Eight Essays by Aditi Singh
Ambedkar and the Idea of a Secular State: What We’ve Forgotten
By Aditi Singh
Dr. B.R. Ambedkar envisioned a nation where religion would remain a matter of personal faith, not public policy. His idea of a secular state was not merely about keeping the church and state apart, as in Western democracies—it was about building a moral and political order that ensured equality among citizens, regardless of their faith or caste. For Ambedkar, secularism was not a slogan; it was the foundation for justice in a deeply divided society like India’s. Yet, in the India of today, his idea of secularism seems to be eroding, replaced by a fragile balance of majoritarian politics and selective morality.
Ambedkar’s concept of secularism was shaped by his lived experience. Born into a caste system that denied him basic human dignity, he understood that religion in India was not just a belief system—it was a structure of social power. The Brahmanical order justified caste hierarchy through sacred texts, and the state, historically, endorsed it. When Ambedkar led the drafting of the Indian Constitution, he wanted to end this fusion of religion and power. For him, a secular state was one that recognized individuals as citizens first, not as members of religious communities.
This vision was revolutionary. Ambedkar’s secularism did not mean hostility toward religion—it meant neutrality of the state. The Constitution he helped craft guarantees freedom of religion, but also gives the state the authority to intervene when religious practices violate basic human rights. For example, Article 17 abolishing untouchability was a direct challenge to religiously sanctioned discrimination. In that sense, Ambedkar’s secularism was active, not passive—it demanded state intervention to dismantle inequality, not mere indifference to it.
But what have we done with that vision? Over the decades, India’s politics has slowly shifted from secular governance to symbolic religiosity. Temples and mosques have become stages for political theatre. Leaders compete to display religious loyalty rather than constitutional responsibility. Even policies that claim to promote equality often carry religious or caste undertones. The secular state Ambedkar imagined—one that would protect individuals from the tyranny of both religion and majority rule—is now trapped between populist religiosity and institutional silence.
The erosion of secularism is not just an Indian concern. Around the world, democracies are struggling with similar tensions—between religious identity and civic equality. In the United States, debates over abortion and school prayer echo the same struggle between personal faith and public law. In Europe, the rise of Islamophobia and far-right nationalism challenges the secular promise of liberal democracy. The crisis is global, but in India, it cuts deeper because our Constitution was born from the trauma of partition—a reminder of what happens when religion defines nations.
Ambedkar warned against this. He famously said, “If religion is not to be the law of the State, the State must be the law of religion.” In other words, democracy cannot survive if laws are dictated by faith. Yet, his warning feels almost prophetic today. From attempts to rewrite history textbooks to laws influenced by religious sentiment, we are watching the gradual normalization of what Ambedkar most feared—a moral state rooted in majoritarian belief.
Reclaiming Ambedkar’s secular vision requires more than nostalgia. It demands courage—to question religious orthodoxy, to defend dissent, and to separate personal faith from political identity. It also requires honesty—from intellectuals, journalists, and citizens—to admit that secularism in India has been treated as political convenience, not constitutional duty.
Ambedkar’s idea of a secular state was not Western liberalism—it was Indian humanism. It sought to replace inherited privilege with rational morality. For him, the state’s duty was to protect individuals from the tyranny of both caste and creed. If we forget that, we risk losing not just secularism, but the very soul of democracy itself.
In remembering Ambedkar today, we must go beyond garlands and statues. His secularism was a call to conscience—to imagine a society where equality is not granted by gods, but guaranteed by law. That remains India’s unfinished revolution.
India Needs Real Reform: Policies That Truly Empower Women
by Aditi Singh
India often celebrates women as symbols of strength, yet in everyday life, women continue to face discrimination, insecurity, and systemic inequality. Prime Minister Narendra Modi frequently speaks of women-led development, but slogans like Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao cannot replace real, structural change. To build a democracy rooted in equality, the government must take concrete steps that protect women’s rights, ensure economic dignity, and challenge patriarchy at its foundation.
