Restructuring Indian Representation

 

Restructuring Indian Representation: The Case for a Status Quo Parliament and Expanded Grassroots Legislatures

Introduction

As India approaches its upcoming delimitation exercise, the constitutional mandate to redraw constituency boundaries based on demographic growth has sparked intense debate. The dominant policy prescription assumes that population expansion necessitates a proportional increase in Lok Sabha seats, potentially expanding the lower house from 543 to over 800 members. However, an analysis of legislative efficiency suggests that such an expansion offers no distinct governance advantage. Instead, Indian democracy requires a structural decoupling: freezing macro-level representation to preserve deliberative quality, while expanding and decentralizing micro-level state assemblies to meet local aspirations.

The Deliberative Crisis and Mathematical Dilution of Time

The primary argument against expanding the Lok Sabha rests on the ongoing decline in parliamentary deliberative capacity. Legislative time is a finite resource, heavily impacted by declining sitting days and a structural system that allocates floor time proportionately to political parties based on their numerical strength in the house.

According to data compiled by PRS Legislative Research (2024), the 17th Lok Sabha (2019–2024) registered a historic low for full-term houses, functioning for only 274 sittings across five years - an annual average of roughly 55 days. Within this highly compressed timeframe, individual speaking windows during legislative business are mathematically choked. During a standard two-hour debate on a government bill:

 * A majority party holding 300 seats is allocated approximately 66 minutes of total floor time.

 * An opposition cohort with 50 seats receives roughly 11 minutes.

 * Small regional parties or independent MPs holding under 5 seats are squeezed into dynamic windows of 1 to 2 minutes total.

Consequently, PRS Legislative Research (2024) reported that 35% of all bills passed during the 17th Lok Sabha were rushed through with less than an hour of total discussion in the lower house. Furthermore, historical budgetary trends reveal that on average, about 80% of the annual Union Budget is routinely passed via "guillotine". Voted on and passed completely without legislative debate (PRS Legislative Research, 2024).

Expanding the house to over 800 members would compress individual speaking windows to the point of structural irrelevance. Rather than enhancing democratic representation, an increase in seats risks rendering the vast majority of MPs "ornamental" backbenchers, reinforcing strict party-line commands and reducing the lower house to a majoritarian voting chamber devoid of genuine deliberation. As political scientist Pratap Bhanu Mehta (2022) notes, the federal legislature is increasingly becoming a site for the display of executive power rather than a robust forum for deliberative scrutiny.

Global Comparisons: The Delusion of Linear Scaling

To contextualize the futility of expanding the Lok Sabha, it is instructive to compare the sizes of lower legislative houses across other major global democracies. Proponents of expansion often argue that India's current representation ratio, where a single MP represents an average of 2.65 million citizens, is an anomaly that must be corrected to match Western standards. However, data from the Inter-Parliamentary Union (IPU) reveals that trying to scale a national parliament linearly with massive population growth is a structural impossibility.

Country	Lower House Seats
United Kingdom	650
Germany	733
Japan	465
United States	435
India (At present)	543

As the data demonstrates, smaller democracies like the UK and Germany maintain low constituent-to-MP ratios, but their total chamber sizes have already reached the upper limits of physical and deliberative feasibility (650 and 733 seats respectively). Even the United States, an outlier among western nations with 780,000 citizens per representative, chose to permanently cap its House of Representatives at 435 seats via the Permanent Apportionment Act of 1929 to prevent the legislature from becoming structurally unmanageable.

If India were to attempt to achieve even the highly conservative representation ratio of the United States, the Lok Sabha would need to expand to nearly 1,850 seats. To match a country like Japan, it would require over 5,400 seats.

These numbers reveal that the macro-legislature of a billion-plus country cannot function as a direct neighborhood town hall. A legislative body expanding past 800 members breaks the "cube root law" of assembly sizes, a political science principle showing that effective legislative chambers naturally resist expanding past a size where face-to-face deliberation becomes impossible. This comparative data firmly shifts the spotlight onto the necessity of keeping the Lok Sabha at its current size; any attempt to fix a demographic math problem by adding seats merely destroys the chamber's institutional utility.

