The measure of the man

The trouble with manufacturing a larger-than-life persona for a man is that he will forever after be on the run from his own reputation. He must dodge and weave endlessly to avoid exposing his true measure, else people might begin to question the outsize shadow it casts. That is why Narendra Modi doesn’t risk open press conferences, it is why he won’t face questions in parliament, why his speech is jealously controlled one-way monologue, why all his ministers’ primary responsibility is to defend the PM at all costs, and why he’s so much happier preening on the election-free foreign stage than on the domestic one that comes with scrutiny—or would do, if most of the Indian media weren’t such enthusiastic cogs in his image-building machinery.

And the trouble with constantly running and hiding is that eventually, people will see that as his true measure: he is not much more than a man incredibly determined to gain and hold on to power, devoted to his image at the cost of actually doing the job.

The blood-drenched crisis in Manipur, and the Prime Minister’s tone-deaf refusal to face, address, and answer the Indian public, his inexplicable refusal to speak in parliament about the nightmare unfolding in the state, is only the latest instance of his dereliction of duty, but it is the worst.

His image has allowed him to weather what many democratic leaders would not have: holding massive election rallies as Covid ravaged India (suck on that, Partygate Johnson!), denying Chinese intrusion as the Chinese built villages in Arunachal Pradesh, and the worst unemployment numbers in half a century, to name just a few. He’s weathered the death of all his vaunted promises—achchhe din, 50 days to end corruption, maximum governance, minimum government, sabka saath, sabka vikas.

Lately, it seems that the public is becoming more watchful. But old habits die hard, so with Manipur on fire, Modi is still brazening it out. His silence has been punctuated by just one, brief, mealy-mouthed comment comprised of hollow whataboutery. It is the most devastating instance of his contempt for democratic accountability.

Democratic leaders around the world possess varying degrees of actual relatability and empathy, but they have learned to at least be seen to be trying. When a domestic crisis blooms, they drop what they’re doing, cut short whatever trip they’re on, and show up for their people. They hold and comfort the suffering, wipe tears, listen, understand, talk, offer aid—and make sure it’s on camera, because they have to at least be seen to be trying. The people gave them power, and can just as easily take it back. That’s democracy.

Narendra Modi has substituted accountability—the bedrock of democracy—with the projection of unassailability. Perhaps he has bought into his own myth so far that he experiences his own tone-deafness as strength, and his remoteness as splendour. But people mired in blood and terror want empathy, dialogue, and sensitive action. They will remember that the Prime Minister said and did nothing.

In Manipur, in Haryana, in minority communities, in the barbaric sexual terrorism of women—in every instance of violence that flares along the seams of ethnic or religious or sexual chauvinism, the PM’s echoing silence looks like incompetence at best, indifference, or complicity at worst. People will remember that the man whose X (previously Twitter) handle is on a permanent hair-trigger to tweet birthday greetings and sympathy for the most distant troubles in the most distant countries, the man posturing as the wise and peaceable world leader of democracy, has publicly ignored a months-long civil war raging in his own country.

Trying to figure out whether he’s complicit or indifferent or incompetent is just nitpicking. The more relevant question is whether there really is no alternative.