Every evening across India, thousands of street vendors light their stoves, and the hiss of blue flame marks the start of the working night. For these micro-entrepreneurs, liquefied petroleum gas is not a convenience but the fuel that powers their livelihoods. It is the difference between earning that day and not earning it.

That fuel has become a source of constant worry. A field survey of more than 90 street vendors in Delhi and Jaipur, conducted in April 2026, points not to a passing inconvenience but to a system failing the people who depend on it most. Regulatory barriers have shut the poor out of the legal market, over-regulated their work, and left them exposed to every price shock that comes.

The Scale of the Disruption

The disruption is widespread. Of the 78 LPG-dependent vendors surveyed, over 90% reported severe daily operational disruptions in the past 30 days. This situation is not a minor financial setback but a structural failure. Vendors face chronic refilling delays, forced shutdowns of up to 12 days, and a 250% premium charged by the black market.

Take Rajesh, a tea seller at Old Delhi Railway Station. When the shortage first hit, he spent his small savings stocking up on cylinders, expecting it to pass. It did not. Prices climbed week after week and ate through his capital.

At the same spot, Shivpal, who sells cooked meals to daily-wage labourers, was paying Rs 3,500 for a single domestic cylinder, nearly four times the regulated price of Rs 950. That gap is days of hard physical labour swallowed at once, just to buy the fuel to cook for one more day.

A Tripled Price on a Thin Margin

The same pattern shows up across both cities. In Lalarpura, Jaipur, a fast-food vendor named Tejpal watched his fuel costs rise over 30 days leading into March 2026, from the regulated rate of Rs 950 to between Rs 2,800 and Rs 3,200 per cylinder on the black market. That is roughly a threefold increase in a matter of weeks, leaving micro-entrepreneurs little time to adjust and turning a stable input into a threat to the business. For a stall that gets through three or four cylinders a month, that adds Rs 5,000 to Rs 9,000 to its costs.

And vendors cannot pass on the extra cost. Their customers watch every rupee and will simply go elsewhere, so the vendor absorbs the rise himself. Manoj, who sells aloo chaat in Chawri Bazar, put it plainly: “Crisis is temporary, but customers are permanent.” He takes the loss and watches his daily profit shrink to almost nothing.

Unlike air-conditioned corporate restaurants, street vendors have no fiscal cushion. As Shivpal puts it, they operate at the margins of survival, where losing a customer can mean losing the means to feed their own families that night.

Slowing the Pace of the Streets

In Chawri Bazar, a tea seller named Hasan normally works a nine-hour shift, opening his stall at 2:00 PM and serving customers until 11:00 PM. Because of the fuel shortage leading into April 2026, he has been closing two hours early, at 9:00 PM, simply because he cannot secure a reliable supply of LPG. That loss of his late-night hours strips away more than 20% of his daily operating window and cuts directly into his main source of income.

In Mukherjee Nagar, the price swings made it hard for vendors to know what their fuel was really worth. One vendor, Upendra, was out of work for several days. The pause was deliberate: with black-market prices moving hour by hour, he chose to wait and see whether the 250% spike would hold or fade before committing. A vendor with no financial cushion cannot afford to misjudge, since paying an inflated rate for fuel or setting his menu around it could exhaust the working capital he has left.

The financial strain is not the whole story. Locked out of legal commercial LPG, some vendors have gone back to firewood. Between 15% and 18% of those surveyed said they had given up gas stoves in favour of solid biomass, and in Lalarpura, Jaipur, seven vendors, including Raju Gurjar, switched to firewood as a stopgap.

The switch costs more than it first appears. Firewood runs Rs 13 to Rs 20 a kilogram, and on top of that, vendors lose hours scouting local markets to find it, time they would otherwise spend serving customers. It also cooks more slowly. As Deepak, a vendor in the same area, puts it: “An LPG stove is faster and easier to operate. A wooden stove takes far longer to heat up. I cannot make tea on demand, and serving fewer customers means lower daily income.”

Rules that keep affordable LPG out of vendors’ hands push them toward a slower, costlier fuel, which means fewer cups of tea sold and less money at the end of the day.

Caught in the Trap

The core policy problem is a design flaw in the market’s structure: the state over-regulates the vendor’s physical space while denying him any formal commercial identity. To buy a legal 19kg commercial cylinder from the state oil companies, a business must produce a municipal trade licence, proof of permanent address, or formal commercial registration. But municipal corporations have frozen zoning laws and stalled on issuing Certificates of Vending under the Street Vendors Act, so the great majority of vendors hold none of these documents.

The result is a system in which a roadside tea stall sits in the same commercial tier as a five-star hotel, yet is denied the paperwork it needs to legally buy that fuel.

With no legal route, vendors break the rules to survive. Shamim, a tea seller in Hasanpura, says he uses domestic cylinders simply to stay in business, working each day in fear of a fine.

That fear is well-founded. Also in Hasanpura, Usman and Kishan Singh had their cylinders seized during police raids, losing the one tool their livelihood depends on.

The trap closes from three sides. The system bars vendors from the legal supply chain, pushes them into a black market where the likes of Mangi Lal and Sonu Srivastav make call after call to find a cylinder at Rs 2,800, and then sends the police to punish them for buying it. The system is an institutional failure of a basic kind. The system does not protect the vulnerable. It punishes them for surviving.

A Blueprint for Reform

The accounts of Rajesh, Shivpal, Tejpal, and Teena Chawala, who stopped vending for 12 days and lost all income in that time, show that the market design itself is failing. These vendors are not asking for charity or welfare. They want a fair and functioning market in which they can work.

To break this cycle, the state should pursue three structural reforms.

A micro-commercial fuel tier. The Ministry of Petroleum and Natural Gas should scrap the rigid household-versus-corporate binary. Using the country’s existing Digital Public Infrastructure, it could introduce a micro-commercial tier, such as 5kg or 12kg cylinders, tied directly to a vendor’s PM SVANidhi or e-Shram ID. That would let vendors buy clean fuel at stable official rates without having to produce commercial property deeds they cannot obtain.

Spatial deregulation. Municipal corporations should halt punitive raids and actually implement the Street Vendors Act of 2014. Replacing complex licensing with simple, open digital registration based on a market’s natural capacity would give vendors legal standing and protect them from arbitrary seizures and police extortion.

Open access to cleaner technology. To reduce the informal economy’s exposure to fuel-price shocks, the state should remove the barriers that keep vendors off cleaner options, giving them the same access to electricity connections, financing, and induction or solar-assisted equipment that any registered business enjoys. The aim is to widen the choices open to vendors, not to dictate which fuel they use.

When a system makes it easier to operate illegally than legally, the failure lies with the system, not the people trying to earn a living within it. The fix is not more direction from above, but a redesigned market in which the smallest entrepreneurs can register, buy fuel, and trade on fair terms.

Authored by Dharmraj Joshi Associate, Jeevika App at Centre for Civil Society.

Co- Authored by Anamika Joshi, Manager, Growth and Innovation at Centre for Civil Society.

By: Abhinav Bhatia

So my phone got stolen. It’s a bummer, right? But, fortunately, I knew exactly where it was. Apple’s family sharing feature in Maps meant I could track my phone in real time, a blue dot moving through streets I could name, updating every few minutes, broadcasting its location with quiet precision. What I did not have was anyone willing to act on that information. What followed was not simply a frustrating experience with bureaucracy. It was a reminder of a lesson in political philosophy from my undergrad days.

Social contract theory, developed by Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau, holds that individuals voluntarily surrender certain freedoms to the state in exchange for protection, security, and justice. Hobbes in Leviathan (1651) described this as laying down one’s “right to all things” so that the state may act “for their peace and common defence” (Hobbes, 1651, Ch. XIV & XVII). John Locke, whose version of the social contract was more reciprocal than Hobbes’s, highlighted that the state’s authority is not unconditional. In the Second Treatise of Government (1689), Locke argued that “the reason why men enter into society is the preservation of their property”, which encompasses life, liberty, and estate, and that government exists solely as a “guard and fence” for those rights (Locke, 1689, sec. 222.). When the state fails this obligation, it does not merely disappoint; in Locke’s own terms, it commits a “breach of trust” by which it forfeits the very power the people had placed in its hands (Locke, 1689, sec. 222.).

Thus, the logic of the contract is straightforward: you give up the right to retrieve (here by force) what is yours, and in return, the state assumes the obligation of doing it for you, lawfully, proportionately, and reliably. This restraint is not incapability or weakness. To be honest, the thought of hiring someone to retrieve the phone or of showing up at the thief’s location myself did cross my mind. What stopped me was not incapacity, but the contract, the unwritten agreement that binds every law-abiding citizen to formal channels even when those channels are failing them.

So, I did what I could do: I filed the FIR. I returned to the station. I shared the live location. I waited. What I did not know at the time was that the theft had occurred on the border between two states, a geographic accident that became a huge problem. Each state’s police force pointed at the other. Responsibility was passed back and forth until the device, which had been moving and traceable, came to a permanent stop, and the phone was gone. A phone that technology had made easy to recover had been lost entirely to an institutional drama.

Moving away from political philosophy, let’s view this from an economic lens. I am a taxpaying citizen. The state institutions are funded by taxes that people like me pay. This is a very important detail that people seem to forget. In a democracy, public institutions are not doing citizens a favour when they respond to a crime; they are fulfilling a function that citizens have already paid for. Even if we remove the tax lens, when these institutions fail, it is not just a service failure. It is a breach of the same social contract that runs in both directions.

This is one example of what’s called the principal-agent problem. The principal-agent problem is a conflict of interest that occurs when one person or entity (the “agent”) makes decisions or takes actions on behalf of another person or entity (the “principal”). In the public sector, the problem arises when there is a disconnect between the goals and interests of politicians or public servants and the citizens they are supposed to serve. In theory, the police are agents acting on behalf of the citizen, the principal. In practice, when jurisdictional ambiguity makes accountability impossible to assign, agents on both sides of a state border can evade their responsibilities entirely, leaving the principal with no recourse. The information was there. The location was live. What was missing was any agent willing to be accountable for acting on it.

The arguments discussed above reveal the deeper problem. The issue is not that the authorities were unkind or that the system is entirely broken. It is that the structure of institutional accountability has not kept pace with the technology available to ordinary citizens. A normal mobile can now broadcast its precise GPS coordinates continuously. The limiting factor in recovering a stolen mobile is no longer a lack of information; rather, it is institutional and jurisdictional clarity. When those fail, the person who loses most is the one who followed every rule, trusted every channel, and exercised exactly the restraint the social contract asks of them; they are the ones who bear the cost (both literally and figuratively) of the state’s failure.