Immediate Mechanisms for Gender Representation

The argument that structural expansion is a prerequisite for equity, particularly regarding the timeline of the Nari Shakti Vandan Adhiniyam (Women's Reservation Bill), overlooks more immediate political mechanisms. Rather than tying women's representation to a delayed and contentious delimitation process, electoral reforms should focus on internal party democracy.

By mandating that all registered political parties dedicate a minimum of 33% of their electoral nominations to women candidates, the state can achieve immediate, substantive inclusion within the existing 543-seat framework. This shifts the policy focus from expanding legislative real estate to democratizing the candidate selection process itself.

Strengthening the Frontline: Expansion of Legislative Assemblies

While macro-level representation should remain lean to preserve parliamentary decorum, a contrasting approach is required at the state level. Members of the Legislative Assembly (MLAs) serve as the direct operational link between citizens and policy execution, overseeing the localized implementation of both state and central welfare programs.

To bridge the widening gap between the electorate and administration, state legislative assemblies must expand. Increasing the density of MLAs per capita ensures that regional grievances are accurately reflected in state capitals and enhances direct oversight of local bureaucracies.

The Imperative of State Bifurcation for Governance

However, in highly populous states like Uttar Pradesh (currently at 403 MLAs) and Bihar, merely expanding assembly seats within existing borders introduces severe administrative friction. Managing oversized legislative bodies hinders effective policymaking and local accountability.

To mitigate this, the reorganization of mega-states into smaller, administratively viable units is critical. The bifurcation of Uttar Pradesh into regional states such as Eastern UP and Western UP (or Harit Pradesh and Bundelkhand), alongside a similar restructuring of Bihar, would optimize governance. This aligns with historical constitutional arguments put forth by Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, who advocated dividing large northern states to prevent administrative paralysis and balance federal power dynamics (Tillin, 2012).

While critics suggest that state division can impact regional party structures, political science research confirms that smaller administrative units frequently exhibit improved focus on localized socio-economic agility. In her analysis of sub-national boundaries, Louise Tillin (2014) notes that the creation of smaller states can alter the dynamics of regional development by establishing political and administrative centers that are geographically closer to, and more responsive to, marginalized populations.

Conclusion: Prioritizing Administrative Accountability

Ultimately, expanding the size of the federal legislature treats a systemic governance malady with a superficial demographic remedy. The fundamental challenge within the Indian state is not a deficit of elected national officials, but a deficit of local administrative accountability and structural efficiency.

True democratic consolidation will not be achieved by inflating the numbers in the Lok Sabha, but by decentralizing unmanageable sub-national boundaries and empowering frontline state legislators. Furthermore, long-term stability relies on optimizing the entire representation pipeline - shifting the burden of local execution away from macro-legislators by structurally fortifying lower tiers of local self-government. By enforcing rigid accountability frameworks across the civil service and guaranteeing operational clarity between the different slabs of representation, India can preserve the deliberative sanctity of its Parliament while meeting the expanding aspirations of its electorate.

References

 * Mehta, P. B. (2022). *The Deliberative Decay of India's Parliament*. Centre for Policy Research.

 * PRS Legislative Research. (2024). *Functioning of the 17th Lok Sabha - Vital Stats*. https://prsindia.org/parliamenttrack/vital-stats/functioning-of-the-17th-lok-sabha

 * Tillin, L. (2012). Caste, territory and federalism. *Seminar*, (633), 44-49.

 * Tillin, L. (2014). Reshaping the Indian polity. *Seminar*, (656), 28-33.

