is cultural militancy of the religious kind on its way in the region? Or on the way out? (Wirsing, 2003: 191–92)

Be that as it may, it is more likely than not, that Kashmir will continue to figure in the kind of “high geopolitics” that has been popularized by Zbigniew Brzezinski (Brzezinski, 1997). Examining the central role of the United States in the international system, especially in the Eurasian Grand Chessboard, “high geopolitics” is highly speculative. It tends to be dismissive of the populations that inhabit places, is motivated by traditional military security concerns, and looks at the world through a zerosum lens—although exactly who are the opponents today is less clear than in the Cold War period. The map (Figure 6.4) reproduced from Brzezinski’s book, “The Grand Chessboard,” 1997, illustrates how Kashmir is being discursively transformed into a “flash point” on the so called “Eurasian Balkans” and “Global Zone of Percolating Violence.” The US administration has already moved a long way from the territorial conceptualization of geo-politics, characteristic of US policy making since the World War II (Toal, 1999: 20–21). This trend is particularly visible with reference to “deterritorialized threats” and “global dangers” which figure prominently in public pronouncements of the intellectuals and institutions of statecraft. Such threats include regional or state-centered threats, terrorism, international drug trade, proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, and climate change. It is in the light of such a broad and deep context that we might take a look at the observation made by Robert W. Bradnock, which, in my view, needs to be taken seriously by those interested in the autonomy question for Jammu and Kashmir, … two factors will undoubtedly keep the United States and its European, Japanese allies deeply concerned to find a workable resolution. India’s decision to adopt an explicitly nuclear policy with its nuclear detonation in May 1998 has drawn the USA into closer concern with Indian developments. Kashmir also scores more directly in the list of deterritorialized threats: it is close to one

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Figure 6.4 Map from Brzezinski’s book, The Grand Chessboard Source: Brzezinski, Z. 1997. The Grand Chessboard: American Primacy and its Geostrategic Imperatives. New York: Basic Books. of the world’s major sources of drugs, and continues to be a home for armed militants. However, much India would like to keep the Kashmir dispute from the international agenda, these three elements have given Kashmir a new international, and indeed, global, significance. (Bradnock, 1998: 26)

The ground reality in Jammu and Kashmir is definitely far more complex than the descriptions offered by the Western geo-strategic discourses on Kashmir. It is a clash of a kind no doubt, but not among civilizations. It is a clash of categories, identifications and, diverse notions of security.11 More recently, President Pervez Musharraf of Pakistan has expressed his willingness to move away from the United Nations resolutions on Kashmir, while emphasizing the demilitarization of Jammu and Kashmir. India has responded by pointing out that the issue of autonomy is a matter of discussion in India and there is no question of changing the

166 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI external status of the state. While the exact nature of such proposals and counter proposals is not clear at this stage, it appears that the debate on issues related to autonomy has entered a new phase of politicization. It has been reported in certain sections of the Indian press, that Musharraf ’s views have generated some fear in the Kashmir Valley among a section of Kashmiri Muslims who have over the years established flourishing business in the state and other parts of India (The Tribune, 2 November 2004). Many of them have started thinking of reducing their business interests in Jammu, Delhi, Bangalore, and Kolkata. The specter of “the division of the state into either two parts, one to remain with India and the other especially the valley, to be part of Pakistan or divide it into seven regions” (ibid.), has also scared businessmen who have invested in business in the border areas of Poonch, Rajouri, and Kargil. It is further reported that, “General Musharraf ’s proposal has given sleepless nights to those living in the Doda district because the majority of people in this district do not want to remain part of the Kashmir valley. They have fears about their bleak future if the Dixon plan, in a new form, is implemented under which Doda will face a division with two subdivisions, Doda and Kishtwar going on one side, and the third subdivision of Bhaderwah being kept on the other side” (ibid.).

Rethinking Identities and Sovereignty: Towards the Autonomy of Autonomies? Is it inevitable that the ultimate destiny of all territories must be submitted to the discourse of state-centric sovereignty, and the practices that flow from it? It needs to be acknowledged that the role of international boundaries in the 21st century is bound to change as dependence on traditional state sovereignty erodes and territorial expressions of political power diversify. Globalization, as John O’Loughlin argues, “has been simultaneously reworking the nature of inter-state relations, the character of the world and local regions and indeed nature of places” (O’Loughlin, 2000: 131). These changes will inevitably produce major challenges for the cartographic depictions so critical in shaping and defining our mental perceptions of geo-political space. Major trends that are explored here include the expanding maritime “territoriality” of coastal states, the diminishing functions of international boundaries with economic and military integration or supra-state political unions, and the growing tendency for

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devolution of political power and local autonomy. We need to explore, therefore, various possibilities of bi-national territories, the uncertainties associated with anomalous quasi-national political units, and the prospect of an increased number of leasing arrangements or territorial servitudes. Such changes in political management of space will require very imaginative and flexible cartographic depictions to match our mental perceptions of an increasingly complex global geo-political structure. The notion of autonomy of autonomies needs to be approached both ontologically and epistemologically. In the former sense, what ought to be at the center of projects designing accountable institutions are people with multiple identifications, and not categorically fixed ethno-religious identities. Equally critical is to ensure that we move from principles to practices/institutions and not vice versa. One of the cardinal principles on which the notion of autonomy of autonomies rest relates to a paradigm shift from domination to non-domination as the fundamental principle of governance at all levels. Consequently, critical attention is also drawn towards how different jurisdictional scales, as deployed by the dominant discourses on autonomy, are harnessed by powerful vested interests to their own purposes. Epistemologically, the autonomy of autonomies compels an acknowledgment of the fact that there is not one but several geographical knowledges of autonomy, produced at various sites. The challenge is to ensure that none of these geographical knowledges, especially the one produced at the official sites, acquires the hegemonic and homogenizing status of an unchallengeable regime of truth. Autonomy of autonomies is also based on the assumption that while providing enough room for the representation of diverse understandings of autonomy, it is equally vital to ensure that spaces for resistance are not erased or discredited. The spaces, such as those occupied by the dispersed nomadic Gujjars of Jammu and Kashmir may not inherently be invested with the symbols and rituals of territoriality. They might, therefore, fail to qualify as a “place” that matters in the dominant discourse on autonomy. Nor is the spread and scope of such spaces of mobility always constrained by the conventional social and political constructions of geographical scale, which, as pointed out earlier, are often deployed to mobilize social networks, political institutions, economic resources, and territorial rights. Consequently, a group—for example, the “Muslim” Gujjars of Jammu and Kashmir—that claims representativeness without a concrete network of relationships constituting a geographical scale of “region” or “state” will soon find itself criticized as discredited in the communities.

168 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI The space(s) needed for the principles and practices of autonomy of autonomies might be lost in case the fears and the fantasies of religious fundamentalism of any kind are allowed a free hand in deciding the “rights” and “obligations” of communities concerned. Marketing a particular understanding of autonomy by exploiting religion-informed cultural symbols will most likely be counterproductive in the long run. It is worth pursuing the agenda of a cosmopolitan autonomy; not cosmopolitanism of an abstract kind based on a pseudo scientific “view from nowhere” but a cosmopolitanism visualized and practiced through intercultural dialogue embedded in the argumentative tradition on the subcontinent. Is it inevitable that the ethno-political objectives of autonomy be realized through territorial (in both its symbolic and material-resource dimensions) autonomy? In other words, the “sense of place” (which connotes an array of ideas and processes that link people to place) can also be imagined and expressed through reasoning other than a “sense of territory”—a logic that insists that territories must be precisely delimited— and senses of territory are therefore inevitably linked to the legitimization of specific territorial constructs. It is equally feasible as well as desirable to reconceptualize autonomy within a total-systems context as a dynamic process involving multi-spatial, multi-temporal, and multi-system interactions. It is vital to ensure that the geo-political anatomy of a particular understanding or a particular blue print of autonomy remains embedded in a spatial structure of peace and dialogue. It appears that the autonomy project for Jammu and Kashmir, in its various avatars, has been a result of interplay among three broad factors (a) specific power relations, (b) the material existence of geo-political realities, and (c) the democratic yearnings and possibilities for self-rule. Kashmir surely shows the fascinating connection between history, geopolitics, and democracy that can exist only in the form of “current” history. For the purposes of this chapter, what constitutes the “critical” in critical geo-politics of “autonomy” has been a modest attempt to account for the persistent tension between the democratic impulses/aspirations emanating from socio-economic diversities/disparities, and the relentless undermining of cultural pluralism by the geo-political reductionism inherent in the reasons of “sovereign-territorial” nationalizing state. Having said that, the chapter has also tried to expose the extent to which the construction of “peoplehood” in various conceptualizations of autonomy has been pursued so far in the context of a territorial ambition or the extent to

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which such movements continue to operate within the context of the dominant geo-political visions of their respective nation states. A critical analytical engagement in this chapter with various discourses on “autonomy” has further revealed a rather stubborn persistence of the legacies of British imperial mapping of the mega human-cultural diversity on the subcontinent. These categories continue to be used as instruments of power while negotiating identity and territory in the ongoing debates on who gets what, when, where, and how from a particular blue print of autonomy. These categories force historically mobile, mixed, multicultural, and hybrid communities to reinvent themselves in terms of biological, cultural, and territorial purity. From the standpoint of autonomy of autonomies, it is important, therefore, to evolve alternative cartographic practices that not only counteract a monolithic construction of religious communities but revision of the map itself as the expression of a shifting ground. In other words, the map of autonomy of autonomies appears to be an open construct rather than one that by definition insists upon containment. It allows for more possibilities of “indigenous” voices and visions to shape alternative strategies to de-territorialize the spaces of autonomy. Also, that, “territoriality is to an increasing degree turning into a continuum of practices and discourses of territoriality which may be, to some extent, overlapping and conflicting” (legal and physical boundaries between places transcending scales). “They may be linked or networked partly with the past, partly with the present and partly with a utopian imaginary of the future forms of territoriality” (Paasi, 2003: 120). The inevitable daily tension of such an arrangement—one that acknowledges hybridity, impurity, intermingling—is a price worth paying for the sake of desirability as well as durability of such a state of politics. The failure to do so is likely to result in manipulation of autonomies from the top by a highly centralized power system. Such a system serves, reasons of statecraft, a majoritarian, undifferentiated conception of both nationhood and citizenship, and the tyranny of artificially imposed, categorically pronounced, and authoritatively imposed “official” categories.

Notes 1. Such a governmentality is not necessarily restricted to intellectuals and institutions of statecraft. It can also be found among non-state, politically motivated, ideological groups, actively engaged in the pursuit of primacy through the exclusion of the

170 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI “Other” and the “Alien.” Ironically enough, it might also happen that those who choose to resist dominant discourses on autonomy might eventually land up deploying those very categories to which they are opposed in principle. 2. Such an analysis is to be informed by new thinking about boundaries and borders in Geo-politics as well as other disciplines, while debating alternative ways of looking at the future of hitherto colonially inscribed boundaries in South Asia. 3. Thongchai Winichakul provides us with the idea of a nation as an imagined community: “Geographically speaking, the geo-body of a nation occupies a certain portion of earth’s surface which can be objectively identified. It seems to be concrete to the eyes and having a long history as if it were natural, and independent from technology or any cultural and social construction. Unfortunately, that is not the case ... the geo-body of a nation is merely the effect of modern geographical knowledge and as technology of representation, a map. The geo-body, the territoriality of a nation as well as its attributes such as sovereignty and boundary, are not only political but also cultural constructs. They were formulated on the soil where the indigenous spatial discourse had existed long before.” See Winichakul (1996: 69–70). 4. Also see Wilson and Donnan (1998: 9–10). 5. “The supposed neutrality of geographical knowledge has at best proven to be a beguiling fiction and at worst a downright fraud. Geographical knowledge have always internalized strong ideological content.... Geography has often cultivated parochialist and ethnocentric perspectives on that diversity. It has often been, and still is, captive to special interests and, hence, a formidable, though often covert, weapon in political and social struggle. It has been an active vehicle for the transmission of doctrines of racial, cultural, sexual, or national superiority. Cold War rhetoric, fears of ‘orientalism,’ or some demonic ‘other’ that threatens the existing order have become pervasive and persuasive in relation to political action. Geographical information can be presented in such a way as to prey upon fears and feed hostility (the abuse of cartography is of particular note in this regard). The ‘facts’ of geography presented as ‘facts of nature’ have been used to justify imperialism, neo-colonialism, expansionism, and geopolitical strategies for dominance.” Quoted from Harvey (2001: 231–32). 6. In Nehru’s construction of India, syncretism, pluralism, and tolerance are the main themes. For Nehru, “some kind of a dream of unity has occupied the mind of India since the dawn of civilization.” He “discovers” India’s unity as lying in culture and not religion—hence no notion of a “holyland” in his mental map of the country. For him the heroes of India’s history—Ashoka, Kabir, Guru Nanak, Amir Khusro, Akbar, and Gandhi—subscribe to a variety of Indian faiths and it is Aurangzeb, the intolerant Moghul, who “puts the clock back.” India’s geography was sacred to Nehru not literally but metaphorically. For further discussion of this issue, see Varshney (1993). 7. Neera Chandhoke puts it forcefully: “Expectedly, even as the majority group tries to monopolize the symbols and the vocabularies of suffering, as it eagerly rushes

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to claim the status of victim, and as narratives of victimhood dominate civil society, political in the sphere has become completely self-centered. But there is more: resentment articulates, sharpens and ultimately translates perhaps unacknowledged prejudice into communal actions, by constructing the subject as the historical victimizer. Unravel the story told by the Hindutva brigade and we shall see immediately how the targeted community is depicted as a proximate and corporeal threat to the identity, to the dignity, and to the traditions of the members of the community that is host to this construction. That all this leads to the politics of what has been termed the ‘new tribalism’—the politics of violence, vendetta and attrition—is predictable.” See Chandhoke (2004: 513). 8. Varshney (1993: 238) remarks: “Since the territorial principle is drawn from a belief in ancient heritage, encapsulated in the notion of ‘sacred geography,’ and it also figures in both imaginations [secularists and nationalists] it has acquired political hegemony over time. It is the only thing common between the two competing nationalist imaginations. Therefore, just as America’s most passionate political moment concerns freedom and equality, India’s most explosive moments concern its ‘sacred geography,’ the 1947 partition being the most obvious example. Whenever the threat of another break-up, another ‘partition’ looms large, the moment unleashes remarkable passions in politics. Politics based on this imagination is quite different from what was seen when Malaysia and Singapore split from each other, or when the Czech or Slovak republics separated. Territory not being such an inalienable part of their national identity, these territorial divorces were not desecrations. In India, they become desecrations of the sacred geography.” 9. To quote Ghai (2000: 24–25): “Autonomy, particularly federal autonomy, is built around the notion that the people of a state are best served through a balance between the common and the particular. If the emphasis is so much on the particular, then separation may be the better option, notwithstanding the proliferation of states. The secret of autonomy is the recognition of the common; certainly it seems to be the condition for its success. Perhaps about thirty years ago, too much emphasis was placed on the ‘common’ and for this reason autonomy was narrow and contingent. Today we may be placing too much emphasis on the particular. It may be necessary to consider devices that stress the common bonds and construct the institutions that hold people together ... to promote broad interregional support, to counter the tendency towards disassociating that comes with disaggregating ethnic autonomy. Autonomy should be chosen not because of some notion of preserving ‘sovereignty’ but in order to enable different ethnic groups to live together, to define a common public space.” 10. According to Mattoo (2000), this logic is dangerous for at least four reasons. First, trifurcation will destroy the composite identity of the state, which has existed as one unit since 1846, and send a dangerous message to the whole nation. If Hindus, Muslims, and Buddhists cannot live together in one state, can they do so in a larger entity? Second, it will most probably lead to a transfer of Muslims

172 / SANJAY CHATURVEDI from various parts of Jammu, including not only parts of the city but also Doda, Rajouri, and Poonch, assuming that the entire province is made into a separate state. Finally, it will lead to such deep communal polarization that bloody communal riots will inevitably follow. 11. To quote Humra Quraishi: “Religion has become more visible in recent past. It is undeniable that a certain rigidity has crept in; there is something less traditionally Kashmiri, less attractive about religious attitudes now. It is not just about men wearing skull-caps, women pulling their dupattas tight over their heads and round their torsos, and thousands rushing to the mosque, so much so that on Fridays the namaazis spill out onto the roads. It is more about a worrying number of people doubting your sincerity unless you wear your Islamic identity on your sleeve; it is about some militant outfit threatening girls with death and disfigurement unless they cover themselves up with burqas; it is about fiery young students defending the Taliban and everything about Saddam Hussain for no reason other than their shared faith and what they see as the valour of these men. One sad result of the growing ‘Arabization’ of Islamic faith in the Valley is that the present generation of Kashmiris do not seem to attach much importance to the unique Sufi tradition of the Valley” (2004: 136, 141).

7 SILENCE UNDER FREEDOM: THE STRANGE STORY OF DEMOCRACY IN THE DARJEELING HILLS Subhas Ranjan Chakrabarty

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his chapter takes a close look at the working of the autonomy granted to the Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council (renamed Darjeeling Gorkha Autonomous Hill Council, and changed again to DGHC) in 1988. It follows the history of the district starting from 1835 when Darjeeling was transferred to the East India Company by the Raja of Sikkim to trace how this event led to the growth of the town and the district in the context of British commercial and strategic interests, the flow of migration into the area, and the evolution of the administrative structure of the district. The developments inevitably encouraged the emergence and articulation of a distinct identity among the peoples of Darjeeling, which in its turn led to demands for a separate and distinct structure for the district. The demands grew more vociferous and took an overtly political turn after 1947. The chapter concludes with the working of the autonomy over the last decade and a half.

The Early History of Darjeeling District The district of Darjeeling evolved through different stages. In 1835, Darjeeling was ceded to the English East India Company by the Raja of

174 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY Sikkim. Darjeeling meant all land “south of the Great Rungeet river, east of Balasun, Kahail and Little Rungeet rivers, and the west of the Rungnoo and Mahanadi rivers”1 (O’Malley, 1985: 19–34). Relations with Sikkim did not always remain peaceful thereafter and two further expeditions were led by the British in 1850 and 1861. A treaty concluded with the prince of Sikkim at Tumlung confirmed the British possession of Darjeeling. The war with Bhutan in 1865 led to the acquisition of Kalimpong and territories to the east of the Teesta. Thus the contours of the district of Darjeeling were formed.

Developments: Commerce, Migration, and Administration The British decided to adopt Darjeeling as a sanatorium. Under the guidance of Dr Campbell, the Superintendent of Darjeeling from 1839, Darjeeling started to grow and quite a number of settlers gradually arrived from Nepal, Sikkim, Bhutan and the plains. Around 1850, Darjeeling had a population of about 10,000 (O’Malley, 1985: 22), while the population of the district was around 46,000 in 1852. At the turn of the century, the population rose to about 249,117 (ibid.: 36). Apart from being set up as a sanatorium, Darjeeling had obvious attractions for the British for both commercial and strategic reasons. Darjeeling could emerge as the entrepot of the trans-Himalayan trade, surrounded as it was by Nepal, Sikkim, Bhutan, and Tibet (Sen, 1989: 21–69). The introduction of tea plantation was another stimulus to growth. In 1872, the number of tea estates in Darjeeling was only 74, but by 1901 the number rose to 170 (O’Malley, 1985: 36). The valor of the Gorkhas as soldiers was established during the Nepal war. “The AngloNepal war of 1814–16 is a critical reference point for … it was during this war that the British officially ‘discovered’ the Gurkhas” (Caplan, 1991: 571–97). Naturally, the “Gurkhas” became a target group as possible recruits to the army. The opportunities of employment in the tea plantations and recruitment to the army encouraged immigration into the district. It was now necessary to provide a regular administrative set up for Darjeeling. The district remained under the non-regulation scheme of administration before the passing of the Indian Council’s Act of 1861.

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Though the Act abolished the distinction between the regulated and nonregulated districts, an Act of 1870 restored the pre-1861 status and only the Governor General and the Lt Governors were empowered to legislate by means of executive order for the less developed areas. Darjeeling was placed under the scheme for non-regulated districts. An Act of 1874 made Darjeeling a scheduled district (Chakraborty, 1988: 6–20). This status continued till 1919 when the nomenclature was changed from “scheduled district” to “backward tract.” Under the Act of 1935, Darjeeling became a “partially excluded area” within the province of Bengal (ibid.: 14). This brief outline will show that the British experimented with the status to be accorded to Darjeeling, especially its relationship to the province of Bengal. However, the repeated changes do show an anxiety to preserve for Darjeeling, a separate status, and thus acknowledge the distinction between the predominant “pahariyas” and the “madheshis” (plainsmen).

Emergence and Articulation of Identity The tea gardens, the army, trade and commerce, and sundry employment opportunities attracted settlers to the district, not only from Nepal but also from the Terai region and the plains of Bengal and Bihar. Clearing of forests and reclamation of land for agriculture provided additional scope for settlement. The various Nepali tribes proved to be particularly enterprising so far as the development of agriculture was concerned. Through large-scale immigration from eastern Nepal in particular, the Nepalese soon outnumbered the Lepchas and the Bhutias.2 These settlers slowly evolved a community structured by their separate identity. What is interesting is the gradual shedding of tribal identities in favor of an overarching and inclusive Nepali identity. A major cementing factor was the Nepali language which increasingly superseded tribal languages/ dialects to emerge as the lingua franca for the entire Himalayan region.3 The early history of education in Darjeeling relates to the needs of the children of the European residents in Darjeeling and the children of the Europeans serving in areas without adequate facilities for education. The missionaries took the lead in this matter. But later there were attempts to open schools exclusively for the local people, particularly the hill people. The Report on the State of the Police in Darjeeling for 1860 noted that 49 boys attended the vernacular and English school, but indicated a decline in the number in 1861 and 1862. The desire for English tuition, the Report

176 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY of 1860 mentioned, continued (Index India and Bengal Despatches, XXV: 960–68, XXVI: 192). German missionaries made an effort to educate the local boys as early as the 1860s. In course of time an educated local elite emerged. What started as the agonized cry of discrimination and exploitation of a largely immigrant population was transformed into an articulated demand for recognition of the separateness of the hill people. As a corollary, they demanded protection of their identity and rights, which, they argued, could best be preserved by the right of self-determination for the people of the hills. Another issue that helped mobilize people, was language. Parasmani Pradhan, Surya Bikram Ghewali, Dharanidhar Sharma, and others set up the Nepali Sahitya Sammelan to develop Nepali language and literature. They also demanded the inclusion of Nepali in the syllabi for the matriculation examination conducted by the University of Calcutta. In 1930, the government of Bengal also permitted the adoption of Nepali as the medium of instruction up to the middle school level. Yet, what these leading Nepali academics were seeking was a more comprehensive sociocultural identity, not just a separate administrative set up (Pradhan, 1991). In 1907, a memorandum was presented on behalf of the hill people of Darjeeling to the government demanding “a separate administrative unit” for the district. The meaning of the term “separate administrative unit” was, however, not spelt out and the details remained quite vague (Memorandum to GOI and Parliament, 1957). The hill people referred to the Nepalis, Bhutias, and Lepchas (Nebula). T. B. Subba is “inclined to believe that forty-one years of interaction (1866–1907) between the three hill communities and between them and plainsmen (mainly the Bengalis) had more to do with the above demand than anything else” (Subba, 1992: 76). This opinion, which has not been worked upon any further, would run counter to early ideas that the backdrop of this demand could be the anti-partition and swadeshi agitation in Bengal. A definite conclusion is, however, difficult to offer. In 1917, “the humble memorial of the representatives of the Darjeeling district” was submitted to the Chief Secretary to the Government of Bengal by some prominent Lepcha, Bhutia, and Nepalese citizens of Darjeeling. In the memorandum, the signatories clearly stated that they did not have “any feeling of discontent and dissatisfaction with the present system of government” and that they “have treated the movement for Home Rule with neglect and even disfavour. But now that the British government has definitely stated that Home Rule is the ultimate goal ... this district should be excluded from [Bengal]

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and the evolution of our political life should be towards a distinct local government of our own on such lines as may be approved by the British government” (Moktan, 2004: 90). The memorandum, however (italics mine) added that “the government should aim at the creation of separate unit comprising the present Darjeeling district with the portion of Jalpaiguri district which was annexed from Bhutan in 1865” (ibid.: 91). The memorandum emphasized the importance of the district as a frontier. It showed awareness of the development potential of the area when it spoke of it as a source of hydroelectric power. It also mooted the idea of a North Eastern Frontier Province that would in addition to the district include the “Assam Dooars and the hill territories which lie to the East of Bhutan and whose peoples have affinities with our people” (ibid.: 92). This memorandum, apart from being the handiwork of a section of the elite of the hill people, had the blessings of the European planters. In 1930, a fresh memorandum was submitted to Sir Samuel Hoare, the Secretary of State of India. It was interestingly entitled “the humble memorial of the Gurkhas settled and domiciled in British India.” The memorial was signed by H. P. Pradhan, President of the Hillmen’s Association, N. B. Gurung, and P. P. Pradhan, respective Secretaries of the Kalimpong and Darjeeling Branches of the Hillmen’s Association, Lt. G. Gurung, President, Gurkha Officers’ Association and P. M. Sundar, Secretary, Kurseong Gurkha Library (ibid.: 95). It is significant that the demand for separate status was now related to an ethno-linguistic group living in different parts of India. It noted that these Gurkhas domiciled in India numbered about three million. The memorandum betrayed an anxiety that in the event of constitutional changes in the future, the Gurkhas might find it difficult to preserve their own customs and traditions, unless a guarantee was given by the colonial state. It referred to a proposal submitted earlier by the Gurkha League at Dehradun regarding matters which vitally affected the Gurkhas in India. An outline of a scheme for the separate administrative status of the district was suggested. “The district of Darjeeling … should be excluded from Bengal and be treated as an independent administrative unit with the Deputy Commissioner as an Administrator vested with much more power than that of a District Magistrate assisted by a small Executive Council (like the Provincial Governor’s Executive Council), representative of all interests, in the administration of the area” (ibid.: 94). Further, all recruitments to government service should be from among the local people. The administrative unit of Darjeeling should be placed directly under the Government

178 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY of India. “All legislation passed by the central legislature should not be applicable to the administered area, without the same being certified by the Administrator and the Council that it should be extended to Darjeeling.” Finally, the signatories reminded the Secretary of State of the Gurkhas’ “past service and sacrifice for the Empire” and hoped that their request for the recognition of their separate and distinct identity would be granted (Moktan, 2004: 95). It is noteworthy that these appeals to the colonial state were not backed by popular movements. In 1934, the Hillmen’s Association submitted a fresh memorandum entitled “the humble memorial of the Hillmen’s Association of the District of Darjeeling in the province of Bengal,” (ibid.: 96) signed by Laden La, the President, G. Gurung, the Vice-President and Madan Thapa, the Secretary of the Hillmen’s Association. It is to be noted that the memorial, unlike the earlier one in 1930, was now submitted in the name of the Darjeeling district only. Having briefly traced the evolution of the district in the 19th century, the memorial sought to reiterate the separateness of the Gurkhas living in Darjeeling. It noted that “the frontier district has hitherto remained as an Excluded Area directly under the Governor of Bengal ... as a result so far all culturable land, excepting the tea garden areas, has remained an exclusive reserve for the hill people, who have also enjoyed preferential treatment in the Government services as well in the district ... and the hill people by their unquestionable loyalty and devotion to the British Crown have amply justified the trust reposed on them” (ibid.: 96). The Association expressed an apprehension that, in the context of constitutional reforms being considered, the interests of the hill people may not be adequately safeguarded by the provincial legislature.4 They thus demanded an independent administrative status on the lines suggested in the earlier memorandum of 1930. The Hillmen’s Association, it would appear, wished to depend on the goodwill of the colonial state to protect the interests of the hill people. They feared, in plain terms, that some amount of self-rule given to the provinces may, in fact, act to the prejudice of the people in the hills. In this context, an independent status became an absolute necessity. To what extent this anxiety of the members of the Hillmen’s Association was shared by the common people is difficult to ascertain. There is, however, no evidence of a groundswell of popular discontent in the district. In 1935, Laden La, representing the Association demanded total exclusion from the province of Bengal.5 In 1943, the All India Gorkha League (AIGL) was formed under the leadership of D. S. Gurung. It was hoped that in course of time the AIGL

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would emerge as the representative political party of the Gorkhas living all over India. There was as yet no definite blueprint for the separate status of Darjeeling. D. S. Gurung toyed with the idea of merging with Assam, but later raised the demand of a new state called Uttarakhand. Subhas Chandra Bose, in a letter to Gurung on 8 August 1938 noted: “I was glad to have a discussion with you regarding the grievances of the Hill people of the district of Darjeeling. The grievances as jotted down by you are just and legitimate, and I think it is the duty of the government to remedy them. So far as the Congress Party is concerned, I can assure you that we will do our best to remove these grievances as early as possible .... We should also give special attention to the Hillmen in the District of Darjeeling .... The Congress party ... will also see that a special committee is appointed to investigate the special problems of the Hillmen and report as to how these problems should be solved” (Gurung, 1971: 16–17). This is the first reference to a national leader addressing the problem of Darjeeling. Clearly, the methods Gurung chose to follow differed from those followed by the Hillmen’s Association and others earlier. Instead of just appealing to the good sense of the colonial state, Gurung wished to connect the problem of Darjeeling to the wider nationalist politics in India. A different approach is noticeable.

The Politics of Identity and Demand for Autonomy The people of Darjeeling were drawn into the freedom struggle as well. The non cooperation movement found strong echoes in different parts of Darjeeling and the Congress-led freedom movement had a substantial following in Darjeeling. The Communists also succeeded in mobilizing the workers in the tea plantations (De and Ray, 1979; Majumdar, 1983). Understandably, these political parties had to take a stance with regard to the question of a separate administrative structure for the district, particularly after the transfer of power in 1947. The Constituent Assembly constituted an Advisory Committee on Excluded and Partially Excluded Areas and the Committee noted, in its Report, that the Simon Commission put forward two alternatives with regard to the district: (a) constitutional amalgamation with the rest of the province, and (b) exclusion from Bengal and the placing of the district under the administrative authority of the Government of India, the Governor of Bengal acting as its agent.

