Beyond the ongoing controversy over the election process lies a direct question about India’s democratic health: what happens when systems designed to recognise citizens begin determining the terms on which citizens are recognised? The image is of a garden: indigenous rulers inheriting colonial habits; EVMs and artificial intelligence intensifying the tension between restless citizens in fertile soil and a state seated above them in a datafied, synthetic garden.
Democracy rests on a multi-layered covenant, assumed to be strong enough to resist dismantling. In this, the citizens elect rulers for a specified time, and the rulers exercise governance and authority within constitutional limits. The citizens retain the right to scrutinise, challenge and remove rulers without needing their permission. The mandate is a temporary licence to govern.
However, power often prefers a more comfortable arrangement: the appearance of consent, the arithmetic of victory, and the neatness of certification. This arrives through administrative and technological cleverness: interfaces, declarations, portals, biometric fields, software permissions and the solemn assurance that database searches have verified everything.
A form ascends, demanding lineage from citizens in data machines controlled by power; many lose their place and wait at the gate for keys to return them to their own nation as recognised citizens. The official arrangement becomes a well-controlled synthetic garden above the fertile, living soil where citizens dwell.
The Synthetic Garden
The official synthetic garden is covered with artificial plastic grass remains permanently green dotted with mechanical trees that stand at obedient intervals, while the fertile soil with living citizens below is stifled. Its flowers bloom not by season but by design brief; data furrows and bureaucratic corridors are watered through controlled channels. The garden presents an immaculate triumph of landscaping over life: nothing within it grows unless instructed. It is a garden of managed legitimacy.
It's political architecture is well planned blocks the voter databases, electoral forms, biometric records, technical protocols, electronic machines, official briefings, and digital systems that reduce citizenship to sequences of verification, authorisation and permission. None is inherently inimical to democracy; SIR and other electoral processes must instead be judged by whether they protect inclusion, transparency and equal citizenship.
A country of India’s magnitude, diversity, and complexity cannot conduct elections by passing around a brass bowl and trusting citizens not to misremember. Yet it should not accept exclusion, injustice, or the dismantling of constitutional safeguards merely because citizenship and voting rights arrive with a QR code.
The synthetic garden needs only enough conditions, forms, documentation demands, technical ambiguities and procedural obstacles for people to grasp the message beneath administration’s civil language: you may belong, provided the system can find you.
The democratic covenant says something very different: the system must find you because you belong. That difference marks the boundary between a republic and a registry.
The Soil That Cannot be Deleted
The real garden below is more diverse, messier, and more alive than the curated surface admits. India’s soil contains rows of coexisting blooms: class and caste, religions and genders, migrants and indigenous peoples, urban and rural communities, Baby Boomers and Generation Alpha. Their daily intimacy with the Indian state is measured in queues, documents and promises deferred.
The soil holds memories of equality and injury, of asymmetries in wealth, education and opportunity. Yet, since Independence, India’s universal adult franchise has affirmed each citizen’s political worth within a constitutional space where the hierarchy of daily existence was not meant to determine the value of political judgement. Elections are therefore public rituals, renewing the struggle to survive and belong through equal participation in India's chosen republic.
Entry into India’s polling booth required no patron, corporate network or proximity to power. Its invisible signboard read: each citizen counts.
The Saplings at the Gate
The risk of youth disenfranchisement heralds an injured democracy. Young Indians are not just a "demographic dividend", comprising nearly 65 per cent of the country's under-35 population; they are citizens of the present, deserving their chance to vote. They will inherit the country for the next 75 years, along with the fractured institutions, ecological wounds, public debts, social divides and political habits being produced now.
The July 2026 Gen Z protests against the government highlighted the disconnect between the dispensation and the young. That disconnect deepens as the revision of electoral rolls hangs amid reported internal disagreement within the Election Commission and continuing Special Intensive Revision exercises. As The Indian Express reported, two Election Commissioners, Sukhbir Singh Sandhu, and Vivek Joshi, objected to changes associated with Form 6, used by first-time voters.
When Young India waits at the gate, and the official garden checks whether their roots appear in its records, citizenship becomes an administrative ancestry test. Beneath the soil trembles with the restless energy of saplings demanding visibility as 'we the people of India! '.
The Cracks in the Synthetic Garden
Recent reporting on India’s ruptured electoral balance shows that one verdict casts a shadow. The fifteenth-century poet Kabir gives that doubt an image:
Aap hi dandi, aap tarāzū, aap hi baiṭhā toltā.
You are the fulcrum-arm, the scale and the one who weighs.
So the living soil stirs, cracks appear in the synthetic garden above. After all, citizens place their votes on the democratic scale, and the Election Commission must ensure they are weighed fairly. That is the covenant. Rulers may seek a mandate, but they cannot certify their own legitimacy. Trust requires an independent Commission, accessible procedures and the freedom to question without being called an enemy of the nation.
The danger has a colonial echo in the writing of Martinican thinker Frantz Fanon in his work The Wretched of the Earth, which argues that national independence need not end colonial habits of rule. Leaders from among the formerly colonised may adopt the old ruler’s distance from the people, classifying them from above and treating their participation as something to manage. The garden may fly its own flag while its citizens are still treated as subjects.
Machines can assist an election, but they cannot confer consent. The scale belongs to the living citizen, not to the system that stores her data.
The scale then decides who governs; the garden shows whom that authority must serve. Kabir’s verse moves naturally from the act of weighing to the work of cultivation:
Aap hi mālī, aap hi bagīchā, aap hi kaliyan toṛtā.
You are the gardener, you are the garden, you are the one who plucks the buds.
“We, the people of India” must now weigh those who have laid a synthetic garden over the country’s living soil. A mandate gives rulers temporary authority to tend what citizens have made, not a land deed in perpetuity.
When rulers mistake stewardship for ownership, citizens become features in a landscape managed by data: some displayed, others fenced out, young voices cut back before they can grow. But those who cultivate the country have a claim to its harvest, and the right to replace gardeners who deny them a share.
The Ground Moves
The soil beneath the synthetic garden is vibrant with social groups and their strength, but because of the heavy synthetic garden, they remained invisible for several years. But that world below has some who work like earthworms, quietly sustaining others; some carry ideas across communities like pollinators; some press through obstacles with the patience of roots.
Even the unloved cockroach, driven out again and again, returns after the room has been declared clean. So do citizens: they challenge a deleted name, help a neighbour onto the voter list and bring buried contradictions into the light.
But over the past few months, as tremors threaten the synthetic garden, since young Indians moved, they marched, they turned their fingers to press buttons on phones. Three-second line punctures in the form of reels and memes appeared, rupturing official messaging, stripping inflated authority down to its absurdity. The innumerable short videos travelled farther than a controlled broadcast. And although humour cannot restore a name to the voter list, it can break the solitude fear depends on. Someone who thought they were alone discovers others have seen the same thing.
The synthetic garden has taken decades, billions, media networks, technical controls and compliant institutions to build, but the cracks now matter beyond the screen. The names need to be restored to the rolls, procedures opened to scrutiny, votes counted with trust, and rulers reminded that the garden is not theirs to own. Plastic has no roots. It cannot hold down living soil.
The ground has moved when people stand.
(Dr Navina Jafa is Vice President, Centre for New Perspectives. She can be reached @navinajafa. This is an opinion piece and the views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)