The first step lies in strengthening the legal system. Although India has progressive laws against sexual violence, their implementation remains weak. Survivors continue to face police apathy, social stigma, and years of delay in the courts. The government needs an independent body to monitor gender-based crimes, ensure accountability, and make fast-track courts and survivor protection programs truly effective.
Economic justice is another critical area. Millions of women perform unpaid labor such as cooking, caregiving, and managing homes that sustains families and the nation’s economy, yet remains invisible in official policy. Recognizing unpaid work through pensions, social security, or tax incentives would be a major step toward valuing women’s contribution beyond traditional employment.
Representation in decision-making spaces is equally vital. Despite being nearly half of India’s population, women continue to be sidelined in politics. The long-delayed Women’s Reservation Bill, ensuring one-third representation in Parliament and state assemblies, must be implemented now. When women lead, issues like safety, education, and health no longer remain secondary concerns.
Education, too, holds transformative power. Schools should integrate gender sensitivity and consent education into the curriculum, teaching boys and girls alike about equality and respect. Patriarchal thinking begins early, and so must the effort to unlearn it.
At the same time, women’s participation in the workforce has been declining even as India’s economy grows. Beyond corporate offices, women in informal sectors such as domestic work, factories, and street vending need stronger protections under the Sexual Harassment of Women at Workplace Act, along with access to grievance cells, maternity benefits, and childcare facilities.
Finally, policies must reflect the layered realities of Indian women. Dalit, Adivasi, Muslim, and queer women face overlapping forms of exclusion that cannot be addressed by one-size-fits-all reforms. Ambedkar’s idea of equality was rooted in justice for those at the margins, and real empowerment in India will remain incomplete without that focus.
India’s democracy will ultimately be measured not by how loudly it praises women, but by how fearlessly it protects them. The government must move beyond rhetoric and act on Ambedkar’s reminder that the progress of a community is measured by the progress of its women. For India to truly progress, it must translate those ideals into law and life.
India must revive Ambedkar’s commitment to economic justice
by Aditi Singh
As a student who engages deeply with questions of equality, justice, and the constitutional vision of India, I find it necessary to examine the current economic direction of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) through the framework offered by Dr B.R. Ambedkar. Ambedkar envisioned an India where political democracy would be incomplete without social and economic democracy. His proposals for state socialism, public ownership of key industries, land reforms, and collective agriculture were not abstract ideals but concrete safeguards meant to prevent wealth concentration and protect vulnerable communities. When evaluated against this vision, the BJP’s policies of privatization and deregulation appear fundamentally misaligned with Ambedkar’s aspirations for an egalitarian society.
Privatization—particularly of essential sectors like railways, energy, health, and education—poses a direct threat to the idea of equal access. When public resources are handed over to private corporations, the logic of profit replaces the logic of social welfare. Ambedkar warned that leaving critical industries in private hands would inevitably strengthen a small capitalist class while weakening the bargaining power of labour. Today, we see the consequences: public services grow costlier, job security declines, and the wealth gap widens at an alarming rate. Instead of decentralizing opportunities, privatization centralizes power in boardrooms far removed from the everyday struggles of workers, farmers, and marginalized communities.
Deregulation operates in a similar vein. Under the banner of “ease of doing business”, labour protections, environmental regulations, and agricultural safeguards have been diluted. These measures disproportionately harm those already on the margins, especially Dalits, Adivasis, and landless workers. Ambedkar argued that the state must actively intervene to correct structural inequalities; deregulation, however, represents a retreat of the state from precisely those responsibilities. By withdrawing protections and loosening corporate accountability, the government essentially leaves the vulnerable to fend for themselves in an unequal market.