A democratic society asks its citizens to be law-abiding not merely as a civic duty but as part of a reciprocal arrangement. The state’s end of that arrangement is not optional. In my case, when jurisdictional ambiguity became a reason for inaction rather than a problem to be resolved, and when a law-abiding citizen’s only reward for restraint is an irretrievable loss, the contract is not being upheld; it is literally being broken. The blue dot went still on a Tuesday afternoon, and I received an update from the police station that the phone is no longer traceable. The question it left behind is harder to switch off: what do citizens make of institutions that are absent when they are needed most?

Citations:

Hobbes, T. (1651). Leviathan. Project Gutenberg. https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3207/pg3207-images.html

Locke, J. (1689). Second treatise of government. Hanover Historical Texts Collection. https://history.hanover.edu/courses/excerpts/165locke.html

About the Author:

Abhinav holds a BA in Political Science and an MA in Development Studies, and brings experience in research, policy communication, and stakeholder engagement. His interests span sustainability, social entrepreneurship, and social sciences. He currently works at CCS as an Associate in the Academy.

The latest discussion on patents can easily lead us into a conversation about Judy Hopps, Nick Wilde, and Gary De’Snake adventuring through Zootopia in search of a long-lost patent. If you are unfamiliar with these characters, they are the heroes of the 2025 sequel, Zootopia 2. The film’s premise is something of a libertarian nightmare. It is the story of a crony capitalist, Milton Lynxley, partnering with local government in the form of Mayor Brian Winddancer to extract favours for his business. Milton merely follows in the footsteps of his grandfather, Ebenezer Lynxley, who built his empire on lies and government corruption. The Lynxley family enjoys the respect, fame, and wealth that come with being the descendants of the inventor of Zootopia’s weather walls, an innovation that allows the city to be home to animals from every kind of environment: hot deserts, cold tundra, rainforests, and open meadows.

As we progress through the seemingly happy utopia that is Zootopia, we encounter the first signs of exclusion of a particular community: the reptiles. After a breathless chase through a water pipe and some heartbreaking disagreements between our cops, the lies Ebenezer Lynxley fabricated to advance his interests are finally laid bare. The weather walls, the single greatest innovation making Zootopia a utopia, are revealed to have been the original idea of Agnes De’Snake, a reptile. Agnes, an extraordinary innovator, had patented her idea and approached Lynxley seeking investment. Seeing the potential in her work, Ebenezer steals it and registers the patent in his own name. Later, he fabricates a murder to frame reptiles as dangerous and exiles them from the city using the force of the state. Eventually, Agnes’s lost patent is revived, and her name and innovation are restored to their rightful place in history.

What should catch the viewer’s attention here is a clear case of individuals seeking benefits and expanding their wealth by lobbying political actors, also known as “rent-seeking”. The Lynxleys used government power to suppress genuine innovators who arrived at their ideas through independent thought.

But how did Ebenezer manage to patent an idea that was already registered? The answer lies not in the failure of government enforcement, but rather in the very fact of government enforcement itself. Government involvement in the administration of patents has a well-documented tendency to create monopolies for connected businesses while shutting out those who threaten established lobbying interests. This erects entry barriers for smaller innovators and exposes them to litigation risks from larger firms operating under state protection.

This discussion would be incomplete without the case of Galgotias University, which filed and received an Indian patent for an “IoT-Based Writing Pen for Monitoring the Health Parameters” in 2024. In a manner that echoes Zootopia 2, an almost identical patent was filed by Samsung five years prior, in 2018 (see here). No legal action was taken or even considered necessary because patent filings by universities do not serve the purpose of eventual commercialisation. They serve a very different, and far more conflicting, set of incentives.

The National Institutional Ranking Framework (NIRF), which ranks universities across several categories, including “Research and Professional Practice” (see here). This parameter carries a 30% weight in the overall score, with the volume of patents filed as a sub-metric. This induces a mindless race to file patents purely to accumulate points and improve rankings, regardless of the quality of those filings or their resemblance to prior work. The formula rewards patents published, not granted, and certainly not commercialised. They do not need a working invention. They just need paperwork.

Since 2011, Galgotias University has filed 2,297 patent applications, surpassing the combined totals of IIT Bombay, IIT Madras, and IIT Kanpur. Only 24 of those applications were accepted, a success rate of roughly one per cent, as opposite to a success rate of sixty-three per cent in IITs. Once the ranking points are collected, none of the patents reaches the market. Data from the Office of the Controller General of Patents, Designs and Trade Marks (CGPDTM) for 2026 shows that commercially worked patents fell to just 1.6% of all patents in force. A patent is considered commercially worked when the invention is actually manufactured, sold, or licensed in India, i.e., it has progressed from being a registered idea to being utilised in the market. A policy designed to advance innovation, therefore, not only fails to encourage it but actively distorts it. Educational institutions succumb to treating patents as a quota to fulfil rather than a natural product of genuine inquiry.

Some argue that even low-quality engagement with patents builds awareness and culture, and that imperfect participation is better than none. But consider the practical consequences. Patent examiners already work under government-imposed monthly targets of 15 new examination reports and 25 disposals. A flood of applications filed purely for ranking purposes lands on those same desks, deepening backlogs and squeezing the time available to scrutinise each case properly (see here). Quality control degrades under a volume that the government’s own incentive structure created. Teaching institutions that file without any commercial intention do not build an innovation culture. They teach that the appearance of innovation is what matters.

The most striking illustration of this is the moment Galgotias University announced on national television that the robot dog showcased at the India AI Impact Summit in New Delhi had been developed in-house. Within hours, internet users identified it as the Unitree Go2, a commercially available Chinese product retailing for approximately $2,200. The patent, it turns out, was not the only thing that had been borrowed.

The Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026, carries the language of protection but, in practice, restricts rights by imposing stricter conditions on recognising transgender identity. By expanding bureaucratic and medical oversight into the domain of gender identity, the bill makes the State’s gaze more intrusive, more medicalised, in the very sphere where individual liberty should be most sacred: the self. Instead of safeguarding dignity, it places individuals under scrutiny, requiring them to justify who they are, reframing identity as something to be verified rather than lived.

The amendment marks a departure from the constitutional vision established in NALSA v. Union of India, where the Supreme Court affirmed that gender identity is intrinsic to personal autonomy and upheld the right to self-identify. The original 2019 Act, despite its shortcomings, recognised transgender persons, prohibited discrimination in education, employment, healthcare, and public spaces, and enabled identity certification through an administrative process.

The 2026 Amendment, however, ties recognition to medical and sociocultural criteria, undermining the idea that identity is self-determined and making dignity conditional on compliance with state-defined categories. This narrowing of recognition raises a deeper concern about who is excluded and what exclusion means in practice. Those who self‑identify as transgender but do not fit these boxes are left outside the law’s protection.

Recognition in law is not merely symbolic, it determines access to rights, protections, and resources. When individuals fall outside state-recognised categories, they risk being denied welfare benefits, legal safeguards against discrimination, and even basic documentation. The absence of recognition can render people effectively invisible in the eyes of the law, leaving them without recourse when their rights are violated. In this sense, lack of recognition is not neutral, it actively produces marginalisation by excluding individuals from the legal and administrative frameworks.

Earlier, individuals could apply to the District Magistrate for a Transgender Identity Certificate through a largely self-declaratory administrative process, without mandatory medical scrutiny. The bill now requires the District Magistrate to seek approval from a Medical Board before issuing the certificate.

This shift subjects individuals to institutional validation, where doctors and officials determine whether someone’s identity is “legitimate.” It medicalises gender, reducing a deeply personal and lived experience to a clinical assessment. What changes now is the nature of that proof, shifting from a largely self-declaratory process to one requiring medical validation. Such a process not only intrudes on privacy but also reinforces the idea that identity must be proven to authority, allowing the State to insert itself into the most intimate sphere of human life

As individuals, we are already something of an open book to the State through documentation of religion, caste, address, and family composition. These practices have normalised the sharing of personal information, but what is happening now feels different because it cuts into something far more intrinsic, not just what the State knows about us, but what it is allowed to decide about us. Gender identity is not merely another data point, it is an intrinsic aspect of identity.

When identity requires approval, the State ceases to be a neutral guardian of rights and instead becomes a gatekeeper of personhood. By empowering officials and medical boards to invalidate personal identity, the amendment makes access to rights contingent on institutional acceptance.

Rights, however, are meant to be inherent, not something one earns by satisfying administrative criteria. Once recognition becomes conditional, individuals must prove their legitimacy to access what should already be guaranteed, and the boundary between protection and control begins to collapse. In a country where so many aspects of life are already documented and classified, this shift signals a deeper transformation, one where the State not only records who we are but increasingly decides who we are allowed to be.

“Our Constitution inheres liberal and substantive democracy with rule of law as an important and fundamental pillar… These TGs, even though insignificant in numbers, are still human beings and therefore they have every right to enjoy their human rights.” (NALSA v. Union of India, 2014)

A few weeks ago, a car mounted the footpath and ran over my foot, leaving me injured. I’m still limping a month later, but I will certainly recover. What’s harder to heal from is the realisation that the Indian pedestrian lives a precarious life. I wasn't jaywalking. I was exactly where I was supposed to be on the footpath. Yet, a car climbed onto the pavement and struck me anyway. The photograph below shows the tree-lined road full of government offices, where a car ran over my foot. A pedestrian isn’t safe even in the capital city of India, in an expensive neighbourhood, on a footpath. It points to a deeper failure of urban management, in which design, enforcement, and accountability consistently underperform.

India’s urban management neglects the primary user of the streets, pedestrians. A 2019 survey found that pedestrians accounted for 63% of trips in urban India. However, the infrastructure of most cities doesn’t reflect this reality. A study found that 44% of roads in Delhi have no footpaths.

Anyone who has walked on Indian streets knows what it’s like to deal with broken footpaths and careless driving. Drivers often ignore zebra crossings. Footpaths are broken or obstructed, sometimes by parked vehicles. Crossing the road can require navigating fast-moving traffic with little protection, especially for children or the elderly. Even without data, it’s clear that walking in many Indian cities involves a degree of risk which often leads to serious injury or even death.

In Delhi, nearly half of all road crash deaths are pedestrians. In Chennai, the share of pedestrian deaths has shot up from just 11% of total fatalities in 2019 to 43% in 2023. This data shows that cities need to focus more on safe footpaths, crossings, and traffic management to cut these numbers.

A Bosch report based on 2021 data finds that 99% of Indian pedestrians are at risk of injury. That year, there were 60,000 pedestrian crashes, resulting in 29,200 fatalities; 91% were due to human error, 63% due to poor infrastructure, and 44% due to vehicle issues. The vast majority of Indians, including you, could be the victim of a system that fails to protect its most basic road users.