180 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY The Provincial Government did not favor the second alternative. “In their opinion Darjeeling had always been an integral part of Bengal, the whole administrative machine was linked up with that of Bengal, officers were interchangeable and local problems were familiar to the Secretariat. From an administrative point of view therefore the difficulties of exclusion were enormous.”6 (Report of the Constituent Assembly of India Advisory Committee: 60). The Committee noted the position of Darjeeling after the introduction of provincial autonomy in 1937. It remained a “partially excluded area,” with the executive authority of the province extending to it, but federal or provincial laws could be applied only after the public notification of the governor to that effect. Darjeeling also had representation to the provincial legislature. In April 1947, the District Committee of the Communist Party of India (CPI) submitted a memorandum to the Constituent Assembly. The document was signed by Ratanlal Brahmin, the MLA and Ganeshlal Subba on behalf of the District Committee and copies were sent to Jawaharlal Nehru and Liaqat Ali Khan. The memorandum asserted that “the Gorkhas living in Darjeeling District, the adjoining areas of Sikkim and the socalled independent state of Nepal ... constitute a distinct nationality.” “The Communist Party of India, therefore, demands that after making necessary revisions in the existing boundaries, the three contiguous areas of Darjeeling District, Southern Sikkim and Nepal be formed into one single zone to be called ‘Gorkhastan.’ On the basis of adult suffrage a plebiscite may be held in all these areas on this issue.” The CPI document guaranteed the rights of all other minorities living within the proposed new state. But the Party vehemently opposed what it called the “imperialist plan” of “excluding the district from the rest of India and its constitution into a separate Chief Commissioner’s Province as has been put forward by the Darjeeling Hillmen’s Association .... This Association presents none but the local agents of British imperialism” (Moktan, 1986: 31–36; 2004: 99–105). This was a scathing attack on the leaders of the Hillmen’s Association. It is important to note that immediately after the transfer of power in August 1947, a public meeting was held in Darjeeling, sponsored by the leaders of virtually all the major communities living in Darjeeling, supporting the demand for autonomy. The AIGL submitted a Memorandum to the Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, in Kalimpong in April 1952, detailing the attempts by various groups to secure a separate administrative status for Darjeeling since 1907. It proposed three alternatives to the government: (a) a separate district administrative unit to be administered

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by the center, (b) a separate province comprising Darjeeling and neighbouring areas, and (c) Darjeeling, along with a part of Jalpaiguri, viz., the Dooars to be included in Assam (Moktan, 1986: 11–15). In the first elections in 1952, the AIGL returned four and the CPI one MLA to the West Bengal Assembly which could now become a battleground for the issue of “autonomy,” though the actual term was still to be used. In August 1952, Sankar Prasad Mitra moved a private bill to “increase the area of West Bengal,” presumably to accommodate the huge influx of refugees from East Pakistan. Biren Banerjee brought an amendment seeking “to provide regional autonomy within the West Bengal State for Nepalese speaking people” (Gurung, 1971: 19–20). This is the first time that the term “regional autonomy” would appear to have been used. The Chief Minister opposed the idea though. The demand of West Bengal before the States Reorganization Committee to include the Bengalispeaking areas of Bihar into West Bengal understandably made the issue of the status of Nepali-speaking areas more urgent. In the debate in the Assembly, Dr Ranen Sen of the CPI supported the demand for “regional autonomy” of Darjeeling “within the state of West Bengal” (ibid.: 25). In 1955, N. B. Gurung, an independent MLA from the district submitted in the Assembly, that the government of West Bengal and the Congress Party had adopted an unfriendly attitude towards the people of Darjeeling. He noted that the Congress Party in a supplementary memorandum to the States Reorganization Committee, when it visited Darjeeling stated that “Nepali-speaking population was 20%, Bengalispeaking 14.3%, Hindi-speaking 6.8%. Lepchas and Bhutias being 4%, the total comes to 45.1%. It is not understood who constituted the rest of the population, viz., 54.9%. I hope they are not Chinese” (Gurung, 1971: 27–34). He also quoted from the Report of the States Reorganization Committee that if an area within a state had more than 70 per cent people belonging to one ethnic or linguistic group, then they would constitute a minority within the province and the language of that minority group should be the official language in that area. The focus now shifted to the demand for the recognition of Nepali as the official language for the hills. When in March 1958 an unofficial bill proposed legislation for adopting Bengali as the official and administrative language for the state, B. B. Hamal of the CPI moved an amendment to include Nepali as the official language for the hills. Apart from Hamal, N. B. Gurung also forcefully argued for the case of Nepali. Finally, after a lot of persuasion and considerable agitation in Darjeeling, the Official Language Bill proposed the recognition of Nepali as the official language

182 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY for the three hill sub-divisions of Darjeeling. After long wait, this recognition was one victory at last. What happened to the question of autonomy? The quest for autonomy, however, was frustrated. The Congress, in power from 1947 to 1967, failed to meet the demand to which they were also a party. The AIGL and the CPI had already submitted proposals for a separate identity, in different forms, to the Constituent Assembly. Even the district committee of the Congress Party, in a resolution passed on 15 May 1955, elaborated the demand for autonomy by asking for a District Council, with statutory recognition, to be formed to aid and advise the government on matters of administration. In 1967, Dr Maitreyee Bose, the member of Lok Sabha from Darjeeling brought a private bill for the inclusion of Nepali in the Eighth Schedule of the Constitution. When the Home Minister requested the withdrawal of the bill, she submitted a memorandum to the Prime Minister forcefully arguing the case once more (Bose, 1967). In August 1968, the Darjeeling District Committee of the Congress Party adopted a resolution reiterating the long standing demand for an autonomous administrative set up for the district including an outline of the proposed autonomy. The three hill sub-divisions of Darjeeling would form a separate district, while Siliguri and adjoining areas were to form a new district. The autonomous district was to have a Hill Area Council of not more than 21 members and was to have legislative powers. There should be a separate “area budget” for the council. No change was proposed in the “existing system of judiciary.” The executive authority should be in the hands of a cabinet minister in charge of the hill areas, to be assisted by junior ministers. There should be a separate department of Hill Areas in the West Bengal Secretariat. The subjects to be brought under the purview of the Council were also detailed. This was the first detailed proposal for “Hill Autonomy” (District Congress Committee, 1968). The District Congress Committee requested the Pradesh Congress Committee to include this demand as a program of the Congress Party. The West Bengal Pradesh Congress Committee adopted a resolution in September 1968. It simply noted the special problems “pertaining to the Hill Areas of the District of Darjeeling,” and resolved that “positive measures will have to be taken to solve these problems.” The United Front governments of 1967 and 1969 also failed to do anything about the demand as neither could last the full term. It is important to note that the AIGL leader, D. P. Rai was a minister in these governments. The second United Front ministry in 1969 included autonomy for Darjeeling in its 32-point program.

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In 1973, the CPI(M) and the AIGL circulated a document entitled “Programme and Demand of Autonomy” (Programme and Demand for Autonomy, 1973). It noted that the demand for autonomy was not a new demand and indeed had been supported by all political parties over the last several decades. But even after more than a quarter century of independence, the aspirations of the people of Darjeeling had not been satisfied. The creation of new states out of Assam obviously emboldened the agitators in Darjeeling to make a fresh bid for autonomy (ibid.: 2). They rued the fact that non-Hillmen still constituted the majority of administrative personnel in the district and the area was obviously undeveloped. They came to the conclusion that autonomy was the only solution7 (ibid.: 3–6). The document noted: “it is crystal clear that there is a deep undercurrent of dissatisfaction with the existing administrative set up. It is only by granting the rights of autonomy that the vexed problem of this district can be solved” (ibid.: 60). The outline for autonomy called for the creation of an Autonomous District Council with one member for every 10,000 people, an Executive Council to run the administration, power of legislation over 44 subjects and power to impose taxation in certain cases. It added that the laws passed by the Council “shall be obligatory to the state government.” They also guaranteed the rights of the minorities living in the district. It may be mentioned in this context, that Professor Hiren Mukerjee, the eminent left parliamentarian from West Bengal, had in 1969 told the Lok Sabha : “In West Bengal, as far as the Gorkha speaking areas are concerned, the State Congress had once agreed with the United Front in asking for some sort of an autonomous right in regard ... to the Darjeeling District. Very probably, a remedy, similar to what has been applied in Assam, may be necessary” (Gurung, 1971: 109–10). S. S. Ray, the Chief Minister from 1972 to 1977, had the habit of donning a Nepali cap whenever he was in Darjeeling and set up a Hill Development Council. In an extraordinary issue, The Calcutta Gazette, dated 3 May 1976, printed ‘The Darjeeling Hill Areas Development Council Act, 1976’. The Council would be constituted with officials and 17 nominated members, and would advise the government “in formulating integrated development plans for Darjeeling and in the implementation of the schemes and programmes in the hills.” This, however, failed to satisfy the democratic aspirations of the people, though it must be noted that this was the first official constitution of an institutional framework for the hill areas.

184 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY After the Left Front government came to power, the old arrangement continued. There were, however, signs that the people were becoming restive. In April 1980, the Prantiya Morcha, and in September 1980, the Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF) memoranda to the Prime Minister demanded the state of Gorkhaland. In April 1981, the AIGL submitted a memorandum to Zail Singh, the Union Home Minister. Tracing the old history of the demand for autonomy, the memorandum demanded the constitution of a separate state outside of West Bengal. The creation of Sikkim as the 22nd state was mentioned to buttress the demand, while reiterating the demand for the inclusion of Nepali in the Eighth Schedule of the Constitution. The Gorkha League also fulminated against the rule of the Left Front. Again, in September 1981 Pranta Parishad, a new political formation, in a memorandum to Indira Gandhi demanded “the formation of the State of Darjeeling comprising the Nepali speaking region of North Bengal.” The demand was repeated in a memorandum to Rajiv Gandhi, the next Prime Minister, in December 1984. Even the DCC in May 1986 urged Rajiv Gandhi to grant a separate state to the people of Darjeeling warning that “present maladies now fast developing in a wrong direction should not at all be viewed as a passing phase.”8 In view of the rising demand for a separate state, which the Left Front in West Bengal dubbed as “separatist,” the CPI(M) MP, Anand Pathak moved a private bill in the Parliament in 1985, seeking to amend the Constitution to “create an autonomous region comprising areas ... of the district of Darjeeling.” It asked for the empowerment of the District Autonomous Council to legislate (Moktan, 1986: 37–44). The Bill was defeated. In 1980, GNLF and the Pranta Parishad were set up as new political formations, but the first demand for a separate state carved out of the state of West Bengal was made by the Pranta Parishad. The demand did not make an immediate impact, but gradually found a responsive chord in the people of Darjeeling. The GNLF, led by Subash Ghising, stole the thunder and by 1986 the movement became a violent one throwing the hills into a turmoil not experienced before. Two years of unprecedented violence and substantial loss of lives were followed by the agreement of 1988 whereby the union and state governments and the GNLF agreed to set up DGHC (now DGAHC). The role of the Akhil Bharatiya Nepali Bhasa Samiti in mobilizing public opinion must be noted briefly. The association spearheaded the movement for the inclusion of Nepali in the Eighth Schedule of the Constitution. They were able to take the movement not only to the remote

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villages, but adopted an all India perspective. The GNLF, it may be suggested, used the mobilization a lot more effectively.

Working of Autonomy The Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council (DGHC Act, 1988), set up by the agreement of 1988, is now more than 15 years old. The GNLF swept the first three elections and the fourth elections were due in 2004. The elections were, however, postponed to March 2005 and then, through an amendment of the Act, postponed for another six months. The Chairman was allowed to continue as the caretaker Chairman for the intervening period. I will take stock of the working of the council at this point. This can be worked out from two different perspectives: (a) the achievements of the council in developmental work, and (b) the perception of the DGHC as the embodiment of aspirations for autonomy. The structure and the powers of the DGHC have some obvious limits. The DGHC Act provided the institutional framework for the exercise of regional autonomy by abolishing the Zilla Parishad and creating a separate Mahakuma Parishad for Siliguri. The municipalities and the panchayats (one tier only) were kept under the general supervision of the DGHC. The Act, many feel, has not quite provided a framework of true autonomy. For example, the Council does not have any legislative powers which the autonomous district councils under the Sixth Schedule enjoy and enjoys very limited resource generating powers. In the ultimate analysis, the Council is dependent on the central and state governments for funds. The presence of nominated members constituting one-third of the Council is also seen as anomalous to the democratic process. Areas of friction between the Council and the state government emerged after the DGHC started working. Though the rough edges were smoothened out through dialogues between the Chairman and the state government, all the problems could not be solved (Sarkar and Bhaumik, 2000: 47–178). A powerful committee in 1999 decided to change the name of the DGHC into the Darjeeling Gorkha Autonomous Hill Council. (The term “autonomous” was dropped through the amendment of 2005 at the insistence of GNLF.) There is a constant complaint about lack of adequate resources as well as about the Council’s lack of power to generate its own resources. The two most lucrative sources of revenue, tea and timber, remain outside the ambit of the Council. While the forests are under the Council,

186 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY the state retains its control of the reserved forests. Conflicts of jurisdiction in the sphere of Panchayati Raj too often led to an impasse. Devolution of powers for the Panchayati Raj institutions within the DGAHC is on a single tier, i.e. the Gram Panchayat level only. The DGAHC handles the development schemes, while the district administration handles institutional aspects. This is a very complex working arrangement that impedes smooth functioning of the concept of autonomy at the grass roots level. I quote from a Report prepared by an NGO (Darjeeling NGO Network) on the working of the Panchayati Raj system: An important factor for development is the ownership of asset whether it is individual or community asset. Within the Darjeeling scenario more than 40% of the land is under forests and more than 20% of the land is under tea. In both the cases the ownership of the land and its resources is not in the community. True that today tea garden workers and forest village[rs] individual[ly] participate in the Panchayati Raj institution, but their participation remains limited as they do not own the land and its resources. Thus only less than 40% of land is in individual or community ownership within the Panchyati Raj Institution which would ensure real community planning for development. A majority of this land area would fall under the Kalimpong sub-division. This is because the British introduced tea in the Darjeeling and Kurseong Sub-Divisions as Kalimpong already had settled agriculture and reserve forests.... But there is a clear demarcation between forests and rural communities. Both have been made exclusive of each other with the community having no access to the forest resources and its management. True, we have forest villages but this too is limited in definition as the user group of the forests is much larger than those demarcated within forest villages. Thus even with the introduction of Joint Forest Management and formation of Forest Protection Committees and Eco-Development Committees the total user groups do not participate in the management of forest resources. The issue of ownership and community participation becomes more accentuated in tea gardens where the labour community has no access to ownership of the tea garden. Thus, even with their inclusion in the Panchayati Raj Institution community participation in the management of resources can never be achieved. Many of the developmental schemes through the Panchayat depend on the ownership of land. Since the community has no access to land these schemes can never be implemented properly. (Panchayati Raj and Development, 2004)

Gram Samsads are ideal places to discuss issues on agriculture, watershed development, community based disaster preparedness, economic development, and social justice issue. The Darjeeling Hills have a poor

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track record in this. No concrete quantitative data are available but experience shows that most Gram Samsads end up as adjourned closeddoor meetings, ruining the spirit of Gram Samsads (Panchayati Raj and Development, 2004). Thus the question of autonomy percolating to the grassroots level has engaged some groups in Darjeeling. The picture here is not encouraging either. The absence of translation of the 73rd Amendment into action can be attributed to several reasons. The notion of participatory planning and implementation is a dramatic paradigm shift from the centralized top down approach. The ramifications of this shift are tremendous and need to be seen at all levels. ‘Years of top down approach have eroded the capacity at the community level to come together, plan and implement [adopted programs]. The community has become passive recipients of development aid.... The elected members have little capacity to facilitate participatory planning’ (ibid.). The NGO came up with some suggestions: 1. Greater role clarity and proactive and collaborative participation among Panchayats, DGAHC, and the district administration. 2. Greater community participation through Gram Samsads. 3. Capacity building towards participatory development processes at all levels of community, elected members, and administration. 4. More in-depth study of tea plantation areas and forest areas with respect to the 73rd Amendment and formulation of a plan of action pertinent to these areas. 5. Involvement of civil society and NGOs in planning and capacity building sessions (ibid.). In personal conversation, some members of the NGO noted that in some areas, such as networking of roads in the rural area and rural electrification, there had been considerable improvement over the last decade and a half. It is, however, difficult to quantify the extent to which permanent assets have been created. The NGO talk about coordination which seems conspicuous by its absence. A major obstacle is lack of information. Two or three issues of the Gorkha Samachar, brought out by the Council starting in January 1992, described Subash Ghising as “bhavishya drashta Yugapurush” and promised to keep the people of Darjeeling informed about the developmental work undertaken by the Council. It apparently did not keep the promise (Gorkha Samachar, 1992). All the publications

188 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY of the Council so far deal with the Gorkhaland movement, but no published record of the development achieved so far is available. It is, therefore, difficult to quantify if autonomy has resulted in substantial transformation in the hills. Plainly, some changes are obvious. Power relations in the district are apparently different. The Chairman and the Executive Councillors enjoy all the frills of cars/jeeps with red lights, etc., enjoyed by ministers in West Bengal and elsewhere. The Council is seen to be the governing agency in the district with control over most of the departments except, of course, the police. There is some satisfaction among the people that the Councillors as well as the Executive Councillors are more easily available for personal contact. The GNLF has won three elections with an overwhelming majority. The opposition appears to be in disarray. The next election, due in November 2004, has now been postponed to September 2005. The Akhil Bharatiya Gorkha League is trying to regroup itself. In August 2005, it submitted a long memorandum to the Chief Minister detailing its observations about the functioning, or non-functioning, of the Council. Conversations with a cross-section of the people of Darjeeling give us some insight into the perceptions about the working of the autonomy under the Council.9 The high officials of the DGAHC, of course, talk about achievements in road building, construction, the bridge at Rellikhola, tourism and development of parks and other sites as new spots of tourist attraction, the huge opera house coming up near the Chowrasta, etc., but, as we have noted earlier, there is no record of the achievements in the crucial sectors. Lack of information and possibly a certain lack of transparency characterize the working of the Council. A correspondent of a national daily complained that no press conferences are held either by the Chairman or other Executive Councillors or officials. A former teacher of a local college made a very important point about the absence of institution building. The Act could have been the entry point for a tiny experiment, but unfortunately there has been a failure to appreciate the significance of the legalconstitutional experiment. There has been a tendency to equate the DGHC with the GNLF—without adequate follow up measures to make autonomy meaningful. There is a certain lack of debate at every level, preventing the evolution of a consensus so necessary in a democracy. There is also a certain lack of accountability. The opposition parties have now gone on record about this lack of accountability. For example, the Council has not met since October 2001, though the Act says that the Council “shall meet at least once in three months.” Nor is there any budget prepared or passed by the Council. A journalist talked of the inexperience of the

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Councillors and their support staff attributing it to the agitators suddenly turning administrators. Most of the agitators did not have enough political experience either. But, after more than 15 years, this argument does not hold much water. Yet, this has been mentioned by several correspondents. A story circulates about a Councillor who is the local Robin Hood. He collects toll from every car that passes through a major road in his constituency. The money thus collected has been used to repair damaged bridges and maintain the roads, with some spent to provide temporary employment to the unemployed youth. He even made appointments of teachers in the primary and junior schools in his constituency (Ananda Bazaar Patrika, 4 July 2004). If the story is true, the DGHC and the state government suffer this plainly irregular act. Another journalist was more critical of the Executive Councillors using their assigned constituencies as fiefdoms, with accountability only towards the Chairman and supported by subtle propaganda keeping a psychology of fear alive. He is even more critical of the state government which, he says, buys peace by abdicating its constitutional obligations. He explains these limitations as the result of a faulty Act. He recalls a comment of Ghising, questioning the reality of autonomy.10 Yet, the GNLF does not make these issues public but uses the issue of Gorkhaland at opportune moments to twist the arms of the state government. (The Amendment of 2005, to provide for further postponement of the elections is yet another illustration of the point). One correspondent pointed out, that even after a decade and a half, no blueprint of an economic agenda has been prepared. With no following up of the constitution of the DGHC, basic civic amenities in Darjeeling deteriorated and the hill areas became chronically underdeveloped. Though women and the GNWO played a very crucial part during the GNLF movement, except for two or three women Councillors, not many women have played any important part in the running of the DGAHC. The question of women’s empowerment is a non-issue so far as the working of autonomy is concerned. There is thus an appreciation of what the DGHC has done, but that is outweighed by the critique of what it has not done. The main point of the critics is the lack of a dialogue among the various groups. Extreme views, subtly hinted at rather than articulated, indicate both disappointment and an atmosphere of fear. Such an atmosphere may, and perhaps does, breed distrust in the system, leading to advocacy of more extreme alternatives. Though local editions are brought out by most national newspapers, news about the hills is usually confined to the special pages

190 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY meant for north Bengal and Sikkim. This prevents outsiders from keeping a tab on such news. Newspapers generally highlight references to the issue of Gorkhaland and attempts by the opposition to unite against the GNLF. The issues of development are not given the prominence they deserve. The crisis in February/March 2005 made the national newspapers restore Darjeeling once again to the front pages. We are giving a sample of reports from the major newspapers to support this point. The leader of the Gorkha Apex Committee of Sikkim said a separate homeland for the Gorkhas was a need of the hour and urged the Sikkim Chief Minister to lead the movement for the demand (The Telegraph, 9 January 2004). The Peoples’ Democratic Front said that history would remember Ghising as a betrayer of the Gorkhas and Gorkhaland (The Telegraph, 4 January 2004). A report of a meeting of the opposition parties mentioned the leakage of the budget of the DGHC, prepared by the Hill Affairs Department, Government of West Bengal (The Statesman, 17 December 2003). We give now a few headlines: Increase in the number of the unemployed, DGHC fails to prevent it (Sunchari, 21 January 2004); Darjeeling Forward Block calls for Gorkhaland (The Statesman, 23 February 2004); ABGL to demand an explanation regarding the extension of the tenure of the DGHC by eight months (The Telegraph, 18 March 2004); Madan Tamang, the President of ABGL, accuses Ghising of accepting commission from the owners of the tea gardens (The Statesman, 22 February 2004). This issue occupied the attention of the papers for some time. But as far as I have been able to see, the Chairman is not on record challenging this, though the Party leaders strongly condemned the allegation. One report, carried by several papers, noted that Asok Bhattacharya, the Minister in charge of Hill Affairs, gave a clean chit to DGAHC, saying that there were no irregularities in the working of the Council (The Statesman, 6 March 2004). Some other reports: GNLF(C) raises Gorkhaland issue (The Statesman, 2 March 2004), DGAHC denies mid-day meal scam (The Statesman, 17 March 2004) Ghising says hill water crisis is minor (The Telegraph, 22 March 2004). During the visit of the Chief Minister another report quoted Madan Tamang as saying: “We cannot call Buddhadeb our CM” as he failed to meet the local people and met only Ghising (Sunchari, 28 March 2004). Again, a Nepali language newspaper reported GNLF(C)’s demand for Gorkhaland and CPRM’s opposition to the postponement of the DGAHC elections. At a meeting in Mirik, the PDF leaders claimed that Ghising with 65 per cent support failed to give Gorkhaland, they would give it if they were given 51 per cent support (Sunchari, 2, 17, 23 March 2004). In April, there were

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reports of protests against scarcity of water, while another item reported the freeze of funds to junior high schools under Operation Black Board by the DGHC (The Telegraph, 3, 5, 14 April 2003). In April and May, the papers were full of news about the Lok Sabha elections. After the elections and the success of the Congress candidate, the accent of reporting was on what he should now do. On 15 May, three newspapers highlighted Norbu La’s comment that he had no intention of raising the issue of Gorkhaland in Parliament (Ananda Bazaar Patrika, Sambad Pratidin and Sunchari). Yet, a day before, Nanda Hankim wrote in the Sunchari, “we have to wait and see how the new MP raises the issue of Gorkhaland.” There is an occasional return to DGAHC. “The ABGL meets the governor to demand the dissolution of the Council. It also demands enquiry into the irregularities” (The Telegraph, 22 May 2004). In June, the municipal elections monopolized attention. The GNLF retained control of Darjeeling and Kalimpong, but in Kurseong they won 10 out of 20 seats. Occasionally correspondents raised questions about the powers of the DGAHC. Krishna Pradhan asked, “Why can’t DGAHC appoint teachers? What is the meaning of autonomy then?” (Sunchari, 27 May 2004). This sampling of newspaper reports does not reveal a debate either about autonomy or about the proper functioning of the DGAHC. Let us continue with the sampling. Some news items refer to the Chairman’s natural inclination to observe and encourage religious rituals. One headline in a Bengali daily read: “Indifferent Ghising is now interested in religion” (Sambad Pratidin, 20 March 2004). The Telegraph reported the observation of Jhakri Purnima with the headline: “Superstition slur on hill Shaman show.” Opposition leaders accused him of superstition. The occasion is annually celebrated with a competition among the witch doctors and shamans, the best among them awarded with cash prizes. The Statesman referred, in a signed article by its correspondent, to the new Nightingale Park at the shrubbery behind the Raj Bhavan, where artificial birds and waterfalls provide the ambience with a huge statue of Shiva. The article noted, with tongue firmly in cheek, that the Chief Minister met Ghising in public for the first time to have tea at his invitation. The Lok Sabha elections were, of course, in the offing and Ghising had not yet announced his support for the Congress. The correspondent issued a warning, “the CM cannot ... refuse to see the all round degradation of the hills. Otherwise once again this place will erupt.” The newspapers recently reported the dropping of the word “Autonomous” from the Council’s name after two years. This prompted, as reported by the media, Madan Tamang of the

192 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY ABGL to comment that the word “Autonomous” cannot be inserted without the amendment of Article 244 of the Constitution. Another report in July mentions that Prem Lama of the Dooars Gorkha Kalyan Samiti, criticized (The Statesman, 20 August 2004) the DGAHC for neglecting the aspirations of the Gorkhas in Dooars. The leading Nepali newspaper of Siliguri carried a few articles which addressed the question of autonomy vis-à-vis Gorkhaland (Sunchari, 13, 14 September 2004). Tirthaman Rai writes that the Council, in its 16 years of existence, has become a den of corruption and nepotism and has indeed served the creamy layer in the hills. The major problems relating to drinking water, roads, hospitals, schools and colleges, and unemployment have not only not been solved, they have become worse. In another piece entitled “How far, how near is Gorkhaland,” R. D. Rai describes the Council as unconstitutional. Its administrative powers are described as inadequate, fit only to cater to small developmental work. The Council, he avers, is incapable of providing freedom to the people of Darjeeling. C. D. Sinha addresses a few practical issues relating to the demand of Gorkhaland. He writes that people expect the newly elected MP, Dawa Norbula, to raise the demand for Gorkhaland in the Parliament. Norbula has also promised to do so when the issue of Telengana is raised. But, Sinha says that TRS has 25 MLAs and five MPs. How can a lone member be as effective as they are likely to be? R. Moktan is more forthcoming: “From Gorkhasthan to Gorkhaland, from Dambar Singh to Ghising, the people of Darjeeling have not tasted freedom.” One thought that the issue was settled in 1988, but before the Lok Sabha elections in 2004, Ghising said that the issue of Gorkhaland was still alive. All other political parties in the hills, except the CPI(M), also support the cause. His conclusion is that politics thrives on issues; “if Gorkhaland is the right issue, then the Council is not.” All the parties, in his opinion, must unite to ask for Gorkhaland. This is not possible so long as the Council continues to exist. In June, Sunchari asked readers to put forward their suggestions about what the new MP should do in the Parliament, for its column, Jana Bichar. The response was huge and was carried in the paper for several days. It is important to note that of about 30 correspondents, only seven did not mention the demand of Gorkhaland. Others felt that one of the primary obligations of the MP is to raise the issue of Gorkhaland. One correspondent felt that his first duty should be to secure constitutional guarantee for the DGAHC. Others apparently did not even bring up the Council. It is curious, for nearly every participant in the discussion seems

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sensitive to the real needs of the hills. They raised the issues of the miserable state of the tea gardens and the cinchona plantations. They drew attention to the crying need of more drinking water, more power, better roads, development of tourism infrastructure, proper utilization of the botanical wealth in the hills, better opportunities for both school and college education, the need for a university for the hills, and, of course, the increasing problem of unemployment. There was an underlying assumption that these problems can be addressed only by a separate state. How far the Council, even with its limited resources, has been able to address these, or has even attempted to address these problems, is not raised at all. Thus the Council, as the embodiment of autonomy, was not even under the scanner. For eight decades, autonomy was seen as essential for development. Now even the question as to what extent the autonomy, even in a limited way, has been exercised is not asked. Does this mean that Darjeeling now lives in a vacuum, with the DGHC as a phantom institution? We need not come to such a conclusion yet. There is, it would appear, a lot of faith in the efficacy of an autonomous Council among the people. Many felt that the Council would be an experiment, but, one fears, the experiment had not been given a fair run. This is the source of many a problem. What strikes an observer is the silence. People talk privately, but not in public. People are seized of the major problems, as the Jana Bichar columns of Sunchari would indicate. But do they also ask the Councillors to address these problems? Have people discussed which problems could be solved by the Council, at least partly, given its limited resources? Which problems require the active cooperation of the state and union governments? What are the obstacles? How have the state and the union governments refused to cooperate, if they have? The debate, as we have noted earlier, is absent. It is this politics of silence that threatens to take the substance out of the autonomy debate. The DGAHC has become an end in itself; the GNLF raises the demand of Gorkhaland from time to time. Routine administrative, and to an extent, developmental work, continue. The government of West Bengal turns a deaf ear and shuts its eyes. The consensus is that the present arrangement preserves peace in the hills. This is true. Peace prevails. But the problems remain. And this may, in the end, again threaten peace. Those who believe that the mechanism of autonomy must be given a fair trial want the Act to be redrafted. Autonomy needs to be clearly defined and the powers of the Council established in terms of Constitutional sanction. This includes the power to legislate and to raise internal resources. What is essential is an open and frank debate involving all the

194 / SUBHAS RANJAN CHAKRABARTY parties concerned. The debate and the experience of the earlier decades may lead to a better understanding of what autonomy really means. The Act may be changed, even a possible amendment of the Constitution, considered. But the main point to ponder is, whether the Council, as the embodiment of the autonomy, should be given a fair trial. Finally, one may want to touch upon the problem of the equation between identity and autonomy. It is ironical that while the first century and half of Darjeeling’s existence witnessed the evolution of an inclusive Nepali identity, based to a large extent, on the Nepali language, there has emerged, over the last decade or so, a quest for the roots of one’s “tribal”/ caste identity, which includes specific languages/dialects. How is this to be fitted with the Gorkha/Nepali identity? What about the aspirations of minority groups like the Lepchas, the autochthons of the area, about their language, culture, and separate status? What bearings these may have on the future administrative-political developments in Darjeeling would be very keenly watched.

Notes I gratefully acknowledge the help, assistance, and warm hospitality I have always received from Dipankar Basu, Kumkum and Amar Rai, Menuka and Anjan Bhattacharya, U. M. Pradhan, S. Chakravarti and all other friends, colleagues, and former students in Darjeeling. 1. See Gurung (1971: 1–4); Pradhan (1982: 1–5, 1991, 2002: Part III); Sen (1989); Wangyal (2002). 2. In the Census of 1891, it was found that no less than 88,000 persons resident in the district were born in Nepal (O’Malley, 1985: 36). Also see Caplan (1970); Pradhan (1982, 1991); Regmi (1968). 3. “There was the Nepali language to express themselves with each other and lay the foundation of ‘hill ethnicity’” (Subba, 1992: 77). 4. “Your memorialists have reasons to fear that adequate funds for carrying on the administration in the district may not be voted by the new legislatures and the local services in the hills may also be swamped by the people from the plains for want of adequate representation of the hill people in the legislature” (Moktan, 2004: 97). 5. Does one notice in these repeated demands, a basic lack of trust in the nationalists in the plains into whose hands power might devolve following constitutional reforms? Some commentators, however, feel that by now one section of the elite in Darjeeling was not averse to the idea of remaining with Bengal. These demands, however, generally drew a blank. On the other hand, under the Act of 1935, which

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7.

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provided for one member in the Bengal Provincial Legislature from Darjeeling, Dambar Singh Gurung was elected to the Provincial Legislature. But the President of the Hillmen’s Association noted in 1938, that “the hill people as a minority in the province under the new constitution have not failed to realize the drawbacks and disadvantages of the present arrangement and they are now apprehensive that their social solidarity and their very existence as a community is being threatened ... their welfare is now dependent on the exigencies of party politics in the Bengal Assembly.” He raised the old demand of a North East Frontier Province comprising “the sub-Himalayan regions from the eastern frontier of Nepal to Assam.... This will form a formidable bulwark … for the protection of India.” See Chakraborty (2001: 260–64); Gurung (1971: 7–13); Kar (date not known); Subba (1992: 77–83); Wangyal (2002: 171–80). Interestingly, the Advisory Committee noted: “The dangers apprehended from inclusion within the Provincial Administration by the Darjeeling Planters’ Association that their peculiar and minority needs could never be adequately represented nor the district’s natural aptitudes be given scope for expression were not real. On the other hand the advantages to be gained from inclusion are considerable. The educated portion of the local community resented being treated differently from the educated community in other parts of Bengal and they considered that their interests had not been duly considered owing to the fact that they were unable to raise questions concerning them in the Provincial Legislative Council…. They hoped that if the district were given representation in the Provincial Council, they would stand a chance of having these needs attended to” (Report of the Constituent Assembly: 61). “The chauvinism of the advanced community … produced its reaction: the growth of local chauvinism in the minority community expressing itself in separatist demands. This is the vicious circle in which we find ourselves today. And we feel the only way out of the vicious circle is the immediate granting of autonomy.” For this section, see Chakraborty (2001); Lama (1996); Moktan (1986); Sarkar and Bhaumik (2000); Subba (1992). The following section is based on my conversations with a cross-section of the people of Darjeeling. Understandably, most of them would prefer anonymity. “How autonomous is autonomy?” Ghising supposedly asked.