Support for the wealthy has become a defining feature of the current model. Tax concessions, loan write-offs, favourable corporate laws, and large public contracts routinely benefit major industrial groups. Ambedkar cautioned against the fusion of economic and political power, understanding that such concentration could undermine democracy itself. The rise of oligopolies in retail, telecom, infrastructure, and agriculture reflects that very danger. When a handful of corporations dominate entire sectors, competition diminishes, workers lose leverage, and citizens become increasingly dependent on private entities whose priorities rarely align with public welfare.
In this context, the women’s question becomes central. Ambedkar consistently foregrounded the liberation of women as inseparable from social progress. Yet privatization has uniquely gendered consequences. Women constitute a large portion of informal labour, where job security, maternity benefits, and wage protections depend heavily on state regulation. As these protections erode, women become more vulnerable to exploitation. Privatization of healthcare and education places an additional financial burden on families, and women—often responsible for caregiving—bear the brunt of this stress. Furthermore, when public institutions weaken, patriarchal norms tighten their grip, pushing women back into unpaid domestic labour.
Ambedkar believed that women’s emancipation required not only legal rights but also material conditions that allow them to participate in the public sphere. A market-driven economy that prioritizes corporate interest over citizen welfare undermines those material conditions. True empowerment demands accessible public transport, affordable education, social security, and dignified employment—rights that flourish under a robust welfare state, not under relentless privatization.
An Ambedkarite economic vision urges us to reimagine the role of the state as a guarantor of equality rather than a facilitator of corporate dominance. Public ownership of essential industries ensures that basic services remain accessible to all. Strong labour protections create secure and dignified jobs. Land reforms empower rural communities, and collective agriculture promotes food security and shared prosperity. These principles are not outdated; they are urgently relevant to India’s present.
If our democracy is to remain meaningful, we must revive Ambedkar’s commitment to economic justice. Only then can India move toward a future where prosperity is shared, dignity is universal, and women and marginalized communities stand not on the margins of development but at its very centre.
United Kingdom owes Restitution to India
By Aditi Singh
The call for accountability from former colonial powers has become an essential part of global political discussions, and India’s relationship with the United Kingdom remains central to that conversation. The issue extends far beyond symbolism: it concerns the return of cultural treasures taken through coercion, annexation and military force, and the broader question of reparations for centuries of economic extraction under British rule.
Among the most visible examples is the Kohinoor diamond, currently part of the British Crown Jewels. Its journey from the Indian subcontinent to the British monarchy was not a matter of diplomacy or cultural exchange but of colonial subjugation. The Kohinoor represents a larger history in which India’s wealth was systematically transferred to Britain. Historians estimate that around $45 trillion was drained from India during colonial rule through exploitative taxation, destruction of local industries and manipulation of trade systems.
The British Empire’s approach to Indian resources was driven by extraction. Industries that once flourished — especially textiles — were suppressed to create markets for British goods. Indian agriculture was reorganized to prioritise raw materials for British factories, contributing to famines that resulted in millions of deaths. Simultaneously, a vast array of jewels, manuscripts, idols, weapons and cultural artefacts were transported to Britain, where many remain in museums and private collections.
Returning these objects would not rewrite history, but it would mark an acknowledgment of how that history unfolded. India’s position aligns with the global movement for restitution: Greece continues its campaign for the Parthenon Marbles, Egypt calls for the Rosetta Stone, and several African nations have successfully reclaimed looted artefacts. These efforts reflect a growing recognition that cultural heritage taken during colonial violence cannot be ethically retained.
Alongside restitution, the question of reparations forms a natural part of this discussion. The intention is not to seek punishment for today’s British citizens but to confront the economic consequences of colonial rule — consequences that continued to shape India long after independence. Reparations could take multiple forms: direct compensation, cultural restoration funding, or structured partnerships aimed at correcting long-term economic disparities.
The UK has previously acknowledged harm in other contexts, including compensation to survivors of colonial violence in Kenya. Recognizing India’s colonial losses would extend that same principle of responsibility.
For many Indians, especially younger generations, this issue is not about reopening old wounds but about closing them properly. The return of stolen artefacts like the Kohinoor would represent a shift toward transparency, respect and equality in international relations. It would demonstrate that the UK is willing to confront its history with honesty and engage with former colonies on fair and ethical terms.