A report in Nagpur found 6 out of 7 evaluated roads failed basic design and safety standards. These roads had discontinuous footpaths, encroachments, unsafe junctions, and missing cycle lanes, indicating a broader pattern of gaps in basic street design and safety standards across cities. This failure becomes even more concerning when placed alongside the scale and priorities of public investment in urban roads.

Public investment in roads and highways has surged to over Rs. 2.8 lakh crore annually, reflecting a strong policy focus on vehicle infrastructure. Yet, this investment has not translated into safe spaces for pedestrians. 44% of roads in Delhi lack footpaths, and in cities like Ahmedabad, nearly 72% of roads have none. Despite pedestrians accounting for a majority of road deaths, a poorly designed crossing is not seen as a failure of the system, but as your fault for choosing to cross.

Not all cities in India are equally unsafe for pedestrians. In parts of Pune, especially in Pimpri-Chinchwad, street redesign projects have introduced features like continuous and elevated footpaths, barriers to prevent two-wheelers from entering sidewalks, and safer, more inclusive street layouts under programmes such as the Urban Streetscapes initiative. Pune’s approach aligns with the National Urban Transport Policy (2006). The policy explicitly called for cities to ‘move people, not vehicles,’ and emphasised public transport, walkability, and safe infrastructure for pedestrians.

In most cities, however, pedestrians are neglected. Urban local bodies face little accountability for missing or encroached footpaths, and there are no serious consequences for failing to provide safe pedestrian infrastructure. Even flagship initiatives like Smart Cities need to place greater focus on street-level infrastructure for pedestrians. Currently, most infrastructure projects focus on building flyovers and highways that serve pedestrians poorly.

Even when footpaths exist, vehicles often use them to get through during heavy traffic or simply as free parking spots. Stronger enforcement of rules would make these spaces safer and more reliable for pedestrians. Investment in improving existing footpaths and developing new ones could significantly reduce injuries and fatalities. Streets reflect the priorities we build into them. With better design, consistent enforcement, and thoughtful management, they can work for everyone and not just vehicles.

The recent controversy about the bike-taxi platforms in Bengaluru, particularly the case of Rapido, reveals a deeper conflict between technological innovation, giving autonomy to individuals seeking flexible work, v/s the interests of a few individuals who are unwilling to share the market. This issue reached the Karnataka High Court after Rapido challenged earlier restrictions placed on its operations, prompting the Court to examine whether bike-taxis were permissible under existing transport law. During the hearings, the Karnataka government informed the Court that it had not notified any rules under Section 93 of the Motor Vehicles Act that would allow bike-taxis to operate as a contract-carriage service. In the absence of such a policy, the Court held that aggregators could not legally run motorcycle-based taxi services and ordered all operators to halt bike-taxi operations within six weeks. What began as a petition seeking regulatory clarity, ultimately highlighted the deeper tensions between livelihood freedom and regulatory measures.

The political-economic context behind this issue is crucial to understand the situation. Karnataka’s auto-rickshaw and taxi unions had consistently pressured the government to prevent bike taxis from entering the market, arguing that they represented unfair competition and would erode the earnings of traditional transport workers. This dynamic reflects a pattern that Adam Smith had identified centuries earlier: established commercial interests routinely use political influence to restrict competition and protect their own privileges at the public’s expense. Smith warned that proposals from such groups should be treated with “great precaution,” arguing that merchants and manufacturers possess an interest that is “never exactly the same with that of the public” and that they habitually seek monopoly protections to the detriment of consumers and new market entrants (Smith, 1776/2005, Book I, Ch. XI, pp. 213–214). 

The pressure exerted by Karnataka’s transport unions on the state government to keep bike taxis out of the market is a direct example of this. This dynamic appears in Bengaluru, where political demand to regulate bike taxis was shaped less by evidence and more by fear of organised unions capable of exerting voting pressure. The outcome is an uneven regulatory landscape where new, low-cost forms of mobility/movement remain trapped in legal ambiguity while older transport lobbies maintain their monopolistic stability.

The core issue, however, is not merely administrative delay or sectoral politics, it is the question of individual freedom. Bike-taxi riders are not large corporations; they are overwhelmingly lower-income workers who own a motorcycle and seek to monetise it in a flexible manner. Preventing a person from using their own legally purchased asset to earn a livelihood reflects what Hernando de Soto (2000) identified as a foundational barrier faced by the poor in developing economies: they possess real assets but are excluded from the formal legal frameworks that would allow those assets to function as productive capital, leaving their wealth effectively “dead” and inaccessible to the wider market (de Soto, 2000, pp. 29–35). 

In Bengaluru, the human cost of the ban was immediate and severe. Over 1.2 lakh gig workers who had built their livelihoods around bike-taxi platforms lost their primary source of income, with riders reporting daily earnings of ₹800–1,000 that were suddenly reduced to nothing (BangaloreBeat, 2025). Many were forced into parcel delivery work, where they earned roughly half their previous wages amid intensified competition and fewer opportunities (NewsBytesApp, 2025). When livelihood choices are restricted through policy non-decisions, the state limits not just income but economic agency.

Framing the bike-taxi debate as one about freedom rather than transport policy highlights how regulations shape human capability. Amartya Sen (1999) conceptualised development as the expansion of freedoms, including the freedom to participate in economic activity. When the state, intentionally or through action, eliminates an accessible pathway for work, it reduces individuals’ capabilities to pursue lives they value. For many riders, bike taxis are not a side hustle but a mechanism for financial independence. Likewise, consumers, particularly students, low-income commuters, and women seeking affordable point-to-point transport, lose meaningful choices when the state restricts innovation in mobility services. The concern, therefore, extends beyond gig workers to the broader public, whose everyday freedom to choose efficient and affordable mobility options becomes constrained.

The Bengaluru case demonstrates how modern regulatory debates are often struggles over the distribution of freedom. Innovation introduces new possibilities, incumbents resist those possibilities, and the state’s role becomes arbitrating whose freedom takes precedence. When policy delays function as de facto bans, the freedom that is compromised is that of the least powerful actors: small entrepreneurs, gig workers, and ordinary consumers. A democratic society should aspire to regulations that enable participation, competition, and safety without foreclosing livelihood opportunities. The bike-taxi controversy offers a timely reminder that economic freedom is not an abstract principle but a lived experience shaped by everyday access to work, mobility, and choice.

About Abhinav Bhatia

Abhinav holds a BA in Political Science and an MA in Development Studies, and brings experience in research, policy communication, and stakeholder engagement. His interests span sustainability, social entrepreneurship, and social sciences. He currently works at CCS as an Associate in the Academy.

Draconian gun controls make guns whisper, not recoil. They turn firearm possession into a privilege rather than a liberty. Scholars have debated the empirical effects of civilian firearm access, not least in the United States. But statistics aside, we must look at a deeper question: does the state have the moral authority to disarm competent law-abiding citizens?

Beginning from first principles will help. A free society rests on the idea that individuals own themselves. The maxim of self-ownership endows individuals with the rights to possessions acquired voluntarily. Property rights flow from this premise. A gun is a type of property. It is dangerous, yes, but tools do not lose moral protection because they are dangerous. What holds for knives and hockey sticks must hold for guns.

Property rights, of course, are not unlimited. No one claims that individuals should be allowed to own nuclear weapons. But that concession is not a case against firearms. The distinction between such extraordinary weapons and guns lies in proportionality and discriminability. Nuclear bombs cannot be used without indiscriminate destruction. Their deployment violates innocent lives. Guns by contrast can be used for defense in ways that are consistent with the rights of others. Robert Nozick did not view gun ownership as infringing the boundaries of others’ rights.

The moral foundation of this position becomes clearer when we turn to the right of self-preservation. Imagine walking home to find a burly attacker lunging at you. John Locke held that an aggressor, by initiating violence, forfeits all claims to not be resisted. You may strike back in self-defense. The right of self-defense is not granted by the state. It precedes political authority and licensing.

Yet a right without a means to exercise it is hollow. A state that makes it difficult for citizens to own guns leaves them unable to defend against lethal violence. Guns are thus an effective means of self-defense.

But why just guns? One could in theory defend using swords and knives. Suppose you’re weak and are faced off against that burly man in close combat. In practice, bodily strength would determine the outcome. A firearm remedies that imbalance. Guns are great equalizers allowing the elderly, women, and physically vulnerable to defend themselves.

Restrictionists respond by redefining the right to self-defense. For them, self-defense is a mere means to enhanced safety— a reduced probability of being harmed. If banning guns lowers aggregate violence, they contend rights are best safeguarded. Accepting this premise would indicate that a few unlucky individuals who might have otherwise defended themselves die, but society gains overall security. But as philosopher Lester Hunt argues, this view drains self-defence of its intuitive meaning. Such an understanding leaves no room for people to defend themselves when faced against an aggressor.

The restrictionist camp offers a secondary argument for limiting gun ownership. Philosopher David DeGrazia suggests that a needs-based policy should restrict guns to people who are vulnerable. This argument too fails since people cannot predict when they will be victimized. Putting a burden of clairvoyance on potential victims is unsound.

Security based accounts of gun controls overlook another moral dimension. Philosopher Deane-Peter Baker argues that firearms help assert dignity. How often do we admire those who resist aggression? Resistance affirms people’s status as ‘persons,’ not as tools at the hands of their aggressors.

This is the moral core of the matter. Should citizens be self-authors of their own preservation, or passive wards who must await the protection of centralized authority? In a free society, self-ownership, and dignity are paramount. When anchored on such a moral order, prohibitions on firearm ownership become difficult to defend. The burden of justification then lies not with those who wish to protect themselves, but with those who would disarm them.

About Anshu Chowdhury

Anshu Chowdhury is Junior Associate at CCS Academy. He studies political science at Hindu College, University of Delhi.

Indian libertarians have been losing the war of ideas. Is this because libertarianism is a weak philosophy? I think not. In fact, libertarianism is very coherent as a philosophy, unlike its three cousins: the closest one liberalism, the farthest communism and conservatism. Unlike its distant relatives it enjoys the support of few around the globe— perhaps one of the reasons why it’s not as diluted. Its consistency is reflected in its three core philosophical commitments: moral primacy of the individual, a focus on non-coercion and the right to maintain private property.

No, this is not an essay about why libertarian philosophy works. It is not my burden to prove, for serious academics have tussled with such problems long. My intention is to point fingers at a glaring aperture in how libertarian ideas are advocated in India.