8 THE

AUTONOMY IN THE NORTHEAST: FRONTIERS OF CENTRALIZED POLITICS Sanjay Barbora

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ovements for ethnic autonomy have marked the political discourse in Assam for the last decade. While some have resolutely expressed the need for more autonomy within the present administrative set-up, other movements have evolved more militant, secessionist ideas of political and geographical demarcation of territory. The autonomous districts in Assam, formed under the auspices of the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution, are a showpiece for the state’s capacity to address indigenous ethnic aspirations in the Northeast. On the face of it, these (autonomous district) councils are meant to devolve judicial, legislative, and executive powers to those upon whom it is conferred. The genesis of the Sixth Schedule is itself a question that needs special attention. The choices of the field area(s) are not coincidental. Both Karbi Anglong and the recently created Bodoland Territorial Council offer a longitudinal contrast in the application of the Sixth Schedule to specific territories and people. At the same time, the administrative logic that decreed the creation of these “autonomous” entities/territories, shows an almost naïve faith in resolving complex (and contentious) issues centered on identity. This article focuses on (a) the construction of frontiers, (b) negotiation for political space within these frontiers, and (c) the ability to redefine sovereignty, citizens, and subjects in an “autonomous” space like Karbi

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Anglong and to an extent, Bodoland Territorial Council. Karbi Anglong and Bodoland Territorial Council are in Northeast India, that truculent triangle beyond the populated Gangetic plains. Sanjib Baruah sees the work of colonial and commercial enterprise in the conversion of the area into one administrative unit (Baruah, 1999: 35–43). In a sense, this is almost taken for granted when one discusses the Northeast. However, there are important considerations involved in the construction of frontiers that need to be broadened. In the 1980s, Bodo agitators painted the words “Autonomy or death” on their bodies. This dramatic position has been the product of years of systematic mobilization of political resources of the community to interpret its marginalization as a failure of institutions of representation and participation. In 2001, the government of Assam signed a cease-fire agreement with the Bodo Liberation Tiger Force (BLTF), one of the factions of the armed groups. Subsequently, the cease-fire agreement culminated in the signing of the Memorandum of Settlement of the Bodo Territorial Council in 2003. The treaty was meant to have been a centerpiece in the conflict resolution techniques of the Indian state. Unfortunately, it has only added to ethnic polarization in the region rather than reduce violence. The Bodo (or Boro) are classified as a “plains tribe” who are now demanding territories in western Assam as their separate homeland. The territory in question is also home to various other ethnic groups, each with its own claim of being “indigenous” to the area. In addition, there are others who trace their place of origin to central India; the subHimalayan foothills of Nepal and Bhutan, the Gangetic plains, and neighboring parts of Bengal (including Bangladesh). Given such a complex ethnic composition, the demand for autonomy for the Bodo community is bound to initiate debate on the construction of adversaries of a movement that speaks for a significant ethnic minority, which participates in the political processes of a larger nation state. Karbi Anglong was created as a district in 1951. A year later it was granted the status of an Autonomous District Council. Its hilly terrain kept the region partially excluded from direct administrative control of the British government in the 19th and 20th centuries. Rather than paving the way for a successful experience of institutional autonomy for the indigenous people of the hills, this arrangement was gradually challenged by the emerging educated classes. The challenge resulted in sporadic outbursts of anger against the arrogance of the valley-based caste Hindu power brokers.

198 / SANJAY BARBORA In the 1980s, the Karbi, who constitute a shaky majority among the indigenous peoples in the territory (of the present district), the Dimasa (an indigenous group that is dominant in neighboring North Cachar Hills), and other scheduled tribes1 began agitating for greater autonomy. The agitation, once peaceful and led by a faction of the Communist Party of India (Marxist–Leninist) soon gave way to an armed struggle, which predictably underwent “splits” in the late 1980s. Political issues aside, these splits, though couched in the political language of factionalism, have resulted in numerous incidents of ethnic clashes between the Karbi and those perceived to be “encroachers” into their territory. The armed ethnic militia as well as the more moderate mainstream are however united in their desire to recreate a more pristine homeland that not only challenges the limits of the autonomy arrangement currently in place, but also seeks to find radical solutions beyond the purview of constitutional means.

The Construction of “Frontiers” Ethno-nationalist identities are important categories of identity formation in Northeast India. They constitute a peculiar version of a process that Benedict Anderson terms as an “imagining” of constituent members of a political collective (Anderson, 1991: 5–9). This process, however, is bound to be a contested by the modern nation states which see the persistence of ethnicity, though sometimes a vital link to the nation-building process, as a strategy of resistance to the control of the state. One of the reasons for the formation of such identities is the geo-political construction of “frontiers” in the 19th century and the manner in which the “frontiers” were incorporated within post-colonial nation states. The 19th century was in fact the era of expansion of capital to hitherto untrammelled landscapes such as Assam, where growth and colonization were predicated upon the movement of populations (Hobsbawm, 1995: 202–07), and creating “frontiers” became a condition peculiar to the type of economy introduced. With it, there was a visible move towards what Rumley and Minghi call the “consideration of border landscapes as a set of cultural, economic and political interactions and processes occurring in space” (Rumley and Minghi, 1991: 4). Those inhabiting regions that were not earmarked for expansion of capital and colonial administration were subjected to a position of marginality precisely because they

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constituted a new periphery. It is in this interplay between spaces and peoples that ethnicity becomes an important factor in defining subjects. The Bodo are an ethnic community comprising a number of groups speaking a more or less common language and claiming a common ancestry. They have been referred to as Kachari in the pre-colonial historiography of Assam and controlled much of present day Assam until the 12th century. Though there is some dispute as to how many sub-groups actually constitute the larger Bodo group, it is widely accepted that 18 different groups are part of the larger family mentioned above (Pulloppillil, 1997: 1–3). The homogeneity of their identity is widely contested by ethnographers and administrators alike. A census conducted by the colonial British government in 1881 listed 12 sub-groups who were collectively termed as “Bodo speaking groups,” whereas others like Endle (1883) counted as many as 15 such sub-groups. It is generally believed that these groups inhabited the fertile plains of the Luit (Brahmaputra) River in the 12th century. They moved to Karbi and North Cachar Hills in the 16th Century due to frequent skirmishes with waves of migrating groups of people, like the Tai-Ahom from the east and Indo-Aryan speaking groups from the west. According to Nath, the Aryanization of these groups began in the royal houses but did not hold much sway among the masses after the 16th century (Nath, 1986: 256). The acceptance of Hinduization by certain sections of the predominantly swidden agricultural society did create some degrees of difference among the people, the traces of which survive even today.2 Using a mix of anthropology and probabilities arising out of myths and oral history, Ajay Roy says that following “… intelligent guess work [one] does find some physiognomic and temperamental similarities between the Bodos and the present Kham tribes of Tibet” (Roy, 1995: 2). Similar refrains about the possible origin of Bodo people leads to further confusion, typical of any myth of origin that sees the Bodo as mongoloid aborigines of the Luit Valley (Swargiary, 1997: 78–80). While confusing, the multiplicity of the “origin myths” is comprehensible as an outcome of criss-crossing migration of people of different cultures in the region known as Assam today. These groups moved constantly between South Asia, Southeast Asia, and inner Asia (Saikia, 1997). It was important for these groups—of which the Bodo-speaking are one—to imagine a geography of resource use. Similarly, the present day hill district of Karbi Anglong was home to various peoples who practiced a mix of swidden and settled agriculture.

200 / SANJAY BARBORA During the pre-colonial reign of the Ahom kings, the Mikir Hills (as the region was known prior to being renamed) region offered refuge to dissidents. Since the hill regions could not support an intensive multiplecrop agricultural system, most of these people practiced swidden agriculture and supplemented it with hunting and gathering, and seasonal farming in the flood plains. Scarcity of labor and surplus pushed these groups into raiding areas where surplus was being produced which happened to be where the subjects paid taxes to the Tai-Ahom sovereign. In order to regulate these raids, the Tai-Ahom government constituted a series of grants (of land, labor, and forest resources), which served to regulate the entry and movement of the raiders on the sovereign’s domains (Devi, 1968: 35–37). In 1838 and 1854, Karbi Anglong (Mikir Hills) and North Cachar Hills came under British rule and given the topography, were clubbed together as related administrative units.3 In 1880, the territory was placed under the “Frontier Tracts” and thereafter changed to “Backward Tracts” in 1919. In 1936, it fell under the Excluded and Partially Excluded Areas Act. Given the new administrative set-up under British colonial authority, this fluid space—the hills of Karbi Anglong as well as the flood plains and foothills hugging the Luit (Brahmaputra) River—was transformed into a landscape where imaginary lines were drawn to prevent the movement of people. In the flood plains, a dubious “line system” allowed landless peasants from Bengal to settle on the lands inhabited by the Bodos (Guha, 1977: 40–45). The construction of the “frontier” was carried out simply because the colonial administration could afford to. While restricting the expansion of its influence to probable contested zones that would bring the British into conflict with the French in Indo China and the Chinese empire, British colonialism also managed to create conditions for extended ethnic conflicts. The colonial encounter transformed the social and political structures of the region. Trade routes into Southeast Asia and China were closed and new routes opened. In order to monitor and regulate the trade activities in the region, the colonial authorities constructed an all-weather road from Mangaldoi to Udalguri and moved some troops to Udalguri. In addition to these measures, they also began to accord obligatory rights to the hill tribal chiefs to maintain some degree of law and order along the trade route. Hence, seven hill chiefs, known as Sath Rajahs (seven kings) were to be paid an annual amount in return for their service as surveillance agents of the state (Moffatt Mills, 1984: 171). With the establishment of

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law and order, traders started making inroads into the region. Soon, barter gave way to monetary transactions and balance of trade favored those who used the currency of the British administration. Unlike the older generation of traders, the new traders were from different parts of the subcontinent and belonged to communities whose access to and use of capital was much higher. They started to control the wholesale trade in the Udalguri mart. Bodo and Karbi societies now underwent a profound change. Pushed out of agriculture and trading, the Bodo peasants were led to utilize the vast grasslands adjacent to the thickly forested areas north of Udalguri, and became substantially dependent on the forest and grasslands. This survival strategy worked for a while, as the Bodo-speaking farmers traded small quantities of lac and rubber obtained from the forests. However, the northward push of the merchants threatened even the livelihood from small-scale dependence on the forests. By the time the authorities began getting revenue from the forests, merchants from north India had taken control over what had become a lucrative timber trade. The Bodo-speaking peasants were thereafter barred from felling trees and extracting any resources from the vast forest region north of the river (Roy, 1995: 27–28). The Karbi, once reputed to be a mobile people who traversed the course of Southeast Asia, were sandwiched between the Doyang River and the Shillong plateau. Much of their traditional land along the Kopili and Kollong rivers was converted into tea plantations. Needless to add, the Karbi were excluded from the production process in the plantations. Culturally, the “frontier” offered great possibilities for proselytizing. Missionaries translated the Bible into Karbi and an emerging educated class among both the Karbi and the Bodo converted to Christianity (Anam, 2000: 101). With such changes, the need was also felt to establish some political space. In 1928, as the rest of the subcontinent boycotted the Simon Committee on constitutional reforms, the tribal peoples of the Northeast felt it was necessary to present their case to the Commission (Dutta, 1993: 9). Hence, during the moment of transfer of power, two simultaneous processes were seen to be working among the Karbi and Bodo peoples of the region. First, both societies were poised at the brink of tremendous change. Education and social reform had created enough aspirations for democratic rule. Many Karbi and Bodo intellectuals sympathized with the anti-colonial struggle. Second, both societies were relatively weakly positioned with respect to the aggressive decolonizing nationalist ethos prevalent at the time. This meant that while a section of Karbi and Bodo society was optimistic about the changes that were

202 / SANJAY BARBORA to come, it was still a matter of concern as to just how they would be able to negotiate their place in the post-colonial sun and to seek coherence as communities within a (new) nation state.

Negotiating for Space within the “Frontiers” In Assam, the colonial state “captured” its rural subjects by a combination of tenancy agreements and more importantly, through strict regulation of their traditional resource base. Some relations whereby a “subject,” as opposed to a “citizen,” is reproduced, continued well into the period of consolidation of the post-British Indian state. The Bodo and Karbi people had been sufficiently alienated from the major decision making processes that were to shape the course of the post-1947 state in the region. Following the transfer of power in 1947, the Interim Government of India appointed a sub-committee of the Constituent Assembly called the North-East Frontier (Assam) Tribal and Excluded Areas Sub-committee under the chairmanship of the Assamese political leader, Gopinath Bordoloi. Ostensibly this came about as the leaders of the anti-colonial struggle were sensitive to the need for adequate understanding of the situation in the Northeast, especially with regard to the growing aspirations of the tribal people. The Sub-committee, also known as the Bordoloi Committee, sought to “... reconcile the aspirations of the hill people for political autonomy with the Assam government’s drive to integrate them with the plains” (Sarmah, 2002: 91).4 The instrument of this integrative devolution of powers was embodied in the concept of the “Autonomous District Councils” designed by the Committee. This instrument was thereafter passed by the Constituent Assembly with certain modifications and it now constitutes the Sixth Schedule of the Constitution of India. Originally, the Sixth Schedule was to apply to the “tribal,” essentially, hill areas of Assam. On 25 January 1950, the Indian Constitution came into force. As would be expected from such an ambitious nation-building project, the Constitution tried to build in some safeguards for the marginalized groups in the country. For the people of the Northeast frontier, this safeguard came in the form of the Sixth Schedule of the Constitution. The provisions in the Sixth Schedule dealt mainly with the issue of safeguarding the land and customs of the hill tribes of the region. It drew upon the erstwhile “excluded and partially excluded areas” legislation of the colonial state. Yet again, the Bodo people and others were left outside the ambit of constitutional protection. The Karbi did get a semblance of a territory

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but the Sixth Schedule was not equipped to handle immigration. As cultural and social hegemony of dominant ethnic groups continued to eat into the fabric of political discourse in Assam, the tribal people were led into yet another long series of confrontations with not just the state but also the dominant groups associated with the state. The notion of “backward tribes” in the hills is a residue of the colonial notion where subjects were categorized as “primitive.” Even if one grants the committee the proverbial “benefit-of-doubt” for this, the Committee is still responsible for not addressing the issue of who constitute “tribal” groups. Implicit in this problem are marginalization and impoverishment as well as the working through of a cultural dynamic in a region where identity is a matter of life, death, and most importantly, livelihood. Hence, the persistence of a policy constituting the governed subject as something less than a citizen, struck the first discordant notes in the nation-building process in India. The effect that this has on political mobilization is quite interesting. In the numerous memoranda demanding separation from forced union, Karbi, Dimasa, and Bodo leaders have come up with images of a collective self that does not have a similar resonance in mainstream politics.5 Similarly, the Bodo educated youth had already begun to feel the need for more say in the political and economic distribution than being referred to as these “belts” and “blocks.” As early as 1933, when the All Assam Plains Tribal League was formed under the initiative of the Bodo leader Rupnath Brahma and his counterpart Bhimbor Deori, the need to reassess the condition of the Bodo-speaking peoples in the region was urgently felt. Continuing with this urge to form a consolidated political collective, the Bodo Sahitya Sabha (Bodo Literary Forum) was formed in 1952. The Forum’s main activities were to promote and protect Bodo culture and identity against the growing threat to their survival and the Bodos as a people. It also aimed to devise a “standard Bodo language” to link all the Bodo-speaking peoples in the region.6 In 1967, the educated Bodo youth also formed a student body known as the All Bodo Students Union (ABSU). In the years to come, these civic organizations would try to steer Bodo political discourse against severe threats from both internal and external forces. Similar to the memorandum submitted to the Prime Minister by the leaders of Mikir and North Cachar Hills, the Plains Tribal Council of Assam (PTCA), a body representing the various tribes living in the plains, including the Bodo, sent a memorandum to the President of India in 1967.7 The main demand of the PTCA was the federal reorganization of

204 / SANJAY BARBORA Assam. Symbolic of the fact that the decision to rationally allow for democratic federalism could not be taken by the denizens of the region, the central government in Delhi rejected the plan submitted to it. Over the next few years, this demand took a concrete shape in the agitation for a homeland for the plains tribes of Assam. This homeland was called “Udayachal.” Almost immediately, the Koch-Rajbongshi community, which shared the same spaces with the plains tribes, struck a discordant note and opposed the demand for a separate state for the scheduled tribes, in this case the Bodo and the Mishing. The Koch-Rajbongshi community was not among the scheduled tribe list and the fact that it had been Hinduized seemed to weigh against it. Soon after, dissent among the PTCA leaders saw a split in the movement, with one section renaming itself the Plains Tribal Council of Assam (Progressive) with a broader position on who ought to be considered the indigenous communities in such a proposed state. Here it is interesting to also note the differences and similarities of political mobilization in the two cases. It is a matter of concern for most Bodo academics and activists that the Bordoloi Commission chose to leave the Bodo inhabited areas outside the purview of the Sixth Schedule, choosing instead to implement the ineffectual “tribal belts or blocks” for the plains tribes of Assam (Swargiary, 1997: 80). This moment of betrayal is played out in subsequent demands for separate institutional arrangements among the Bodo people. The language movement, as it is called today, started in the 1950s, when the Bodo Sahitya Sabha (BSS) submitted a memorandum to the then Chief Minister of Assam, Bishnuram Medhi, demanding the introduction of Bodo language in the primary schools in Bodo populated areas. The government’s efforts at designing a textbook in the Bodo language were rejected by the BSS as it had a disproportionately large number of Assamese words in it. In 1963, the government of Assam recognized the use of Bodo language in the Bodo dominated areas, albeit with a catch that after a particular age, Bodo would give way to Assamese as the medium of instruction for primary school students. In a play of positions, the BSS demanded that Bodo be taught at least till the middle school level. In 1968, the state government recognized Bodo as a medium of instruction at the secondary (middle) school level. As if occurring on a parallel stage, the political movement also underwent a split with a dissident PTCA leader announcing the formation of a militant political organization that would speak for the Bodo community and also represent a wider non-Bodo, tribal outlook. It was called the United Tribal Nationalist Liberation Front (Roy, 1995: 61). However, despite the “tribal”

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nomenclature in the acronym of the political formation, it actually accepted the idea of a separate state that would be called Bodoland. A feeling of betrayal was also prevalent in the demand for an autonomous state in Karbi Anglong. Time and again, the upgradation of the Khasi, Jaintia, and Garo hills to a full-fledged state is cited as the moment of reckoning for the people of Karbi Anglong (Ingti, 1999: 65). That the leaders from Karbi Anglong and North Cachar Hills decided to stay away from forming a separate state and thought it in their best interest not to merge with Meghalaya, is often explained as prudent bargaining on their part, by those seeking to provide the movement with a teleology. Following a period of lull in political activities, the Autonomous State Demand Committee (ASDC) was formed in 1986. Since its inception it was poised as an anti-Congress formation led mainly by students who had participated in the Assam agitation and felt sidelined by the caste-Hindu student leaders from the valley. The provisions for creating another state that would sever Karbi Anglong and North Cachar Hills was always a possibility given Article 244(A) of the Indian Constitution.8 However, political maneuvres resulted in periodic clashes of interest between the Congress and the Communist Party of India (Marxist-Leninist) led ASDC. It is, therefore, interesting to quickly telescope the two cases and compare their effect on the politics of the region. This would centrally entail looking at the autonomy arrangements themselves and see if they address the issue of rights that are central to the political constellations that demand autonomy. It is of great interest to reiterate that the dominant tendency in Karbi Anglong points towards the “lack of autonomy” under the Sixth Schedule, whereas most of the political actors in the Bodo movement are today speaking about something on the lines of what exists in Karbi Anglong by asking for a Bodoland Territorial Council. What is it about the institutions that are supposed to guarantee autonomy that makes them obsolete and ineffective in one context and allows them to assume mythical conflict resolution properties in another?

Sovereignty, Citizenship, and Subjects: Autonomous Institutions or Governance The Karbi comprise 63.36 per cent of the total hill (scheduled) tribe population in Assam. The territory of the autonomous district (Karbi Anglong) has been redefined over time. In the elections to the Executive

206 / SANJAY BARBORA Council in 1989, the ASDC won as many as 22 of the 26 seats. In its election manifesto, its leader Jayanta Rongpi stated that the objective of his party and the movement it had established was to “achieve more decentralization of ... power and restore them ... to the people of the region through the formation of an Autonomous State” (ASDC, 1989). He further went on to assure other ethnic groups in Karbi Anglong that the movement was not hostile to non-Karbis and promised to check the violence among the different ethnic groups living in the territory. In June 2000, members of the United Peoples Democratic Front—an ethnic militia comprising militant Karbi youth—attacked Hindi-speaking agriculturalists in Hamren sub-division of Karbi Anglong. The settlers, armed and aided by the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF), attacked Karbi villages, looting and killing many Karbi farmers in retaliation (MASS, AMSM, NPMHR, 2002). Such violence continued through 2001 and 2002. In 2003, a fresh series of ethnic conflicts erupted mainly due to the divisions between the Kuki9 and Karbi communities around the area of Singhason Hills. In March 2004, members of a Karbi militia allegedly killed six Kuki ginger cultivators who had refused to pay them the taxes they demanded. In retaliation, members of the Kuki Revolutionary Army (a Kuki ethnic militia), raided three villages and killed as many as 30 Karbi farmers. These events read like an indictment of the autonomy arrangement. Under the aegis of the Sixth Schedule, a district council comprising 30 members has to be elected in any area notified as an autonomous region by the governor of the state who also gets to select four of the members. It should also be noticed that it is the governor who has the final say in the creation and dissolution of the council. The district council can hardly be seen as financially autonomous either. Apart from a meager sum from business and commercial enterprises and land revenues, it has to finance itself with help from the district and regional funds which are endowed and managed by the governor. The powers of the autonomous councils are varied, but it is in their capacity to regulate land transfer that they exercise their most interesting discretionary powers. The Sixth Schedule follows the colonial policy of allowing land in the hills to be under “community ownership” and hence fall outside the revenue scheme. However, by 1979, the overwhelming logic of doing away with community property was noticed in a notification wherein private property was not only acknowledged but also encouraged (District Council Notification, 1979). In that sense, the councils and village chiefs have become the most likely figures of authority to be able to grant and renew leases and land titles.

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This leaves open the space for political manipulation, wherein it has been known that village chiefs, who belong to one or the other political party, try and push the leases (or titles) of their party members if a friendly party dominates the executive council. This discrepancy between formal rules of the game and informal occurrences, and the tension between valorizing “tribal tradition and community” and undermining community by extending the logic of private property, all contribute to violent and aggrieved reactions. In 2003, a publication of the United Peoples Democratic Solidarity stated their demands couched in the progressive discourse of indigenous rights and well within the juridical limits of the Constitution.10 The demands, however, have an underlying logic of excluding people from an imaginary pristine homeland (Hemprek) that might have existed at the moment preceding contact with the colonizers. Today, after many rounds of ethnic clashes and military operations affecting a great number of people, the demand for an autonomous state seems to have lost steam largely due to recurring splits within the movement and the obfuscation of issues under electoral politics. In 1999, leaders of an armed opposition group—the Bodo Liberation Tigers (BLT)—declared a unilateral cease-fire and openness to negotiation with the government. In response, the government agreed to create a territorial council under the Sixth Schedule for an area demarcated in consultation with representatives of the Bodo groups and the government of Assam. Almost immediately, non-Bodo groups launched a massive agitation claiming that such a move would not only encourage more ethnic clashes, but also lead to evictions and population transfers from the proposed area. The story of these internal rifts, however, predates the 1999 cease-fire announcement. In 1988, the Bodo Peoples Action Committee (BPAC) was formed to incorporate all the different tendencies within the Bodo movement. However, this could not stop the rupture within the ranks of the Bodo movement. The central government intervened and initiated a tripartite talk among the ABSU-BPAC combine, the government of Assam, and the central government itself in 1989. In the manner of throwing a bone to the Assam government, the central government said that further division of Assam would not be carried out, but pressed upon the Assam government to accept some of the secondary issues around which the movement had managed to gain ground. The government of Assam accepted the suggestion of the central government. It was the use of, the classic divisionary tactic that sought to provide the same benefits

208 / SANJAY BARBORA to other plain tribes of the state could divide the popular movements in Assam.11 After eight rounds of talks, the government of India proposed an expert committee in 1990, to examine and demarcate the areas of the Bodo and other plains tribes of Assam to make recommendations on autonomy. The Committee submitted a report with a proposal to grant maximum autonomy to the Bodos short of a separate state within the Indian Union, which the BPAC-ABSU leaders resolutely rejected. However, the recommendations did contain some concrete points over which the leaders could come to a compromise. The main issue remained that of the inclusion of a certain number of villages within the proposed homeland. While a section of the Bodo leaders insisted on as many as 4,443 villages, the state government offered another sop saying that it would be the contiguity of the region that would determine the basis of the creation of an autonomous Bodo territory, wherein villages in which Bodos constituted even a mere one per cent of the tribal population would be included within a compact territorial area. A section of the BPAC-ABSU leadership debated the issue and came up with a counter demand where an additional 1,035 villages were to be added to any proposed autonomous territory. The issue was referred back to the central government. In 1993, the central government brought together the Bodo leaders— who had sent frequent feelers for an honorable resolution to the conflict— and the government of Assam to sign on what came to be known as the “Bodo Accord.” The Accord created the “Bodoland Autonomous Council” (BAC) that was to comprise an area covering 2,000 villages and 25 estates stretching from the Sakosh River to Mazbat Pasnoi on the north bank of the river Luit (Brahmaputra), via a government of Assam notification (Bodoland Autonomous Council Act, 1993). The area also included reserved forests as per the guidelines laid by the Ministry of Defence and the Ministry of Environment, Government of India. The actual difficulty in the demarcation of the boundary continued to be the relentless opposition of the non scheduled tribal population living in the area. A considerable number of people residing in the said area, especially the time-expired indentured laborers who left the tea plantations, were classified as “scheduled tribes” outside Assam. On the other hand, there was also an internal split of the political discourse within the Bodo community, with an armed section declaring the Accord to be a “sell-out” of the original goal of an ethnic homeland for the Bodo community. A more militant armed opposition group, called the Bodo Security Force,12 denounced the Accord and vowed to continue

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what it perceived as the resistance to colonialism (Roy, 1995: 76). Importantly, the armed oppositional activities began to articulate the idea of self-determination for the Bodo-speaking people including complete and total secession from India. The rejection of the Indian Constitution marks a paradigm shift of sorts in the movement. Although it is difficult to assess the efficacy and successes of such a political strategy, given the fact that it is proscribed, one can say that this radical ethno-nationalist voice is an important subtext in the political discourse in the region (Baruah, 1999: 6–8). It projects into the Bodo imagination a vicarious notion of what forms of institutions of collective action it could reproduce. Following the transfer of power, civic mobilization within the plains tribes of Assam, concentrated on civil disobedience to state explicitly the cultural basis of economic deprivation. The Bodo groups were perhaps more organized than their other tribal counterparts. They were already capable of using the constitutional machinery at various points of the agitation. However, abstentions from armed opposition defined the future scope of action. Both armed factions soundly repudiated the formation of the BAC, though their positions were considerably different. The National Democratic Front of Bodoland (NDFB) had an ideological problem with the idea of a “deal” that diluted the movement for selfdetermination. Since the year 1996, the BLTF and NDFB had been engaged in a series of internecine wars where they targeted each other’s cadre and sympathizers. In 1996, the BLTF killed a prominent woman activist claiming that her organization was working as a front for the NDFB.13 This sent a message to the other group that such acts of violence could be justified. It also brought about a flurry of accusations and counter accusations about the role of the state in arming the BLTF to annihilate the supporters of the other armed opposition group (Dainik Janambhoomi, 25 November 1998). The faultlines between the two groups spilled over into the public sphere as well. It was obvious that a section of Bodo political opinion, especially the students and the literary bodies, favored a settlement brokered by the central government where they would gain more resources and control the ethnic competition with other groups. Indeed, one of the most disturbing aspects of the armed struggle for any variety of autonomy in the Bodo inhabited areas is, the fact that successive episodes of violence make it look like a campaign for ethnic cleansing of the area. The debate on what constitutes the historically demarcated Bodo areas and the contemporary demographic realities continues unabated.

210 / SANJAY BARBORA This adds a potentially intractable angle to the question of who “belongs” to a particular version of the “national space.”14 Echoing a concern along these lines, Biswas and Bhattacharjee state that “(ethnic) movements in the Northeast can be understood in terms of a contest over greater social, political and cultural spaces, the spaces in which the ethnic communities were not hitherto represented. This nonrepresentation is further explained within the contexts of rights, power and authority, which cause ethnocentric concerns to find their expression in contestations in many possible ways” (Biswas and Bhattacharjee, 1994: 232–45). Here, contestation of the Other assumes the form of characterizing it in terms of an undifferentiated constitutional concept of citizenship where the Constitution does not recognize the claims of an identity in separation from others as represented within the nation and the state. This contrast between the statist view and collective aspirations is sharpened through a number of mediating steps undertaken by the state that apparently negotiate the variegated representations between communities in spaces within the concept of the nation. The ethnic polarization in the Bodo areas can be located in the lack of a mediating measure that can accommodate the different positions. Splits within the movement are a prime example of the ad hoc policies of the state. The persistence of colonial tones in the political structures in the region accounts for one aspect of the ends towards which the government strives, that of political and territorial unity. In the process, the Indian state’s propensity to carve out states to satisfy the political elite might suggest that it is more “tolerant” of ethnic aspirations. However, the fact that it has a definite “ethnic agenda” of its own, one that is shaped by policy machines that are not “ethnically neutral,” is a condition that negates the provisional safeguards in its Constitution.15 It is also interesting to note that the persistence of ethnic identity, as a part of (or parallel to) the growth of modern institutions such as literary bodies and students associations, is not peculiar to the Northeast. In the case of the Bodo and Karbi struggle, an important tendency accompanying the cultural revivalist and economic deprivation tendencies was the use of physical force.16 As some theorists argue, rather than decrease ethnic heterogeneity, modernization tends to increase it in many ways (Olzak and Nagel, 1986: 1–14). However, in the Northeast, this process follows a set pattern where groups consolidate around issues of cultural unity, engage with the state for some concessions, and the outcome is

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often intractability and violence (Barbora, 2002: 1287). This is woven in with the hard realities of fighting for political and, as the case shows, geographical space within contested territories such as “frontiers.” There, thus, appears a pattern to ethno-nationalist demands for autonomy in the Northeast, and a lack of institutional ability to handle these demands. Most political demands for self-determination are centrally linked to the idea of a distinct identity of an ethnic group. The manner in which this identity consciousness is articulated has been the subject of discussion. Against this backdrop, much of what appear to be guarantees of autonomy compatible with the aspirations of given groups of people within the framework of the Constitution, or even within international law, can actually be seen as a condensed body of intricate political negotiation. In essence, these negotiations are supposed to appear as processes that lead to further democratization of society and politics. In the Indian context, this idea was supposed to form the core of the federal ethos of the republican tradition. Hence, provisions like the Sixth Schedule, Article 371A and even the recent Panchayati Raj Bill are seen as efforts to ensure the devolution of powers of administration and governance to the grassroots. Yet, in the manner in which power filters down, it leaves more questions than answers in its wake. One senses in all this, the overwhelming concerns of the centralized state in losing its locus as the sovereign fount of law and administrative processes. Indian democracy is defined by its Constitution inasmuch as by a particular notion of the rule of the “majority.” On the one hand, a “Statist” view asserted that it was the individual citizen, rather than amorphous collectives, who was the backbone of the state. This view that the individual’s loyalties as a citizen of the state supersede her or his loyalty to other identities is constantly being challenged by a second discourse that is articulated against the backdrop of inadequate representation in matter of governance and administration. It would be tempting to see the persistence of primordial identities in the shaping of demands for autonomy in such a situation. However, it would help to see some political leverage at work here. The definition of an indigenous collective self is meant to challenge a “settler” nation state. In both cases, indigenous cultures within postcolonial societies find themselves excluded from the decision-making processes that are central to the state. Their subsequent declaration of separation from a “mother body” based on an implicit declaration of peoplehood based on genealogy and descent ties functions “not only as other

212 / SANJAY BARBORA sub-national units do in, say, the assertion of ethnicity, but point to the history of pre-contact and raise questions about legal and moral legitimacy of the present national formation” (Murray, 1997: 1). In this significant development, one sees that ethnicity and notions of ethnic contiguities begin to change almost as soon as the community sees itself as the purveyor of a smaller national space. In just a matter of two or three decades, the organic solidarity of the groups classified as plains tribes as opposed to caste Assamese society changed to one of mutual distrust and competition between groups who are placed on the same social and economic plane. Central to both discourses are certain principles that govern the quest for autonomy. Autonomy and autonomous institutions have not delivered justice. Hence, it is rare to find an instance where autonomy has sought to work on the principle of restitution, by acknowledging that an injustice has been committed, or that some form of reconciliation is called for. Moreover, autonomy, as framed within a statist discourse, does not address the issue of control of resources, finances, and costs of running autonomous territories in a comprehensive manner. When it does, as in the Sixth Schedule, it seems ineffectual and laden with contradictions that make the principle of custodianship appear more like a managerial policy. As long as autonomy arrangements are seen as a tool to manage the political demands of people in the region, there will always be problems with their implementation. For every instance where an ethnic group is promised autonomy, there will remain others who will claim to be aggrieved by that arrangement. As one has seen in the case of Karbi Anglong, where an autonomous council already exists, it is hardly a guarantee that such models can be upgraded to include other ethnic groups and/or economic and political developments. If anything, it is seen as an impediment and a “Trojan Horse” that leads to further loss of lands for the indigenous people. For example, in a bid to solve an immediate crisis arising out of ethnic conflicts, political and public opinion waste no time in calling for armed intervention by the army and the police. This is self-defeating, to say the least. Where these autonomy arrangements are bestowed as a “peace measure” as in Bodoland, they have only worsened the ethnic and political relations between Bodos and others who share the same space. Academic concerns have to take these factors into consideration if any intervention or mitigation strategies are to be thought of.