Restitution cannot undo the past, but it can set a different tone for the future. Returning stolen objects would be a meaningful step toward rebuilding trust and establishing a global order grounded in justice rather than inherited privilege.
Caste and the Digital Age
by Aditi Singh
Caste has long shaped the social, economic and political fabric of India. It determines where people live, the work they perform, whom they marry and the opportunities they can access. Many hoped that modernity — especially technology — would weaken caste boundaries. The assumption was simple: the internet would create neutral spaces where identity mattered less than ideas and talent. Yet, the reality is far more complex. In the digital age, caste has not disappeared. Instead, it has adapted, appearing in new forms across online platforms, gig economies, hiring practices, data systems and digital communities.
One of the most visible examples is online harassment. Dalit activists, writers and public figures often face organised trolling when they speak about caste discrimination. The anonymity of the internet allows users to weaponise casteist abuse without accountability. Social media platforms do remove some content, but most caste-based slurs still circulate freely. Unlike in physical spaces, where violence is visible, online casteism operates in shadows, spreading quietly through comments, direct messages and coordinated campaigns. For many Dalit users, digital participation comes with a constant emotional cost.
Caste also influences digital employment. Gig workers — delivery riders, drivers, domestic workers hired through apps — often come from historically marginalised communities. Technology companies present their platforms as equal-opportunity systems driven by algorithms, not bias. But research shows that caste shapes who joins the gig economy, how they are treated and how much they earn. Workers say customers rate them differently based on appearance, language or accent. Some report being denied entry to gated communities because of caste-coded surnames. Algorithms that decide incentives and penalties have little understanding of structural disadvantage. As a result, digital work often reproduces traditional hierarchies instead of breaking them.
Digital hiring in corporate spaces also reflects old patterns. Companies increasingly rely on AI-driven screening tools, which learn from past hiring data. If previous hiring was biased — favouring certain surnames, colleges, regions or English proficiency — then algorithms reinforce that bias. Caste does not always appear explicitly, but it hides within proxies: postcode, school, last name, or even the type of English spoken. Many young Dalit jobseekers describe online interviews where subtle class and caste cues influence decisions long before skill assessments truly begin.
Education technology has widened certain opportunities, but it has also exposed new inequalities. Students from marginalised communities often lack stable internet, devices or quiet spaces for learning. During the pandemic, when schools shifted online, dropout rates rose significantly for Dalit and Adivasi students. Digital classrooms claimed to be inclusive, but they ignored that access itself is shaped by caste and class. Even today, ed-tech platforms assume constant connectivity and financial stability — conditions not available to millions of students.
Caste also appears in data systems. Government welfare programmes increasingly depend on digital verification — Aadhaar, biometric checks, online applications. These systems work smoothly for people with documentation, bank accounts and stable connectivity. But marginalised communities often lack one or more of these elements. A single fingerprint mismatch can deny rations. A broken smartphone can block access to pensions. When the state moves services online without addressing social inequalities, technology becomes another gatekeeper.
Marriage apps are another space where caste thrives in digital clothing. Many platforms openly allow caste-based filters, enabling users to select partners according to community hierarchies. Even apps that market themselves as “modern” or “progressive” quietly support caste preferences through language, region or surname-based suggestions. For many young Indians, digital matchmaking has not challenged caste; it has simply made it easier to enforce it.
At the same time, the digital age has given rise to powerful anti-caste activism. Dalit creators on YouTube, Instagram and X have built audiences that would have been impossible in traditional media. They share stories of discrimination, challenge dominant narratives and create archives of lived experience. Independent digital outlets run by marginalised journalists cover issues mainstream media often ignores. These spaces have become essential in resisting caste violence, documenting everyday inequalities and building new political language.