The way contemporary libertarianism is articulated in India is consequentialist. Consequentialism is a moral philosophy that justifies its actions by its end outcomes. Adopt X policy, and this will lead to Y outcomes. Such arguments, often economic in nature, are maintained by economists, policy wonks, and businesspeople. A libertarian consequentialist argument would be this: markets reduce poverty faster than state planning, and therefore adoption of libertarian rules by a society will lead to increased welfare. There’s nothing bad about such consequentialist arguments. They make the case for libertarian ideas stronger. But are they enough?

I contend not. Over-reliance on consequentialist frameworks has led Indian libertarianism to its own demise. It overlooks the importance of maintaining a coherent doctrine. What’s worse is it lacks rhetorical quality.

Consider the case for Marxism. Its appeal lies not in its economic models. Few Indian Marxists could claim mastery over its heterodox economics and yet this hardly matters. Marxism’s communicative power lies elsewhere. It matters more that Marxism offers a theory of history, a theory of power, and a theory of exploitation. You are unemployed? Your life feels constrained? Is there too much inequality? You’re concerned with your caste position? Marxism offers appealing answers to you. It makes the world legible for you, almost in a cookie cutter format. BJP’s civilizational conservatism has a strong appeal factor as well. It offers a story of civilizational decay, and belonging. Religious humiliation bears more action than data.

Contrast this with libertarian arguments that often appear as a set of technical preferences. Cutting taxes, freer trade and fewer regulations are good rational ideas in themselves. But they do not offer easy answers to existential questions such as the ones posed above. Their explanatory power falters.

Now why do people not see through the rational arguments that libertarian consequentialists promote? Are people stupid?

Looking at social psychologist Jonathan Haidt’s work ‘The Righteous Mind’ (2012) will help. Haidt contends that people make moral judgements intuitively. They adopt ideologies to which they already feel aligned to without much reasoning.  

He uses a metaphor of a ‘rider’ and an ‘elephant’ to describe this. The rider represents our reasoning, and the elephant represents our intuitions. We like to think the rider is in control, but in reality, it is the elephant that decides where to go. The rider just follows and then justifies the direction afterward. This means that reasoning is often not about discovering the truth, but about defending what we already feel.  So, if you try to change someone’s moral commitments by appealing only to reason i.e. by speaking only to the rider, you will fail because their intuitions or the elephant will resist you.

What this means for Indian libertarianism is this: our arguments thus far are rider styled. They are rational, and good reasoning proves them. They are sound economic principles after all. But these don’t always translate to good political communication. We have yet to address the elephant— the intuition. We have been bad at this. The appeal of Marxism and Conservatism is because they target the elephant. Libertarian consequentialist thought relies more on overriding intuitions. Hence the unpopularity.

Indian libertarianism however need not remain anemic in its intuitive richness. Libertarian philosophy has more to offer than its Indian articulation suggests. Consequentialism is but one road to an open society. The answer I believe lies elsewhere. Indian libertarians must pay attention to other foundations of libertarian political thought that are more accessible. 

One promising alternative deserves attention: natural rights. Natural rights can best be understood as a baseline moral right that comes with being a person. All persons possess the same natural rights. For e.g. all people have a natural right to not be enslaved. Such natural rights could be grounded in both theological and secular foundations.

A libertarian natural rights framework argues that liberty is owed to all individuals. Coercion here is not framed as ‘inefficient,’ but as a wrong in itself. Domination is framed as a moral injury. Such arguments could be made to speak to matters of dignity and violation, and extended to the logic of caste and inequality. For instance, when a Dalit entrepreneur must seek permission at every step to start a small enterprise, the injustice could be framed not just as economic inefficiency but the moral injury of being treated as someone whose freedom requires authorization. What matters is that such arguments have a far more intuitive language than the consequentialist vocabulary that dominates libertarian discourse in India. They are more resonant.

To develop this sensibility, we need Indian libertarian scholarship in areas of philosophy, and political thought. It is only through such work that libertarianism will resonate with the Indian intuition. We must learn to speak to the elephant and not just the rider. Libertarian thought must be made intelligible not only to economists but to the everyday moral experience of the Indian. Until then, libertarianism will remain confined to the fringes. Respectable but irrelevant to India’s political culture. 

About Anshu Chowdhury

Anshu Chowdhury is Junior Associate at CCS Academy. He studies political science at Hindu College, University of Delhi.

The Truman Show, a 1998 classic starring Jim Carrey as Truman Burbank, follows the life of Truman Burbank, an ordinary man living in Seahaven, who slowly discovers that his entire existence is an elaborately constructed television show broadcast to millions. Every aspect of Truman’s life, from his intimate relationships to his job and even the physical surroundings, such as his town, is a set and system in place to monitor and track his movements. He, without realising it, is under constant surveillance. The film shows how events in his life are staged, and his actions are manipulated without him realising it. 

While The Truman Show is a satirical film, we may not have realised how closely Truman’s life mirrors our everyday reality. Our daily activities, as small as taking the Delhi metro from Green Park station to Dilli Haat INA, buying everyday essentials such as groceries (using UPI o bank transactions), and even the doom-scrolling that we do on Instagram, are all under some form of surveillance, both physically and digitally. Unlike Truman, we have no single Christof who monitors or tracks our movements. We live in a world where multiple institutions and systems are in place that keep a constant eye on our movements. Every time we tap “Allow”, we trade privacy for convenience; we continue the same bargain Truman never consented to, except we do it willingly. This surveillance has become so internalised that, like Truman, we have also started behaving in a certain way, where our actions and behaviours are manipulated because of this surveillance.

Long before smartphones, Michel Foucault warned that the most effective form of power is one that makes people police themselves. He introduced panopticism, a theory that talks about how individuals start self-regulating their behaviour because they sense that they are always being watched. He came up with this idea based on the Panopticon, a prison system designed by Jeremy Bentham that essentially has one watchtower, and the prison cells are arranged around it such that every prisoner can be monitored from the watchtower. However, the prisoners cannot see when someone is watching over them from the tower. This leads to them thinking they are under constant surveillance, and therefore they self-regulate their behaviour. 

Now, in our everyday life, the world in itself has become a panopticon. Individuals shape their behaviour in a certain way because they feel they are always visible to someone. This idea of always being in someone’s sight has led to internalising self-regulation. 

What makes contemporary surveillance different from the panopticon Foucault described is that it no longer feels like confinement. It presents itself as a choice. The watchtowers now are the apps, platforms, and policies that promise efficiency, safety, and connection. We are not forced to remain visible; we are “encouraged” to be. Visibility is rewarded with convenience, validation, and access, while opting out often comes at a social or economic cost. In this world, surveillance does not operate through overt coercion but through subtle incentives, making self-regulation not an act of fear but a habit of everyday life.

Unlike Truman, whose moment of realisation led to an exit, our surveillance has no clear walls and no single door that will save us, because an overwhelming number of us will always prioritise convenience over privacy. The systems that watch us are normalised and embedded into everyday convenience. There is no dramatic escape, only quiet compliance. In this sense, the tragedy of our reality is not that we are watched, but that we have accepted watching as the cost of convenience.

About Samyuktha Rajesh

Samyuktha Rajesh is a Junior Associate in the Learning and Development (L&D) team at the Centre for Civil Society. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in International Relations and has a strong interest in public policy, with a focus on understanding how ideas translate into effective institutions and governance outcomes.

Our education system is one of the most centrally planned sectors of society. From the textbook curriculum to evaluation systems, the learning environment is heavily institutionalised and follows a one-size-fits-all approach. From the very beginning, children are taught ‘what to think,’ moulding them all to follow a certain narrative instead of carving out individual identities. An education system like this kills independent thinking and curiosity, stifles creativity, and leaves students stuck in a cycle of passive learning. Despite such strong central control over the education system, the learning outcomes of students have shown little to no improvement. 

What if the education system were reimagined? What if the education system were allowed to flourish without centralised top-down planning? What if there were more freedom and choice for students and parents? 

First of all, it is imperative that no central authority can ever design a foolproof system that can understand the preferences, needs, and contexts of millions of individuals. It is important to understand that each young mind is unique, each teacher has a different teaching style, and in a diverse country like India, the local contexts are very different. Therefore, to implement a centralised system in such diversity means to force a sense of uniformity when there is none to begin with. Now, if we rethink the learning environment as an ecosystem where students, teachers, and schools have the liberty to function, adapt, and flourish according to their own local needs and contexts, all stakeholders in the learning process gain the freedom to decide what and how to be taught. 

A spontaneous learning order means that a system is allowed to emerge bottom-up instead of designing a new system top-down.

A system that has a centralised textbook curriculum will end up holding examinations that focus on the retention of textbook content. In a spontaneous learning environment, there will be diverse pedagogical approaches that can co-exist, such as online learning, project-based sessions, etc. Successful practices would spread organically, not because they were mandated, but because learners and parents would freely choose what works best. A system of trust-based learning will take over.

This, however, does not mean that there is complete abandonment of the state. Here, the role of the state will shift from being a provider of education to acting as a facilitator, by ensuring access to quality education to all and enabling diverse models of learning to exist. In India, the National Education Policy (NEP) 2020 is a step towards flexibility in the education system. However, there is still a lot of regulatory power that remains with the state that can be further scaled back. In order to build a trust-based learning environment,  there needs to be freedom for schools, teachers, and students to innovate learning strategies without much bureaucratic control. 

In conclusion, a reimagined spontaneous learning environment can benefit all stakeholders, meet the requirements and needs of each student. It will not be a one-size-fits-all policy, allowing each student the care and attention they deserve. This will nurture curious minds by allowing them to learn in a manner that best suits their ability. 

About Samyuktha Rajesh

Samyuktha Rajesh is a Junior Associate in the Learning and Development (L&D) team at the Centre for Civil Society. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in International Relations and has a strong interest in public policy, with a focus on understanding how ideas translate into effective institutions and governance outcomes.

Note: This article is generated with the assistance of artificial intelligence and is intended as an analytical interpretation of the referenced dialogue. It reflects the author’s understanding of the discussion and does not claim to be a verbatim transcript or an official statement by the speakers. Views expressed are personal.

As the consultation exercise has begun for the upcoming general budget, it is a good time to take stock of the outcomes and capture the learning from the experience captured in the last 15 years  of the implementation of the Right to Education Act. It becomes further more critical as the National Education Policy is being implemented. The Right to Education Act (RTE) of 2009 was introduced with the lofty promise of transforming India’s education system by making elementary education a fundamental right for every child between the ages of 6 and 14. Over a decade later, the Act’s legacy is not one of unmitigated progress, but rather a story of symbolism, implementation gaps, and unintended consequences. While the law was hailed as a milestone, a critical review reveals that it has fallen short of its core objectives and, in many ways, has exposed the systemic flaws in India’s approach to education reform. 