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Notes The chapter draws in part on an earlier work which was supported by the Swiss National Centre of Competence in Research (NCCR) North–South: Research Partnerships for Mitigating Syndromes of Global Change. 1. “Scheduled tribes” are those that appear in the scheduled tribe list of the Indian Constitution. This rather fixed categorization seems at odds with the dynamic process of recreation of identities in the hills of Northeast India. Groups once classified with generic appellations with one tribe during colonial times, today vehemently claim their distance from those they were arbitrarily linked with. Hence, the embarrassing colonial categorization of the “Kuki-Naga” today stands in stark opposition to “Kuki” and “Naga” identities. 2. Hence one sees the dominant Bodo students’ organization—All Bodo Students Union (ABSU)—delineate those who it considers to be of the same racial stock but not among the ethnic claimants of a Bodo territory because they “have completely forgotten the language” (ABSU, 1987: 11–15). ABSU is referring to the Rajbongshi ethnic group who inhabit parts of north Bengal and western Assam. The Rajbongshi say that they belong to the Hindu fold, whereas the Bodos cannot make such an unambiguous claim. 3. It mattered a great deal that the hills were clubbed together for administrative purposes. This becomes an important political consideration when autonomy, or separate state arrangements are being worked out in the post-colonial milieu. The political logic of creating new states and autonomous districts seems to favor an arrangement wherein a people are seen to “naturally” inhabit a given space, like a hill range. So, while the clubbing together of the two hill districts might have given the Karbi (and Dimasa) a relative advantage, it is only expected that the Bodos (who lived in mixed populated areas along the plains) would feel appropriately bitter in the years to come. 4. Sarmah’s assessment of the constitutional safeguards and the context in which they evolved are comprehensive but they do not deal with the dynamics of social movements within such regimes. 5. In a petition to the Prime Minister of India in 1973, leaders of the Mikir and North Cachar Hills stated: “… there is an indisputable case for constitution of a separate state for Mikir and North Cachar Hills together with the contiguous tribal areas. Only by this means they (we) will be able to exist unhampered, preserve and develop their (our) entities, languages, cultures and ways of life and at the same time be in tune with the mainstream of national life, to sail the wide ocean that is India and not be restricted to the backwaters of the Brahmaputra valley.” The memorandum demanding a separate state comprising the Mikir Hills, North Cachar Hills, and the Contiguous Tribal Areas in Assam, was signed by P. K. Gorlosa and S. R. Thaosen, Secretary and President respectively, of an action committee of the Mikir and North Cachar Hills Leaders’ Conference in Haflong in June 1973.

214 / SANJAY BARBORA 6. Bodo-speaking peoples are dispersed all over the region. The Dimasa, speak a variant of Bodo as do the indigenous peoples of Twipra (Tripura). Rather than suggest a pan-Bodo identity, the BSS move seems to suggest that Bodo-speaking people traversed the course of the region at different points in time. There is an implicit agreement that the geographical and political boundaries of a Bodo homeland are limited to western Assam. 7. The memorandam stated: “… the bitter experience of the last 20 years of independence has given rise to a firm conviction among the tribals of Assam that the Assam government is not interested in giving adequate protection to tribal land. It has deliberately rehabilitated refugees from East Pakistan in tribal Belts and Blocks areas, given settlement to the non-tribal encroachers … (in) gross violation of provisions of the Belts and Blocks.” The Plains Tribals’ Council of Assam was formed to articulate the demands of the tribal people living in the “tribal belts and blocks” in the Luit Valley. This memorandum was addressed to the then President of India, Zakir Hussain, on 20 May 1967. Biruchan Doley, Samar Brahma Choudhury, Charan Narzary, Praful Bhabara, and Ajit Basumatary were office bearers of the organization and signed the said memorandum in Kokrajhar town in Assam. 8. Article 244(A) recognizes that some states can be created by upgrading existing autonomous districts and councils. This was true especially in the case of the formation of the state of Meghalaya and has been retained exclusively for Karbi Anglong and North Cachar Hills. 9. Some political commentators say that the Kuki were actually “invited” to settle in Karbi Anglong by politicians following ethnic conflict between Naga and Kuki peoples in Manipur in 1992. The idea was to use the Kuki as a “vote bank” during Council elections. 10. To quote: “… (therefore) our substantive demands are: 1). Full restoration of land rights to the tribal traditional authority—namely the sarthe, 2). Full political security to the indigenous tribes and complete disfranchisement of non-tribal infiltrators who have settled within the territory after 1951, 3). Complete control over law, order and justice, 4). Complete control over natural and human resources of the territory and 5). Complete authority over all financial and developmental matters (and) direct access to the financial and economic authorities of India.” Excerpt taken from: UPDS, 2003. 11. One cannot expect this to be a magnanimous and enlightened gesture on the part of the Assam government, given the fact that it was probably aware that the discursive politics of ethnic homelands in the region had already become exclusionary. 12. This organization was later renamed the National Democratic Front of Bodoland and continues its armed activities against the state. 13. The activist, Ms Golapi Basumatary, was a well known and respected activist who was the General Secretary of the Bodo Women’s Justice Forum and was a known figure not only in the Bodo areas but in other parts of Assam as well.

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The killing of human rights activists, trade union leaders, and others who try to use democratic spaces to articulate dissent, is a deliberate state policy in Assam, according to reports of voluntary human rights groups (MASS, 1999). 14. Analyzing the exigencies of a “white nation(al)” space, Ghassan Hage points to the incongruous similarities between a white supremacist fantasy about what and who controls a particular political landscape in the contested terrain of Australian politics. Although the context is entirely different in Bodoland, the process of systematic creation of a well-worn political path that precludes other ethnic groups in a multi-ethnic social milieu, has some uncanny resonance in Bodo political discourse. See Hage (1998: 16–28). 15. This view is often reinforced by the support that settlers receive in areas where the potential and realities of ethnic conflict are common occurrences. For many indigenous rights activists in the Northeast, the Sixth Schedule seems like a “Trojan Horse” for greater centralization that would allow the state to fill up the lands (belonging to indigenous persons) with ethnically acceptable groups (MASS, ASMS, NPMHR, 2002). Also see the “Introduction” in Brown and Ganguly (1997: 7–19). 16. Conflict managers often say that there is a political nexus between student associations, armed opposition groups, and cultural and political organizations. This diversionary rhetoric does not take into consideration the absurdity of a group of small, albeit militant, youth posing a national security threat, when all such display of militancy actually seems to be aimed at protecting a small community against domination.

9 AUTONOMY IN THE NORTHEAST: THE HILLS OF TRIPURA AND MIZORAM Subir Bhaumik and Jayanta Bhattacharya

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ripura and Mizoram are neighboring states located in the far southern corner of India’s troubled Northeast, that have little in common. Mizoram’s terrain is almost wholly hilly, but for a small stretch of plains bordering Assam. Tripura has a large hill region but one that is encircled on three sides by very fertile plains that merge into the flat lowlands of neighboring Bangladesh. The valleys located between its mountain ranges are also very fertile and control over the surplus produced there and in the flatlands of neighboring Chakla-Roshanabad (now in Bangladesh) gave Tripura’s kings the economic sinews for supporting an army and an administration needed to run their small empire. Tripura’s Manikya royal house was one of the oldest royal families in eastern India. Mizoram, formerly Lushai or Mizo Hills, was a land of small tribal chieftains and could never boast of anything like a royalty. Its polity was dominated by chiefs who practiced head-hunting up until the end of the 19th century. Bengali was the official language of the Tripura court and Rabindranath Tagore was a close friend of the state’s royal family—something that influenced Tripura’s cultural evolution in sharp contrast to much of the rest of the Northeast. Politically, Tripura remained an independent princely state, while the Lushai Hills were conquered by the British and made part of their all-India empire.

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Mizoram’s modern culture is largely influenced by the West and the Church. Tribalism dominates Mizoram’s politics, with smaller tribes like the Lais, the Maras, the Chakmas, and the Brus pitted against the dominant Lushais or Mizos. Three of these tribes—Lais, Maras, and Chakmas— have autonomous district councils named after the tribe. Other tribes such as the Hmars and the Brus (Reangs in Tripura) are demanding the creation of similar autonomous councils for themselves. Thus, Mizoram is a case of smaller tribes struggling to preserve their distinct way of life against one big tribe. Tripura’s politics has been largely dominated by the battle of ideologies between the Congress and the Left until the late 1960s when ethnicity began to influence it. But instead of promoting splintered tribal identities, the marginalized tribespeople of Tripura, faced with the ever-increasing Bengali transmigrant population, have projected a wider generic identity that is a contradiction in terms with the limited boundary of the tribe and the clan. “Upajati” means tribe or subrace, but the use of the word by regional parties or the autonomous council established in the 1980s did not undermine the projection of a generic identity by the tribespeople of Tripura. The Tripura Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council seeks to address “tribals” as an overarching identity, not limited by the ethnic boundary of the individual tribes. Regional parties and rebel groups in Tripura are aggressively promoting the “Borok” (man) as a post-tribal identity opposed to the “Upajati” (tribal) identity and they demand that the Autonomous Council be renamed as Borok Areas Territorial Council. The now dominant Bengali settlers address the “tribals” as “Upajati” but in the self perception of a tribal, or many of them, he or she is a “Borok” as against a Bengali. In the process, the language and culture of the dominant Tripuri tribe that gave the state its ruling clan for centuries is emerging as the bedrock of the “Borok” identity, submerging smaller identities like those of the Reangs or the Halams. This has led to some tensions but one that is subsumed by the larger contradiction between the Bengali and the tribespeople. So, in a way, the situation in Tripura is much more akin to the neighboring Chittagong Hill tracts of Bangladesh than the neighboring state of Mizoram. In the Chittagong Hill tracts, more than two decades of insurgency followed by a continuous struggle to protect tribal lands and identity against constant inflow and settlement of Bengali populations has led to the emergence of the “Jumma” identity, one that subsumes the

218 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA distinct identity of the Chakmas, Marmas, or the Tripuris. The ethnic divide exists, but the Jumma identity has largely managed to integrate it. There is hardly any Bengali influx that the tribespeople of Mizoram have to worry about. Unlike in Tripura or Chittagong Hill tracts, where the valleys between the mountain ranges provide for huge flat lowlands—a perpetual attraction for the Bengali peasant—Mizoram’s terrain is suited for tribes practicing slash and burn agriculture (jhum in local parlance) rather than Bengali farmers who prefer low wetlands. The prime concern of the smaller tribes is either to protect their autonomy and make it more meaningful to ward off hegemonic tendencies of the dominant Mizo tribe, or, as in the case of the Brus and the Hmars, to secure an autonomy like the one enjoyed by the Lais, the Maras, and the Chakmas. This chapter traces the distinctive evolution of the institutional and administrative structure of autonomy in Tripura and Mizoram, and examines the difference in the nature of autonomy in place in the two states, the problems faced by the autonomous councils, the key issues involved in the exercise of autonomy and the way in which the “autonomy question” is influencing the politics of the respective states.

Mizoram: Autonomy, Statehood, and Autonomy The Lushai Hills District (now Mizoram) was administered as an Excluded Area under the Government of India Act, 1935. The Assam Governor was the ultimate authority in administering the Lushai Hills District but the Superintendent of the District ran the day-to-day administration. As the prospect of British withdrawal from the subcontinent drew near, a small but articulate neo-literate middle class—largely the product of missionary education—became increasingly assertive in the Lushai Hills. On 9 April 1946, they formed the Mizo Union as a political organization with the avowed objective of curbing the huge influence of the Mizo chiefs. The Bordoloi Committee, in the course of drawing up its recommendations for the administration of the hill areas of Northeast India, visited Aizawl in April 1947. It solicited the views of a cross-section of Mizo society—Chiefs, Mizo Union leaders, church leaders, government officials, and ex-soldiers—on the future administrative arrangement of the Lushai Hills District. Since the Mizos had no representation in the Indian

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Constituent Assembly, the Bordoloi Committee co-opted two Mizo Union leaders, Khawtinkhuma and Saprawanga . Though a large section of the Mizo chiefs was interested in merging the Lushai Hills with Burma, the Mizo middle class was clearly interested in staying in India with an autonomous arrangement that would give them a role to run their own affairs. “The keen desire of the Mizos to link up their political life with Assam on the one hand and the fear of being submerged on the other could be reconciled within the framework of autonomous existence under the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution” (Prasad, 1987). After the Indian Constitution became operative in 1950, the Assam government initially set up some interim tribal advisory councils, one for each of the hill districts of the province. The Lushai Hills District Advisory Council had a strength of 35 elected members. This Advisory Council provided the Mizos the first exposure to self-governance. But Gopinath Bordoloi was quick to realize that while the Mizos were keen on autonomy within Assam, the smaller tribes in the Lushai Hills were keen on some kind of self-rule as well because they resented Mizo domination. So, in 1951, the Assam government set up the Pawi-Lakher Regional Advisory Council to placate the Pawis (now Lais), the Lakhers (now Maras), and other smaller tribes like the Chakmas. The advisory councils were later abolished after the Assam government promulgated the Sixth Schedule by framing the Assam Autonomous District (Constitution of District Councils) Rules 1951 and the Pawi-Lakher (Constitution of Regional Councils) Rules 1952. The Mizo Hill District Council was constituted on 25 April 1952 and the Pawi-Lakher Regional Council was set up exactly a year later. This was the only region in India’s Northeast where the experiment of a two-tier autonomy structure was tried out. Gopinath Bordoloi and other members of his Constituent Assembly Sub-committee had a fairly clear idea of the big tribe/small tribes divide, which is why they worked on providing the smaller tribes like the Pawis and the Lakhers the regional council as a distinct entity but one that was cleverly entwined with the Mizo Hills District Council. This became the administrative and autonomy model for the Mizo Hills. Later, when the Mizo District Council was upgraded to the status of an Union Territory under the Northeast Reorganization in 1972, the Pawis, the Lakhers, and the Chakmas were provided with three separate district councils. Since Mizoram was made a full state of the Indian Union in 1987, the Pawis (Lais), Lakhers (Maras), and the Chakmas have demanded that the Indian government should create a Union Territory by merging the three district

220 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA councils. They have formed a Union Territory Demands Committee to press for the demand (Memorandum to Indian Prime Minister, 2000). So Mizoram presents a unique example of a district council graduating to a full-fledged state of the Indian Union and regional councils meant for smaller tribes becoming autonomous District Councils. The evolution of autonomy in Mizoram has been based on the simple quid pro quo that was brilliantly elucidated by the late Indian Prime Minister, Rajiv Gandhi: “If as a tiny minority, Mizos expect justice from India, they should be prepared to be fair and just to smaller minorities like the Chakmas” (Gandhi, 1987). But the autonomy arrangement clearly did not satisfy the Mizo’s aspirations for self-rule. Long after the Mizo Hills District Council had been created, the middle class in the hill district was clearly dissatisfied with the extent of powers the Council enjoyed. The Mizo Union which held power in the District Council for more than 18 years complained in a memorandum to the Indian government of the “stepmotherly treatment meted out to the Mizo Hills” which, it said “was responsible for the unfortunate feeling of discontent that we are being treated as second-class citizens.” The memorandum made it clear that “it would be impossible to remove this feeling unless the political aspirations of the Mizo people are fulfilled through the early creation of the Mizo state” (Mizo Union memorandum, 1965). The discontent snowballed into a major groundswell of anger during the Mautam (Great Rat Famine) in the mid-1960s. The Assam government did not heed the warnings of the Mizo elders about the impending famine caused by the abnormal growth of rodent population every 50 years which destroyed the food stocks and the farms all across the Mizo Hills. The weak-to-indolent response of the Assam government convinced most Mizos that the autonomy arrangement meant little during a crisis such as the Rat Famine. The Mizo National Front (MNF) capitalized on the anguish of the people to draw recruits for its armed wing. On the last day of February 1966, the MNF started its armed campaign for independence. For 20 years, the MNF took the center-stage of Mizo politics, eclipsing the moderates of the Mizo Union who were upset with Assam but still argued for continued union with India. To blunt the MNF’s separatist campaign, the Indian government unleashed a powerful counter insurgency campaign. The liberation of Bangladesh deprived the MNF of its trans-border bases and considerably weakened the movement. On the political front, Delhi decided to further weaken the MNF movement and reinforce the position of the Mizo moderates by elevating the Mizo Hills District to

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a Union Territory through the North-Eastern Areas (Reorganization) Act 1971. In January 1972, Mizoram became a Union Territory with its own 33-member legislature, finally severed from Assam. The Mizo Hills District Council was abolished. The Commissioner of Mizoram passed a number of orders transferring the assets and liabilities of the District Council to the Union Territory government. Provisions were also made for the continued effect of the laws made by the District Council. The elevation of Mizoram to a Union Territory prompted the Pawis (Lais), Lakhers (Maras), and the Chakmas to demand greater autonomy for their areas. On 7 September 1971, the leaders of the three tribes submitted a memorandum to the Indian government demanding the creation of a Union Territory for their areas. Though this was rejected by the Indian government, Delhi agreed to create three Autonomous District Councils under the Sixth Schedule. Accordingly, three autonomous councils for the Pawis (Lais), Lakhers (Maras), and the Chakmas were created on 2 April 1972. Under Paragraph 205 of the Sixth Schedule, the three autonomous councils superseded the Pawi-Lakher Regional Council. The Chakma Autonomous District Council was a new creation with headquarters at Chawngte, the Pawi one was headquartered at Lawngtlai, and the Lakher one was located at Saiha. The Lieutenant Governor of the Union Territory of Mizoram specified the strength of the three councils. The Pawi (Lai) Autonomous District Council would have 14 members, 12 elected and 2 nominated; the Lakher (Mara) 10 members, 9 elected and 1 nominated; and the Chakma 9 members, 8 elected and 1 nominated. The names of the Pawi and the Lakher Autonomous District Councils were changed to Lai and Mara Autonomous District Councils respectively, through a Constitutional Amendment in 1988, after Mizoram became a full state of the Indian Union. Constituted under the Sixth Schedule, the three district councils have substantial executive, legislative, financial, and judicial powers. They can make laws regarding (a) allotment, occupation, and use or setting apart of land other than land in reserved forests, for the purpose of agriculture or grazing or residential purposes or for non-agricultural purposes or any other purpose likely to promote the interests of villages or towns, (b) management of any forest, not being a reserved forest, within the autonomous council area, (c) use of any canal or water course for the purpose of agriculture, (d) regulation of the practice of jhum (shifting cultivation) or any other form of shifting cultivation, (e) establishment of village and town committees or councils and the regulation of any other

222 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA matter relating to village or town administration, ( f ) running the village or town police, (g) matters of public health and sanitation and maintenance of facilities, (h) regulation of inheritance of property, marriage, divorce, and social customs, (i) constitution of village councils or courts for trial of suits and cases between parties (but only those belonging to Scheduled Tribes), ( j ) establishment, construction, and management of primary schools, dispensaries, markets, cattle sheds, ferries, fisheries, roads, road transport, and waterways, and (k) assessment and collection of land revenue. With a view to encourage local participation in development, the Mizoram government has also entrusted 20 additional functions to the district councils for execution. The autonomous district councils can also prescribe the medium of instruction in the primary schools. They can set up village council courts, subordinate district council courts, and district council courts in the autonomous areas for the adjudication or trial of cases under customary laws. But customary laws will only apply if both parties are tribals. The district council courts are courts of appeal for all cases tried at the village council courts or the subordinate district council courts. Only the High Court and the Supreme Court have jurisdiction over suits and cases tried by the district council courts. The district councils are authorized to create their own funds and frame rules for their management with the approval of the governor. They enjoy mutually exclusive powers to collect land revenue, levy and collect taxes on land holdings, shops, goods at the point of entering into markets and through various forms of tolls. The district councils have concurrent powers to collect tax on professions, trade, callings, employment, animals, vehicles, huts, passengers and goods carried in ferries, and a few other heads. But in Mizoram, the district councils have come under criticism for failing to exercise their powers in enacting laws on all subjects assigned to them. Yet, the district councils in Mizoram have provided a structure of autonomy in a dynamic polity, and played the role of “shock absorber” in the intricate ethnic power-sharing arrangement of contemporary post statehood Mizoram. They have failed, unfortunately, to serve their key intended role of being catalysts for economic development. The autonomy arrangement in the Mizo Hills has come a long way. There is now the full state of Mizoram and the three autonomous district councils for the smaller tribes. But this has created an additional load of aspirations and expectations. The Brus (Reangs) and the Hmars now want the same kind of autonomous district council under the Sixth

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Schedule of the Indian Constitution as the Chakmas, Lais, and Maras enjoy, while the Lais, Maras, and Chakmas want to combine their districts into a self-governing Union Territory. The reverse discrimination principle so freely applied in India’s participatory democracy is often an undesirable economic baggage, but an attractive proposition for smaller minorities (particularly their elites), seeking representation and power-sharing arrangements. The district councils have partially fulfilled those aspirations and partly fuelled a desire for a more comprehensive package.

Tripura: Kingdom, State, and Autonomy Tripura is Northeast India’s smallest state, even smaller than Mizoram. But this was not always so. Maharaj Bijoy Manikya, one of Tripura’s kings of yore, is said to have bathed in seven large rivers of East Bengal, which means he controlled a large swathe of land between Tipperah hill and Bangladesh’s present capital, Dhaka.The Manikyas controlled much of east Bengal’s Comilla region during medieval times. Unlike the chaotic primordial polity of the pre-British Mizo Hills, where might was right and clan war fought by fierce head-hunting chiefs was the order of the day, the kings of Tripura developed a culture of quality governance that was marked by subtle management of ethnic aspirations. With royal patronage, tolerance and multiculturalism flourished in an area divided by ethnicity and religion. Not surprisingly therefore, as late as 2000, and in a state where Bengali settlers have become a decisive majority, readers of the Tripura Observer (an Agartala based English daily) declared Maharaja Bir Bikram as “Tripura’s Man of the Millennium” in preference to those who have led the state since the end of the royal order in 1949. Even after the advent of the British, when the Tripura kingdom was restricted to its present hill confines, Bengalis and indigenous tribes people lived in peace. If the Manikyas welcomed Bengali professionals or peasants to modernize their administration or increase their land revenue through the spread of settled wet rice agriculture, they also created the Tribal Reserve, that, in many ways, is the precursor of the Tripura Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council. The Maharaja’s 2,050 sq. miles Tribal Reserve, meant for the Tripuri, Reang, Halam, and Noatia tribes, is surprisingly coterminous in location and size with the present Tribal Autonomous Council. It was an effective attempt to create an enclave where tribal lands, and their numbers, would be protected.

224 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA Partition unleashed a wave of migration from East Pakistan to Tripura and other states on its borders. Though the indigenous tribespeople in the state were never a decisive majority, like in the neighboring Chittagong Hill tracts or the Mizo Hills, they accounted for anything between 50 to 60 per cent of the total population. In the three decades after partition, the indigenous tribespeople were reduced to below 30 per cent of the state’s population which left them completely marginalized in politics and the economy, on land and in the professions. The influx intensified the land alienation of the tribespeople and added to their collective sense of loss and marginalization (Law Research Institute, 1990). Land alienation of tribals emerged as a major problem with independence and the merger of princely Tripura with the Indian Union. Between 1947 and 1971, 609,998 Bengalis displaced from East Pakistan came to Tripura for rehabilitation and resettlement. Since the total population of the state in 1951 was 645,707, it is not difficult to gauge the enormous population pressure created on tiny Tripura by the partition. During this period, the state government primarily resettled the refugees on land under different schemes, some enabling them to settle down with financial assistance and some just helping them buy land. The operation of these schemes accelerated the process of large-scale loss of tribal lands. The pauperization of the tribals can also be discerned from the growing number of tribal agricultural laborers in three decades since the partition. In 1951, cultivators constituted 62.94 per cent of the total tribal workforce in the state, while only 8.93 per cent was in the category of agricultural laborers. But in 1981, only 43.57 per cent of the tribal workforce was cultivators and the number of agricultural laborers had risen to 23.91 per cent. The growing land alienation has remained a recurrent theme in tribal militancy since it first surfaced with the “Sengkrak” (Clenched Fist) movement in the mid-1960s.1 The opening up of much of the Tribal Reserve Area for refugee resettlement by the Congress government of post-princely Tripura added to the tribal concerns. As early as 1952, the legendary Communist leader Dasarath Deb, then a Member of Parliament, drew the attention of the Indian Prime Minister to the continuous population inflow from East Pakistan and dwelt on the need to reserve some areas of Tripura for the tribals. In 1955, the Indian Home Minister, Govind Ballabh Pant, expressed a similar opinion. In 1960, the Chief Commissioner of Tripura, N. M. Patnaik, represented before the U. N. Dhebar Commission, that some specific areas of the state should be declared as reserves for the tribals under the Fifth Schedule of the Indian Constitution. But the Dhebar Commission suggested that

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tribal development blocks in tribal compact areas be created first, failing which the Fifth Schedule could be given a try. But little was done to protect the tribal lands. To consolidate its refugee vote bank, the Congress government continued to encourage the settlement of migrants from East Pakistan. In some areas of Tripura, the refugees formed cooperatives like the Swasti Samity and took to extensive land grabbing in tribal compact areas. Before Tripura became a state, the Communists had won most of the Parliament seats in the state. They held sway in the tribal areas and advocated limited autonomy and the creation of a tribal reserve to protect tribal lands. But the state unit of the Congress, dominated by Bengali refugees, was determined to take advantage of Tripura’s changing demography and ride to power on the strength of its newly acquired refugee vote banks. In 1967, the Communists for the first time lost both the Parliament seats to the Congress in Tripura. That year, a tribal political party “Tripura Upajati Juba Samity” (Tripura Tribal Youth League) or the TUJS was formed. And the same year, the first tribal insurgent group, Sengkrak, surfaced in North Tripura. Four years later, around the time Bangladesh was liberated, Tripura became a full state of the Indian Union along with Manipur under the process of reorganization of the Northeastern areas. The movement for tribal autonomy gained momentum for three reasons: (a) since 1967, ethnicity began to shape Tripura’s politics in a more pronounced manner than ever before as the TUJS and the Sengkrak began to emphasize the marginalization of the tribals as their major political theme, (b) the Communists, challenged by the TUJS in their tribal strongholds and accused of failing the indigenous tribespeople, became more pronounced in their demand for tribal autonomy, and (c) Delhi saw the grant of autonomy as a way out to control tribal militancy in Tripura and the rest of the Northeast. Reflecting national political trends, the Congress was voted out of power in 1978 and the Communists, now more acceptable amongst Bengalis than amongst the tribespeople, came to power in the state assembly for the first time with a thumping majority. Strangely, in December 1978, the remnants of the now-defunct Sengkrak and the militant elements of the TUJS ganged up to form the underground Tribal National Volunteers (TNV) to fight for “Swadhin Tripura” (independent Tripura). The extremist challenge and the growing pressure of the TUJS prompted the Communists to push for tribal autonomy with backing from the new dispensation in Delhi. The Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council was created by an Act in 1979, and brought under the Seventh Schedule

226 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA of the Indian Constitution. But soon after, in June 1980, Tripura was rocked by unprecedented ethnic riots, disrupting the whole process of implementing the autonomy provisions. It was only in January 1982, that the elections to the newly formed Council could be held and the Council constituted. But the Seventh Schedule did not satisfy the tribal parties and the TNV militancy increased sharply all across the state. The Communists returned to power in 1983 and took the initiative to provide more autonomy for the Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council. The TUJS had joined the Congress in an electoral alliance in 1983, despite much resistance from the state Congress Chief, Asok Bhattacharya, and its newfound acceptance in Delhi helped it to lobby more effectively for greater autonomy. In April 1985, the Tripura Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council (TTAADC) was finally brought under the Sixth Schedule. Elections were held in June and a new Council was constituted in July 1985. The TTAADC’s area of 7,132 sq. km was almost two-thirds of Tripura’s total land area, but its population was one-third of the state’s total. It left out the fertile plains and most of the urban settlements along Tripura’s western border with Bangladesh. The Council of the TTAADC comprises 30 members, of which 28 are elected directly through adult franchise and two nominated by the Governor. Initially, seven seats were reserved for non tribals in the TTAADC, but now the reservation for the non tribals has been brought down to three seats. In the present Council, there is only one Executive Member. The TTAADC is vested with both legislative and executive powers. It is headed by a Chairman who conducts the business of the Council with the help of its own secretariat. The Secretary to the TTAADC is appointed by the Governor. The executive functions are the prerogative of the Chief Executive Member supported by the Executive Committee. The procedure of the state legislative assembly is followed to conduct the business of the Council. It is difficult to explain why it took the Indian government so long to enforce the Sixth Schedule provisions in Tripura and create an autonomous council for the tribals when it had been implemented in neighboring Mizo Hills and other hill areas of Assam immediately after independence. Tripura was a princely state with a majority tribal population, and yet the Bordoloi Committee did not feel it necessary to cover it with the provisions of the Sixth Schedule or even visit it. Its perception of tribal autonomy was largely influenced by the situation in the hill areas of Assam. There was no strong demand for tribal autonomy until the impact of the

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changing demography was felt, but it took Delhi several years to fully appreciate the need to cover Tripura’s tribal areas with the provisions of the Sixth Schedule. The Communists in Tripura resorted to armed insurrection in 1948–50, much before the Nagas took to arms. Unlike the Nagas, the Tripura Communists did not fight for sovereignty but for tribal rights and protection. But even they did not demand Sixth Schedule autonomy for the tribal areas in explicit terms, and once they joined Indian electoral politics, their options to aggressively pursue the tribal autonomy question were rather limited. So, while the Mizo Hills and other hill areas of Assam got Sixth Schedule autonomy within a few years of decolonization and the Mizos got a full state after 20 years of armed insurgency, the tribals of Tripura, reduced to a minority in their own homeland, had to wait for nearly 40 years to secure an autonomous council under the Sixth Schedule. Though the TTAADC enjoys powers similar to other district councils operating under the Sixth Schedule regime, unlike most other autonomous district councils in the rest of India’s Northeast, it is built on the acceptance of the tribal as a generic and a composite entity, a council for “Tribal Areas” rather than focused on a single tribe. Smaller tribes in Tripura have occasionally demanded a regional council on the early Mizo Hills model. A few thousand Mizos raised the demand for a regional council for the state’s northern orange-growing Jampui Hill region bordering Mizoram, to “preserve our distinct customs, language and way of life, so different from the tribals of Tripura and since early times” (Memorandum of Jampui Mizo Association, 1987). The Tripura tribals strove for greater autonomy within the state, but were strongly opposed to the regional council demand of the Mizos for two reasons. One is that many of them, like TUJS (now INPT) leader Shyama Charan Tripura, suspect the “regional council demand of the Mizos as a possible precursor to attempted merger with Mizoram, rather a conspiracy for Greater Mizoram.”2 The other is that tribal leaders saw it as the beginning of “tribal disunity, that could only help those who oppose tribal autonomy.”3 Smaller tribes like the Reangs, however, complain of “imposition of Tripuri language and way of life” in the practice of tribal autonomy and attempts to rename the council as Borok Areas Autonomous District Council.4 This is inevitable because the language, customs, and way of life of a dominant tribe tend to shape the formation of a generic identity where promotion of tribal diversity cannot help the process. In areas

228 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA such as Tripura (or Nagaland), the social process influencing the evolution of a generic identity out of a motley collection of tribes has inevitably influenced the political and administrative practice of tribal autonomy. It is only in this context of a dual tension, intra-tribal and between tribes and nationalities, that the schisms affecting the relations between the district councils and the state government can be properly understood.