The digital world has also expanded access to literature and history. Online archives of Dalit writing, Ambedkarite thought and anti-caste movements have made it easier for young people to engage with ideas that were previously limited to academic spaces. This has encouraged cross-regional solidarity, with activists from different parts of South Asia finding shared ground through online networks.
However, the rise of anti-caste voices has also intensified backlash. Activists face trolling, doxxing and targeted disinformation campaigns. Platforms rarely invest in meaningful moderation for caste-based hate, even though it affects millions. Without regulatory pressure, online spaces will continue to privilege dominant-caste voices while punishing those who challenge the status quo.
One of the biggest concerns is the future of AI and automated governance. As technology becomes embedded in policing, hiring, credit access and welfare systems, caste bias risks becoming coded into the digital infrastructure itself. Algorithms trained on historical data inevitably reproduce historical injustice. Without conscious intervention — diverse data sets, ethical oversight, transparent systems — digital tools will make caste discrimination harder to see but easier to scale.
At the same time, digital platforms offer an opportunity to reimagine social structures. When used responsibly, technology can amplify marginalised voices, expand economic opportunities and create new forms of community. The challenge is ensuring that these benefits are not limited to a privileged few. Breaking caste in the digital age requires more than access to devices. It requires intentional policy, ethical technology design, community participation and accountability from both state and private platforms.
Caste has survived for centuries because it adapts. It changes its appearance but not its logic. The digital world is only its newest form. But people adapt too. Marginalised communities continue to resist, organise and reshape the online world, just as they have reshaped physical spaces. The task ahead is not to assume that technology will erase caste, but to build systems that recognise and challenge it.
In the end, the question is simple: will the digital future repeat the past, or can it be used to rewrite it? The answer depends on whether society chooses convenience or justice, silence or truth, efficiency or equality. The digital age presents a chance to confront centuries-old hierarchies. Whether that chance is taken remains one of the most important questions of our time.
The Rise of Feminist Protest Movements in South Asia
by Aditi Singh
Across South Asia, public protest has never been only about slogans or street marches. It has been a way for ordinary people to reclaim dignity in moments when state institutions fail to protect them. In the past decade, a remarkable shift has taken place within this landscape: women have increasingly moved from the margins of political action to the centre. This rise of feminist protest movements is not an isolated or sudden phenomenon. It represents a deeper transformation in how women across India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal and Sri Lanka understand citizenship, safety and democratic rights.
The region has long carried the weight of patriarchal norms. Women have navigated restrictions around mobility, speech and autonomy for generations. Yet, instead of silencing them, these constraints have given birth to some of the most powerful public mobilisations in the region’s modern history. What makes these movements unique is that they are not restricted to gender-specific issues. Women are leading protests on democracy, labour rights, land rights, minority protection and environmental justice. Their presence is reshaping what political resistance looks like.
One of the clearest examples came from India’s movement against the Citizenship Amendment Act in 2019 and 2020. The protest site at Shaheen Bagh in Delhi became a symbol of courage and community. Elderly women, many of whom had never attended a political gathering before, sat in the cold for months demanding that the government respect constitutional equality. Similar sit-ins emerged across the country, led by women who recognised that discriminatory laws did not simply threaten documents, but threatened dignity. These protests were peaceful, organised and rooted in a sense of shared responsibility. They inspired global coverage and showed that women’s leadership could sustain moral clarity even in tense political times.
Another powerful mobilisation came from Indian women wrestlers who protested against sexual harassment by a senior federation official. Their fight was not limited to a sporting community. It spoke to millions of women who constantly navigate power structures that silence complaints. What made this movement significant was its refusal to accept that achievement protects women. Even world-class athletes found themselves pushing against a system designed to protect powerful men. Their protest revealed how deeply gender bias sits within institutions, and how much courage is required to challenge it.