Gesture Over Substantive Change

The RTE Act was not merely a policy decision. It was as much about electoral capital as about social transformation. The Act’s provisions, such as the 25% reservation for disadvantaged children in private schools and the strict norms for school infrastructure, were ambitious but often disconnected from the realities of India’s diverse educational landscape. Many schools, especially in rural and under-resourced areas, found it impossible to comply with these norms, leading to enforcement harassment and corruption rather than genuine improvement. The law became a tool for political posturing, with little focus on the practical challenges of implementation.

Enrollment Versus Learning: A False Promise

One of the most celebrated achievements of the RTE Act is the increase in school enrollment rates. Data shows a significant rise in the number of children attending school, particularly in previously underserved regions. However, this rise in enrollment has not translated into better learning outcomes. National assessments like ASER have consistently shown low learning in basic literacy and numeracy levels among students. The Act’s focus on inputs, such as infrastructure and teacher numbers, has often come at the expense of actual learning, leaving students with certificates but little real knowledge.

The Paradox of Government Schools

Government schools, which were expected to be the main beneficiaries of the RTE Act, have faced a paradoxical decline. Many schools have seen reduced enrollment as students migrate to private institutions, while others have closed due to an inability to meet the Act’s norms. The Act’s emphasis on infrastructure and teacher qualifications has often favored larger, better-resourced schools, further marginalizing those most in need. 

Private Schools and the 25% Quota

The requirement for private schools to reserve 25% of seats for disadvantaged children has been both praised and criticized. While it has increased access for underprivileged children, it has also led to accusations of discrimination and social segregation within schools. Many private schools have found ways to circumvent the law, and the reimbursement process has been fraught with delays and bureaucratic hurdles. The Act has not fundamentally changed the dynamics of private education, which continues to cater largely to the affluent.

Teacher Quality and Accountability

The RTE Act set new standards for teacher qualifications, but the impact on teacher quality has been limited. Many newly recruited teachers lack adequate training, and the Act’s provisions have not been enforced consistently. Teacher absenteeism, lack of accountability, and corruption remain persistent problems in both government schools. The Act’s focus on inputs, such as infrastructure and teacher numbers, has often come at the expense of outcomes, such as learning achievement and student well-being.

The Way Forward

The RTE Act’s journey over the past decade reveals a fundamental truth: laws alone cannot transform education. Real change requires sustained investment, robust governance, and a commitment to equity and quality. The Act has succeeded in increasing access, but it has failed to ensure that every child receives a meaningful education. Moving forward, policymakers must focus on improving the quality of teaching, strengthening accountability mechanisms, and ensuring that the Act’s provisions are implemented in ways that truly benefit the most vulnerable children.

Conclusion

The RTE Act remains a landmark in India’s educational history, but its legacy is one of unfulfilled potential. While it has brought millions of children into the classroom, it has yet to deliver on the promise of quality education for all. The challenge now is not just to amend the law, but to create a system that values learning, equity, and inclusion above all else. The RTE Act was a step in the right direction, but much more needs to be done to ensure that every child in India receives the education they deserve.

About Amit Chandra

The Street Vendors (Protection of Livelihood and Regulation of Street Vending) Act, 2014 promised the street vendors of India legal recognition, designated vending zones, and participatory governance through Town Vending Committees. Certificates of Vending have been issued. Committees have been formed. Rules have been framed. Yet a decade later, vendors across Indian cities continue to operate in a state of precarious uncertainty, where legal documents offer little protection against arbitrary removal, political capture, and systemic exclusion. The law exists. The space, in practice, does not. This is not simply a failure of implementation, but a deeper disconnect between what is written and what is lived, between recognition on paper and security on the street. 

The Certificate That Protects Nothing

At Yashwant Place market in Delhi, vendors – who wish to remain anonymous – showed their certificates of vending with a mixture of pride and resignation. ‘Iska kya fayeda sir…Certificate waalo ko bhi waese hata te hai jaese bina certificate waale…’(There is no benefit to this sir… They evict us as if we don’t have the certificates…). These were official documents, stamped and signed, theoretically guaranteeing their right to occupy designated spaces. Yet these same vendors described being arbitrarily removed from their spots, excluded from renewal surveys meant to update their records, and sidelined from decision-making processes despite some even serving as members of the Town Vending Committee. Here was the paradox at its clearest: legal recognition without the realisation of recognised rights, spatial security and participation without power, rights without enforcement. 

Spatial security extends beyond the mere allocation of physical space and encompasses the conditions under which marginalised populations can claim and secure their right to place within the city in lieu of Article 19(1)(g). In the context of street vending, it addresses the fundamental question of, ‘what does it mean for the state to recognise a vendor’s right to practise their profession if that recognition cannot be translated into actual, secure occupancy of urban space?’ The Street Vendors Act, 2014 attempted to answer this by establishing a framework for spatial allocation through certificates of vending, town vending committees and designated vending among others. 

Yet spatial security requires more than legal designation. It demands that the right to place be enforceable, that once designated, a vendor’s spatial claim cannot be undermined by administrative whim or political convenience. It requires that the institutions meant to protect spatial claims remain independent from those who might violate them. When these conditions are absent, as the evidence from Delhi suggests, spatial security becomes a concept that exists only on paper. The vendor possesses a Certificate but not security. They have a designated location but no guarantee of access to it. They occupy a legal category but cannot inhabit the space that category supposedly protects. 

The certificate is supposed to be proof of legitimacy. But legitimacy, it turns out, depends less on what the law says and more on who controls the space where vendors operate.

Jaipur: Between Court Orders and Political Capture

The Centre for Civil Society has worked with street vendors in Jaipur since 2011, and launched the Jeevika App in the city in 2024 to provide legal awareness and free legal aid to vendors navigating an increasingly complex regulatory environment. What we collectively realised was a system caught between formal progress and practical stagnation.

Banwari Ji, a dosa and pav bhaji vendor near Collector Circle, serving as the leader of Heritage City Thadi Thela Union, Jaipur has emerged  as a a leader in Jaipur’s vending community. Over tea at his stall, he walked us through the systemic failures that define vendor life in the city. Major vending areas remain without officially notified zones, more than a decade after the national law mandated their designation. Vendors hold identity cards issued by the Jaipur Nagar Nigam, but not the certificates of vending that would give them legal standing. Survey timings remain unfixed. Officers transfer frequently, disrupting any continuity in implementation.

But the deeper problem Banwari Ji described goes beyond bureaucratic inertia. Certain groups, he explained, leverage political connections and relationships with municipal officers to forcibly occupy prime vending spaces. They then rent these spaces out to vendors, creating an informal rental market that operates entirely outside the law and undermines the Town Vending Committee’s authority. The 2014 Act envisioned democratic governance and spatial justice. What has emerged instead is a system where access to urban space depends not on legal entitlement but on patronage, payments, and proximity to power. Even after the countless legal redressals undertaken by Banwari ji, his notable wins remain partial. The broader implementation remains hollow, the rules on paper disconnected from the reality vendors navigate every day.

The Politics of Space

What these experiences reveal is a fundamental tension in how we approach urban governance. Street vending regulation is often framed as a technical problem requiring better policies, clearer procedures, more efficient administration. But at its core, it is a question of power. Who controls urban space? Whose claims to the city are recognized as legitimate? When vendors are removed despite holding valid certificates, when zones remain unnotified despite legal mandates, when political actors capture spaces meant for collective use, the issue is not implementation failure. It is the reassertion of older hierarchies that never accepted vendors as rightful claimants to public space.

The 2014 Act represented genuine progress. It acknowledged street vending as a legitimate livelihood, not a nuisance to be eliminated. It created mechanisms for vendor participation and spatial justice. These were  significant changes. Yet the persistence of arbitrary evictions, survey exclusions, and rent-seeking arrangements suggests that formal legal change is only one dimension of a much larger struggle.

Rights without enforcement become symbolic gestures. Participation without decision-making power becomes performative inclusion. Certificates without spatial security are reduced to mere pieces of paper. 

What Changes, What Remains

As we reflect on conversations with Banwari Ji, the vendors at Yashwant Place, and others across these cities, what strikes me is the gap between regulatory intent and lived experience where the fundamental insecurity persists. Vendors still wake up uncertain whether their spot will be available tomorrow. They still navigate informal power structures to secure space. They still face removal without due process, despite the protections the law supposedly guarantees.

The vendors we met do not need better policies. They need the ones that already exist to actually work. They need vending zones to be notified, not promised. They need Town Vending Committees with real authority, not advisory bodies easily bypassed. They need certificates that protect them from arbitrary eviction, not documents that sit in their pockets while political actors decide who can sell where.

Perhaps the real lesson is that changing regulations is necessary but never sufficient. Without genuine enforcement, meaningful participation, and a political commitment to recognizing vendors as legitimate urban actors entitled to space and dignity, laws remain aspirational documents rather than tools for transformation. 

About Chaitanya Kapoor

Chaitanya Kapoor, a lawyer by training and public policy researcher by profession, is dedicated to dismantling implementation barriers in pursuit of social justice. His work emphasizes ecocentrism, constitutionalism, human rights, and equitable societal frameworks, aiming to foster a more just and sustainable world. He is presently a Legal Associate at the Centre for Civil Society.

The territory of mainland India spans a longitude of approximately 30 degrees and covers an area of approximately 3.28 million square kilometres. Whereas, Tennessee, which is merely the 36th-largest state in the United States by area has a longitudinal spread of approximately 9 degrees and covers about 110,000 square kilometres. These facts when presented in isolation do not denote anything extraordinary, but their significance will become apparent once one understands what longitudes represent. 

Longitude measures how far a place is east or west on the Earth. Because the Earth rotates 360 degrees in 24 hours, every 15 degrees of longitude corresponds to one hour of time difference. In other words, a shift of 1 degree in longitude equals roughly 4 minutes of solar time.

India’s 30-degree spread thus translates to a natural 2-hour difference in solar time between its easternmost and westernmost regions, and Tennessee’s 9-degree spread amounts to about 36 minutes of natural time difference across the state. This means that even though India functions under a single official time zone, different parts of the country experience sunrise, sunset and daylight patterns that can be up to two hours apart.