District Councils and State Governments: Uneasy Co-existence The autonomous district councils have had an uneasy relationship with the state governments right from the inception. The funds meant for the councils are routed through the state government and more often than not, the councils complain that they have not been released in full or released after great delays, many times at the end of the financial year when they cannot be properly and gainfully spent. There are areas of conflicting jurisdiction like primary education, and state governments have often delayed, even denied, transfer of jurisdiction to the autonomous councils as is appropriate under the Sixth Schedule. State governments have often tried to subvert the autonomy structure at the grassroots by dissolving village councils and running them through nominated bodies. The Mizo Hill district leaders complained of “Assamese domination” and “step-motherly attitude towards the Mizo Hills” by the Assam bureaucracy and political leadership. The callousness with which the Assam government tackled the Rat Famine totally alienated the Mizos from Assam, and for a while, even from India. But the Assam government, regardless of political dispensation, did not ever try to subvert the Council or conspire to scuttle it. After Mizoram became a state, the MNF, whenever in power, has conspired to scuttle and abrogate the Chakma District Council. Between 1986 and 2000, in the 15 years that followed the end of insurgency and return of peace in Mizoram, there have been 21 private members’ resolutions submitted in the Mizoram legislative assembly by Mizo legislators, mostly belonging to the MNF, calling for the abolition of the Chakma Autonomous District Council. Seven of these private members’ resolutions were rejected, 14 were admitted of which two were discussed and finally negated because of stiff opposition by the Congress

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Party. Both Laldenga and Zoramthanga, as MNF Chief Ministers, have openly advocated the abrogation of the Chakma District Council. The Chakmas are seen by the MNF and hardline Mizos as the “enemy tribe.” The MNF, during its days in the underground, was repeatedly attacked in its covert bases in Bangladesh by Chakma guerrillas of the Shanti Bahini (who were supported by India and were fighting Bangladesh security forces). The hardline Mizos see them as “infiltrators” from Bangladesh’s Chittagong Hill tracts, which most Chakmas of Mizoram are not. Their ancestors lived in the western border region of the Lushai Hills. Even Chakma legislators have found their names deleted from the Mizoram electoral rolls after having been elected to the Mizoram legislature more than once. So, it is not surprising that the MNF would try to abrogate the Chakma District Council to appease hardline Mizo groups and settle an old score. But other minorities, like the Lais and the Maras, feel threatened by the MNF’s attempts to abolish the Chakma District Council and fear similar actions against their own councils in future. A private members resolution, seeking the whole of Mizoram to be declared as a Tribal Area under Para 20 of the Sixth Schedule, moved by Mizo legislator Lalthankunga on 7 April 2000, was seen as a threat to the other district councils since that would negate the district councils and the autonomy arrangements that went with them. This was seen as a “conspiracy” to ultimately do away with all the three autonomous district councils of Mizoram. In Tripura, as in Mizoram, the district council authorities perpetually complain of late release or withholding of funds and demand direct funding from the center. In 1988, when the Congress-TUJS coalition government came to power, all elected panchayats, including those in the TTAADC areas, were dissolved and run by nominated bodies, which considerably undermined the spirit of the council and the panchayat system. Whenever the district council has been controlled by a party other than the one controlling the state government in Tripura, tensions have surfaced over fund transfer and a host of other issues including the redrawing of boundaries of the TTAADC. In 2000, the Indigenous Nationalist Party of Tripura (INPT) won the TTAADC elections amidst Left allegations that the Indigenous Nationalist Party of Tripura (INPT) had used the underground National Liberation Front of Tripura (NLFT) to terrorize voters and Left candidates. Now the INPT alleges that the Left has split its ranks and supported the breakaway group headed by Hirendra Tripura to take over the District Council. But Tripura’s Left

230 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA government has not dissolved the legally constituted executive committees of the district councils, as has often happened in Mizoram. In view of this, it becomes necessary to examine why the autonomous district councils in Tripura have failed to deliver and fulfill the objectives with which they were set up. In Tripura there is a widely held perception amongst the tribals from all walks of life that the TTAADC has failed to fulfill their aspirations. Sukhendu Debbarma, noted tribal scholar and university professor, has summed up (Debbarma, 1999) why: 1. There is a gap between the powers, functions, and the aspirations of the indigenous people. It was thought earlier that the powers and functions of the TTAADC were sufficient to deal with the purpose for which it has been established. But it has been realized with time that the TTAADC cannot function effectively until and unless more autonomy in the form of functioning and finance is given to it. 2. The TTAADC has been created solely to protect the indigenous people. In such a set-up, the question of keeping certain seats reserved for the Bengali non tribals does not arise when two seats already exist for nomination by the Governor. In reality, however, there are three Bengali non tribals among the members, thus contradicting the spirit of the Sixth Schedule. In no other autonomous district council constituted under the Sixth Schedule have non tribals got any representation, except in the Tribal Autonomous Council in Tripura. 3. In the running of the administration, the TTAADC is fully dependent on the state government. The state government officers and employees are sent on deputation to the TTAADC. Even after almost 20 years, no proper recruitment or service rules have been framed for the employees of the Council. The running of the administration with retired officers and employees makes the Council slacker and slower as such people have experience but lack the drive and commitment for working towards the welfare of the tribespeople. 4. The foundation of running the administration lies in the villages, and so elections must be held and village councils set up. Unfortunately, in all of 19 years, the TTAADC could not hold elections for setting up the Village Council which is still functioning with

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5.

6.

7.

8.

231

nominated bodies. There are 432 Panchayats under the jurisdiction of the Council and there is a Panchayat Secretary who is accountable to the Block Developmental Officer (BDO) who is again under the control of the state government. The Council does not have any say or control in the developmental work in such villages. Thus there is a conflict between the Council and state government at the village level also. The Council has not been able to uplift the indigenous tribal people economically. The Jhumia Rehabilitation Scheme undertaken by the state government has also been undertaken by the Council. This Scheme did not and is not expected to bring any improvement as the system itself is faulty. As per the Sixth Schedule, the TTAADC is also the custodian for the preservation of the society and culture of the indigenous people within its territorial jurisdiction. But even after 19 years, the customary laws have not been codified. The TTAADC is completely dependent on the state government for funds. The Council has so far failed to devise methods for collection of taxes and revenues. No development scheme taken up by the TTAADC will work unless the funds are made available by the state government. There is a large gap between the approved budget and the flow of funds from the state government (for details see Table 9.1). Thus many of the schemes formulated for the development of the indigenous people by the Council cannot be implemented due to lack of funds. The matter of finance is a major source of tension between the Council and the state government and any kind of autonomy with the best intention will not function in the absence of financial autonomy. The TTAADC can fulfill its objectives only if it can evolve a system of direct funding from the center. The state government feels that the TTAADC is within the jurisdiction of the state; so laws, rules, and regulations should be implemented within the Council without any modifications.

Towards the end of the last decade, the Kokborok Tei Hukumu Mission of Agartala initiated a study on the performance of the TTAADC which concluded that “the formation of the TTAADC has failed on all fronts to induct any change in the standard of living of the tribal people” (Debbarma, 1999).5

Year

2

1981–82 1982–83 1983–84 1984–85 1985–86 1986–87 1987–88 1988–89 1989–90 1990–91 1991–92 1992–93

Sl No

1

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

– – – – 70.00 70.00 92.50 105.00 125.00 135.80 152.50 190.00

3

– – – – 12.20 17.77 31.30 59.44 65.50 40.00 40.10 29.73

4

– – – – 160.92 162.34 216.34 260.39 292.50 362.23 248.44 274.14

5

Approved Council Budget Plan Own Transferred Fund Fund Fund

– – – – 243.12 250.11 340.14 424.83 483.00 538.03 441.04 493.87

6

Total

0.25 9.35 35.56 20.00 46.50 70.00 92.50 105.00 125.00 135.80 152.50 174.90

7 Nil Nil Nil Nil 12.60 20.46 31.28 36.34 36.32 35.37 26.48 29.73

8 Nil 0.05 23.80 82.69 75.85 168.57 224.07 218.20 138.20 191.13 227.93 189.73

9

Fund Received from Govt. Plan Own Transferred Fund Fund Fund

0.25 9.40 59.36 102.69 134.95 259.03 347.85 359.54 299.52 362.30 406.91 394.36

10

Total

12

Remarks

(Table 9.1 contd)

– – – 108.17 –8.92 –7.71 65.29 183.48 175.73 34.13 99.51

11

Difference

(in million rupees)

Table 9.1 Statement showing Receipt of Fund from Government of Tripura as per Tripura Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council Budget w.e.f. 1981–82 to 31st July 2002

2002–03

22

Grand Total

1993–94 1994–95 1995–96 1996–97 1997–98 1998–99 1999–2000 2000–2001 2001–02

Year

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Sl No

(Table 9.1 contd)

4,492.84

1,008.87

198.50 198.00 220.00 213.40 275.00 275.00 233.40 395.30 534.57

1,013.82

37.64 50.20 50.20 50.20 110.20 141.16 50.05 50.05 67.41 21.63 67.41 21.63

Total

6,070.63

11,534.03

3,176.70

768.22

37.64 50.20 50.20 50.20 56.40 50.05 50.05 61.31 60.67 27.04 45.88

Total

Difference

3,836.76

7,781.68

3,752.35

Remarks

Upto July 2002

132.25 367.89 78.75 129.29 377.49 43.25 164.56 428.16 15.77 222.66 486.26 –24.27 242.65 532.45 412.75 269.28 552.73 421.40 283.36 566.81 103.88 321.05 629.21 220.10 406.41 760.07 533.91 Award of 11th Finance Commission 125.03 317.41 1,495.87

Fund Received from Govt. Plan Own Transferred Fund Fund Fund

210.50 446.64 198.00 172.54 420.74 198.00 173.73 443.93 213.40 198.39 461.99 213.40 560.00 945.20 233.40 557.97 974.13 233.40 387.24 670.69 233.40 403.96 849.31 246.85 692.00 1,293.98 292.99 Award of 11th Finance Commission 737.00 1,813.28 146.50 Award of 11th Finance Commission

Approved Council Budget Plan Own Transferred Fund Fund Fund

234 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA The Lais, Maras, and Chakmas have similar complaints about the district autonomy arrangements. They allege constant discrimination by the Mizo-dominated state government and voice their need for financial autonomy. Even politicians and district council members from these communities who are in the Mizo National Front (MNF) are upset with the attitude of the state government. T. Nokiaua, Secretary of the Lawngtlai District Committee of the MNF, told us in a recent interview: Our main problem is money. The Lai Autonomous District Council is receiving the same quantam of [sic] funds since 1998 and its plan budget remains the same. Prices are rising, employees have to be given higher dearness allowance but the funds remain the same. Though Mizoram is one of the leading states as far as literacy is concerned, our areas is low in literacy due to poor infrastructure of education. Road communication in our area is very bad and the work of the state PWD is not at all satisfactory. There is not a single hospital in our district, only a community health center, and people have to go to Lunglei or Aizawl for treatment.6

Despite being a member of the MNF, Mr Nokiaua was quick to support the growing demand for the formation of a separate union territory by merging the Lai, the Mara, and the Chakma District Councils, a demand that has gained ground during the last four years and is beginning to gain support of tribal leaders cutting across political lines. B. Thanchunga, the Chief Executive Member of the Lai Autonomous District Council, argues that the Indian Planning Commission should directly fund the autonomous district councils. For 10 years since its inception, the Lai Autonomous District Council (LADC) got a mere Rs 3.70 million a year. In 1985, Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi promised Rs 40.50 million for the three District Councils of Mizoram—so the LADC got Rs 10.50 million in 1986. In 2003–04, the LADC alone got Rs 70.50 million, but B. Thangchunga says since there is so much to do in terms of infrastructure, the funds are not enough. Like in Tripura, the school dropout rates in the three district council areas are high, unlike the Mizo areas of the state. Mizoram is the most literate state in the country, but the literacy rate is only 56 per cent in the LADC area.7 The Chakma Autonomous District Council (CADC), always threatened with abolition whenever a Mizo regional party has come to power in Mizoram, has similar complaints of fund shortages and poor infrastructure but its main grouse is that more than two-thirds of the Chakma population in Mizoram lives outside the CADC area.8 This is a legacy of the reorganization of territories of the district councils after Mizoram became a Union

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Territory. The CADC was created by carving out Chakma-dominated areas of the erstwhile Pawi-Lakher Regional Council, but the Chakma areas of the erstwhile Mizo Hills District Council were not included in the CADC. So, CADC leaders have persistently lobbied for adding some, if not all, of the Chakma-compact areas of Mizoram that are outside the district councils. The Chakma leaders are particularly upset because there is not a single branch of a bank or a treasury at Kamalanagar (Chawngte), headquarters of the CADC. The officials of all the three district councils in Mizoram constantly complain of fund shortages.9 In December 1999, representatives of the nine district councils in Northeast India, including those in Mizoram and Tripura, handed over a memorandum to Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee and Home Minister L. K. Advani, demanding direct funding from the Planning Commision on “needs basis” and not on population basis (Combined Memorandum, 1999). This is seen as the only way to ensure meaningful financial autonomy for the district councils. But the leaders of the three district councils in Mizoram say that they are not given funds even on the basis of their population. The plan budget of Mizoram for 2003–04 was Rs 4.75 billion. The population of the three district councils is one-seventh of Mizoram’s total population. So, going by population, the three district councils should be getting Rs 670 million. But they got only Rs 180.90 million in the plan budget. So it comes to less than one-third of what they should have got. The union Planning Commission designed the Chhimtuipui sub-plan (for three district council areas) in 1976. It suggested that 20 per cent of the state plan fund should be spent in the three district council areas and there should be a 20 per cent job reservation for the people of the area in the Mizoram government. None of them has been implemented. In Tripura, the TTAADC remains entirely dependent on the state government. It has complained that out of its approved budget of Rs 210.33 million between 1985–86 and 1993–94, the TTAADC has received only Rs 150.63 million, giving rise to allegations of an “economic blockade” against the TTAADC.

Allocation of Funds to the Three District Councils in Mizoram during 1998–99 to 2003–04 The government of Mizoram makes funds available to each district council every year out of the total allocation under Plan and Non-Plan.

236 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA Also, DONER has sanctioned some funds during 2001–02 and 2002–03 to Lai and Mara District Councils. Funds under Centrally Sponsored Schemes also flow to all the three district councils each year. In addition, district councils generate their own resources through levying taxes. The taxes levied by the councils are meager and were to the order of Rs 3 million, Rs 3 million and Rs 2 million in Lai, Mara, and Chakma Councils respectively, during 2003–04. The status of allocation of funds under Plan and Non-Plan by the Government of Mizoram during 1998–99 to 2003–04 is shown in Table 9.2. Table 9.2 Allocation of Funds by Government of Mizoram to Autonomous District Councils (1998–99 to 2003–04) (in million rupees) Year

Name of Autonomous District Council

1998–99

LADC MADC CADC

1999–2000

LADC MADC CADC

2000–2001

LADC MADC CADC

2001–02

LADC MADC CADC

2002–03

LADC MADC CADC

2003–04

LADC MADC CADC

Total

Total

Total

Total

Total

Total

Allocation of Fund Plan Non-Plan 66.50 57.90 41.20 165.60 71.20 61.70 43.40 176.30 71.50 64.90 46.50 182.90 72.50 62.90 47.50 182.90 74.82 64.75 49.50 189.07 75.00 65.10 47.00 187.10

71.60 65.80 31.30 168.70 100.30 87.20 43.42 230.92 115.20 103.04 54.06 272.30 127.59 114.06 60.84 302.49 140.10 126.70 66.70 333.50 144.30 130.40 68.70 343.40

Total 138.10 123.70 72.50 334.30 171.56 148.95 86.82 407.33 186.70 167.94 100.56 455.20 200.09 176.96 108.34 485.39 214.92 191.45 116.20 522.57 219.30 195.50 115.70 530.50

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The grievances of the three autonomous district councils in Mizoram and the one for the tribals in Tripura should be seen in the overall context of ethnic relations and the real or perceived fear of domination by bigger tribes or nationalities. In Tripura, the demographic changes in the last half century and its consequent impact on electoral politics has left the tribals in perpetual fear of Bengali domination. The tribal parties continue to demand (a) more reservation of seats in the state legislature for the tribals, (b) protection of customs and traditional way of life and promotion of their language, (c) strengthening of autonomy arrangements by converting the TTAADC into an autonomous state under Article 244 (A) of the Constitution. While the demand for the autonomous state is made, tribal parties like the Indigenous Nationalist Party of Tripura (INPT) say they would at least like to get greater autonomy by converting the TTAADC into something like the newly established Bodoland Territorial Council (BTC). The TTAADC, under INPT control between 2000 and 2005, has demanded transfer of additional subjects to it by the state government. The subjects specified for transfer are: (a) rural housing, (b) rural electrification, (c) management of all types of forests including reserve forests that fall within its areas, (d) maintenance of law and order in the TTAADC area, and (e) higher education. The TTAADC has also voiced its strong protest against the rather sweeping powers of land acquisition of the state government and said that no land in the TTAADC area should be acquired without its prior permission. It has said that the strength of the Council should be retained at 30, and 4 members from the elected representatives of the village councils and 2 members from the elected representatives of the Municipal Councils should be added to it. It has also asked for reservation for women in the TTAADC to 15 per cent of the elected strength, the introduction of Inner Line Permit system in the TTAADC areas to prevent further influx of outsiders (read Bengalis) into tribal compact areas and an amendment of Article 280 to put the Finance Commission under obligation to suggest measures to augment the state’s Consolidated Fund to supplement the resources of the TTAADC (Reang, 2001). So, the tribal parties in Tripura have adopted a dual strategy of (a) demanding a new and more powerful autonomy arrangement for better representation of the tribals and more protection to their lands, customs, language, and way of life, and (b) at the same time demanding more powers and funds to strengthen the existing autonomy arrangements until something like an autonomous state comes into existence. The ruling

238 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA Left Front, led by the CPI(M) which has a considerable popular base in the tribal areas, supports more powers to the TTAADC but not the demand for an autonomous state. Its position on the demand to extend Inner Line Permit system to the TTAADC areas remains ambivalent— it supported the demand when out of power between 1988 and 1993 but is silent on it now. With its mass base amongst the Bengali settlers, now more than 70 per cent of the state’s population and key to its source of power in Tripura, the Left Front may not adopt a stance that will be seen as too pro-tribal. But in Mizoram, right from 1972 when it became a Union Territory, the Lais, Maras, and Chakmas have demanded that their areas be merged to form a separate Union Territory. They argue for a parity of treatment arguing that if the Mizo District Council could be upgraded to a union territory, they see no reason why their areas should not get similar status. Unlike Tripura tribals who see the state as their own (it was ruled by their kings until 1949), the smaller tribes of Mizoram see the state as an “evolved creation” that has only benefited the Mizos. They allege Mizo domination in every sphere from imposition of Mizo culture to cornering of government jobs by Mizos (they have a much higher literacy than the minorities), to choking off funds for the district councils, to making Mizo the official language of the whole state including the district council areas. So they see no way of fulfilling their aspirations for “genuine autonomy” without a Union Territory (Memorandum to Indian Prime Minister, 2000). Unlike the TTAADC which demands more powers for itself and more subjects, the district councils in Mizoram are seeking to surrender some subjects because of inadequacy of funding at a time when all across the Northeast, the Karbi Anglong District Council in Assam, that handles 30 subjects, is seen as a role model for all autonomous arrangements. But while those tribes who have autonomous districts in Mizoram want a Union Territory, tribes like the Hmars and the Brus demand autonomous district councils. The Hmars allege that such an arrangement is denied to them despite an accord the Hmar Peoples Convention (HPC) signed with the state government after ending their militant activities. The Brus have formed an armed group, the Bru National Liberation Front (BNLF), to pursue the demand. So while the Lais, the Maras, and the Chakmas have stuck to democratic politics to pursue their demands, the Hmars and the Brus have chosen the path of armed struggle in a repeat of the Mizo experience. Though the armed groups of the Brus and the Hmars have now signed cease-fire deals with the Mizoram government, this may not be the last time these groups have used violence to pursue their objectives.

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Power Sharing, Protection, or Development The Sixth Schedule was conceived as both a power sharing mechanism to provide tribals a sense of participation in self-governance, a constitutional safeguard to protect their lands, customs, language, and way of life and as a catalyst for development. So, the autonomy arrangement it offers to tribal areas should be viewed in its totality. The operation of the Sixth Schedule arrangements in Tripura and Mizoram has been a mixed bag of partial success and unfulfilled aspirations and objectives. It has largely failed as a catalyst for development in (a) creating worthwhile infrastructure in the tribal areas, (b) implementing schemes that ensure food security for the tribals, (c) weaning the tribals away from traditional agricultural practices to relatively modern forms of agriculture, (d) attracting investments for industry or promoting trade, and (e) promoting education and skill generation amongst tribals. The land laws in the district councils of the two states and in the rest of Northeast act as a dampener to investments. For instance, motivated by the region’s horticultural output (like Tripura pineapples), food processing industries see the land laws as detrimental to developing largescale captive plantations capable of providing a lot of employment to the tribals. Other industries entertain similar fears. The poor road network in the district councils of Mizoram and Tripura, the pitiable plight of primary education in these areas marked by high dropout rates, the regular starvation deaths and crops failures in the TTAADC areas of Tripura, the continued practice of jhum in tribal areas of both Tripura and Mizoram, all testify to the observations made earlier. The bureaucracy that runs the autonomous councils in the two states is as or more inefficient than that running state governments. Since their resources are much less than those of the state government, the councils do not have the motivated political leadership and a small but efficient bureaucracy they need. Our research has revealed that more than 50 to 60 per cent of the funds marked for the council go into payment of salaries and allowances or maintaining other administrative requirements like vehicles and offices. Close to 30 per cent go into projects that have no “carryover benefits.” Only about 20 per cent of the funds are spent in development projects that matter. Even in the implementation of these projects there is much siphoning due to endemic corruption. The autonomy arrangements under the Sixth Schedule have also not fulfilled the political aspirations of the tribals. After their implementation, both Mizoram and Tripura have witnessed phases of large-scale militancy.

240 / SUBIR BHAUMIK AND JAYANTA BHATTACHARYA The MNF’s underground movement started 14 years after the Mizo Hills District Council was created. Tribal insurgency in Tripura has intensified after the extension of the Sixth Schedule to the TTAADC in 1985. The return of the Tribal National Volunteers (TNV) to normal life in 1988 had less to do with the extension of the Sixth Schedule than with the political calculations of its Chief, B. K. Hrangkhawl, who saw a great opportunity for him emerging with the defeat of the Left Front and the coming to power by the Congress–TUJS coalition. So its value as a power sharing mechanism has also proved to be limited. Analysts have argued that fear of tribal militancy rather than the restrictive arrangements of land transfer have protected tribal lands in post-1985 Tripura. In Mizoram, a large number of Brus and Chakmas have been driven off their lands by Mizo radical groups. But it is undeniable that the provisions of the Sixth Schedule have provided a basis for tribal autonomy that can only be improved upon but not abrogated. It is, however, true, that the Sixth Schedule autonomy arrangements have often been seen as a halfway house to ultimate statehood or Union Territory status by the tribal elite running the councils. So, they have only fuelled demands for more autonomy and separation from the parent state.

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

For a detailed account of the Sengkrak movement, see Bhaumik (1996). Shyama Charan Tripura. Interview with author, 16 May 1987. INPT leader, Debabrata Koloi. Interview with author, 23 September 2001. Dhananjoy Reang, former NLFT Chairman. Interview with author, 21 May 2000. This is what it had to say about the TTAADC’s perfomance: “Since the formation of the TTAADC, two decades have already passed but now questions arise how far the TTAADC has been successful in satisfying the aspirations and expectations of the tribal people. The present socio-economic and educational scenario of the tribal people shows a very gloomy picture. The percentage of failure of the tribal students in Board examinations is very very high. The school dropout at primary level is as high as seventy-six percent .... More than eighty percent of the tribal people are living below poverty line. The number of landless tribal, instead of reduction, is increasing day by day. The health care system, electrification, road communication, setting up of industry, providing safe drinking water is nonexistent in most of the tribal areas ….” 6. T. Nokiaua. Interview with Jayanta Bhattacharya in Lawngtlai, 25 August 2004.

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7. Says B. Thanchunga: “The state government has given us teachers but no fund to develop the infrastructure. School buildings are makeshift, old and tormented by weather, but there is no money for school building and furniture. So we are not able to take care of 55 middle-level schools. If the state government does not give us enough funds, they should take back the education department in their hand.” B. Thanchunga. Interview with Jayanta Bhattacharya in Lawngtlai, 26 August 2004. 8. Former Mizoram minister, Nirupam Chakma. Interview with Jayanta Bhattacharya, 22 August 2004. 9. Says Lengduna, officiating Chief Executive Member of the Mara Autonomous District Council (MADC): “Our main problem is money. In 1994, eighteen departments were handed over to us. Funds to meet salaries of employees were given, but no establishment costs or development funds were placed at our disposal.” Interview with Jayanta Bhattacharya, 27 August 2004.

10 RESOURCES FOR AUTONOMY: FINANCING THE LOCAL BODIES Ratan Khasnabis

Introduction: Decentralization and Development

D

ecentralized governance is believed to ensure efficiency in the functioning of the state in a civil society. The modern state, which is basically a centralized seat of power, can function efficiently, as the wisdom goes, only by transferring certain responsibilities to local bodies so that the alienation of the citizens from the state is minimized. The regulatory functions of the state are not supposed to be decentralized much to the grassroots level. But, contemporary political wisdom is that a government should try to devolve the issues of state sponsored welfare measures to local bodies inasmuch as such a devolution fosters greater responsiveness of the policy makers to the will of the citizens, and thereby, a closer congruence between public preferences and state policies might be achieved. The other argument is that such a measure of decentralization creates a proper condition for honoring the diversity in public choices in a better way so as to help the choice mechanism function more effectively. Some researchers have observed that decentralization also promotes innovation through recognition of local knowledge and wisdom in implementing a program for development. Above all, decentralization is

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accepted as a better choice because it is supposed to enhance democratic values which should be the basis of a modern society1. Recent literature on decentralization, however, highlights the fact that decentralization has a powerful economic advantage. It has been argued that a decentralized structure maximizes allocational efficiency. Difficulty of a centralized delivery system is that it has a tendency to provide uniform services across all regions irrespective of differences in the needs and conditions of the public (Smoke, 1994). Consequently, it gives rise to inefficiency in allocation of resources. If local diversities are to be taken care of, the delivery system has to be decentralized. The other economic advantage of a decentralized system is that it might ensure better production efficiency. The argument (supported by experience) is that a decentralized system ensures the scrutiny of the local people in local projects, thus enhancing the productive efficiency of local public goods and services. Again, there may be diseconomies of scale in a centralized delivery system for local public goods (such as water supply, solid waste management, public transport), that can be eliminated if the project is designed by a local authority taking care of the needs of the local people with proper knowledge of local specifities. It is also argued that the positive externality of public goods produced at the local level might be higher because it promotes innovation which might generate greater diversity in local public goods.2 Researchers have also pointed out that the advantage of informational economies would be realized more efficiently in a decentralized structure.3 Decentralization is not, however, taken as an unmixed blessing in economic literature. It may be pointed out that decentralization might cause a loss in efficiency through the neglect of control and coordination that results out of its emphasis on autonomy in planning and execution of projects. Votaries of decentralization some-times ignore this point. Though it is argued that decentralization better captures the economy of scale for certain types of projects, the logic of the economy of scale might work against decentralization as well. If the technical requirement of a project is such that it should maintain a critical minimum level that cannot be ensured in a decentralized set up, then the project should not be executed under a decentralized authority. Critics also point out that decentralization often suffers from the problem of externality where local projects get chosen to optimize local benefits without giving due consideration to how these local benefits might affect agents external to the locality. For example, local authorities are often found to give priority to

244 / RATAN KHASNABIS local roads neglecting the major thoroughfares that might serve interlocality movement in a better way. A major component of decentralization is fiscal decentralization attained by devolution of financial power to the local governments. The merits of financial devolution need not be discussed at length. No devolution is effective unless the local bodies are empowered to mobilize funds for implementing the developmental schemes. The local bodies should have enough power to raise tax and non-tax revenues ensuring fiscal autonomy. However, under financial devolution, local authorities often fail to mobilize tax revenue from local sources in a satisfactory way. This is so because the local authorities are found to have a tendency to shift the burden of taxes to non-locals which usually works as a softer option. Moreover, inter-regional disparities in resource base can only be minimized through inter-regional transfer of resources and such decisions can be made and implemented only by a centralized authority.4 To sum up, there is always a trade off between benefits of centralization (in the form of equity in inter-regional transfer of resources and efficiency and externality of the centrally sponsored projects) and those of decentralization. While arguing for decentralization, this particular point should be taken into consideration.

Decentralized Governance in India In the Indian context, the debate on the advantages and disadvantages of decentralized governance hardly had any practical relevance before the 73rd and the 74th Constitutional Amendment Acts, 1992 were passed in the Parliament. The said Acts have for the first time specified some functions of the state which, with the approval of the concerned state governments, might be devolved to the local bodies.5 With the Constitutional mandate for devolving some functions of the state to the local bodies, the issue of decentralized governance came into sharp focus in the politics and economics of Indian society. Following the 73rd Constitution Amendment Act, 1992, a new generation of Panchayati Raj Institutions (PRI) came into being in rural India. This Act recognized that due to reasons like the absence of regular elections, insufficient representation of the weaker sections, including women, and above all, inadequate devolution of power and lack of financial resources, the Panchayats in India had not been able to acquire the status of viable peoples’ bodies. The Amendment Act introduced a new

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section in the Constitution of India (Part IX, Section 243), which provided for a Gram Sabha (Gram Sansad) for the adults in a village or a part of a village (as in West Bengal) or for a group of villages. This was conceived as the basic forum for democratic functioning of the PRI at the grassroots level. The Act also recognized Panchayats at the village and the intermediate levels. All the representatives would be for a fixed tenure of five years and the representative nature of these bodies would be maintained by holding elections after the tenure is over. Reservation for women and members of scheduled caste (SC) and scheduled tribe (ST) communities was also assured. The Act also made it mandatory to make the posts of the Sabhapati, Sabhadhipati, and Pradhan (Chairpersons at respective tiers) as elected posts for a fixed tenure of five years. The most significant parts of the Amended Act are 243G, 243H, and 243I wherein the powers, authorities, and responsibilities along with the mechanism by which the funds will be devolved to the PRI at various tiers have been discussed. Briefly, the Act creates a provision (not mandatory) for devolution, by the state legislature, of powers and responsibilities upon the Panchayats with respect to the preparation of plans for economic development and social justice and for the implementation of development schemes. Provisions have also been made so that funds can be secured for the PRI by securing authorization from state legislatures for grant-in-aid to the Panchayats from the Consolidated Fund of the State, as assignment to or appropriation by the Panchayats of the revenues of designated taxes, duties, fees, and tolls. The Constitution also makes it mandatory to set up a Finance Commission for the State (SFC) within one year of the notification of the Act and thereafter, to review the financial position of the Panchayats every five years and provide financial awards to the local bodies from the Consolidated Fund of the State for the next five years. A suitable amendment in Section 280 (Finance Commission) of the Constitution of India was introduced so that “the measures needed to augment the Consolidated Fund of a State to supplement the resources of the Panchayats in the State on the basis of recommendations made by the Finance Commission of the State” can be taken. In 280C of the Constitution, the same provision was made for the municipalities as well. Following such amendments a constitutional basis has been created so that the PRI and the Urban Local Bodies can now expect to get regular untied funds for implementing programs of economic development at their own initiative. A new Eleventh Schedule was appended to the Constitution of India listing out 29 functions concerning issues of rural

246 / RATAN KHASNABIS development on which the powers and authorities of the Panchayats can be created by the state governments. The Amended Act also created a provision for setting up a Committee for District Planning so that such functions can be carried out by the PRI in a planned manner. With respect to the Urban Local Bodies, the same exercise has been performed in the 74th Constitution Amendment Act, 1992, so that the urban bodies may also function as institutions of self-government (Part IXA, The Municipalities, Constitution of India). In order to make the constitutional provisions effective, the Twelfth Schedule of the Constitution specifies 18 areas in which the legislature of a state may by law endow “the performance of functions and the implementation of schemes” (243[w], Constitution of India) to Urban Local Bodies. However, as in case of the Rural Local Bodies, these are to be assigned by the respective state governments. Following the introduction of the Constitutional (73rd and 74th) Amendment Acts and the follow up by state level Conformatory Acts, the scenario has admittedly changed for the better. One point should, however, be mentioned in this context. The new acts have definitely created a basis for decentralization in the functioning of the Indian state. But then, the spirit of Article 40 of the Constitution, which wishes the local bodies to function as units of self-government, is yet to be honored by the policy makers of the country. The Indian state is yet to take such steps as will endow the local bodies with “such power and authority as may be necessary to enable them to function as units of self-government.” Consider, for example, the nature of power and authority that the local bodies enjoy even after the said amendments of the Constitution. With respect to the much publicized power of the local bodies in the realm of economic development and social justice, there is a structural limitation that stems from the Constitution itself. The Amendment Acts of the Constitution have listed the subjects on which the third tier of the government can exercise power and enjoy authority, but unlike the autonomy that the provincial governments enjoy in regard to List II of the Seventh Schedule of the Constitution, the local bodies have no such authority outside of the discretion of the concerned state government over any subject listed in the Eleventh and the Twelfth Schedules. The basic limitation is that the local bodies have very little regulatory power. They are still viewed as agencies of local development under the control of the higher level authority. Even after the Amendment Acts defining Panchayats and Urban Local Bodies as institutions of selfgovernment, in reality, such powers have been vested with respect to

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preparation and implementation of plans for economic development and social justice only and that also to the extent such authority is assigned to them by the concerned state governments. The fact is that the local bodies cannot have any say over the regulatory functions of the state. The reality in most cases is that the Panchayats have no administrative control even over the staff that serves the Panchayats. As a result, devolution of power and authority for local development following the 73rd Amendment fails to achieve the desired goal of democratic decentralization. As it has been observed: The business of government is vertically arranged with departmental hierarchies stretching from the Minister-in-charge of a particular portfolio at the top to the lowest departmental functionary at ground level. The Panchayats are horizontal interventions in the vertical jungles of administration. Any hope that they would be able to secure horizontal co-ordination was doomed because the vertical hierarchies were well entrenched and the Panchayats did not have even minimum administrative weaponry to bring them within the coordinating discipline. (Mukarji and Bandyapadhyay, 1992: 9)

Even after the 73rd and 74th Amendments, the Constitution keeps Panchayats and urban local bodies confined to developmental activities and that too with very little power over their functions and functionaries. The reality is that the local bodies do not constitute a tier of the state6 in the true sense of the term. While evaluating the performance of the local bodies, this limitation, which may be considered as a structural limitation, must be taken into consideration.