In Pakistan, the Aurat March has grown into a yearly display of feminist resistance. Women walk with placards challenging harassment, forced marriages, honour killings and unequal wages. The backlash to the Aurat March — from online abuse to attempts at legal restriction — shows how threatening women’s self-expression can appear to patriarchal structures. Despite this, participation grows each year. Younger women, students and queer activists have turned it into a movement that demands not only safety, but equality in its fullest sense.
Bangladesh has also witnessed its own women-led movements. From protests against campus harassment to demonstrations following high-profile violence cases, women have constructed a public narrative that refuses silence. Their activism has pushed the government to recognise the failures in policing and justice systems. Even when institutional change is slow, the public conversation has shifted. Women now speak openly about accountability, a shift that would have been rare a decade ago.
Nepal’s movements for citizenship rights offer another example. Women have demanded equal rights for passing citizenship to their children, challenging a long-standing legal bias. Their protests have highlighted how gender discrimination is embedded not only in social norms, but in the state itself. The movement has drawn support from political groups, student unions and civil society organisations, reminding the government that equality is not negotiable.
One of the strengths of feminist protest movements in South Asia is that they are not dependent on traditional political leadership. Many emerge spontaneously when injustice becomes unbearable. Their strength often comes from networks of solidarity — neighbourhood groups, women’s collectives, student organisations, labour unions and informal support circles. These networks make the movements resilient, even when met with pressure, police action or media distortion.
Technology has also played a role. Women across the region now use social media to document violence, call out harassment and coordinate protests. Online spaces have become extensions of physical protest sites. For many, digital activism is safer and more accessible. Yet, it also brings its own risks, including surveillance and targeted harassment. Even so, women continue to use these platforms because they provide visibility that older structures denied them.
The rise of women-led protests also reshapes how society understands leadership. Traditional political spaces often maintain hierarchies that exclude women. But on the streets, leadership becomes fluid. The elderly woman sitting in a protest tent, the young student forming a human chain, the athlete speaking into a microphone — all become leaders. Their legitimacy comes not from office but from participation and moral clarity.
It is also important to note that feminist protest movements are not homogenous. They carry differences of caste, class, religion and regional identity. These differences sometimes lead to disagreements. Yet, they also enrich the movements, allowing them to address intersecting injustices. For instance, Dalit women’s protests in India highlight caste-based violence. Indigenous women in Bangladesh speak about land rights. Tamil women in Sri Lanka demand accountability for wartime disappearances. Each of these struggles adds depth to the broader feminist movement across South Asia.
Ultimately, the rise of feminist protest movements in the region signals a shift in how democracy functions. When women challenge laws, institutions and cultural norms, they change the expectations of citizenship. They remind society that democracy is not simply about voting; it is about participation, rights and public accountability. They also redefine what courage looks like. It is no longer confined to the loudest voices or the most powerful platforms. It appears in quiet persistence, in collective action and in a refusal to accept inequality as normal.
South Asia’s future will depend heavily on how its societies respond to these movements. If governments listen and reform, the region can move toward more equitable and inclusive systems. If they resist, the gap between citizens and institutions will continue to widen. But one thing is clear: the women of South Asia are no longer waiting for permission to speak. They are already shaping the political landscape — through protest, solidarity and a determination that history can no longer ignore.
Surveillance, privacy and the shrinking space for dissent in South Asia
by Aditi Singh
Across South Asia, the space for dissent is being reshaped not only by laws and police action, but also by cameras, servers and algorithms. What once required physical force now often happens quietly through digital surveillance, internet shutdowns and control of data. The tools are new, but the logic is old. Information is managed, people are monitored and protest becomes more risky.
India is the clearest example of this trend. In recent years, reports by organizations like Access Now / the “#KeepItOn” coalition have repeatedly shown that India orders more internet shutdowns than any other democracy. These shutdowns have been imposed during protests, elections and local unrest in many states. These actions disrupt the livelihoods of people dependent on mobile data for work, banking and welfare — turning shutdowns into immediate economic shocks and tools of isolation.
At the same time surveillance capacity is expanding. Reports from digital-rights organisations show growing deployment of facial recognition systems, CCTV networks and large identity databases — often without robust legal oversight.