Herein lies the irony:

Tennessee, a region with only one-third of the landmass of India, operates with 2 time zones “(UTC -5/-4)” and “(UTC-6/-5)”. Whereas, India operates under a single time zone “UTC+05:30“. In the northeastern states, such as Assam, the sun rises as early as 4:30 AM during summer, yet typical office hours begin only at 9 or 10 AM. As a result, these regions lose four to five hours of usable daylight. This mismatch creates a myriad of new problems including increased electricity consumption, higher stress levels because humans are naturally inclined to work during daylight and rest after sunset, and additional safety concerns for individuals commuting alone in the dark.

The reasons cited by the Indian government for the continuation of this inefficient singular time zone use are as follows:

1. Multiple time zones may lead to logistical confusion and accidents in railways – A weak argument considering the fact that larger countries such as Australia, Canada, Russia, United States of America, operating multiple time zones run perfectly functional complex train networks. The fear that “railways will break” is pure bureaucratic myth

2. Political desire of uniformity, i.e, “One nation, one time zone” – When a reason such as this is presented, one must pause to ask the following questions:

1. At what cost must such uniformity be achieved? Productivity and well-being of people across the country, increasing electricity and energy consumption?

2. To what end is uniformity necessary?

3. Administrative rigidity in adopting new systems – This is the closest to a legitimate reason, but a weak reason nonetheless. It points to deeper, systemic issues in how the government operates and its persistent inability to keep pace with change.

Whereas, here is the rationale for why dual time zones would be advantageous for   India:

1. Better alignment with natural daylight – A second time zone allows people to wake, work, and sleep in sync with the sun. This, in turn, has the potential to increase productivity, better health, among a few biological benefits.

2. Drastic reduction of electricity consumption – Regions far to the east, to keep up with a single time zone, are forced to waste morning daylight and overuse luminous electricity consuming devices after sunset.  According to economist Maulik Jagnani, India may be incurring annual human-capital costs of approximately USD 4.1 billion (around ₹29,000 crore), or about 0.2% of nominal GDP, simply due to the way time-zone boundaries are currently regulated. A 2018 paper titled “Necessity of two time zones: IST-I (UTC +5:30 h) and IST-II (UTC +6: 30 h) in India and its implementation” presents an argument that a separate time zone for the Northeast (and some eastern/Andaman regions) has the potential to improve productivity and reduce power consumption. The same study suggests that aligning clock-time with local sunrise and sunset will synchronise daily school/work hours with the presence of daylight, better matching people’s biological clocks and improving “efficiency of populace”.

3. Historically, organisations such as Tata Energy Research Institute (TERI) in 1994, argued that multiple time zones in India would help stagger national energy demand and reduce peak pressures by spreading the load of the energy consumed. This practice, according to the study, would lead to a drop in energy consumption by 5.7 percent, resulting in an annual saving of 400 crores (INR).

In conclusion, the potential gains such as higher productivity, reduced power consumption, and overall improvement of national health far outweigh the modest adjustment required for adopting two time zones. With successful models abroad and credible support from Indian scientific bodies, it is reasonable to remain optimistic about achieving the anticipated benefits of implementing a dual time zone system in India.

About Chetna Sabarigreesan

Chetna Sabarigreesan is a law graduate deeply influenced by the principles of free markets and classical liberalism. She draws inspiration from Nobel laureate Milton Friedman. In her downtime, she enjoys rock climbing and reading. Chetna is a Next-Gen Fellow with CCS Academy.

The morning air in Delhi feels dense this season. An acrid smell lingers long after Diwali night fireworks fade. With the recent lifting of the ban on firecrackers, the city once again woke up to a wall of smog. Schools delayed classes, and flights were diverted as the air quality index crossed 450 in parts of the NCR in late October this year. Inside homes and offices, air purifiers continue to hum through the day. 

The haze is no longer a seasonal surprise, but a continuous feature of urban life in India. Delhi’s monthly average PM2.5 (particulate matter below 2.5 microns in diameter; used to monitor pollution levels worldwide) level in January 2025 stood at 165 micrograms per cubic meter, according to the Centre for Research on Energy and Clean Air (CREA). That is over 30 times the WHO’s recommended limit. CREA estimated that health and productivity losses due to air pollution now costs the Indian economy nearly 1.3 percent of its GDP annually (roughly Rs. 4.5 lakh crore). To put that into perspective, this amount could fund the entire rural employment guarantee programme for three years or lift approximately 40 million Indians above the poverty line.

Naturally, the brunt of this crisis is not evenly shared. For Delhi’s middle class, protection is a product, bought through sealed windows, N95 masks, and high-end air filters. For the city’s informal workers, protection is out of reach. Studies by the Indian Institute of Public Health show that street vendors, daily wage labourers, and traffic police register respiratory illness rates almost twice as high as office workers in the same neighbourhoods. Many live near industrial clusters or highways, where particulate matter levels can be 40 percent higher than city averages. The right to clean air, in practice, is stratified by income.

The pattern now extends itself across the subcontinent. Of the world’s 20 most polluted cities, 13 lie in South Asia, spanning India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh. Climate and geography make this subcontinent prone to stagnant air and temperature inversions (any civil service aspirant slogging away in Delhi can spell this out for you), but the crisis is largely man-made and industries remain at the heart of it. They individualise profits and socialise costs. Steel, cement, power, and chemical manufacturing continue to externalise their pollution onto the public, which is an outcome that microeconomics has long recognised as a negative externality. When firms do not bear the full cost of production, society does. The result is a classic case of market failure, where public goods such as clean air are degraded because their value cannot be priced in private transactions.

India’s legal framework offers limited recourse. In theory, tort law, which allows citizens to seek compensation for harm caused by another’s actions, should apply to industries that damage public health through emissions. But air pollution diffuses responsibility as no single polluter can be easily identified or prosecuted. And without a robust liability mechanism, industries have little incentive to internalise environmental costs. Public goods, like breathable air, remain unguarded. Private goods, like air purifiers, flourish.

Governments have responded, but often in ways that look and feel temporary. Cloud-seeding experiments, “green” crackers, and odd-even traffic schemes dominate the headlines each winter. Yet long-term measures such as enforcing emission caps on thermal plants, market-based disincentives for polluters, or providing farmers alternatives to stubble burning progress slowly, if at all. These gestures are the equivalent of purifiers on a national scale: cosmetic and evasive. A recent review in The Lancet Planetary Health found that while India’s air-quality monitoring network has expanded, regulatory enforcement and public health preparedness remain weak. The country now records the world’s highest number of premature deaths linked to particulate pollution at nearly 2 million a year. So much for our demographic dividend!

Our countryside mirrors the same story. Each winter, stubble burning in Punjab, Haryana, and Uttar Pradesh adds a thick layer of smoke to the northern plains. The government’s attempt to subsidise machinery and pay farmers not to burn fields created a perverse incentive where farmers waited for compensation (often burning stubble so as to avail subsidies for stopping) rather than investing in residue management. Perhaps a shift in our perspective, allowing private buyers to purchase paddy stubble for use in biomass energy, packaging, or paper production, could turn stubble into a tradable good, and give rise to a sustainable agritech industry developing alongside.

Recent protests in Delhi have captured this frustration. Earlier this month, citizens gathered at India Gate demanding immediate action and calling air pollution a “public health emergency, not a weather event.” Their message was straightforward: the burden of inaction falls hardest on those who cannot shield themselves. As a paper in Environmental Research Letters (2024) warned, prolonged exposure to PM2.5 can reduce cognitive function and labour productivity, eroding the very economic advantage that a youthful population is supposed to deliver.

We have reached a stage where the air crisis has evolved beyond only an environmental or health issue. It is a question of how we define progress. If ease of living is meant to capture the quality of urban life, then breathable air should be its most basic indicator. The 2022 Ease of Living Index included environmental quality as a parameter, yet most large Indian cities had a poor score, suggesting that the country’s rapid urban expansion is outpacing its capacity to provide safe living conditions. Clean air, like clean water or electricity, is a foundational service. It underpins human capital, public trust, and social cohesion.

The haze that hangs over Delhi each winter remains a symptom of governance that treats pollution as episodic rather than systemic. The question is simple: how long can a nation chase prosperity while its citizens struggle for breath?

About Lavanya Mitra

Lavanya Mitra works with the Centre for Civil Society in strategy and governance. She holds a postgraduate in Politics and International Studies from Jawaharlal Nehru University and has previously worked in disability advocacy and legislative research. Her interests span climate change, gender, inclusion and governance, with a focus on building accessible and equitable policy frameworks.

“To deny people their human rights is to challenge their very humanity.” – Nelson Mandela

What if you had no say in who governs your country? What if speaking your mind meant risking punishment? Imagine living in a place where peaceful protests lead to arrests or violence, where your vote doesn’t count, and leaders act without any responsibility. 

These are freedoms many people take for granted every day, freedoms rooted in human rights and democracy. They allow us to live with dignity, make decisions about our lives, and expect equal treatment. Without these rights, life becomes uncertain, unfair, and unsafe.

Human rights are the foundation of individual freedom, the freedom to live with dignity, exercise choice, and shape one’s own life. These rights protect every person’s equality and ensure no one is subjected to oppression or injustice. Democracy is the system that empowers individuals to choose their leaders freely and hold them accountable, making it essential for preserving human rights. When democratic institutions crumble, the inherent freedoms they protect often vanish, replaced by authoritarianism and repression.

Venezuela, a sovereign nation rich in natural resources and cultural heritage, is currently facing a severe crisis that strikes at the core of individual liberty. The country has shifted toward authoritarianism, with political freedoms severely restricted, electoral processes manipulated, and opposition voices silenced through intimidation, censorship, and imprisonment. This repression denies Venezuelans not only political choice but also their fundamental human rights, including freedom of expression and peaceful assembly.

In July 2024, following a disputed presidential election, thousands of Venezuelans peacefully protested to demand transparency and fairness. The government’s harsh response included arresting over 2,400 people and killing at least 22 protesters. This brutal crackdown highlights the grave challenges to democracy and human rights in Venezuela today.

The consequences for ordinary citizens have been devastating. Economic collapse, scarcity of essential goods, and a humanitarian emergency have forced millions to flee their homeland in search of livelihood and safety. Despite its sovereignty, Venezuela’s democratic institutions, the very structures designed to protect rights and freedoms have been hollowed out, undermining the essence of individual choice and freedom.

In this challenging landscape, the 2025 Nobel Peace Prize awarded to María Corina Machado is a powerful beacon of hope and resilience. Machado, a courageous leader within Venezuela’s pro-democracy movement, has stood unwavering against repression. Her tireless advocacy for transparent governance, rule of law, and democratic restoration embodies the ongoing fight of Venezuelans striving to reclaim their rights and rebuild a society rooted in justice and freedom.