Fiscal Devolution: The Background The issue of financial autonomy of the local bodies, however, is more complex. One cannot hold outright that the performance of Indian democracy is poor in this regard. At the same time, as the relevant literature on the subject indicates, the act of devolution has several limitations that put constraints on the functioning of the local bodies even as agencies of local development. It is true that the 73rd and the 74th Amendments of the Constitution have not ignored the issue of fiscal devolution. They have incorporated relevant changes in Article 280 of the Constitution so that the issue of fiscal devolution to the local bodies from the Consolidated Fund of the

248 / RATAN KHASNABIS State can be given due consideration.7 One immediate benefit of the constitutional mandate is that the issue of local finance is now getting better attention from the Government of India. The first Union Finance Commission that had to adhere to the new provision of the Constitution was the Tenth Finance Commission (1995–2000). The commission did not have the opportunity to take up an in-depth study of the problems of local finance but even then it met the constitutional obligation by making an ad hoc provision for the local bodies.8 That the constitutional mandate has to be taken care of was further revealed in the deliberations of the next, i.e., the Eleventh Finance Commission (EFC). The EFC (2000– 2005) made a more comprehensive discussion of the problems and constraints of financial devolution in India.9 Following a comprehensive review of the issue, the EFC made a recommendation which made it mandatory for the union government to devolve a sum of Rs 16 billion for PRI (and Rs 4 billion for Urban Local Bodies) for the period 2000– 2005. While setting the norm for disbursement of such funds among the states, the EFC had also taken care of the extent of decentralization that a state has achieved. For this, the EFC had set an index on the basis of 10 indicators, called the index of decentralization.10 The percentage share of various states following this index is reproduced from the EFC Report in Appendix 1 of this chapter. Admittedly, the index did not favor states such as Kerala, where decentralization did make some progress, while it favored states like Bihar where there had been the least devolution.11Again, the total fund allotted to the so called third tier of the state is abysmally poor. But then, the fact that the EFC has honored the constitutional obligation by making a recommendation for the local bodies on the basis of a norm, as it did in the case of the second tier of the government, indicates that the issue of fiscal devolution following the Constitutional Amendment is getting serious attention of the central government. One difficulty with the finance of the local bodies is that there is hardly any reliable information on the existing financial condition of these bodies. The anomaly in the inter-state variation in the EFC awards for the local bodies, following the index value of decentralization, is largely due to this limitation in information. There are 224,838 village- and 5,811 intermediate-level Panchayats along with 3,537 Urban Local Bodies in India. The village Panchayats hardly have the requisite number of personnel for maintaining the records. The state finance commissions also fail to garner sufficient information from the line departments of the respective state governments so that a reliable database could be

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developed. The first serious efforts in this regard came from the EFC which appointed two research organizations for carrying out an in-depth study on the status of local government finance in India. Based on this research, the EFC had two background papers12 and a data set on local finance in India for the period 1990–91 to 1998–99. The summary of findings of these studies is given in Section 8 of the EFC Report and the state level data on the finance of Panchayats and Urban Local Bodies is given in Appendix VIII.2 of the Report. Based on the data provided by the Eleventh Finance Commission, a set of literature has come up which provides insightful analyses on local finance in India (Oommen, 2000; Rajaraman et al., 1996). The other important service that the EFC has provided is, that it has earmarked a sum to be spent on monitoring the accounts and another amount for creating a database relating to the finance of local bodies in India. It is expected that in the near future, a solid database would be created on the basis of reliable information on the financial accounts of local bodies, thanks to these EFC grants, so that the future SFC reports would contain more reliable information that would help researchers and policy makers better understand the financial problems of local bodies.13

Fiscal Devolution: An Analysis of the EFC Data The revenues of the local bodies fall into two major categories, (A) own revenue, and (B) inter-governmental transfer. Own revenues are classified into (a) non-tax revenues such as income from properties, fees, receipts, user charges, etc., and (b) tax revenues which can be classified further as (i) own tax revenues assigned and collected by local bodies and assigned but collected by the state government and given to local bodies, and (ii) revenues from shared taxes entirely collected by the state government but subsequently shared with the local bodies. The second category consists of revenue under inter-governmental transfers. Most of these transfers are grants by the center either directly or through the states, frequently with small additional funding by the individual states.14 Till now, the second category is the most important source of revenue for the local bodies. As regards the expenditure items, the major expenditure of the local bodies is on account of (a) general administrative services, (b) discretionary and obligatory services, and (c) expenditure on developmental

250 / RATAN KHASNABIS activities, mostly under schemes sponsored by the higher tiers of the government. Research on the finance of local bodies indicates that PRIs and urban local bodies (ULBs) are now spending more funds compared to what they used to spend before the Constitutional Amendment. As the EFC has observed (Report of the EFC) the total expenditure at the PRI and ULBs level, as a percentage of GDP was 12.24 per cent in 1997–98; the comparable figure for 1992–93 had been only 5.53 per cent. This information, along with the fact that the total expenditure/GDP ratio of the union government and the provincial governments taken together was 15.2 per cent in 1997–98, indicates that the local level revenue expenditure is now playing an important role in the public finance of the economy. It does not, however, indicate that the local bodies are spending the funds more out of their own revenue sources. In fact, the dependence of such bodies on the respective state governments (and also on central government) in financial matters seems to remain as strong as before the Constitutional Amendments. Tax revenue of the local bodies (PRI and ULBs) as percentage of the tax revenue of the states had been only 3.11 per cent in 1992–93. By 1997–98, as stated by the EFC, the ratio had increased, but even then it was only 5.01 per cent (Oommen, 2000). Research on the fiscal situation, at the level of the local bodies on the basis of the EFC data15 does indicate16 (Oommen, 2000) that the fiscal basis of autonomy for local bodies in India is indeed very weak. The local tax/GDP ratio for the local bodies had been as low as 0.45 per cent in 1997–98. The revenue from other sources (such as non-tax items) had also been abysmally poor. Inter-state variations notwithstanding, the overall scenario is that the PRI and the ULBs depend mostly on intergovernmental transfers. As observed by Oommen (2000), the financial autonomy ratio (the percentage of locally raised revenue to total local expenditure) had been as low as 4.81 per cent in 1997–98 for 15 major states in India. There is inter-state variation in this regard. For example, in Punjab, the financial autonomy ratio had been as high as 88.66 per cent in 1997–98. But there are states like Karnataka where the ratio had been as low as 4.65 per cent for the same reference year. An observable variation does exist between the Urban Local Bodies and Rural Local Bodies. For example, in Orissa, the financial autonomy ratio for the rural bodies had been as low as 6.81 per cent in 1997–98. In the same year, the financial autonomy ratio for the urban bodies of the state had been 57.09 per cent. The scenario in each of the 15 major states in India, as worked out

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by Oommen (2000), is given in Appendix 2 of this chapter. The results indicate that iner-state variation notwithstanding, internal revenue mobilization plays a very limited role in the finance of local bodies in the states of India.17 There is a strong opinion that the PRI and the ULBs fail to mobilize much resources from internal sources largely because they fail to raise revenue by way of the levy of taxes as assigned to them by the respective state governments. Among the reasons for the failure, “the general reluctance on the part of the Panchayats to levy taxes for fear of erosion in the vote base, lack of necessary administrative machinery to collect taxes and limited capacity to pay tax in the villages, specially in drought hit and other disaster hit villages” (Rangarajan, 2004), are considered important. While it is true that the local bodies do not perform well in mobilizing local resources, some researchers have argued that there are structural reasons for a low revenue compliance of the local bodies. The own levy rights of Panchayats are mainly on buildings and non-agricultural land; taxes on entertainment and motorized vehicles is another important source of local revenue for some tiers of Panchayats. These have the least tax buoyancy.18 Professional tax, which is a constitutionally sanctioned local duty with much revenue potentiality, is not assigned to local bodies in any state (except in Kerala). User fees and charges are the sources of revenue in almost every tier of the local bodies. But these are the areas where tax compliance is low. The PRI in India cannot expand the own revenue base because the assigned items of tax revenue for the local bodies have least tax buoyancy. Again, tax compliance is weak at the village level. A somewhat better tax compliance scenario exists in the intermediate tier of the PRI. But then, the revenue base for the intermediate tiers of the PRI is rather narrow. Roughly about 80 per cent of the Panchayats’ own revenues are collected by the Gram Panchayats, a pattern that remained unchanged between 1990–91 and 1997–98. (Exceptions are Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan where higher tiers have a substantial share in collection). According to Rajaraman, the revenue potential of the local bodies can improve if a crop-specific levy on agricultural land is imposed in rural areas 19 (Rajaraman, 2003 and 2004). We should add that the present scenario regarding the collection of revenue from own sources is not as bleak for the local bodies as it is projected to be. Following the Constitutional Amendments, the local bodies started functioning better. In many states, with some devolution

252 / RATAN KHASNABIS of functions and functionaries, the mobilization of internal revenue improved in a noteworthy way. It may be pointed out that between 1990–91 and 1997–98, there was a doubling of the average per capita collection across all states aggregating across all tiers of the Panchayat (Rajaraman, 2004).19

Fiscal Devolution: Inter-Governmental Transfer While it is true that the performance of the local bodies in mobilizing resources from their own sources has improved in the recent years, the fact remains, that till now the major source of funds for the local bodies is inter-governmental transfer of financial resources. Under the constitutional mandate, the Central Finance Commissions would devolve a sum to the local bodies.20 Again, following the Constitutional Amendment Acts, the PRI and the ULBs are supposed to get a devolved fund from the Consolidated Fund of the State from the state governments as well (revenues of designated taxes, duties, fees, and tolls collected by the state governments). The devolution of financial resources to these bodies from state governments is supposed to be ensured through periodic constitution of the State Finance Commissions that are required to make recommendations on the sharing and assignment of various taxes, duties, tolls, fees, etc. and on the grants-in-aid to these bodies from the Consolidated Fund of the states. These provisions are closely related to Articles 243G and 243W of the Constitution. It is argued that the performance of the local bodies in mobilizing revenue from own sources has not been satisfactory. But what about the role of state governments in executing the provision of inter-governmental transfers to the local bodies? As the EFC has observed, in most of the states in India, devolution through inter-governmental transfer has remained poor. The SFC reports which are supposed to serve as the basis for financial devolution are often prepared in a perfunctory way. Also, the SFC reports do not follow a uniform pattern and consequently the Central Finance Commission can hardly utilize these reports while suggesting measures for augmenting the financial resource base of the local bodies. Again, in many cases, the SFC reports do not specify the sources from which the shared revenue would devolve to the local

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bodies. Even when such reports are placed before the state governments, in some cases, the concerned authorities do not take any step for implementing the recommendations of the SFCs.21 The basic reason for poor financial devolution is that the Conformatory Acts, in most cases, are weak. For example, there are states such as West Bengal in which the Conformatory Act did not specify the ways and means for achieving financial (and administrative) autonomy. The Haryana Act, specifically states that the objective of the PRI is to “make arrangement” for administering the rural areas better (UNDP. n.d.: 15). Admittedly, there are states, such as Kerala, where 44 state laws were amended following the Conformatory Act to broaden the entitlement of the local bodies. But, these are exceptions to what prevails in the states of India. Apparently, the problem can be met by appreciating the fact that the local bodies are perceived by the Constitution (Article 40 in the Directive Principles of the State) as a tier of the government. A tier of the government should have a concomitant revenue base. If the third tier gets the authority to take up the Constitution sanctioned duties (as in the Eleventh and the Twelfth Schedules), it is logical, that it would automatically get a concomitant resource from the Consolidated Fund of the State. Often this logical consequence of the Constitutional Amendment Acts is not appreciated by the state governments in India. The EFC noted this point while mentioning in its report that a financial devolution for the local bodies does not need a measure to augment the Consolidated Fund of the State, per se. Devolution from the existing Consolidated Fund of the State is possible to the extent the act of transferring the duties and functions listed in the Eleventh and the Twelfth Schedules of the Constitution is performed by the concerned state. It does not involve the augmentation of resources because the transfer of such duties and functions should involve concomitant transfers of staff and resources from the line departments of state government, a measure that does not entail any extra financial burden on the state. As there is a provision for direct devolution from the central government to the state governments, as per the recommendation of the Central Finance Commission, the local bodies should also get a devolved fund from the Consolidated Fund of the State, following the recommendation of the State Finance Commission, as the functions and functionaries are transferred to the local bodies. The process of transfer should be as automatic as in the case of the second tier of the state of India.

254 / RATAN KHASNABIS To what extent has such devolution taken place in India? This is the central issue pertaining to financial devolution to local bodies. To what extent the state governments have addressed this issue can be discussed by considering the relevant data from the Reserve Bank of India’s (RBI) yearly publication State Finances: Study of State Budgets. There are five broad divisions in the yearly statement of the state budget in which the revenue expenditure of the state governments is placed. These are Development Expenditure, Non-development Expenditure, Grants-in-aid and Contributions, Reserve with Finance Department, and finally, Compensation and Assignments to Local Bodies and Panchayati Raj Institutions. The last mentioned head contains quantitative information on intergovernmental transfers to the local bodies from the Consolidated Fund of a state. Such compensation and assignments are supposed to be untied funds devolved to the local bodies, but the state budgets mostly transfer project-tied funds under this head in order to put on paper, that statutory devolution to the local bodies has been honored. Be that as it may, the RBI data on compensation and assignments to local bodies does provide rich information on the extent of intergovernmental transfer to the local bodies in India. In the remaining part of this chapter, we would analyze this data for the period 1992–93 to 2002–03. The trend of financial devolution over time and the extent of inter-state variation in this regard might be discussed on the basis of this data set. We shall first consider the scenario with respect to the per capita compensation and assignments to the local bodies from the state budgets, as derived from the RBI data. The detailed information is given in Table 10.1.22 At the very outset, it should be pointed out that the average per capita revenue expenditure (at constant price) by the local bodies, due to inter-governmental transfers from the state budgets, for 16 major states23 of India, taken as a whole, had been increasing steadily over the period (Table 10.1, last row). Even then there is reason to believe that the extent of devolution, as inter-governmental transfers, to the local bodies remained poor. This becomes apparent as we consider the state fund devolved to the local bodies as percentage of total revenue expenditure (Table 10.2). In 1992–93, the revenue expenditure on compensation and assignments to local bodies as percentage of total revenue expenditure of the states had been 1.34 per cent. The situation did not improve much even after the introduction of the Conformatory Acts. The relevant percentage was just 1.87 in 2002–03.24

9.70 3.03 0.34 6.88 7.33 7.74 29.56 14.74 19.43 7.94 4.54 17.39 2.81 56.01 18.48 26.51 14.53

10.12 4.09 0.30 5.99 3.38 6.85 26.69 20.24 21.24 5.31 6.10 27.17 2.52 22.78 15.55 24.83 12.70

9.93 2.20 0.26 7.05 3.28 5.99 27.69 19.39 19.66 4.82 1.32 19.82 2.72 20.54 14.18 25.53 11.52

9.11 3.27 0.16 7.36 4.03 6.24 19.76 20.48 27.95 4.51 3.15 24.29 3.07 29.99 14.79 20.88 12.44

10.71 1.31 0.16 7.96 3.14 6.53 31.28 30.04 32.71 7.82 3.63 23.59 2.85 44.36 15.04 19.00 15.01

13.42 2.18 0.15 8.48 0.20 14.85 41.83 31.58 31.50 12.25 5.99 23.42 2.73 105.06 29.18 20.42 21.45

14.66 2.84 0.15 7.62 0.18 18.13 47.00 11.51 36.38 13.73 4.81 22.64 3.87 122.32 38.11 19.11 22.69

11.75 1.77 0.17 7.04 0.16 22.35 56.02 17.23 54.16 41.55 3.98 14.80 2.31 116.08 35.54 21.53 25.40

14.11 2.17 0.13 6.43 4.66 21.92 65.78 11.21 44.30 46.92 26.53 23.91 2.01 102.32 42.40 17.95 27.05

22.88 0.90 0.18 6.86 9.03 21.22 66.31 13.05 37.08 34.52 25.26 42.44 2.04 71.57 35.24 20.19 25.55

20.91 2.78 0.17 12.73 4.72 53.99 64.48 12.75 40.57 51.90 24.22 27.70 0.02 150.23 43.81 20.74 33.23

Source: Compiled from RBI data (State Finances: Study of State Budgets, various years) deflated by wholesale price index (base 1993–94) and the State population data∗∗ for various years. Notes: ∗We have combined the data for Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, and Uttaranchal with Madhya Pradesh, Bihar, and Uttar Pradesh respectively. We have dropped Delhi. The number of states is thus 16. ∗∗The state population for each year (except 2001–02) is on the basis of the estimated growth rate of population between 1991 and 2001. For 2001–02, the Census (2001) Population data has been used.

Andhra Pradesh Assam Bihar∗ Gujarat Haryana Himachal Pradesh Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh∗ Maharashtra Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Tamil Nadu Uttar Pradesh∗ West Bengal Avg. for 16 major states

Table 10.1 Per Capita Revenue Expenditure (at constant price) of 16 Major States: Compensation and Assignments to Local Bodies and Panchayati Raj Institutions (in rupees) State 1992–93 1993–94 1994–95 1995–96 1996–97 1997–98 1998–99 1999–2000 2000–2001 2001–02 2002–03

0.84 0.26 0.04 0.43 0.48 0.33 2.23 1.09 2.19 0.51 0.44 0.97 0.23 3.42 1.91 2.99 1.34

1992–93

0.86 0.33 0.04 0.37 0.17 0.27 2.00 1.40 2.15 0.33 0.57 1.41 0.20 1.48 1.70 2.53 1.12

1993–94

0.81 0.18 0.04 0.46 0.10 0.23 2.02 1.29 2.18 0.31 0.12 0.79 0.22 1.38 1.54 2.69 1.06

1994–95

0.73 0.27 0.02 0.46 0.17 0.22 1.36 1.29 2.91 0.27 0.27 1.14 0.22 1.95 1.56 2.14 1.11

1995–96 0.67 0.11 0.02 0.45 0.11 0.22 1.90 1.71 2.87 0.42 0.31 0.96 0.21 2.54 1.55 1.72 1.20

1996–97 0.88 0.00 0.02 0.43 0.01 0.42 2.52 1.56 2.86 0.63 0.50 0.90 0.21 5.55 2.78 1.80 1.67

1997–98 0.89 0.23 0.02 0.33 0.01 0.44 2.67 0.54 2.92 0.69 0.35 0.87 0.25 5.85 3.35 1.44 1.69

1998–99 0.70 0.11 0.02 0.28 0.01 0.50 2.73 0.68 4.01 1.90 0.24 0.49 0.13 4.95 2.99 1.25 1.84

0.71 0.14 0.02 0.23 0.21 0.47 3.19 0.46 3.53 1.85 1.69 0.76 0.11 4.50 3.50 1.00 1.79

1.13 0.06 0.02 0.25 0.35 0.45 3.03 0.57 2.60 1.41 1.51 1.31 0.12 3.32 2.92 1.12 1.56

0.98 0.14 0.02 0.47 0.17 0.99 2.83 0.51 2.65 2.04 1.38 0.74 0.00 5.91 3.16 1.12 1.87

1999–2000 2000–2001 2001–02 2002–03 (RE)

Source: Study of State Budgets (Reserve Bank of India, various years). Notes: RE = Revised Estimate. ∗We have combined the data for Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, and Uttaranchal with Madhya Pradesh, Bihar, and Uttar Pradesh respectivley. We have dropped Delhi. The number of states is thus 16.

Andhra Pradesh Assam Bihar∗ Gujarat Haryana Himachal Pradesh Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh∗ Maharashtra Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Tamil Nadu Uttar Pradesh∗ West Bengal All states

State

Table 10.2 Compensation and Assignments to Local Bodies as Percentage to Total Revenue Expenditure of the State (1992–93 to 2002–03): 16 Major States in India

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This is not to say that the Constitutional Amendments did not have any effect. The state governments did make efforts to honor the constitutional provision and the extent of devolution did increase during this period. The per capita assignment to local bodies at constant price had been Rs 14.53 for 16 major states in India. By 2002–03, the per capita revenue expenditure by the local bodies has increased to Rs 33.33 (Table 10.1). A further analysis of the data, however, indicates that there exists wide variation among the states with respect to inter-governmental transfer to local bodies. The other indication is that there is much volatility in the disbursements of funds to the local bodies in many states of India. On the basis of the data contained in Table 10.1 and Table 10.2, the chapter attempts to analyze these phenomena below. The Conformatory Acts were passed in all states by April 1994. The consequential change in the disbursement of the Consolidated Fund of the States should be effective at least by the financial year of 1996–97. We take this factor into consideration and check whether a change for the better has taken place in the post-Conformatory Act regime. A dummy incorporated regression analysis considered in Table 10.3 does indicate that the all India data on per capita compensation and assignments to local bodies does not rule out the possibility that the overall scenario has changed for the better for the Local Bodies in post-1995–96 years.25 To what extent has the scenario changed in the post-constitutional reforms period in the states of India? Table 10.4 considers this issue. Table 10.3 A Dummy Variable-incorporated Regression Analysis of Intertemporal Behavior of Per Capita Devolution to Local Bodies (All India@) Regression Coefficients

Per Capita Revenue Expenditure

b0 b1 b2

7.987∗ 1.924∗ 0.960

Source: Same as Table 10.1. Notes: The Model: YI = b0 + b1t + b2D1t + ui, where, D1 = 1 for period 1996–97 & above = 0, otherwise ∗ = Significant at 1 per cent level. @ = 16 major states in India.

258 / RATAN KHASNABIS The average per capita devolution for the period 1992–93 to 1995–96 (Period One) in 16 major states in India had been Rs 14.44. The average for the period 1996–97 to 2002–03 (Period Two) was Rs 28.70, i.e., about double the amount recorded in the previous period. Evidently, the scenario has changed for the better, on an aggregate, in the post-Constitutional reforms period, just as Table 10.3 suggested. The state level data indicates that in both the periods, average per capita devolution was the highest in Tamil Nadu and the lowest in Bihar. The difference in per capita devolution to local bodies was as high as Rs 32.06 in Period One and Rs 101.65 in Period Two between the best and the worst performers (Table 10.4). The differences among some other performers were also quite high. The other important feature is that the performance was not consistent over years for some of the states. Thus, the average per capita devolution in West Bengal, the state which is considered as the pioneer in developing the PRI of the new era, had in fact declined in Period Two (the period after the Conformatory Act had been introduced). Table 10.4 Average Per Capita Devolution (at constant price) to Local Bodies: 16 Major States in India (in rupees) State

Average (1992–93 to 1995–96)

Average (1996–97 to 2002–03)

Average for the Entire Period

9.72 3.15 0.27 6.82 4.51 6.71 25.92 18.71 22.07 5.65 3.78 22.17 2.78 32.33 15.75 24.44 14.44

15.49 1.99 0.16 8.16 3.16 22.71 53.24 18.20 39.53 29.81 13.49 25.50 2.26 101.71 34.19 19.85 28.70

13.39 2.41 0.20 7.67 3.65 16.89 43.31 18.38 33.18 21.03 9.96 24.29 2.45 76.48 27.48 21.52 23.51

Andhra Pradesh Assam Bihar∗ Gujarat Haryana Himachal Pradesh Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh∗ Maharashtra Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Tamil Nadu Uttar Pradesh∗ West Bengal All states Source: Same as Table 10.1. Note: Same as Table 10.1.

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Haryana and Assam are the other states where the average per capita devolution had declined in Period Two. With reference to Kerala, the other states which introduced radical measures for decentralized development by peoples’ planning, the per capita devolution remained almost unchanged in Period Two.26 Stagnation at a low level of per capita devolution had been observed in states like Rajasthan and Bihar. In some states, such as Maharashtra and Uttar Pradesh, the tempo of devolution accelerated greatly following the Constitutional Amendments. Apparently, there is much volatility in per capita devolution in almost every major state of India. The average value of per capita devolution for a particular period might not therefore indicate much about what is really happening in the states. A better measure, particularly for studying the relative performance, would be the rank of the states according to the average rank scores on per capita devolution for the period under study. We, therefore, rank the states in terms of per capita devolution for each year and find the average rank score for a state for a given period. The states are then ranked again in terms of their average rank scores for Period One, Period Two, and also for the Entire Period. The results have been recorded in Table 10.5. Ranks of the states in two periods, calculated on the basis of average rank scores, indicate that Karnataka and not Tamil Nadu had been the best performer in Period One. In fact, Karnataka was followed by Tamil Nadu, Madhya Pradesh, and West Bengal (all having the same rank). Bihar, Rajasthan, and Assam had been at the other end of the distribution of states according to the average rank scores. As Table 10.5 indicates, the ranks of the states according to average rank scores for two different periods did not differ much in case of the majority of the states. However, the rank of West Bengal declined sharply (from Rank two to Rank eight). For Kerala too, there was deterioration in rank after 1995–96. Among the states which have improved their relative positions after 1995–96 are, Uttar Pradesh (Rank seven to Rank four) and Maharashtra (Rank eleven to Rank six). The scenario remained almost the same for Orissa and Haryana; Bihar holds the last position in both the periods. Considering the Entire Period, we observe that Tamil Nadu is the best performer (the distinction that it obtained not in Period One, but in Period Two) and the next best is Karnataka. Among the 16 major states, the position of West Bengal and Kerala are sixth and seventh respectively. The worst is the performance of Bihar. Rajasthan, Assam and Haryana are the other states in which the per capita devolution from the Consolidated Fund of the State did not register a noteworthy progress (Table 10.5).

260 / RATAN KHASNABIS Table 10.5 Ranks of States according to Average Rank Scores on Per Capita Revenue Expenditure Devolved to the Local Bodies

State Andhra Pradesh Assam Bihar∗ Gujarat Haryana Himachal Pradesh Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh∗ Maharashtra Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Tamil Nadu Uttar Pradesh∗ West Bengal

Average Average Rank Score Rank Score of Period of Period One Rank 1 Two Rank 2 8.0 13.5 16.0 10.25 12.25 9.75 2.75 6.0 3.0 10.75 13.0 3.75 14.5 3.0 6.5 3.0

8 14 16 10 12 9 1 6 2 11 13 5 15 2 7 2

8.86 14.43 15.71 11.29 13.71 7.43 2.29 8.43 3.43 6.57 9.86 6.00 14.00 1.00 5.14 7.86

10 15 16 12 13 7 2 9 3 6 11 5 14 1 4 8

Average Rank Score for Entire Period

Grand Rank

8.55 14.09 15.82 10.91 13.18 8.27 2.45 7.55 3.27 8.09 11.0 5.18 14.18 1.73 5.64 6.09

10 14 16 11 13 9 2 7 3 8 12 4 15 1 5 6

Source: Same as Table 10.1. Notes: Period One = 1992–93 to 1995–96. Period Two = 1996–97 to 2002–03. Entire Period = 1992–93 to 2002–03. Grand Rank = Rank according to the Average Rank Score for the Entire Period. ∗ Same as Table 10.1.

With respect to the 16 major states, the extent of volatility in the yearly per capita devolution to local bodies has been reported in Table 10.6. Noting that a low coefficient of variation would indicate that the state has a high temporal consistency in per capita devolution to the local bodies, we observe that for the Entire Period, the performance of West Bengal was the best in terms of this indicator. Gujarat and Punjab are the other two states in which the overall ranks with respect to variation in per capita revenue expenditure are second and third respectively. The most volatile was the scenario in Orissa and Maharashtra where the coefficient of variation had been as high as 100.2 per cent and 88.79 per cent respectively. In pre-Conformatory Act years, the least volatile had

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been the performance of Andhra Pradesh, which was followed by Rajasthan and Gujarat. The highest volatility had been registered in Orissa. Bihar and Haryana had been the two other states where volatility had been very high. It is interesting to note that Tamil Nadu, the state which ranked very high in terms of per capita devolution, had also been the state where volatility had been the highest in Period One and very high (Rank nine) in Period Two. West Bengal was the state in which the variation was the least (6.15 per cent) in post 1995–96 period, Haryana being the state where the volatility had been the second highest in this period. As we see from Table 10.6, the overall volatility was higher in the period when the states were devolving funds under the constitutional mandate. The presence of high volatility does not indicate that the per capita devolution had been very low in the concerned state. Thus, in Tamil Nadu where the coefficient of variation in per capita devolution had been as high as 50.39 per cent in Period One, the per capita devolution, as Table 10.4 indicates, had been the highest (Rs 32.33). On the other hand, Rajasthan which ranked second in terms of the extent of absence of volatility in Period One, had an average per capita devolution of Rs 2.78 only. The performance of a state should not be measured only by the amount of funds that it devolves, on an average, to the local bodies, nor should it be measured by the indicator of consistency in the act of devolution alone. What we need is a measure by which we can capture the performance of a state in terms of both average per capita devolution and the extent of consistency in it. In a measure that considers both these attributes, the relative performance of a state can be assessed in a balanced manner. A state which ranks very high in terms of per capita devolution and at the same time has a low value of coefficient of variation (indicating a high level of temporal consistency) would be a good performer. We would now consider the performance of the states in terms of this twin measure. Based on the information contained in Table 10.6 we classify the states in four groups, separately in terms of rank in average per capita devolution and the rank with respect to coefficient of variation in per capita devolution for a given period. Groups are arranged in descending order of performance, namely, I (Rank 1–4), II (Rank 5–8), III (Rank 9–12), and IV (Rank 13–16).27 We then find the combination of ranks with respect to per capita devolution and the associated coefficient of variation for each state for the periods under study. Evidently, there would be 16 combinations out of which the combination (I, I) would indicate the best, i.e., a state with very high per capita devolution with low level

8 14 16 10 12 9 1 6 2 11 13 5 15 2 7 2 X

Andhra Pradesh Assam Bihar∗ Gujarat Haryana Himachal Pradesh Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh∗ Maharashtra Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Tamil Nadu Uttar Pradesh∗ West Bengal All states

4.52 24.67 28.02 8.62 42.45 11.67 16.51 14.38 18.13 27.74 53.83 19.81 8.20 50.39 12.09 10.11 9.83

CV1 1 11 13 3 14 5 8 7 9 12 16 10 2 15 6 4 X

Rank According to CV1 10 15 16 12 13 7 2 9 3 6 11 5 14 1 4 8 X

ARE2 29.77 36.08 9.48 26.12 104.93 65.45 25.59 48.64 19.72 61.10 82.50 33.01 52.02 34.05 28.51 6.15 22.94

CV2 7 10 2 5 16 14 4 11 3 13 15 8 12 9 6 1 X

Rank According to CV2

Source: Compiled from Table 10.1. Notes: CV1 = Coefficient of variation for 1992–93 to 1995–96. CV2 = Coefficient of variation for 1996–97 to 2002–03. CV = Coefficient of variation for 1992–93 to 2002–03. ARE = Rank According to Average Rank Score of Per capita Revenue Expenditure (as in Table 10.5).