In many protests — whether against citizenship laws or agrarian policies — demonstrators have reported use of drones, high-resolution cameras, phone tracking and targeted shutdowns. When individuals know their faces or phones can be scanned or flagged, joining a protest becomes a decision weighed in fear.
Shutdowns are increasingly used not only to curb protests but for local administrative control, exam security, communal conflicts or public order claims. When the internet is cut, activists struggle to coordinate, journalists lose contact, families face isolation — in many regions, shutdowns have become a default method of control.
These patterns are not confined to one state. Survey data from across South Asia and global reports note a growing sense of fear among citizens about digital expression: many now avoid speaking out online due to threats of surveillance and content take down.
Content takedown pressures and online censorship further tighten the constriction of dissent. Recent annual reports show increasing demands on platforms to remove posts critical of government policy or protest coverage. During the pandemic, posts criticizing state response or highlighting health-system failures were sometimes taken down after official complaints — at a time when people used social media to seek oxygen, beds and medicines.
Even institutions like universities have adopted surveillance infrastructure. When a prominent central university in Delhi attempted to install facial-recognition access systems in common spaces, students strongly opposed it — calling it a “dictatorial imposition” that threatened academic and political freedom.
This expansion of digital control happens in societies already marked by deep inequality. Surveillance rarely lands evenly. Marginalized communities, religious minorities, migrants and protesters are more likely to be over-policed and under-protected. AI-guided policing tools and data systems globally — and potentially in South Asia — often reinforce existing patterns of discrimination rather than correcting them.
But the story is not only one of control. Civil society organizations, independent journalists and digital rights activists are pushing back — challenging unlawful surveillance, documenting shutdowns, and demanding data protection laws with oversight and transparency. People are also finding creative workarounds — using secure messaging apps, VPNs, and other digital tools — to claim space for dissent despite disruptions.
Digital tools themselves are not the enemy. CCTV, data systems and AI can play positive roles in city planning, security, disaster response or public service delivery. The problem arises when they are used without safeguards, consent or fairness. In societies under strain, digital systems often tilt toward control rather than care.
South Asia stands at a critical juncture. The region needs to decide if its digital infrastructure will strengthen democracy and protect dissent or quietly hollow out free expression. Surveillance and shutdowns may be less visible than baton charges, but they shift how people think, speak and organize — slowly severing the roots of democratic engagement. Defending the right to dissent in the digital age means treating connectivity, privacy and data protection as core democratic issues — not technical footnotes.
References
“India: Internet Shutdowns Hurt Vulnerable Communities”, Human Rights Watch, 13 June 2023 — https://www.hrw.org/news/2023/06/13/india-internet-shutdowns-hurt-vulnerable-communities
“No Internet Means No Work, No Pay, No Food — Internet Shutdowns Deny Access to Basic Rights in ‘Digital India’”, HRW & Internet Freedom Foundation, June 2023 — https://www.hrw.org/report/2023/06/14/no-internet-means-no-work-no-pay-no-food/internet-shutdowns-deny-access-basic
“India leads the world internet shutdown count for 2024 with 84 shutdowns” (report on Access Now / KeepItOn), 25 February 2025 — https://indianexpress.com/article/technology/tech-news-technology/india-internet-shutdowns-2024-access-now-report-9853978/
“Internet freedom in India remained under strain — Freedom on the Net 2024”, Freedom House — https://freedomhouse.org/country/india/freedom-net/2024
“Curtains over connectivity: a peek behind India’s opaque internet shutdown orders”, Oxford Human Rights Hub, May 2024 — https://ohrh.law.ox.ac.uk/curtains-over-connectivity-a-peek-behind-indias-opaque-internet-shutdown-orders/
The crisis of informal work and the new urban poor in India
by Aditi Singh
India has always had a large informal workforce, but the shape of that informality is changing. In cities, a new kind of urban poor is emerging. These are people who often work long hours, sometimes for multiple employers or platforms, but still live one accident or illness away from crisis. Their work is flexible on paper but rigid in reality, and their lives sit at the meeting point of low wages, high costs and very weak social security.
