In a nation that prides itself on being the world’s largest democracy, the veneration of elected representatives as kings, saviors, or even gods betrays a painful irony. Every time an Indian bows, chants, or genuflects before a politician as if they were an incarnation of the divine, we are reminded that the chains of slavery were never truly broken—they were merely decorated with the trappings of democracy.
This tendency isn’t new. From ancient monarchs to Mughal emperors, colonial masters to post-independence dynasts, Indians have a long history of submission to concentrated power. It is as if the national psyche, shaped by centuries of rule by absolute authorities, finds discomfort in the flat terrain of democracy. We crave a peak, a towering figure to look up to, someone to obey without question—preferably someone whose photo can adorn our walls and whose words can be repeated like mantras. Democracy, unfortunately, requires neither blind obedience nor messianic leaders. It demands doubt. It demands dissent.
And yet, look around. The politician is not merely voted into office—they are anointed. Their gestures become symbolic, their speeches sacred, their failures ignored. Crowds cheer not for policy but for proximity; not for governance, but for grandeur. Every selfie with a leader is treated like a darshan. Every social media post praising them is crafted like a hymn.
This culture of glorification does not emerge from nowhere. It is cultivated. Politicians feed on it. They dress like saints, speak like sages, and surround themselves with sycophants who chant louder than any courtier of yore. The more authoritarian they become, the more “disciplined” their followers feel. The more they centralize power, the more secure their base feels. In such an environment, democracy becomes a theatre. The elections are real, but the spirit of freedom is fictional.
One could argue that the roots of this problem lie in our education system. Children are taught to revere, not to question. Authority figures—teachers, parents, godmen, politicians—are often beyond scrutiny. The idea that power should be held accountable is not embedded in our daily lives. This is why public criticism is seen as betrayal, and opposition as sedition. What democracy teaches us to treat as normal, we treat as an attack.
But it goes deeper. This is not just about education—it is about comfort. Slavery offers a strange kind of psychological safety. When someone else is in charge, when someone else is to be blamed or worshipped, the burden of responsibility vanishes. One can live passively, complain righteously, and never confront their own role in the system. Democracy, on the other hand, is a mirror. And we don’t like what we see.
Ambedkar warned us of this tendency. He feared that India would adopt the machinery of democracy without the soul of it. His fears have been proven right time and again. We don’t want citizens—we want subjects. We don’t want a Prime Minister—we want a Maharaja. And in this desperate need for a ruler to revere, we surrender our rights voluntarily.
This, perhaps, is the cruelest form of slavery—not one imposed by force, but one embraced by choice.
Until we stop mistaking power for divinity and leadership for lordship, democracy in India will remain hollow. We will continue to elect kings, not representatives. And we will keep mistaking obedience for patriotism—forgetting that the real love for one’s country lies in holding it accountable.