This Nobel recognition sends a clear message: sovereignty alone does not ensure democracy or human rights. Genuine democratic governance demands vigilant defense by citizens and leaders who value liberty, especially when authoritarianism seeks to silence the people’s voice and erode their dignity. Machado’s prize serves as an inspiration for all who defend freedom, demonstrating that the spirit of democracy endures even under the harshest repression.

For advocates of democratic liberal governance, Venezuela stands as a cautionary example of the harms that arise when democratic institutions weaken and the rule of law is dismantled. Societies that uphold individual rights and freedoms create fertile ground for cooperation, innovation, and prosperity. On the contrary, authoritarianism stifles these possibilities, leading to social stagnation and decline.

María Corina Machado’s Nobel Peace Prize transcends personal honor. It is a global call to support democracy and human rights defenders everywhere. Venezuela’s story is a reminder that democracy, centered on individual freedom and choice, is precious and must be actively preserved to achieve lasting peace, justice, and human dignity for all.

About Jini Susan Thomas

Jini Susan holds a Master’s in Public Policy and works as a Program Associate at the Centre for Civil Society. She is passionate about gender policy issues, and enjoys exploring new ideas that connect society and governance.

Why do many community problems persist despite widespread awareness?

This question touches on a core issue in governance and civic engagement: why, even when people know about problems, they don’t take initiative and often wait for others to act.

Through a famous experiment, psychologists Bibb Latané and John Darley explored how people respond in situations requiring action. As part of the experiment, participants were placed in a room to fill out a survey. While they were doing this, harmless smoke started to fill the room. When people were alone, almost everyone noticed the smoke quickly and reported it. However, when the number of people in the room increased and others acted like everything was fine, most participants ignored the smoke, even as it grew thicker. This showed a common effect called diffusion of responsibility, where people feel less personal duty to act when others are present.

I recently experienced this on the Delhi Metro on a hot summer evening. The air conditioning in a crowded coach was barely working, making the air uncomfortable. Passengers whispered quietly but no one took action. Maybe they assumed the driver already knew or thought others would speak up. Finally, one passenger pressed the emergency button and the air cooled. This shows how, in groups, people often wait for someone else to lead, even when action is clearly needed.

Diffusion of responsibility affects more than just emergencies. It shapes how citizens respond to government policies or community problems. Many public infrastructure issues, like broken streetlights, potholes, or waste collection, persist precisely because individuals assume that others – neighbors, civil society groups, or local officials will respond. This assumption results in everyone waiting for someone else to take responsibility. As a result, fewer citizens engage directly, which weakens accountability and slows change. 

One cause of this is social conformity. People naturally look to others for cues on how to behave. If no one else seems concerned, we hesitate to speak up. While social conformity usually helps maintain harmony and order, it can become paralyzing when action is needed. This hesitation leads to many community problems being ignored or left unresolved.

One of the examples is the delivery of basic urban amenities like water supply. In many cities, problems such as irregular water distribution persist because responsibility is diffused among multiple agencies such as the Jal Board, municipal authorities, and the Ministry of Water, and often there is no clear responsibility or accountability assigned within any single agency. Each assumes that others will address the issue or that it falls under another department’s jurisdiction. As a result, no single entity feels fully accountable, and citizens, aware of the problem, wait for someone else to intervene. The underlying problem is that everyone’s responsibility becomes no one’s responsibility, which prevents timely action and effective resolution. This diffusion of responsibility causes delays in service delivery, frustrating residents and worsening public trust in governance.

This also leads us to a critical point about accountability. It is not sufficient to passively hope that those in power will fix problems. Citizens must actively demand answers and action, rather than waiting. Governments and officials sometimes delay or neglect responsibilities, expecting citizens not to question them. This unequal distribution of responsibility can be challenged only by an engaged citizenry willing to speak up. Silence or apathy contributes to policy inertia and poor governance.

In New York City in 1964, perhaps the most famous case of social apathy was the murder of Kitty Genovese, who was fatally stabbed while numerous neighbors reportedly heard or witnessed parts of the attack but did not intervene or call for help immediately. This tragic death exposed the problem of bystander indifference, eventually leading to the creation of the 911 emergency system in the United States. 

The recent suicide of Haryana IPS officer Y Puran Kumar exposes how diffusion of responsibility quietly seeps into governance. Despite enduring prolonged mental harassment and caste-based discrimination from several senior officers, no single individual took ownership to stop or address the abuse. This case clearly illustrates how when multiple senior officials share responsibility for addressing harassment, the lack of clear individual accountability can allow toxic behaviors to persist, resulting in tragic outcomes. This diffusion of responsibility within the system contributed to his tragic death. But the broader lesson is timeless and global. Strong communities and good governance rest on individuals willing to act, not just on laws or systems.

The lesson is not that people don’t care, rather responsibility gets diluted in groups. We want to help, but we hesitate when we think others will act. The solution is simple but requires courage.

Only when individuals consistently step forward to take responsibility and insist on action and answers will communities become healthier, more responsive, and more prosperous. In conclusion, many community problems persist not because people don’t know about them, but because diffusion of responsibility and a lack of accountability mindset prevent action.

About Jini Susan Thomas

Jini Susan holds a Master’s in Public Policy and works as a Program Associate at the Centre for Civil Society. She is passionate about gender policy issues, and enjoys exploring new ideas that connect society and governance.

The informal sector offers several appealing features. Entry barriers are low since both start-up capital and skill requirements are minimal. Though some workers acquire vocational training, most entrepreneurs gain experience through informal apprenticeships. Another key attraction is the flexibility provided to individuals who need to balance household responsibilities with income-generating activities. Informal sector employment allows them to adjust their working hours as needed. Additionally, the small scale of these enterprises enables them to deliver personalised services that larger firms often cannot match.

Regulatory framework governing street vending makes it a complex activity. Instead of protecting their right to livelihood, the law is often used to penalise or restrict vendors through fines, confiscations, or eviction drives. This reflects what Frédéric Bastiat described as the “perversion of law” in the famous pamphlet “The Law” published in 1850. In this essay Bastiat points out how the law can cease to safeguard life, liberty, and property, and instead become a tool of exclusion or control. Rather than securing justice for vulnerable groups, regulatory frameworks sometimes criminalise their strategies for survival. 

These laws affect a sizable number of people. There are varying estimates on the scale of street vending in Indian cities. Under the Street Vendors (Protection of Livelihood and Regulation of Street Vending) Act, 2014, the number of vendors is capped at 2.5% of a city’s population. Based on the 2011 Census, India’s urban population stood at 377 million, and if we assume it has now grown to around 430 million, this would translate into roughly 10 million hawkers. This figure also aligns with the estimate put forward in the National Policy for Urban Street Vendors (2009).

A few months ago in Chandigarh, fines for small mistakes like placing your cart a few feet outside the assigned spot were hiked. This fine was more than a week’s income for street vendors. The city also restricted vendors to their geo-tagged spots, even if foot traffic shifted elsewhere during the day. Vendors lost flexibility. When customers moved, they couldn’t. Street vendors were being zoned. Zoning is a way of regulating land use where governments divide land into zones and set rules on how that land may be used. 

Believe it or not, businesses have a strategy to zone themselves. This was observed by Harrold Hotelling. The Hotelling Model suggests that when two similar vendors in the city compete among themselves and consumers pay for transportation costs, it is likely that both vendors will place their stalls near the middle of the population of the consumers. It’s worth asking why this happens? Consumers choose to buy from the stall offering the lowest total cost (price of the good + travel cost). Since price is almost the same due to homogeneity in goods, the only differentiation that exists is in travel cost. So, each stall wants to locate where it can capture the maximum share of consumers. This creates a strategic incentive where neither vendor wants to leave “too much space” in the center, because the rival could capture those consumers. The end result of this interaction makes the middle location the Nash Equilibrium – a condition where none of the players have a scope for unilateral deviation. An interesting Ted-ed video also narrates how this phenomena takes place. 

This is something we can also observe in our daily commutes. To capture maximum consumers, street vendors tend to cluster around metro stations, office hubs, and bus stops creating vibrant markets of their own. Zoning not only disrupts the livelihood of millions of people but it can also make our streets lifeless. An idea that urbanist Jane Jacobs calls the “sidewalk ballet” in her popular book “The Death and Life of Great American Cities”. The ballet is Jacobs’ metaphor for the daily choreography of city life on sidewalks. Each person who is a part of the city contributes to the vitality of its streets. These small interactions affect our daily lives. When street vendors disappear from busy spots, it becomes difficult to find the little things: fruits, snacks, a pen, or a comb. The two-minute walk now becomes a twenty-minute hunt which not just makes it less convenient but results in a loss of time which could have been used productively elsewhere. 

Zoning is the opposite of mixed-use neighbourhoods. When housing, shops, workplaces, restaurants, schools, and street vendors coexist, they make streets lively and extend the time of their use from just the daytime extending into the night. Zoning does the exact opposite. It takes out life and makes streets unsafe. When more people live, work and interact in close proximity, they fuel street life, safety, and economic vibrancy. Safety doesn’t only come from the police or surveillance, but also from continuous presence of people in public spaces. Anyone in these busy spaces can become the “eye of the street”, including street vendors.

This is not to say that all the laws concerning street vending are bad but certain laws require revision, maybe some require more thought and deliberation. Cities are not machines to be engineered. Urban design should support local communities instead of replacing them with abstract notions.

About Rimmon Dass

Capital punishment or the legal authorisation of killing of a person as punishment for a crime is a practice followed by many countries  throughout the world, in some cases, it is even a glorified measure of bringing justice to the victim.

It is understandable that, in cases of profound violation, a victim or their loved ones might hope a perpetrator’s death will offer some reprieve. Yet many first-hand accounts show that executions often do not bring the closure that they hoped for. In numerous cases, the victims and their families report that the death of the perpetrator does little to ease their pain or repair the harm, possibly because the death of the perpetrator does not undo their loss, and perhaps only accentuates violence with more violence.

This leads one to question whether there is any societal good that might result from capital punishment when it does not even serve the welfare of those affected by the crime.

It is worth considering the notion that capital punishment serves nobody. It is not helpful to the victims who have suffered the most, it is a burden upon the tax payer, whom the execution of capital punishment is beared by and also has an unsatisfactory effect on deterrence of crimes. A common assumption regarding capital punishment is that it saves public money since the state is spared the cost of long-term imprisonment, healthcare and related expenses. However, in practice, the opposite is true: implementing the death penalty is far more expensive than sentencing an offender to life imprisonment without parole.

The higher cost arises because death penalty cases in India often involve prolonged and complex trials in Sessions Courts, followed by multiple rounds of appeals in High Courts and the Supreme Court. The stakes being a person’s life demand additional safeguards, which require more lawyers, expert witnesses, and judicial time. Mercy petitions to the President or Governors further extend the process. As a result, convicts often end up serving life terms, but only after the state has spent far more resources on extensive litigation. 