The scale of informality is vast. According to a report from International Labour Organization (ILO), a significant portion of Indian workers remain in informal employment across sectors, including urban settings. These include street vendors, domestic workers, construction labourers, home-based producers, small shopkeepers, platform workers and many others who keep cities running but remain largely invisible in official narratives.
The pandemic exposed how fragile these livelihoods are. ILO-UNICEF and other international analyses have documented steep declines in informal employment during lockdown periods — millions lost income almost overnight. Recovery has been partial, but for many workers earnings remain low, insecure, and erratic.
The rise of the gig and platform economy sits right in the middle of this story. In urban India, app-based work in delivery, ride-hailing, logistics and household services has grown rapidly. Government and think-tank reports such as by NITI Aayog emphasise job creation potential and flexibility in these models.
But independent studies paint a more complex picture. The 2024 Fairwork India Ratings report, which evaluates labour standards of platform workers, documented widespread failures: most platforms scored poorly on fair pay, safe conditions, transparent contracts, and worker representation. Many workers reported that platforms treat them as “partners”, avoiding responsibility for wages or benefits, and that algorithmic changes can cut effective pay suddenly.
Workers have begun to resist. In multiple cities in 2023 and 2024, gig-worker strikes and protests were reported over pay cuts, unfair conditions and arbitrary account suspensions — signalling that platform labour is no longer invisible.
Beyond platforms, the broader informal urban economy remains deeply vulnerable. Many small shops, repair stalls, home-based units, and informal service providers operate on thin margins. Municipal policies, eviction drives or urban redevelopment plans can wipe out entire livelihoods overnight. Researchers have highlighted that unincorporated sector employment remains large but insecure, and that many workers have no access to social security, housing rights, or formal labour protections.
Climate change and rising urban living costs further add to this vulnerability. Heat waves, floods, pollution and unpredictable weather put informal workers — often working outdoors — at high risk. Lack of stable income or savings makes them especially vulnerable during crises.
Labour law reform is on the agenda. The new labour codes consolidate many older laws and aim, in theory, to extend certain protections and social security to gig and unorganised workers. Yet analysts and trade unions argue that without clear implementation mechanisms, funding, and accountability, these laws may remain aspirational rather than effective.
Despite these structural problems, there are signs of reorganisation. Worker collectives and unions — both offline and online — are forming for gig and informal workers. They use digital tools, legal clinics and collective bargaining to demand transparency, fair pay, portability of benefits and recognition as workers rather than independent contractors.
The deeper question is about the kind of development model the country is building. A city can boast of high growth, new infrastructure, and technology hubs. But if delivery workers, domestic staff, construction labourers or street vendors cannot live with dignity, security and basic rights, then that growth is exclusionary. The crisis of informal work and the rise of the new urban poor should not be treated as a side effect of progress; they must become central to how we define just and inclusive development.
References
“Fairwork India Ratings 2024: Labour Standards in the Platform Economy”, Fairwork — https://fair.work/wp-content/uploads/sites/17/2024/10/Fairwork_India_Report_2024.pdf
“India’s platform economy and gig labour: policy note”, ILO — https://www.ilo.org/media/526416/download
“Fair platform work — Gig economy report”, VVGNLI field survey, 2025 — https://vvgnli.gov.in/sites/default/files/Platform%20Employment.pdf
“Gig economy jobs surge but worker protection lags”, media coverage of Fairwork findings — https://www.drishtiias.com/daily-updates/daily-news-editorials/empowering-india-s-gig-workforce
Research report “Economic Lives of Digital Platform Gig Workers: Delivery Drivers in India”, IDinsight (2025) — https://www.idinsight.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/DERII-India_-Descriptive-Study-Report.pdf