When Prime Minister Narendra Modi addressed Parliament this week, the speech unfolded less like a policy statement and more like an election rally delivered from the floor of the House. The data speaks volumes.
Modi mentioned Vande Mataram 121 times, Bharat 35 times, the British 34 times, Bengal 17 times, Congress 99 times, Nehru 31 times, the Muslim League 5 times, and Jinnah 3 times. These numbers frame the contours of a familiar narrative — nationalism defined through history, opposition-bashing, and regional mobilization ahead of elections.
What is striking is not the frequency of these terms, but the complete absence of others. The Prime Minister made no reference to pollution, even as air quality in Delhi and the northern plains remains among the world’s worst. There was silence on the recent Delhi bomb blast, a rare instance of domestic terrorism meriting serious national concern. The speech ignored the IndiGo airline incident, where passenger outrage became a symbol of rising frustration over civic mismanagement. It said nothing about the tribal protests spreading across central India against deforestation and corporate land acquisitions. Nor did it mention the rupee’s decline, which has deepened import inflation and reduced purchasing power for millions of Indians.
Each omission reveals a governing logic. The Prime Minister’s Parliamentary interventions are increasingly tuned to build political imagery rather than outline policy direction. Historical and cultural touchstones are deployed to cement emotional allegiance, while contemporary governance failures — climate degradation, economic stress, social unrest — are filtered out of official discourse.
The speech’s emphasis on Bengal — mentioned 17 times — offers a preview of campaign priorities. With Bihar temporarily off the political front, Bengal appears to be the next theatre where the government will test its nationalist messaging. The Parliament stage thus becomes a precursor to the election stage.
This strategy is not new. Since 2014, Modi’s speeches have consistently mixed symbolism with selective silence. Yet, the degree of avoidance this time suggests not just electoral focus, but fatigue within governance itself. The language of accountability — jobs, prices, public health, education — has steadily shrunk, replaced by an endless loop of patriotic phrases and historical grievance.
In the end, the speech’s word count tells a larger story: a government more committed to managing perception than confronting the country’s crises. For a nation facing deep structural challenges, that silence may prove far more consequential than any slogan that echoed through Parliament.
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