ARE1

State 10 14 16 11 13 9 2 7 3 8 12 4 15 1 5 6 X

Grand ARE 34.46 37.76 35.56 23.62 78.24 83.30 40.44 38.17 32.86 88.79 100.20 29.44 39.03 58.83 43.76 13.21 36.18

CV

5 7 6 2 13 14 10 8 4 15 16 3 9 12 11 1 X

Rank According to CV

Table 10.6 Ranks of States according to the Coefficient of Variation (CV) and Year-wise Rank of Average of Per Capita Revenue Expenditure Devolved to the Local Bodies

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of variation in devolution for the period under study. Similarly, the combination (IV, IV) would indicate the group of worst performers. The results of this exercise are described graphically in Figures 10.1, 10.2, and 10.3 of this chapter.

Figure 10.1 Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Per Capita Devolution to Local Bodies and its Coefficient of Variation (1992–93 to 1995–96) Notes: arei : Rank according to Average Rank Score in Period One. rcvi : Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Period One.

As we see from Figure 10.1, in Period One, West Bengal had been the only state in Group (I, I). This state which was ranked first in terms of per capita devolution and ranked fourth with respect to CV appears to be the best performer in this period. In the worst group are Orissa, Haryana, and Bihar. Kerala, Uttar Pradesh, and Himachal Pradesh had

264 / RATAN KHASNABIS

Figure 10.2 Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Per Capita Devolution to Local Bodies and its Coefficient of Variation (1996–97 to 2002–03) Notes: areii : Rank according to Average Rank Score in Period Two. rcvii : Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Period Two.

been moderate performers in the pre-Conformatory Act period. The scenario changed in the post-Conformatory Act period. Karnataka and Madhya Pradesh now belonged to the group of best performers. Rajasthan, Orissa, and Haryana were, however, in the worst group. Bihar had not been included in this group. This is because the state maintained a low profile both in terms of per capita devolution and its dispersion over time consistently over this period. The overall scenario (for the entire period) is that Madhya Pradesh and Punjab are the best performers; they have high per capita devolution with a low level of volatility. West Bengal failed to attain this distinction as it had been ranked sixth in terms of per capita devolution to its local bodies. In the group of worst performers, are Orissa and Haryana, as Figure 10.3 points out. Bihar was excluded

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because its rank according to coefficient of variation had been found to be the sixth while considering its performance over the period of 11 years from 1992–93 onwards. The analysis of per capita devolution lays bare the following features of financial devolution to local bodies in Indian states. In the first place, compared to what a state government spends in a year as its own revenue expenditure, the amount of per capita devolution to local bodies is very low even in the post-reforms period. Nevertheless, there had been some improvement in the scenario in the post-Conformatory Act days, as indicated by the regression analysis on the all India data on per capita devolution to local bodies. Among the 16 major states, the performance had been commendable for states like Tamil Nadu, Madhya Pradesh, Punjab, and Karnataka. The worst performers were states like Bihar, Rajasthan,

Figure 10.3 Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Per Capita Devolution to Local Bodies and its Coefficient of Variation (1992–93 to 2002–03) Notes: are : Rank according to Average Rank Score in Entire Period. rcv : Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Entire Period.

266 / RATAN KHASNABIS Haryana, and Assam. Data also indicates that there is much volatility in the performance of the states. Considering both per capita devolution and the volatility in the act of devolution by states over years, it appears that Madhya Pradesh and Punjab were the best in meeting the twin requirements of a high per capita devolution and a low variation in the funds devolved to the local bodies. They could thus be called the best among the 16 major states in India for the entire period of 11 years under study. West Bengal and Kerala did not perform well, particularly in the post-Conformatory Act years. While Kerala might be considered to have a better devolution, given that the state has already widened the own tax base of the local bodies, the case of West Bengal remains problematic. The state has enacted a large number of State Acts for facilitating decentralization, but, as the RBI data indicates, it has not done much for ensuring financial decentralization at the level of the local bodies. To what extent financial devolution at the level of local bodies has been attained can also be measured by considering the share of compensation and assignments to local bodies in the total revenue expenditure of a state. Such a measure would be a better indicator of the relative importance of the local bodies in the disbursement of funds from the respective state governments. For 16 major states in India, we performed this exercise on the basis of the RBI data for a period of 11 years from 1992–93. Table 10.2 contains the state specific information pertaining to this measure for the above mentioned period. While the per capita devolution in constant prices has increased substantially during this period, as Table 10.1 indicates, the information contained in Table 10.2 suggests that the percentage of state funds devolving to the local bodies did not increase much during this period. For the 16 major states, taken together, the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies had been 1.34 in 1992–93. Following the Constitutional reforms, the ratio has increased. But then, the compensation and assignments to local bodies as percentage to total revenue expenditure of the states has increased only to 1.87 per cent in 2002–03. On an average, the ratio had been 1.48 per cent during this period. In no way could the extent of devolution be noted as impressive. One should not, however, ignore the fact that the Constitutional reforms did have a positive effect on the finance of the Local Bodies. In Period One, i.e. in the pre-Constitutional reforms period, the percentage of state funds devolved had been 1.16. In the post-reforms period, the combined average for the 16 states had been 1.66 per cent (Table 10.7). Admittedly, the share of the local bodies has increased after the reforms,

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although not at a very high rate. Moreover, the percentage of devolved funds had an upward leap following the Constitutional Amendments (73rd and 74th). As we see from Table 10.8, there is a clear indication that the trend of the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies should have a break in 1996–97. The dummy incorporated regression model on the all India data indicates that the hypothesis of no trend break in 1996–97 is rejected at 1% level of significance. Furthermore, a positive value for intercept term (b0) indicates that the post reforms period percentages should be located at higher values. A further analysis of the data, however, indicates that over the period of 11 years, the growth rates per annum, in the share of local bodies in the state budgets of 16 major states of India, were converging (beta convergence) over time. The possibility of having growth convergence Table 10.7 Average Devolution to Local Bodies as Percentage to Total Revenue Expenditure of the State: 16 Major States in India

State Andhra Pradesh Assam Bihar Gujarat Haryana Himachal Pradesh Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh Maharashtra Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Tamil Nadu Uttar Pradesh West Bengal All states

Average Period One

Average Period Two

Average Entire Period

0.81 0.26 0.03 0.43 0.23 0.26 1.90 1.27 2.36 0.36 0.35 1.08 0.22 2.06 1.68 2.59 1.16

0.85 0.14 0.02 0.35 0.12 0.50 2.69 0.86 3.06 1.28 0.85 0.86 0.15 4.66 2.89 1.35 1.66

0.84 0.18 0.02 0.38 0.16 0.41 2.41 1.01 2.80 0.94 0.67 0.94 0.17 3.71 2.45 1.80 1.48

Source: Study of State Budgets (Reserve Bank of India, various years). Notes: Period One = 1992–93 to 1995–96. Period Two = 1996–97 to 2002–03. Entire Period = 1992–93 to 2002–03.

268 / RATAN KHASNABIS Table 10.8 A Dummy Variable-incorporated Regression Analysis of Intertemporal Behavior of Devolution to Local Bodies as Percentage of Total Revenue Expenditure (all Statesa)

Regression Coefficients b0 b1 b2

Percentage of Local to Total Revenue Expenditure 1.025∗ 0.038 0.271

Point to Point Growth Rate of Local to Total Revenue Expenditure 0.006 –0.016 0.205

Notes: The Model: YI = b0 + b1t + b2D1t + ui, where, D1 = 1 for period 1996–97 and above. = 0, otherwise. a = 16 major states of India. ∗ = Significant at 1% level.

was calculated on the basis of the growth rates of the first five years so that the change in growth behavior following constitutional reforms could be incorporated in studying the growth convergence. The (log) linear regression on growth rates, as given in Figure 10.4, does indicate that the slope of the regression is negative, being significant at 5 per cent level of significance. However, the rate of convergence is very low, as the value of b1 indicates. The other interesting feature is that dispersion across the states in terms of percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies has in fact a tendency to diverge over time (Figure 10.5). The tendency of divergence is quite strong as the value of the slope of regression, which is significant at 5 per cent level, indicates. The implication is that, following the Constitutional reforms, the bad performing states are catching up with the good performers in terms of growth in financial devolution to the local bodies, although the rate at which the “catching up” takes place is very low. At the same time, the variation among the states in honoring the constitutional mandate does remain quite powerful possibly due to huge initial differences on which the growth convergence is taking place. One would, however, hope that with a convergence in the growth rates, the inter-state variation in devolution to local bodies would reduce further in future. Before 1996–97, the per cent devolution to local bodies from the state budget, averaged over 1992–93 to 1995–96, had been the highest in West Bengal. In the next period, the relative performance of West Bengal

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Slope Coefficient is negative implying Beta Convergence

Interactive Graph

Figure 10.4 Growth (Beta) Convergence among States with respect to Percentage of State Revenue Expenditure Devolved to the Local Bodies Source: Study of State Budgets (Reserve Bank of India, various years).

270 / RATAN KHASNABIS

Time Coefficient is positive implying Sigma Divergence

Figure: 10.5 Dispersion (Sigma) Divergence among States with respect to Percentage of State Revenue Expenditure Devolved to the Local Bodies Source: Study of State Budgets (Reserve Bank of India, various years).

deteriorated. States such as Tamil Nadu, Madhya Pradesh, and Uttar Pradesh performed better, as Table 10.7 indicates. In fact, Tamil Nadu was now the best performer, recording an average devolution of 4.66 per cent from the state budget to its local bodies. This is consistent with the earlier observation that the per capita devolution was the highest in Tamil Nadu during 1996–97 to 2002–03. Karnataka and Madhya Pradesh retained

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their respective positions in Period Two as the leading states to honor the mandate of the Constitution. Maharashtra improved its position in post 1995–96 period, so also did Orissa. Andhra Pradesh, Kerala, and Punjab had been moderate performers in Period One (1992–93 to 1995–96). They retained their positions in Period Two, as well.28 The worst performer, in both the periods had been Bihar. Assam along with Himachal Pradesh had been the other states where the performance had not been good. What transpires is that the nature of inter-state difference in percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies was more or less the same, as it happened to be in the case of per capita devolution. The implication is that the bad performers were performing badly because they were devolving proportionately less from the Consolidated Fund of the State than the good performers; the results indicate that the per capita devolution was less for the bad performers despite a higher rate of transfer to the local bodies. If we consider the performance of the states in two different periods in terms of the average rank scores on percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies in a given period, it appears that the performance of West Bengal had been the best in the pre-reforms period (Table 10.9). Following the reforms, the position of West Bengal relegated to Rank five. The worst performer, i.e., Bihar ranked 16th among 16 major states in the post-reforms period as well. The consistency in rank was observed in the case of Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Madhya Pradesh, and Punjab. The impact of Constitutional reforms was very strong in Maharashtra. The rank of Maharashtra had been 10 in the pre-reforms period. After the Conformatory Act had been introduced, the Maharashtra government devolved a large proportion of the state funds to the local bodies. Consequently, the relative position of Maharashtra changed for the better. Its rank in the post-reforms period improved to six. Comparing with the results contained in Table 10.5, it appears that the rank according to per capita devolution to local bodies had been consistently better than the rank according to the percentage of funds devolved from the state budget for some of the states (Karnataka, Himachal Pradesh, and Punjab). It was consistently worse in case of Orissa and Uttar Pradesh. Rank according to per capita devolution almost matched with that according to percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies in case of Tamil Nadu, Madhya Pradesh, and Karnataka among the good performers. In general, rank consistency was also observed in the case of states with low rank positions.

272 / RATAN KHASNABIS Table 10.9 Ranks of States according to Average Rank Scores on Devolution to Local Bodies as Percentage of Total Revenue Expenditure of the State: 16 Major States of India

State Andhra Pradesh Assam Bihar Gujarat Haryana Himachal Pradesh Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh Maharashtra Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Tamil Nadu Uttar Pradesh West Bengal

Average Average Rank Score Rank Score of Period of Period One Rank 1 Two Rank 2 7.75 12.0 16.0 10.0 13.75 12.5 3.5 6.25 2.25 10.5 11.5 7.0 13.75 3.5 4.25 1.5

8 12 16 9 14 13 3 6 2 10 11 7 14 3 5 1

7.71 14.14 15.57 11.57 13.57 11.29 3.43 8.71 2.71 7.29 8.57 7.57 13.71 1.14 3.00 6.00

8 15 16 12 13 11 4 10 2 6 9 7 14 1 3 5

Average Rank Score for Entire Period

Grand Rank

7.73 13.36 15.73 11.00 13.64 11.73 3.45 7.82 2.55 8.45 9.64 7.36 13.73 2.00 3.45 4.36

7 13 16 11 14 12 3 8 2 9 10 6 15 1 3 5

Source: Compiled from Table 10.2. Notes: Grand Rank = Rank according to the Average Rank Score for the Entire Period. Period One = 1992–93 to 1995–96. Period Two = 1996–97 to 2002–03.

The volatility of states in the matter of fiscal devolution can be captured by considering the coefficient of variation of the devolution percentages. This exercise is performed in Table 10.10. As evident from Table 10.10, the least volatile had been the scenario in Andhra, if the dispersion for the entire period is considered. The most volatile had been the scenario in Haryana. West Bengal along with Uttar Pradesh, Punjab, and Bihar had been the states where the volatility had been moderate. In the prereforms period, the most volatile was the situation in Haryana and the least volatile situation was in Rajasthan.29 In the post-reforms period, wide yearly variation in the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies was observed in Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, and Himachal Pradesh. The volatility was the least in Madhya Pradesh, followed by Karnataka.

8 12 16 9 14 13 3 6 2 10 11 7 14 3 5 1 X

7.02 23.58 24.29 9.63 73.31 19.15 19.85 10.01 15.60 29.83 55.62 24.61 6.93 45.60 10.18 13.70 10.75

CV1

2 10 11 3 16 8 9 4 7 13 15 12 1 14 5 6 X

Rank 1 8 15 16 12 13 11 4 10 2 6 9 7 14 1 3 5 X

ARE2

CV2 19.87 38.56 19.94 29.35 106.32 47.28 15.41 61.91 16.60 53.74 75.06 28.86 56.26 27.90 22.40 23.29 13.82

10 12 15 4 6 14 2 9 1 13 5 8 3 7 16 11 X

Rank 2

Source: Same as Table 10.9. Notes: ARE1 = Average Rank Score according to Devolved Revenue Expenditure for Period One. ARE2 = Average Rank Score according to Devolved Revenue Expenditure for Period Two. ARE = Average Rank Score according to Devolved Revenue Expenditure for the Entire Period. CV1 = Coefficient of variation for Period One. CV2 = Coefficient of variation for Period Two. CV = Coefficient of variation for the Entire Period.

ARE1

State

Andhra Pradesh Assam Bihar Gujarat Haryana Himachal Pradesh Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh Maharashtra Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Tamil Nadu Uttar Pradesh West Bengal All states

7 13 16 11 14 12 3 8 2 9 10 6 15 1 3 5 X

ARE 16.28 44.89 40.28 24.40 90.94 53.34 23.00 46.18 20.19 75.18 84.55 28.16 42.60 46.66 32.53 38.80 21.46

CV

1 10 8 4 16 13 3 11 2 14 15 5 9 12 6 7 X

Rank

Table 10.10 Ranks according to Coefficient of Variation and Average Rank Scores of Revenue Expenditure Devolved to Local Bodies as Percentage of Total Revenue Expenditure of the State: 16 Major States of India

274 / RATAN KHASNABIS Comparing the variation in percentage of devolved funds with that in per capita devolution, a somewhat consistency was observable in every period for Gujarat, Karnataka, Maharashtra, and Madhya Pradesh where the volatility in per capita devolution was very near to the volatility in the percentage of devolved funds over the years. Rank according to coefficient of variation in percentage of devolved funds differed widely from the rank according to coefficient of variation in per capita devolution in postreforms period in case of Bihar, Orissa, Rajasthan, and Uttar Pradesh. Over the entire period of 11 years, the most consistent behavior was found in Tamil Nadu, Rajasthan, Orissa, and Himachal Pradesh. In West Bengal, the volatility in per capita devolution was the least, but the state ranked seventh in terms of the coefficient of variation in the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies. We pointed out, while analyzing the data on per capita devolution, that a better measure for consistency in the behavior of a state in implementing the Constitutional provision for financial devolution is the performance of the state in terms of both the average behavior and the dispersion over a specified period pertaining to the indicator that we adopt. We also argued, that the performance of a state should be considered as the best if it belongs to a group in which the rank in terms of average rank scored for a period is between one and four, (Category I) and at the same time, the rank according to coefficient of variation is in the same category. The worst performer would be the state belonging to Category IV with respect to both the average and the coefficient of variation in the given period. While considering the performance of the states with respect to the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies, we may analyze the data of Table 10.10 following this approach. In Figure 10.6, Figure 10.7 and Figure 10.8, we describe the results of this exercise for Period One, Period Two, and the Entire Period (of 11 years), respectively. As it appears from Figure 10.6, no state can be considered belong to the category of best following this criterion. In the group of the worst states, in Period One, the only state that met this criterion has been Haryana (14 in rank according to ARE1, and 16 in rank according to CV1). This highlights the fact that the average of the per cent devolved to the Local Bodies for various states did not maintain consistency except in case of Haryana, which had been a poor performer in the prereforms years. In the post-constitutional reforms period (Period Two), the states belonging to Category I on both the counts are Madhya Pradesh

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Figure 10.6 Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Share of Devolution to Local Bodies and its Coefficient of Variation (1992–93 to 1995–96) Notes: arei: Rank according to Average Rank Score in Period One. rcvi: Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Period One.

(2 in ARE2 and 1in CV2) and Karnataka (4 in ARE 2 and 2 in CV2). In the group of worst performers, are Assam and Bihar. The other states for which rank in per cent devolved had not been consistent with the rank according to the measure of variation of the fund devolved during this period, are Uttar Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, Rajasthan, and Haryana (Figure 10.7). If we consider the overall scenario (Figure 10.8), it appears that Karnataka and Madhya Pradesh have been the best performers and Haryana has been the only state in the group of worst performers.

276 / RATAN KHASNABIS

Figure 10.7 Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Share of Devolution to Local Bodies and its Coefficient of Variation (1996–97 to 2002–03) Notes: areii: Rank according to Average Rank Score in Period Two. acvii: Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Period Two.

Considering the performance of the states with respect to both average per capita devolution in a period and percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies, what transpires is that, on the basis of the performance of the states over the Entire Period, Madhya Pradesh should be considered the “best” among the 16 major states in India, in the act of devolving state funds to local bodies. It was the state in which the rank according to per capita devolution among the 16 major states had been three and the rank according to coefficient of variation of the per capita devolution had been four. On the basis of the other criterion, namely, the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies, the rank of Madhya Pradesh for the Eentire Period was two and the rank in terms of coefficient of

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Figure 10.8 Dispersion of the Ranks of the States according to Share of Devolution to Local Bodies and its Coefficient of Variation (1992–93 to 2002–03) Notes: are: Rank according to Average Rank Score in Entire Period. rcv: Rank according to Coefficient of variation in Entire Period.

variation in the state funds devolved to the local bodies was also two. The state thus belonged to Category I on both the measures of relative performance of states in the act of financial devolution to the local bodies. Tamil Nadu, which apparently is the best performer had, in fact, been the state in which the coefficient of variation in both per capita devolution and the devolved state funds had been very high (ranked 12th in both the cases). West Bengal was the state in which the coefficient of variation had been at the median level for the percentage of state funds devolved; in terms of average per capita devolution, the variation in the state had been the smallest (Rank 1). However, the state ranked sixth among the

278 / RATAN KHASNABIS 16 major states when we consider the average per capita devolution that took place during the period of 11 years. The other states did not perform as well as Madhya Pradesh did.

Concluding Observations The local bodies in India function with the limitation that they are not endowed with such power and authority that can enable them to function as the third tier of the government. However, following the Constitutional reforms, the issue of fiscal autonomy of the local bodies is getting more attention from the concerned authorities of the state. The research on the basis of the EFC data on the fiscal situation in the local bodies indicates that the fiscal basis of autonomy is indeed very weak for the local bodies. The PRI and the ULBs fail to realize much resources from their own sources, largely because the local bodies operate on a very weak revenue base. The assigned items of tax revenue for the local bodies are very few in number and these have least tax buoyancy. The revenue potential of the local bodies can improve if the tax base is widened empowering them with professional taxes and the authority to levy a crop-specific tax on agricultural income. What the chapter highlights is that local bodies can function better if devolution from the Consolidated Fund of the State, following the Constitutional provision, is ensured by the state governments as and when the functions of the state, as outlined in the Eleventh and Twelfth Schedules of the Constitution, are devolved to these local bodies at a greater scale. It does not involve the augmentation of the existing resources. Local bodies can take up these devolved responsibilities, even without strengthening their own revenue bases any further, only if a concomitant devolution takes place from the Consolidated Fund of the State. The chapter argues that this is not being done at the required level by the state governments. The chapter analyzes the state specific data on Compensation and Assignments to the local bodies and concludes that both the average per capita devolution and the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies remained abysmally poor during the period 1992–93 to 2002–03. The average per capita devolution in 16 major states of India taken as a whole, had been only Rs 23.51. The percentage of state funds devolved to these bodies had been 1.48 on an average, over the years.

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Further analysis of the data indicates that the Constitutional Amendments did have a positive impact on the act of financial devolution to the local bodies. A trend break in the data is discernible in 1996–97 in case of both per capita devolution and the share of the local bodies in the Consolidated Fund of the State. The data also indicate that the statespecific growth rates in the share of the local bodies have a tendency to converge (weak but statistically significant). A tendency of divergence in the dispersion of these shares has also been observed at the same time. It seems that following the Conformatory State Acts the inter-state variation in the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies, which is very high, did not decline. However, the growth rates in the share of the devolved funds have developed a tendency of convergence. Although the tendency is still weak, it has a significance that should not be ignored. In the next few years, the magnitude of year-wise inter-state variation in devolution to local bodies is likely to be reduced, if the growth rates come still closer to one another. But the contemporary reality is that there exists wide inter-state variation both in per capita devolution and in the percentage of state funds devolved to the local bodies. The RBI data on state budgets reveal this phenomenon. There are states like Tamil Nadu, where the average per capita devolution is as high as Rs 76.48. At the other extreme, there are states like Bihar (which includes Jharkhand), in which the per capita devolution is as low as Re 0.20. The RBI data also indicates that dispersions, over years, in both average per capita devolution and the percentage of funds devolved to the local bodies, vary widely among the states. There are states like Orissa and Maharashtra, in which the coefficients of variation have been as high as 100.2 per cent and 88.79 per cent, respectively, in average per capita devolution over 11 years. There are also states like West Bengal and Gujarat, where the dispersions have been low (13.21 per cent and 23.62 per cent, respectively). Considering both the average per capita devolution and its coefficient of variation along with the average of the percentages devolved to the local bodies over the entire period of 11 years and their coefficient of variation, we observe that the best performer had been the state of Madhya Pradesh. Other good performers are Karnataka and Punjab. Bihar, Haryana, Assam, and Orissa are states where the local bodies were not getting the benefits of the Constitutional mandate in the way the other states were receiving. There might be state specific reasons for variation in the act of financial devolution which should be analyzed. But such an analysis is outside the scope of this chapter.

280 / RATAN KHASNABIS Notes The research support of MCRG is gratefully acknowledged. Thanks are due to Ms Tania Chatterjee for her able research assistance in preparing the chapter . 1. For a detailed discussion on political advantages of decentralization, see Wolman (1990). 2. In this context, one may refer to the innovative exercises which were taken up by Calcutta Municipal Corporation in developing a solid waste management technique by utilizing the wetlands in the eastern part of the city. Such a device has created much positive externality, as evidenced by the economy of the east Calcutta wetlands. 3. Any organization faces a core difficulty in keeping its members informed of each other’s activities. As the number of members rises arithmetically, the number of potential nodes for information exchange rises accordingly. The number of nodes in a centralized delivery system is likely to be higher and consequently there might develop inefficiency in maintaining the informational network in a centralized delivery system. See Helm and Smith (1987). 4. For a review of literature on fiscal decentralization, see Saöbab. As Saöbab observes: “decentralization has political and administrative advantages. It is also argued that allocative efficiency is maximized under highly decentralized political structures. However, it has disadvantages. The main potential disadvantages of decentralization are that it can work against the internalization of externalities and equalization through centrally provided mechanisms.” 5. Following the Amendment Acts, which came into force in 1993, the provincial governments in India had introduced the Conformatory Acts to incorporate the provisions of the Constitutional Amendment Acts in the functioning of the state governments with a third tier, i.e., the local bodies. There are state specific variations in the Conformatory Acts. But then, by April 1994, all the state legislative assemblies have compiled the constitutional mandate by adopting Conformatory Acts. 6. For a critique of the Constitutional Amendment Acts (73rd and 74th), see Srinivasan (2002). The prevailing option opinion, however, is that the Local Bodies do constitute a tier of the government. See Rajaraman et al. (2000) and Rajaraman (2003). 7. Article 280(c) states that such measures are to be taken to “supplement the resources of the Municipalities” as well. 8. An ad hoc provision of Rs 100 per person as given in 1971 Census, for each state over a four year period. It has rightly been pointed out that the allocation for the local bodies as decided by the Tenth Finance Commission did not follow a norm that could ascertain equity in allocation of resources. However, one may point out that the Tenth Finance Commission did not have the opportunity to develop such a norm after consulting the reports of the State Finance Commissions, most of which were yet to be submitted. In fact, the conformatory state acts that gives the mandate for formation of SFCs were passed only by April 1994. As a result, the Commission had to comply the constitutional mandate by making a recommendation only on an ad hoc basis.

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9. See Bandyopadhyay (2003) for a fair review of the performance of the EFC. 10. The index carried a 20 per cent weight in the formula used for determining state shares of the annual provision. In addition, the formula carried a weight of 10 per cent for own revenue collections at the local level, normalized (with equal weights) for state SDP from agriculture, as (perfectly justifiable) measures of revenue potential. See Rajaraman (2004). 11. See Oommen (2000). 12. The background paper for rural bodies was prepared by The National Institute of Rural Development (NIRD). The study on Urban Local Bodies was done by National Institute of Public Finance and Policy (NIPFP). However, the quality of the basic data in both the studies remained open to criticism. 13. One should, however, admit that the subsequent SFCs which should get the benefit of EFC recommendations for building a reliable data base are yet to meet this expectation. The progress with respect to second SFC reports is rather poor. Thus, as Rajaraman observes: only seven SFC-II reports are available in the public domain, of which one (Himachal Pradesh) has issued only the urban volume so far, and the other (Uttaranchal) is a new state without any prior point of comparison. In the remaining five, the own revenue information provided is uneven and of uncertain provenance. Some reports just projected revenue as supplied to the EFC. See Rajaraman (2004). 14. Inter governmental transfers to the Local Bodies are often tied in nature; the Local Bodies hardly have any flexibility in utilizing these funds. 15. Quantitative analysis on the basis of the data of the EFC has the limitation that the latest year that could be covered in such analysis is 1997–98. 16. See also, Rajaraman (2004). 17. The internal revenue mobilization constituted only 4.17 per cent of the total of the Panchayats at all levels in 23 states during 1990–91 to 1997–98. In a few states like Bihar, Rajasthan, Manipur, and Sikkim internal revenue mobilization was totally absent for the period. 18. Again, the minimum and maximum rates of such taxes are prescribed by the states, restricting the freedom of the Local Bodies to levy such taxes. 19. The state-wise performance, as given in Rajaraman (2003), indicates that the performance was the best in Kerala where per capita own revenue collection by the PRI had been Rs 43.27. Among the worst performing states, there are Orissa, Madhya Pradesh, Assam, and Tripura. Bihar, which is a major state in India, did not collect anything as Panchayat’s own revenue. 20. This fund is devolved through the respective state governments. 21. At the time the EFC was submitting its report, Bihar, Goa, Gujarat, and Haryana had been the four major states in which the report of the SFC 1 had not even been submitted. 22. In order to make the RBI data comparable over a period of 11 years, where the nominal values would be different from the real values we normalize the data on revenue expenditure by the local bodies with the wholesale price index as the

282 / RATAN KHASNABIS deflector; the index had 1993–94 as the base year. The revenue expenditure as Compensation and Assignments to Local Bodies is thus captured in terms of constant price. The per capita Compensation and Assignments are then calculated for each state for each year by utilizing state population data for various years. The state population for each year (except 2001–02) was taken on the basis of the estimated growth rate of population between 1991 and 2001. For 2001–02, the census population data has been used. 23. This includes all the Non-Special Category states excluding Delhi and Goa; Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, and Uttaranchal have been combined with Madhya Pradesh, Bihar, and Uttar Pradesh respectively. From the Special Category states, Assam has been included in this study. 24. At current prices the average per capita total revenue expenditure for the states under study had been Rs 2,040.63 per year, for the period 1992–93 to 2002–03. The average per capita transfer in current prices to the local bodies, on the other hand, had been only Rs 36.75 per year (Table 10.11). Table 10.11 Average Per Capita Total Revenue Expenditure and Per Capita Devolution to Local Bodies in 16 Major States: 1992–93 to 2002–03 (at current price) (in rupees) States

Total Revenue

Devolved to Local Bodies

Percentage Devolved

Andhra Pradesh Assam Bihar∗ Gujarat Haryana Himachal Pradesh Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh∗ Maharashtra Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Tamil Nadu Tripura Uttar Pradesh∗ West Bengal All States

2,168.68 1,873.27 1,141.92 2,904.30 328.95 5,082.37 2,379.74 2,681.95 1,688.30 2,717.92 1,828.06 3,631.59 2,024.80 2,630.23 3,812.43 1,462.35 1,832.19 2,040.63

22.03 3.22 0.29 12.00 6.23 25.22 73.56 25.81 57.52 38.27 18.66 38.54 3.13 133.33 59.98 47.09 31.20 36.75

1.02 0.17 0.03 0.41 1.89 0.50 3.09 0.96 3.41 1.41 1.02 1.06 0.15 5.07 1.57 3.22 1.70 1.80

Source: Study of State Budgets (Reserve Bank of India, various years).

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25. The results of the regression analysis indicate that the null hypothesis of no trend break in 1996–97 is rejected at 1 per cent level. All the b-coefficients had been positive in the estimated line of regression. 26. The case of Kerala should be viewed differently. In the case of Kerala, the tax base for the PRI has widened in post Conformatory Act regime. The per capita tax collection by the local bodies is the highest (Rs 43.27) in Kerala. Since the tax base has been widened, the need for devolution from the Consolidated Fund of the State might have declined there. 27. For average devolution, the rank scores follow descending order (thus, the highest numerical value gets Rank 1) and for coefficient of variation the rank score follows ascending order (the lowest numerical value is ranked 1, implying that the best has the least variation in per capita Assignment). 28. Although the percentage of state budget devolved to the local bodies declined sharply in the case of Kerala, Kerala should still be considered as a better performer, a fact which is not reflected in these data (see note 26). 29. In case of Rajasthan, the volatility was the least. But then Rajasthan is the state where the revenue expenditure of the local governments as percentage of revenue expenditure of the state was very poor. The lack of volatility was due to the fact that Rajasthan was maintaining a low level stability during the Entire Period, as Bihar was doing in terms of per capita devolution.

