The Republic of Fragile Feelings

When a meme can land you in jail, what’s the real joke? Last week, an angry Bombay High Court yelled at the Maharashtra government which jailed a 19 year old law student for a harmless social media post. "Someone is expressing their opinion, and this is how you ruin her life?"the judges snapped. In the glorious Republic of India, home to 1.4 billion opinions and one Constitution, freedom of speech enjoys the same fate as the ice in your Limca during a Delhi summer: technically allowed, but melting fast under the heat of hurt sentiments.  

We now live in a time where a cartoonist’s doodle can be labelled sedition, a comedian’s punchline criminal conspiracy, and a tweet from five years ago an act of cyber-terrorism. Forget the Emergency; at least back then, the establishment was honest enough to say it out loud. India’s Constitution, under Article 19(1)(a), promises us freedom of speech and expression. But what follows immediately—Article 19(2)—is a bureaucratic bouquet of ‘reasonable restrictions’ so wide, they can be interpreted to protect everything from national security to the nation’s collective nap time. And like all things in India, the interpretation depends on who you’re speaking against and how viral your post might go. One would think this is Orwellian, but in India, even Orwell needs a No Objection Certificate. We are not fighting Big Brother; we are appeasing a million mini-moral guardians. Absurdly punishment rarely comes from the top. It trickles upward: from fringe groups, cyber vigilantes, anonymous handles who weaponise outrage, create trending hashtags, and then hand over the ammunition to overzealous state machinery.

Censorship today is not imposed; it is internalised. The smartest minds—journalists, filmmakers, playwrights, musicians—spend more time second-guessing themselves before expressing themselves; avoid religion, avoid politicians, avoid cows, avoid history, avoid the future, and above all, avoid humour. We joke about everything privately but saying the same thing publicly puts you in prison. Twitter is a minefield of deleted drafts. Meanwhile, state censorship doesn’t need to knock on your door: your self-censorship has already bolted it shut.

Here is a Fool’s Guide to Speaking Freely

1. Know the Law Better Than the Law Knows Itself: Study Section 295A, 153A, IT Act Section 66A (struck down, yet mysteriously undead), UAPA, and your local SHO’s Twitter mood. You’re not a comedian, you’re a constitutional contortionist.

2. Master the Art of Allegory: Learn from Kalidasa and Kabir. Say it, but don’t say it. Speak in riddles. Replace names with metaphors. Make your villain a crow, your hero a cloud. The censors can’t ban clouds yet.

3. Mock With Precision: Satire isn’t insult. It’s insight sharpened with irony. Aim it well. Be funny, yes—but let your joke be a mirror, not just a slapstick. The very people who police speech so aggressively are often the ones most dependent on it. Politicians who rise on rhetoric, godmen who flourish on televised sermons, influencers who preach morality in 15-second reels; India runs on expression.

So here we are. A nation that once created the Vedas, debated Buddha, questioned Krishna, challenged kings and erected temples to ideas now arrests poets and comedians. Not because we are fragile, but because we have forgotten that true strength lies in listening to what disturbs us, not silencing it. In a land of a 121 languages and 270 mother tongues, what matters is not just who speaks, but who is allowed to speak without fear. I've self censored this column about four times already. And that, dear reader, is the real punchline