The Sway of A Legend: Review of ‘Michael’

 

When Michael Jackson performs the moonwalk on stage for the very first time, the film cuts to a man in the audience breaking down in tears, overwhelmed. That single moment encapsulates my entire experience watching this movie. Having listened to Jackson throughout my teens and witnessed an entire generation attempt to mimic his moves, I can attest that he held a sway over us like no one else. Ever. Everything about him was larger than life: his music, his choreography, his obsessions, his tragic demise, and the devastating allegations that shadowed his later years.

The film is a two-hour journey of pure nostalgia, balancing profound heartache with immense joy; almost every scene manages to evoke a tear and a smile simultaneously. His childhood trauma, a mother trapped in helplessness despite witnessing the abuse, his profound isolation, and his eternal state as a man-child are all beautifully rendered on screen. Then, of course, there are the musical numbers - staged with breathtaking authenticity. Jaafar Jackson doesn't just play Michael; he embodies him. I have rarely seen an actor completely dissolve into a persona so effortlessly, supported by an equally stellar cast. Ultimately, Michael is a cinematic experience that should not be missed, whether you grew up with his music or are discovering him for the first time.

If I have to nitpick - as I always do - the film is not without its flaws. Jackson’s brothers are unfortunately reduced to cardboard cutouts, treated almost as footnotes in his life. The narrative also occasionally glosses over the rawest depths of his trauma. Furthermore, I found myself wishing the script had highlighted his monumental collaborative charity track, 'We Are the World,' or dug deeper into his more emotionally raw ballads. Yet, barring these omissions, the film remains a tour de force. If you haven’t seen it yet, do yourself a favor: step out and grab a ticket.

Manuscripts and Meltdowns

One of the designs I had come up with for the book cover

24 April 2026

Morning

My Publishing Manager called with the tone of someone delivering a royal decree: “Sir, I’ve sent the redesigned cover. I believe it is... suitable.” I checked it. To my relief, it actually looked like the design I had created, a massive leap forward from their first attempt.

“I’m happy with it”, I said.

“They couldn’t exactly find the fonts you had used in your design, Sir”. 

“That’s okay! I can live with it”. 

“Send an email approving it, Sir,” she replied. I did, faster than a marathon runner at the starting gun.

Moments later, she called back. “If you give the go-ahead, we’ll release the book today.”

My brain stalled. It’s one thing to *want* to be a published author; it’s quite another to actually *be* one by lunchtime. After some frantic thinking, I gave my assent.  Soon enough, I received mail and messages confirming my book has now been published, and one could place orders for them to be delivered. 

I had a reason to agree to go live immediately. April 24th is my "official" birthday (the one on the documents, if not the calendar) and the birthday of the legendary Kannada matinee idol, Rajkumar. As a fan of the man, it felt more like a cosmic alignment than a happy coincidence. 

The news went out. I urged family, friends,  and colleagues to buy the book with the subtle desperation only a first-time author can muster. Only when people asked, “Aren’t you having a formal launch?”, did I realise I hadn’t even planned a party. It had happened just over a click of the button. 

Congratulations soon poured in. Sales happened! My cousin Vivek was the first to order. My closest friend Choten received the very first copy, which felt like a good omen. When my own physical copies arrived, holding them felt magical - at least until I gave copies to my parents and decided to do a "quick victory lap" through the pages.

Now, keep in mind: I had authored, edited, and proofread this manuscript until my eyes couldn’t take any more. I had hunted for typos like a predator. Spelling errors? None. Grammar? Perfect.

And then, I saw them…..

In two different stories, I had somehow managed to swap the characters' names. My blood turned to ice.  “I’m an author now” ego shriveled into a "How Do I Delete the Internet" panic. I was certain that readers wouldn't notice the plot or the prose; they would only see that *Krishna* had inexplicably become *Raghav* mid-sentence. Ditto with Ravi and Julian. 

Those few typos became a magnifying glass for every insecurity I held. I questioned the relevance of my stories and my very ability to tell them. It felt, in that moment, like dreaming of being an author was a bit of a fool’s errand.