284 / RATAN KHASNABIS

Appendices Appendix 1 Percentage Distribution of the Share of States in Allocation for Panchayats and Urban Local Bodies States

Panchayats

Andhra Pradesh Arunachal Pradesh Assam Bihar Goa Gujarat Haryana Himachal Pradesh Jammu and Kashmir Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh Maharashtra Manipur Meghalaya Mizoram Nagaland Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Sikkim Tamil Nadu Tripura Uttar Pradesh West Bengal Total

9.503 0.348 2.918 9.813 0.116 4.351 1.839 0.821 0.93 4.926 4.12 8.943 8.209 0.235 0.32 0.098 0.161 4.32 1.933 6.137 0.066 5.826 0.356 16.489 7.222 100.00

Source: The Eleventh Finance Commission for 2000–2005. Note: ULB = Urban Local Bodies.

ULBs 8.233 0.034 1.077 4.695 0.232 6.626 1.832 0.195 0.783 6.241 3.762 7.801 15.813 0.22 0.135 0.192 0.089 1.998 2.736 4.971 0.01 9.668 0.201 12.582 9.874 100.00

0.86 NA 46.46 22.21 33.34 6.15 43.83 21.89 19.21 19.73 64.08 19.46 31.27 15.98 9.76 11.41

A

1.09 NA 46.46 26.42 32.01 4.65 21.24 7.49 3.34 11.85 88.66 20.28 39.76 14.47 68.5 4.81

B

126.6 NA 95.68 118.98 96.01 75.55 48.46 34.22 17.39 60.03 138.37 104.21 127.14 90.55 701.75 42.11

C 26.31 NA 46.66 63.06 50.46 15.93 28.51 4.71 15.96 6.81 23.73 4.35 10.02 0.9 3.19 10.61

D 40.45 NA 51.91 53.45 38.79 12.37 22.49 3.84 19.63 4.8 37.23 1.64 10.84 0.51 4.11 10.6

E 153.74 NA 111.25 84.76 76.87 77.66 78.89 81.5 122.97 70.44 156.89 37.61 108.2 57.35 128.9 99.9

F 0.38 NA 46.39 78.76 28.9 46.2 62.05 40.03 23.34 57.09 89.38 74.35 41.91 27.59 17.96 14.35

G 0.83 NA 41.13 85.21 30.23 36.42 41.8 23.85 3.38 61.76 113 77.75 52.62 28.44 163.1 5.02

H

Source: Oommen (2000). Notes: A = Financial Autonomy Ratio of LBs 92–93, B = Financial Autonomy Ratio of LBs 97–98, C = Improvement Index*, D = Financial Autonomy Ratio of VPs 92–93, E = Financial Autonomy Ratio of VPs 97–98, F = Improvement Index, G = Financial Autonomy Ratio of ULBs 92–93, H = Financial Autonomy Ratio of ULBs 97–98, I = Improvement Index*. LB = Local Bodies (PRIs + ULBs), PRI = Panchayati Raj Institutions, ULB = Urban Local Bodies, VP = Village Panchayats. Financial Autonomy Ratio = (Locally Raised Revenue/Total Revenue Expenditure)*100.

Andhra Pradesh Bihar∗ Goa Gujarat Haryana Karnataka Kerala Madhya Pradesh∗ Maharashtra Orissa Punjab Rajasthan Tamil Nadu Uttar Pradesh∗ West Bengal Total

States

Appendix 2 Financial Autonomy Ratio of Local Bodies, Village Panchayats, Urban Local Bodies

217.93 NA 88.65 108.2 104.61 78.83 67.37 59.58 14.48 108.18 126.45 104.57 125.56 103.11 907.94 35.01

I

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INDEX Numbers in boldface refer to Articles of the Indian Constitution Abducted Persons Act, 57 Abducted Persons (Recovery and Restoration) Bill, 56–57 abducted women, 57 Abdullah, Farooq, 148–49, 159 Abdullah, Omar, 158 Abdullah, Sheikh, 76, 97, 106, 108 ABSU–BPAC, 207–8 Advisory Committee on Extended and Partially Excluded Areas, 179 African Charter on Human and People’s Rights (1981), 120 Age of Consent Act, 51 Age of Consent Bill (1892), 50–51 Ahmed, Abida, 62 AIADMK, 103 Akali Dal, 103–4 Akhil Bharatiya Gorkha League (ABGL), 188, 190–92 Akhil Bharatiya Nepali Bhasa Samiti, 184 All Assam Plains Tribal League, 203 All Bodo Students Union (ABSU), 80, 203 All India Akali Conference, 82 All India Fund for Women’s Education (AIFWE), 52 All India Gorkha League (AIGL), 178, 180–84 All India Gurudwara Act, 104 All India Women’s Conference (AIWC), 52–53 All Party Hurriyat Conference (APHC), 79 All-Assam Students’ Union (AASU), 86 All-Manipur United Clubs’ Organization (AMVCO), 85

All-Naga Students’ Union, Manipur, 90 All-Nyishi Students’ Union, 86 Ambedkar, 94–95 American Convention on Human Rights (1969), 120 American Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (1997), 126 Anandpur Sahib Resolution, 88, 103–4 Anderson, Benedict, 198 Apunba Lup, 66, Apunba Manipur Kanba Lup (AMKIL), 85 Archibugi, Daniele, 115–16 Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA), 63–64, 66 Asom Gana Parishad (AGP), 81, 103 Assam Accord (1985), 80 Assam Autonomous District (Constitution of District Councils) Rules 1951, 219 Assam movement, 72 association, freedom of, 35 Autonomous District Councils, 68 autonomous institutions, 71–91 autonomous movements, 14 Autonomous State Demand Committee (ASDC), 205–6 autonomy, agency and ethical conduct, 43–48; as symbol of emerging political spaces, 9–11; birth of idea of, 35–48; caste and, 22–23; claims of, 27; as conflict-defusing mechanism, 147; constitutional and legal provision, 73–77, 80–81, 93–111; constitutional history of, 19–23; definition of, 140; demands for, 132, 179– 84; dialogic politics and, 23–28; as

302 / THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY differences, 16, 73–79; dimensions of, 24–28, 127–33; ethnogeopolitical dualism of, 141; ethnopolitical objectives of, 168; features of, 128; federal model of, 128; financial, 30, 129–30; geo-political perspectives on, 141–42, 168; global standards on, 124–27; government and, 11–16, 21, 37–39, 41, 87–91; history of, 19–23, 27–29; ideal of, 46; in contemporary global context, 114–33; in northeast India, 196–212, 216–40; in international law, 114– 33; justice and, 41–42; legal pluralism and, 20–22, 24; liberal theory of, 17, 40; liberalism and, 37–42; meaning of, 37–42; minority rights and, 117–22; movements, 15, 109– 11 nationalism and, 20; nonterritorial forms of, 27, 127–33; of autonomies, 166–69; of life, 29; of women, 49–69; paradox of, 17–24; participatory, 129–30; peace accord and, 15, 71–91; political struggles of, 18–19; politics of, 9–31, 17; principle and practices of, 14, 16, 21, 23–24; resources for, 242–79; selfdetermination and, 115–17; selfgovernment and, 10–11; territorial forms of, 27, 127–33, 140, 168; Awaz-e-Gurjar, 162 Ayyangar, M. Ananthasayanam, 54 Bajpai, Rajendra Kumari, 61 Bajrang Dal, 159 Bakerwals, 161 Banerjee, Biren, 181 Baniharas, 161 Basic Principles Committee of the Constituent Assembly, 97 Basu, Durga Das, 77 Bauer, Otto, 129 Behera, Navnita Chadha, 162 Bhakra–Beas Management Board, 87 Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), 146, 158 Bhasin, Kamla, 56 Bhattacharjee, S., 211 Bhattacharya, Asok, 190, 226

Biswas, P., 211 Bodo Accord (1993), 80, 84, 88, 208 Boro Liberation Tigers (BLT), 207 Bodo Liberation Tiger Force (BLTF), 85, 197, 209 Bodo Peoples’ Action Committee (BPAC), 80, 207 Bodo Sahitya Sabha (BSS), 86, 204 Bodo Territorial Council, 86 Bodoland Army, 85 Bodoland Autonomous Council (BAC), 84–85 Bodoland Autonomous Council Act (1993), 208 Bodoland Territorial Council (BTC), 85, 196–97, 205 borderlands, autonomy discourse on, 161–63 Bordoloi, Gopinath, 202, 219 Bordoloi Committee, 98, 202, 204, 218–19, 226 Borok Areas Autonomous District Council, 227 Borok Areas Territorial Council, 217 Bose, Maitreyee, 182 Bose, Subhash Chandra, 179 boutique multiculturalism, 18 Bradnock, Robert W., 164 Brahma, Brajendra Kumar, 86 Brahma, Rupnath, 203 Brahmin, Ratanlal, 180 Bru National Liberation Front (BNLF), 238 Brzezinski, Zbigniew, 164 Budapest Document (1994), 125 Cabinet Mission, 94 Cartesian Individualism, 43 cartographic anxieties, 146–47 caste, 22–23 Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF), 206 Chakma Autonomous District Council, 221, 228–29, 234–36 Chandigarh issue, 82–83 Charter of Paris for a New Europe (1990), 125 Chattopadhyay, Kamaladevi, 52 citizenship, 26

Index / Citizenship Act (1955), 58 civic communities, 28 civil society, 90 collective legitimacy, 42 Commission on Centre–State Relations, 104 Commission on State Autonomy, 162 communalism, 27 communicative rationality, 18 Communist Party of India, 55, 180–82, 225–26 Communist Party of India (Marxist), 183, 192, 238 Communist Party of India (Marxist– Leninist), 198, 205 communitarianism, 45 compensation, principle of, 25 Conformatory Acts, 253–54, 257 Congress Party, 100, 158, 179, 181–82, 205, 225–26, 229, 240 Constituent Assembly, 94–95, 179, 202, 219 Constitution (application to Jammu and Kashmir) Order (1954), 106–7 Constitution of India, 73rd Amendment, 19, 62–63, 67, 105, 187, 244, 246–47, 267; 74th Amendment, 19, 105, 244, 246–47, 267; 85th Amendment, 67–68; 5th Schedule, 19–20, 96, 99, 224–25; 6th Schedule, 19–20, 68, 96, 98–99, 110, 162, 185, 196, 202–7, 211–12, 219, 221–23, 226–31, 239–40; 7th Schedule, 103, 105, 225–26, 246; 8th Schedule, 162, 182, 184; 11th Schedule, 245–46, 253, 278; 12th Schedule, 246, 253, 278; article 14, 19–20; article 15, 19–20; article 16, 19–20; article 19, 19; article 22, 20; article 23, 20; article 25, 19–20; article 29, 19–20; article 26, 19; article 30, 19; article 31, 55; article 40, 246, 253; article 46, 20; article 47, 20; article 152, 97; article 243, 252; article 244, 20, 98, 205, 237; article 246, 105; article 249, 95, 103, 106; article 252, 96; article 256, 106; article 257, 106; article 264, 105; article 280, 237,

303

247; article 306, 107; article 352, 95, 98; article 355, 106; article 356, 103, 105–6; article 357, 103; article 370, 19, 96–98, 106–7, 110, 148; article 371, 19, 96, 98, 110, 211; difference moment and, 80–81 Constitution Review Commission, 103 Copenhagen Document (1990), 125–26, 131 Cousins, Margaret, 52 Communist Party of Revolutionary Marxists (CPRM), 190 Criminal Procedure Code (1973), 60 Culler, 44 custodianship, principle of, 25 Dar Commission, 100 Darjeeling Gorkha Autonomous Hill Council (DGAHC), functioning of, 185–93 Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council (DGHC), see Darjeeling Gorkha Autonomous Hill Council (DGAHC) Darjeeling Hill Areas Development Council Act (1976), 183 Darjeeling Hills, administration of, 174–75; autonomy demand in, 179–85; commerce in, 174–75; democracy in, 173–94; education in, 175–76; emergence and articulation of identity in, 175–79; migration to, 174–75; Panchayati Raj system in, 186–87; politics of identity in, 179; working for autonomy in, 185–94 Dayton Agreement (1995), 127 Dean, M., 91 Deb, Dasarath, 224 Debbarma, Sukhendu, 230 decentralization, development and, 242–44; of governance, 244–47 Declaration on Indigenous Peoples (1994), 130 Delhi Agreement (1952), 97, 106–7, 153 democracy, 12, 15–16, 21–22, 26–27, 30–31, 41, 93 Deori, Bhimbor, 203 Derrida, Jacques, 44 Desai, Bhulabhai, 54

304 / THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY Desai, Morarji, 79 Deshmukh, G. V., 54 Deshpande, Satish, 144 devolution, 28, 247–78 DGHC Act (1988), 185 Dhebar, U. N., 224 Dhebar Commission, 224 dialogic policies, as third dimension of autonomy, 24–28 Dietrich, Gabriele, 69 difference, as autonomy, 16, 73–79; constitution and, 80–81; ethnic space and, 81–87; moments of, 79–87; recognition of, 79–80 Discovery of India, 145 Divorce Act (1850), 51 Dixon, Owen, 158 Dixon plan, 166 DMK, 103 Dodhi Gujjars, 161 Dooars Gorkha Kalyan Samiti, 192 Dowry Prohibition Act, 1961, 59 Dworkin, Gerald, 37–38 Educational League, 52 Equal Remuneration Act (1976), 59 ethics, 46; autonomy of, 30 ethnic space, 81–87 European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages (1992), 125 European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR), 121 Factory and Mines Act (1953), 59 fear, geographies of, 163–66 federalism, institutional features of, in India, 93–96, 103 Feinberg, J., 37 feminist politics, autonomy of, 30 Finance Commission (Eleventh), data analysis of, 245, 248–79, 284–85 financial autonomy, 30, 129–30 Foucault, Michel, 9, 11–12, 14, 43–48 free will, 37 Freud, Sigmund, 43 Gajendragadkar Commission (1967), 108 Galanter, Marc, 21

Gandhi, Indira, 83, 157, 162, 184 Gandhi, Mahatma, 53 Gandhi, Rajiv, 88, 184, 220, 234 Geneva Report on National Minorities (1991), 125 Ghai, Yash, 140, 147 Ghewali, Surya Bikram, 176 Ghising, Subash, 184, 187, 189–92 Gojri language, 162 Gool Bahadur, 52 Gorkha Apex Committee of Sikkim, 190 Gorkha League, 184 Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF), 184–85, 188–91, 193 Gorkha National Women’s Organisation (GNWO), 189 Gorkha Samachar, 187 Gottlieb, Gidon, 130 governance/governing, art of, 12, 14; decentralization of, 244–47; process of, 13; science of, 14 government and autonomy, 11–16 Government of India Act (1935), 218 governmentality, Foucault’s concept of, 11–16 Gram Samsads, 186–87 Grand Chessboard, The, 164 group autonomy, 29 guarantee, principle of, 25 Gujjars of Jammu and Kashmir, voices of, 161–63, 167 Gurjar Desh Charitable Trust, 162 Gurkha League, 177 Gurkha Officers’ Association, 177 Gurung, D. S., 178–79 Gurung, G., 177–78 Gurung, N. B., 177, 181 Habermas, J., 18, 42 Hague Recommendations Regarding Minority Education Rights (1990), 129 Hamal, B. B., 181 Hankim, Nanda, 191 Hannum, Hurst, 115, 131–33 Harare Declaration (1991), 126 Harvey, David, 144, 150 Hegde, Ramakrishna, 62

Index / Helsinki Document (1992), 125 Helsinki Final Act, 121 High Commissioner for National Minorities (HCNM), 125 Hill Area Council, 182 Hill Development Council, 183 Hillmen’s Association, 176–80 Hindu identity, 145 Hindu Law Code, 57–58 Hindu Marriage Act, 1955, 58 Hindu nation, concept of, 145 Hindu nationalism, 146 Hindu-nationalist vision, 144–53 Hindu Succession Act, 57 Hindu Widows Remarriage Act, 51 Hindu Women’s Right to Divorce Bill, 53 Hindutva, geo-political vision of, 145–46 Hmar Peoples Convention (HPC), 238 Home Rule Movement, 100 homelands, demand for, 27 Hrangkhawl, B. K., 240 Human Rights Commission, 20 Huntington, Samuel P., 163 ICCPR Committee on Human Rights, 119 ILO Conventions on Indigenous Peoples, 122 India, allocation of fund to district councils, 235–38; analysis of devolution to local bodies, 258–79; autonomous institutions, 205–12; citizenship, 205–12; compensation and assignment to local bodies, 256– 57, 278; construction of frontiers, 198–202; District Councils in, 228– 35; federal democracy in, 109–11; financing local bodies in, 242–79; fiscal devolution in, 247–78; geopolitical visions in, 142–53; governance, 205–12; institutional features of federalism in, 93–96, 103; intergovernmental transfer of funds, 252–78; language movement, 204; linguistic homeland demand in, 99–106; Mizoram, 218–23, 235–38; national identity, 142–53; negotiating for space within frontiers, 202–5;

305

per capita revenue expenditure in, 254–57; resources for autonomy in, 242–79; secular-nationalist vs Hindunationalists, 142–53; sovereignty, 205–12; statehood, 218–28; states reorganization issue, 99–106; Tripura, 223–28 Indian Divorce Act (1869), 51 Indian Marriage Act (1864), 50 Indigenous Nationalist Party of Tripura (INPT), 227, 229, 237 indigenous people, rights of, 122 Indira–Mujib agreement, 72 individualism, 36 Inner Line Permit System, 238 innovation, principle of, 25 Instrument of Accession, 76–77, 96, 106 International Court of Justice (ICJ), 117 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR), 119–20 Inter-State Council (ISC), 94, 105 Inter-State Trade and Commerce Commission, 105 International Peace and Social Advancement (IPSA), 85 Jaitley, Arun, 68 Jammu and Kashmir, autonomy issue, 139–69; autonomy movements in, 109–11; cartographic anxieties, 147; Constitutional form of autonomy in, 106–9; geo-political visions, 142–53; Gujjars of, 161–63; homeland for Kashmiri (Hindu) Pandits, 153–56; imaginations of displaced, 153–56; Indian Constitution and forms of autonomy in, 96–98; internal partitions, 157–60; militarized imaginations, 163–66; Regional Autonomy Committee (RAC), 148–53; State Autonomy Committee (SAC), 148– 50; trifurcation plan, 157–60 Jammu and Kashmir Gujjars United Front, 161 Jatiya Unnayan Parishad, 72 jhum cultivation, 64 Jhumia Rehabilitation Scheme, 231

306 / THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY Jumma identity, 217–18 justice, theory of, 41–42 JVP Committee, 100–101 Kant, Immanuel, 17, 39, 41, 43 Kantian subject, 43 Karbi Anglong District Council, Assam, 196–97, 200, 238 Kashmir Studies Group, 157, 160 Kashmiri Pandits, homeland for, 153–56 Kashmir’s accession issue, 76–77 Kaur, Rajkumari Amrit, 52, 56 Khan, Liaqat Ali, 180 Khawtinkhuma, 219 Kher Commission, 102 Khurana, Madan Lal, 155 Kishwar, Madhu, 53 Kokborok Tei Hukumu Mission of Agartala, 231 Kripa Foundation of Mumbai, 65 Krishna, Sankaran, 146–47 Kuki Revolutionary Army, 206 La, Laden, 178 La, Norbu, 191 Lacan, 44 Lacoste, Yves, 144 Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council, 149–50 Lai Autonomous District Council, 221, 234, 236 Lakher Autonomous District Council, 221 Laldenga, 81, 229 Lalthankunga, 229 Lama, Prem, 192 Language Act 1963, 102 League of Nations, linguistic and cultural guarantees, 125; minority system, 118 legal autonomy, 30 Levi-Strauss, 44 liberalism, 36 linguistic homeland, demand for, in Nehru era, 99–106 Linguistic Provinces Commission, 100 local bodies, financing of, 242–79, 284–85

local government, 26 local self-government, 26 Locke, 17 Longowal, Harchand Singh, 88 Luithui, Luingam, 90 Lund Recommendations on Effective Participation by National Minorities in Political Life (1999), 131 Lusaka Declaration of the Commonwealth on Racism and Racial Prejudice (1979), 121 Lushai Hills District Advisory Council, 219 Mahakuma Parishad, 185 Mahanta, Aparna, 56 Mahila Atmaraksha Samity (MARS), 55 Maine, Henry, 51 Manikya, Bijoy, 223 Mara Autonomous District Council, 221, 234, 236 Marx, 43 Mathew Commission, 83 Mathura rape case, 63 Medhi, Bishnuram, 204 medical ethics, autonomy of, 35 Mehta, Hansa, 56 Meira Paibies in Manipur, 63, 65–66 Memorandum of Settlement, Punjab, 82–83, 88 Memorandum on Centre–State Relations, 103 Menon, Ritu, 56 Mill, John Stuart, 36 Millbrook Action Programme (1995), 126 Minghi, J. V., 198 minimal justice, 24–26 Minorities Commission, 20 minority rights, 28–29, 117–22, 124–27, 131, 163; global standards on, 124–27 Mitra, Sankar Prasad, 181 Mizo Accord (1986), 81 Mizo Hill District Council, 219–22, 235, 238, 240 Mizo National Front (MNF), 77, 81, 220, 228–29, 234 Mizo Union, 78, 218–20

Index / modernity, 46 Moktan, R., 192 Monitoring Group on Territorial Integrity of Manipur, 69 moral responsibility, 37 morality, 46, 132 Moscow Document (1991), 125 Mukerjee, Hiren, 183 Mukti Morcha, 159 Musharraf, Pervez, 165 Muslim League, 95 Muslim Women’s (Protection of Rights on Divorce) Act 1986, 60 Naga Mother’s Association (NMA), 63–65 Naga People’s Convention, 80 Naga People’s Movement for Human Rights, 90 Naga Reconciliation Process, 84 Naga Student’s Federation, 64 Naga Women’s Union of Manipur, 65, 90 Naidu, Sarojini, 52 Nairobi Declarations (1985), 62 Narayan, 89 Nari Nirjatan Pratirodh Manch, Kolkata, 63 Nath, D., 199 nation state, 144 National Commission to Review the Working of the Constitution (NCRWC), 105 National Committee on Women’s Education (1959), 58 National Conference (NC), 103, 106, 148, 158–59 National Democratic Front of Bodoland (NDFB), 209 National Development Council, 72, 94, 105 National Finance Commission, 19, 94 National Identity Protection Committee (NIPCO), 85 National Liberation Front of Tripura (NLFT), 229 nationalism, 20–21 nation-building, 144

307

nationhood, 28; imperial theory of, 25 Nehru, Jawaharlal, 145, 180 Nehru, Rameshwari, 56 Nehru Committee Report (1928), 95, 100 Nepali Sahitya Sammelan, 176 Nietzche, Friedrich, 43 Nokiaua, T., 234 Norbula, Dawa, 192 North-East Frontier (Assam) Tribal and Excluded Areas Sub-Committee, 202 North-East Sun, 65 North-Eastern Areas (Reorganization) Act 1971, 221 Northeastern states, autonomy to, 98– 99, 109–11 Northern Ireland Peace Agreement (1998), 127, 129 National Socialist Council of Nagaland (Isak-Muivah) [NSCN (IM)], 65, 83, 85, 88 National Socialist Council of NagalandKhapland (NSCN-K), 85 O’Loughlin, John, 166 Official Language Bill, 181 Operation Black Board, 191 Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE), 125 Oslo Recommendations (1998), 129 Panchayati Raj Bill, 211 Panchayati Raj Institutions (PRIs), 99, 105, 244–45, 250–53, 278, 284–85 Pant, Govind Ballabh, 224 Panun Kashmir, 158 Panun Pandit homeland discourse, 153–56 Paris Agreement (1946), 117 Parliamentary Standing Committee on Defence (PSCD), 155 Pathak, Anand, 184 Patnaik, N. M., 224 Pawi (Lai) Autonomous District Council, 221 Pawi–Lakher (Constitution of Regional Councils) Rules 1952, 219, 235

308 / THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY Pawi–Lakher Regional Advisory Council, 219, 221 peace accord, 71–73; autonomy and, 15; moment of constitution of, 80–81; moment of ethnic space in, 81–87; moment of recognition in, 79–80 Peoples Liberation Army (PLA), 65 Peoples’ Democratic Front, 190 Pettman, Jan Jindy, 57 Phizo, Angami Zapu, 79 Planning Commission, 94 political autonomy, 12 political spaces, autonomy as symbol of, 9–11 politics of governed, 10 postcolonial nationalism, 147 postmodernism, 45 Pradhan, H. P., 177 Pradhan, Krishna, 191 Pradhan, P. P., 177 Pradhan, Parasmani, 176 Praja Parishad, 158 Pranta Parishad, 184 Prantiya Morcha, 184 Preston, Meredith, 90 privacy, right to, 35 private autonomy, 42 protection, right to, 39 public justice, differential and equal system of, 21 public legitimacy, 42 Punjab Accord (1985), 86 Punjabi, Kavita, 55 Puri, Balraj, 162 Qadri Commission (1972), 108 Quit India Movement, 53 Rai, D. P., 182 Rai, R. D., 192 Rai, Tirthaman, 192 Rajamannar Commission (RC), 102–4 Rajagopalachari Plan, 94 Ranade, Ramabai, 52 Rashsundari, 52 Rat Famine, Mizoram, 220, 228 Rawls, John, 41

Ray, S. S., 183 Reddy, Muthulakshmi, 52 Regional Autonomy Committee (RAC) report, 107–9, 148–53, 162 regional political parties, 103 relational autonomy, 37 religion, freedom of , 35 religious minorities, autonomy to, 19 Renner, Karl, 130 resistance, politics of, 9 River Boards Act (1956), 105 Rongpi, Jayanta, 206 Roy Burman, B. K., 89 Roy, Ajoy, 199 Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), 158–59 Rumley, D., 198 Rupachandra, Yumnam, 65 Sack, Robert, 139 Sanmilit Janagoshthiya Sangram Samiti (SJSS), 85 Saprawanga, 219 Sapru Committee, 94 Sarkar, Tanika, 55 Sarkaria Commission (SC), 104–5 Sassure, 44 Sati, abolition of, 50 Savarkar, Vinayak Damodar, 145–46 Secular-nationalist vision, 144–53 self, 43, 45–48; technologies of, 12 self-determination, 12, 115–17; freedom of, 29; movements, 109–11; practices and principle of, 25, 28–29 self-direction, 18 Self-Employed Women’s Association (SEWA), 59 self-government/-governance, 18, 37–39, 41, 118, 130–31; practices of, 9–10, 12 self-regulation, 18 Sen, Ranen, 181 Sengkrak (clenched fist), movement, 224–25 Shah Bano case, 60 Shahbuddin, Syed, 60 Shanti Bahini, 229 Sharief, Jaffar, 62

Index / Sharma, Dharanidhar, 176 Sheba, Begum, 52 Shed No More Blood campaign, 64, 66 Shillong Accord (1975), 89 Shiromani Akali Dal (SAD), 82, 88, 103 Sikri Commission (1979), 108 Simon Commission, 179, 201 Singapore Declaration of the Commonwealth Principles (1971), 120 Singh, Karan, 149 Singh, Zail, 184 Sinha, C. D., 192 social justice, principles of, 42 sovereignty, 13; identities and, 166–69; juridical theory, 24; theory of (national), 26–28 Special Marriage Act (1956), 58 State Autonomy Committee (SAC), 106–7, 148–50 State Finances: Study of State Budgets, 254 State Reorganization Commission, 19, 77, 101, 181 state-building, 144 Stri Shakti Sangathan of Hyderabad, 63 Subba, Ganeshlal, 180 Subba, T. B., 176 subjectivity, theory of, 43 subject-object duality, 43 subsidized cultural activities, 35 Sundar, P. M., 177 supervision, principle of, 25 Swasti Samity, 225 Tagore, Rabindranath, 216 Tamang, Madan, 190–91 Taylor, C., 39 Telugu Desam Party (TDP), 103 Tebhaga movement, 55 Telengana movement, 55 Thanchunga, B., 234 Thapa, Madan, 178 Theory of Justice, 41 Tiwa Accord (1995), 85 Towards Equality Report of 1975, 59, 61, 67 tribal and dalit women, in movement, 63–66

309

Tribal National Volunteers (TNV), 225, 240 Tripura, Hirendra, 229 Tripura, Shyama Charan, 227 Tripura, district councils and state government relations, 228–33; funds from government to councils, 232–33, 235, 237–38; history of, 216–18; institutional and administrative structure of autonomy in, 223–28; power sharing, protection and development, 239–40 Tripura Tribal Areas Autonomous District Council (TTAADC), 217, 223, 225–26, 229–33, 235, 237–40 Tripura Upajati Juba Samity (TUJS), 225–27, 229, 240 two-nation theory, 160 UN Declaration on Minorities (1992), 125 Uniform Civil Code, 56, 59–60, 63, 67 United Liberation Front of Asom (ULFA), 72, 78, 88 United Naga Council, Manipur, 90 United Peoples Democratic Front, 206 United Peoples Democratic Solidarity, 207 United Tribal Nationalist Liberation Front, 204 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948), 118 United People’s Front (UPF), 85 Uyangoda, Jayadeva, 163 Vajpayee, Atal Bihari, 67 Varna-Hindu mainstream framework, 78–79 Venkataraman, R., 157 VHP, 158–59 Vindication of the Rights of Woman, A, 49 Vyas, Girija, 68 Wazir Commission (1981), 108 welfare cultural activities, 35 Wirsing, Robert, 152, 164 Wollstonecraft, Mary, 49

310 / THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY women, autonomy, 27, 49–69; colonial discourse, 50–54; debate in Indian Parliament on position of, 61–62; movements in India, 53–69, —, in post-colonial period, 57–63, —, latecolonial developments in, 54–57,—, present position of, 66–69, tribal and

dalit women in, 63–66; tribal and dalit, 63–66 Women’s Commission, 20 Zilla Parishad, 185 Zoranithanga, 229

ABOUT THE EDITOR AND CONTRIBUTORS Editor Ranabir Samaddar belongs to the critical school of political readings in India. Well known for his pioneering efforts to introduce peace studies in South Asia and his work on popular politics, he is now the Director of the Mahanirban Calcutta Research Group, Kolkata. He has worked extensively on issues of justice and rights in the context of conflicts in South Asia. His particular research interests are in the areas of migration and refugee studies, the theory and practice of dialogue, nationalism and post-colonial statehood, and technological restructuring and new labor regimes. His most recent works are The Politics of Dialogue (2004) and the edited volume Peace Studies: An Introduction to the Concept, Scope, and Themes (2004).

Contributors All the contributors belong to the research team of the Mahanirban Calcutta Research Group. Paula Banerjee, an international relations specialist and a feminist historian, teaches at the Department of South and Southeast Asian Studies, University of Calcutta. Her areas of interest include border studies and gender justice. Sanjay Barbora, a scholar on social formation in India’s Northeast, is a human rights activist based in Guwahati, and is associated with the Manab Adhikar Sangram Samiti (MASS). Sabyasachi Basu Ray Chaudhury teaches political science at the Rabindra Bharati University, Kolkata. His areas of interest include forced migration, refugees, human rights, globalization, democracy, and politics in South Asia.

312 / THE POLITICS OF AUTONOMY Jayanta Bhattacharya is a journalist based in Agartala, Tripura. Subir Bhaumik is the Bureau Chief of BBC in eastern India, and has authored books and articles on insurgency in India’s Northeast. Pradip Kumar Bose, a leading sociologist in India, is on the faculty of the Centre for Studies in Social Sciences, Calcutta. Subhas Ranjan Chakrabarty teaches history at the Presidency College, Kolkata. He specializes in European History, and the society and politics of Darjeeling. Sanjay Chaturvedi teaches at the Department of Political Science, Panjab University, Chandigarh, and is the coordinator of the Centre for Geopolitics, Panjab University. He specializes in critical geopolitics. Samir Kumar Das teaches political science at the Department of Political Science, University of Calcutta. His researches are on the society and politics of India’s Northeast. He serves on the editorial board of the South Asian Peace Studies Series. Ratan Khasnabis, an economist and a specialist on agrarian reforms, teaches at the Department of Business Management, University of Calcutta. Ashutosh Kumar is the Chair, Department of Political Science, Panjab University, Chandigarh. He specializes in Indian constitutional and politico-legal issues.