Beyond the large sums of public money spent, one must consider the opportunity cost of litigating death penalty cases whose likelihood of ending up in a life sentence verdict is very high, numerous other cases which could be of equally serious consequences remain unheard. While it is difficult to exactly quantify the losses incurred through the non hearing or delayed hearing of those disputes, it is reasonable to imagine the severe costs of such delayed hearings. Unlike death penalty litigation, where outcomes are more predictable, these other cases could go in many different directions, making timely adjudication all the more critical. In fact, as violence continues to decrease worldwide with social and economic development, the disproportionate attention given to death penalty litigation seems increasingly out of step with the direction in which modern societies are moving.

Even with the deliberately long, multi-tier safeguards that accompany a death sentence in India, the system is still very susceptible to errors. There have been several cases of repeated acquittals, commutations and full exonerations, showing that innocent people can and do get pulled into capital cases. In just the first seven months of 2025, the Supreme Court of India heard 14 death penalty cases and either acquitted or commuted sentences in 11 of them. That means the overwhelming majority of people sent to the gallows by lower courts were eventually found undeserving of the punishment. Modern digital evidence adds a whole new dimension of evidence tampering: with manipulated media and deepfakes getting harder to detect, courts and forensic capacity are under strain, which increases the chance of evidentiary error.

Taken together, these realities make clear that capital punishment serves no meaningful purpose. It neither brings solace to victims, nor lightens the financial or administrative burden on the state, nor reliably deters crime. Instead, it prolongs trials, drains public resources, and carries the irreversible risk of executing the innocent. A justice system committed to fairness and efficiency cannot afford such a costly and fallible mode of punishment.

About Chetna Sabarigreesan

Chetna Sabarigreesan is a law graduate deeply influenced by the principles of free markets and classical liberalism. She draws inspiration from Nobel laureate Milton Friedman. In her downtime, she enjoys rock climbing and reading. Chetna is a Next-Gen Fellow with CCS Academy.

In his commentary on the work of famous British novelist Charles Dickens, George Orwell remarked, “All art is propaganda, on the other hand, not all propaganda is art”. The larger point he sought to convey was that every creator is driven by a set of beliefs and values which becomes embedded in their work. There is however an exception to this norm: when a message is propagated about the actions of the state. Though crafted by individuals, such messages remain no longer the expression of personal beliefs alone. 

To start off, it is helpful to distinguish propaganda from other forms of persuasion like advertisements. Propaganda is purposefully biased or false. Once produced, it is ripe to promote a political cause. The spread of propaganda is bad for those on the receiving end, as the propagandist’s message limits the receiver’s ability to make informed judgements.  Advertisements also use persuasive techniques, but they do not restrict people’s ability to make informed judgements, even if their intent comes from commercial incentives of profit. Instead they make consumers aware of available options and thereby enhance their capacity to choose. This distinction should sharpen our concern about the reach and prevalence of propaganda in society.

This is an important distinction made by economists Christopher Coyne and Abigail Hall in their book: Manufacturing Militarism. They also argue that the state possesses strong incentives to deploy propaganda as a means to achieve a specific end. Political legitimacy is that end, and movies become the means. The Indian case reflects this dynamic too. 

Established literature from Public Choice theory makes a strong case that the primary motivation of politicians is to get re-elected. To be re-elected, support from interest groups plays an indispensable role in shaping electoral strategies. Propaganda can help to frame the demands of narrow interest groups as legitimate and to make them politically feasible, even if these policies impose large costs on citizens overall.

Propaganda’s messaging can be of four types. The first looks to appeal to an authority. The second looks to appeal to patriotism that demands vigorous support of state action. The third, and a dangerous one, is an appeal to see events from an “us vs them” perspective, so that there are in-groups who are allies, and out-groups who are enemies. The fourth, is more sophisticated. It embeds slogans and imagery that is emotional with a high recall value. Many of these elements can be seen in Indian movies. 

The movie Uri (2019), for example, banked on an  appeal to military heroism. In its opening minutes the call out for “based on facts” and the larger-than-life portrayal of the Indian government lend appeal to authority. This messaging got another shot in the arm on authority when the Prime Minister praised the film himself. The “us vs them” narrative is also at play, where the terrorists and well trained soldiers are always in sharp contrasts, with no shared commonalities. Memorable slogans with high recall value are peppered across the movie such as, “Yeh naya Hindustan hai, yeh ghar mein ghusega bhi, aur marega bhi!” (This is a new Hindustan, it will enter your house too, and beat you up too). This phrase became popular reflecting the government’s aggressive stance on national security, making it much easier to gain legitimacy for similar strikes in the future. 

Another example is from the movie Tejas (2023). It was screened at the Lok Bhawan after the state cabinet meeting. An important narrative of the movie focuses on Tejas, the combat aircraft, designed and manufactured indigenously in India. The movie’s jingoism is apparent when it is contrasted with actual hurdles faced in the production and delays in the production of the aircraft. The aircraft carries several issues on delays in delivery, its maintainability and a prolonged development time taken of up to 40 years in the making. The reality is one of bureaucratic red-tape. None of this was featured in the movie. The pro-Tejas narrative is harmful when objectivity is lost and the dominant messaging amplifies the aircraft’s reliability and performance. What’s worse is that plot lines contained the sensitive matter of Ram Mandir, ahead of the General elections of 2024.

Governments also have an active incentive to expedite and promote such movies, through tools like tax breaks. Operating in a high-risk industry compels movie production houses to take that as a signal to alter their productions and script narratives.

This trend however is not new. This has persisted since the formation of the Indian state. Haqeeqat (1964) and Upkar (1967) are two such movies that rank high in the list of propaganda movies. Haqeeqat as a war-time movie was meant to soothe the losses of the 1962 Sino-India war, and the Upkar contained a direct reflection on then Prime Minister’s slogan “Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan.” 

India’s long history of such films illustrates how propaganda serves as a low-cost, high-yield tool for politicians to secure legitimacy. Its downsides are that it imposes costs onto an uninformed electorate. Propaganda in cinema is a calculated political instrument that can bypass democratic accountability. 

About Anshu Chowdhury

A trip is on the horizon. A familiar ritual for millions in India would be to open a travel website, enter a string of city names, and start tracking a list of flight prices. Most fares are high beyond explanation, with any reasonable option being a red-eye flight, leaving the consumer disheartened.

India is the world’s third-largest aviation market. But this market is turbulent, unreliable, and plagued by distortions. For any story of growth there are balancing tales of shutdowns of large, and seemingly capable airlines like Kingfisher, Jet Airways, and Go First. How is this discrepancy explained?

The answer may lie in a complex web of problems. The root cause being: operation costs are high and a large component of it is imposed by the government.  

The single biggest cost component eating into airline profits is Aviation Turbine Fuel (ATF). It is about 40-50% of an airline’s total operating costs in India. ATF in India is subject to a complex and overlapping tax structure that is often onerous for airlines and extractive in nature.This system is distortionary and a large burden is borne by passengers.

ATF is taxed twice. Central excise duty by the central government, and state VAT by state governments. ATF has been excluded from The Goods and Service Tax (GST) regime that was supposed to streamline such tax codes. 

Airline ticket prices do not consist of just the ATF tax component, but also an additional layer of tax, the GST. GST is levied on the total ticket price, 5% for economy, and 12% for business class. 

Before the advent of GST, airlines could set off the central excise duty paid on ATF, against the service tax that was owed on ticket sales. Following the enforcement of GST, that option is no longer available. So, there are at least three levels of taxes for airlines in India at present. 

It is also surprising that domestic fares are becoming comparable to international fares. Flying to Bangkok from Delhi can sometimes be cheaper than flying to Bengaluru. There are three main reasons behind this. 

First, for the aircrafts flying abroad, ATF is not taxed. For flights departing India, the ATF loaded is treated as a “deemed export“, and is completely exempt from both central excise duty and state VAT. This means an airline pays significantly less for the same fuel when flying to Dubai or Bangkok, when compared to flying to any domestic airport like Bengaluru or Vizag. This is the primary burden that domestic passengers bear. 

The second reason is the Route Dispersal Guidelines (RDG). This is a regulatory burden imposed only on domestic operations. It requires airlines to operate a certain percentage of flights on routes connecting remote regions to ensure national connectivity. Many of these routes lack commercial viability and operate at a loss. To compensate for these losses, airlines engage in cross-subsidisation, charging slightly higher fares on high-demand routes like Delhi-Mumbai. In essence, a small portion of a ticket price on a busy domestic route also carries a hidden subsidy that helps pay for a flight to a remote town. There are no RDG burdens for  international flights to comply with. 

Prices also depend on the state of competition in the overall market. This is the third important reason behind high domestic fares. International routes that connect with hubs like Dubai and Singapore are battlegrounds fought over by numerous foreign and Indian carriers. This competition pushes fares down. The Indian domestic market, in contrast, is getting concentrated into a duopoly dominated by IndiGo and the Air India group, especially after the collapse of major carriers like Jet Airways and Go First, reducing the competitiveness that brings down prices.

Air travel has always been a difficult market to operate in given its high dependence on global supply chains. Domestic carriers in India are confronted with a huge capacity constraint. Close to 150 aircrafts in India are grounded for poor engine maintenance and lack of spare part availability. 

Together these factors have led to a 40% fare increase in fares on major routes in the last six quarters, post-pandemic.

The challenges of Indian aviation are complex but solvable. The most impactful reform would be to bring ATF under the GST system. This would allow airlines to claim Input Tax Credit on fuel taxes, breaking a “tax on tax” cycle. Projections show this could reduce airline fuel costs by 7-9%, a relief that could stabilise the industry and lower fares. But the main hurdle is achieving political consensus among states in the GST Council, where states would have to cede their power to levy VAT.

Indian aviation is in desperate need of a holistic approach. Policies must encourage competition to prevent a duopoly from harming passengers. Any social goals of RDG must be at least met through transparent, direct subsidies, rather than market-distorting cross-subsidisation. 

By rationalising fuel taxes, ensuring robust competition, and modernising subsidy transfers, India can create a future where flying is both affordable for its citizens and profitable for the airlines that carry them.

About Tapasya Srivastava

Tapasya Srivastava is an Electronics and Communication Engineer who transitioned from civil services preparation to a purpose-driven career in public policy. She recently completed the Researching Reality 2025 residential research program at the Centre for Civil Society and has now begun her journey as an SBI Youth for India Fellow (August 2025 cohort).