For the next several hours the only thought I had was, “Everyone will notice these errors; and that will be the talking point about the book. The mistakes.” My overworking brain even suggested I should withdraw the book from sales and offer refunds to everyone who had already bought it.

Thankfully, the world disagreed. A colleague called to say the stories moved him so much he wanted to buy a copy for his boss at the Ministry. A friend messaged: “I just read the first story. It rings so true.” 

Good sense (and a bit of exhaustion) finally prevailed. I didn't flee to the mountains or halt the sales.  The book has since sold over a hundred copies without a single firework or ribbon-cutting. Even my harshest critic reached out to say the writing was "fresh and highly readable," comparing it to a famous author. I took that with a massive pinch of salt (possibly all of the salt in Indian Ocean) but it felt good.

Writing might be easy, but finding acceptance is a marathon. Validation is the fuel that keeps us writers/authors going, and these reviews have given my dreams the wings they needed. Even if Krishna is occasionally Raghav, the heart of the story remains. 

And, here are the links to the book, if you are interested to grab a copy for yourself. 

https://amzn.in/d/0gkOwwBA

https://notionpress.com/in/read/petals-and-paper-cuts?book=published&utm_source=share_publish_email&utm_medium=email

Petals and Paper Cuts: An Intro

We all carry dreams; some are as clear as day, while others remain tucked away in the quiet corners of our hearts. For as long as I can remember, mine was to become a published author. While other boys dreamt of flying planes or hitting centuries on the cricket pitch, my world was filled with word-weaving.

The journey was long. For years, I wrote and discarded drafts, hampered by a sense of perfectionism that was often my own worst enemy. It wasn't until I discovered blogging in my 30s, and the freedom of publishing without a gatekeeper, that I truly found my rhythm. I even found some appreciation for the pieces I wrote that encouraged me to write further. The dream took wings again. 

I later promised myself I’d publish a book before I turned 50. I even paid up for self-publishing one. Life had other plans, and that milestone passed with the pages still empty. During and post-Covid, social media allowed me to experiment with "bite-sized" tales - a phenomenon that was also influenced by fellow-writer friends. To make up for the delay, I’ve included 55 stories in this debut—one for every year of my life.

"Petals and Paper Cuts" is now a reality. You can find it on Amazon, Flipkart, or through Notion Press. If you pick it up via the publisher, use the code NEWREAD for a 20% discount. I look forward to your honest thoughts; every bit of feedback helps me grow.

The Brownie Summit!

 

The Himalayas are indifferent to your plans. They sit there, ancient and massive, while your own skeleton decides to stage a mutiny. I had chosen to travel to Nepal despite troubles with my wellness. The first day was a whirlwind tour across the various UNESCO world heritage sites in Kathmandu. I had promptly uploaded some pics and videos on social media. 

"Are you in Nepal?" the screen chirped. A dear friend had messaged seeing the Boudhanatha video; he didn’t know my plans. 

"Yes!"

"Any plans to trek?"

The question stung. "Not this year," I replied. I didn't mention how much pain I was in lest he rubbed me hard about growing old. I just gave them the casualty list: back, foot, ankle. The holy trinity of trekking disasters.

My friend, never one to miss a chance to twist the knife, suggested my injuries were a karmic revenge for traveling solo. I responded with a string of digital profanities. He laughed it off, but I was already drafting my comeback, however weak it sounded. I told him I’d be back next year for the heavy hitters. I was going big: ABC or EBC - Annapurna or Everest Base Camp. 

"I’m doing DBC while we speak!", he fired back.

I blinked. I’ve read the maps. I know the circuits. But DBC? I searched for a technical acronym, expecting some obscure, hardcore ridge. "What’s that now?"

"Hahaha! Death By Chocolate! 🤣🤣"

I looked at my phone, then down at my taped-up ankle. There I was, nursing a bruised ego unable to currently conquer the world's highest base camps, while he was summiting a mountain of ice cream and brownie bits. I could only grimace!

Sparrows and Society

I returned to my hometown for Dyavara, a community festival that anchors the families of our common descent. It was the festivities on my mother’s side; my father’s side had celebrated it only last year. I had taken a day’s leave, a small concession to ensure my presence - partly to honour the tradition, and partly to forestall the quiet disappointment of my mother and her siblings. My father had arranged a vehicle to take us to Vemagal, the ancestral seat of my mother’s side, where they gather to worship Beerappa - a form of Shiva known to us as Beeredevaru, or the Sanskritized Beereshwara. My father’s side worships him as Mylaralinga, a name that whispers of our forefathers’ migration from North Karnataka, following their sheep toward greener pastures.

Dyavara is a rare rhythm; it occurs only once in nearly a decade - every nine, eleven, or thirteen years - never on an even number. Invariably it happens right after Ugadi, the Kannada New Year, and just before the summer sets in. It is a vital congregation for the Kuruba community of Kolar and Bengaluru. It is a practice I haven't seen echoed in Mysore or beyond. It’s possible similar practices are followed in North Karnataka, but I am not aware of them. 

Vemagal used to be a small village. The landscape, however, is changing. It has matured into a sprawling urban settlement. Rapid industrialization has claimed the farmlands; soil has been traded for sites, and green horizons for commercial establishments. My uncle, Raja Mama, sent us a digital location pin - a modern necessity to navigate the maze of new constructions and kuchha (unpaved) roads.

After the exchange of pleasantries and a heavy breakfast, we visited the temple. Upon our return to the house my uncles had rented for the rites, I noticed something quiet and remarkable. In the corners of the house, the owners had fashioned nests out of paper and old book covers. Inside were hatchlings - tiny, noisy sparrows.

The photographer in me stirred. I captured the parent bird intermittently feeding the open-mouthed chicks. When I showed the footage to the family, a wave of nostalgia swept through the room. "I haven’t seen a sparrow in years," one remarked. My botanist aunt wondered if it were indeed a sparrow! Others reminisced about seeing them everywhere in Bengaluru decades ago. I was reminded of Dr. Sálim Ali’s autobiography, The Fall of a Sparrow. In my own childhood, sparrows were our housemates, nesting in the gaps of our tiled roofs. We woke to their chatter. But when we moved into our own home - a "better" house with a solid concrete roof - the sparrows vanished.

We only seem to notice things once they are no longer visible. Be it sparrows, or wildlife, or trees and plant biodiversity. We wake up when it’s too late, and wring our hands helplessly.  We lament the "concretization" of our lives, seldom realizing that we are the ones pouring the cement. 

As I began my early journey back to the city for work, the parallel between the birds and the Dyavara became clear. The festival was not well-attended. Several key members of the younger generation were conspicuous in their absence. Many of us didn’t know others participating in the festivities. What used to be a whole community living together for days under the skies with their carts and tents had now transformed to living in rented houses with their families, with little connect with others at the venue. With the shift away from agriculture and the pull of urban career paths, the congregation has thinned. Even the daughters of the lineage were few.

In our pursuit of material security, our relationships have become shaky - weathered by neglect. We find it easy to label others as "materialistic" while refusing to see our own reflection in the glass. We put every connection on the back burner because "attaining" something concrete feels more urgent than "being" someone present. If an event doesn't widen a professional network or bring in "moolah," it is often dismissed with a sharp, "What’s in it for me?"

In the old days, Dyavara was more than a ritual; it was a social architecture. It created networks, fostered alliances, and promoted a harmony born of staying together. Today, we come together perfunctorily to worship, but we no longer stay. We miss the warmth of connection when we face a crisis, yet we refuse to build the bridges necessary to sustain it.

What we have done to the habitat around us, we are doing to the habitat within us. We are letting our diversity - ecological and emotional - perish, all while wondering where the sparrows, and the people, have gone.