Abstract: मणिपुरी संगीतकार चोंगथम विक्रम सिंह की दिल्ली में भीड़ के हमले में हुई मौत ने भारत में नस्लीय, क्षेत्रीय और सांस्कृतिक भेदभाव की पुरानी समस्या को फिर सामने ला दिया है। आजादी के लगभग आठ दशक बाद भी पूर्वोत्तर और देश के अन्य हिस्सों के नागरिकों को उनके चेहरे, भाषा, संस्कृति या क्षेत्र के आधार पर कभी-कभी ‘दूसरा’ समझा जाता है। आधुनिक भारत किसी एक भाषा, धर्म या संस्कृति से बना हुआ देश नहीं है; इसकी राजनीतिक एकता एक जटिल ऐतिहासिक प्रक्रिया और स्वतंत्रता के बाद संविधान, लोकतंत्र तथा संघीय व्यवस्था के माध्यम से मजबूत हुई। लेकिन हाल के दशकों में धर्म, जाति और क्षेत्र की दरारें फिर अधिक स्पष्ट हुई हैं। भारत की वास्तविक चुनौती विविधता को समाप्त करना नहीं, बल्कि ऐसी नागरिक पहचान विकसित करना है जिसमें अलग-अलग सांस्कृतिक पहचान के बावजूद प्रत्येक व्यक्ति को समान भारतीय माना जाए। विक्रम सिंह की मृत्यु हमें यह सोचने को मजबूर करती है कि क्या भारत में हर नागरिक को वास्तव में समान रूप से ‘भारतीय’ माना जाता है।
The killing of Chontham Vikram Singh, a well-known musician and music teacher from Manipur, in a mob attack in Delhi cannot be dismissed as merely another criminal incident. Singh was reportedly attacked near his home in Kilokri after objecting to a disturbance. He was allegedly chased and beaten, and died the following day. His death has once again raised serious questions about the safety of people from the Northeast and, more disturbingly, about the possibility of racial prejudice behind such violence.
The question, however, is larger than the circumstances of one particular killing.
It is about why, nearly eight decades after Independence, India still struggles to accept the diversity of the people who constitute India.
India's greatest strength is often said to be its diversity. Yet the same diversity repeatedly becomes a source of social prejudice. A person's language becomes a reason for mockery, facial features become a subject of ridicule, food habits become a matter of suspicion, caste becomes an identity imposed upon an individual, and a citizen from the Northeast is sometimes treated as though his or her Indian identity requires additional proof.
The death of Vikram Singh therefore forces us to confront an uncomfortable question:
Do we really regard one another as Indians, or have we become accustomed to regarding only people who resemble us as Indians?
There has long been a tendency in sections of North India, particularly in Delhi and Uttar Pradesh, to regard the cultural world around them as somehow representative of India itself. A person from the Northeast becomes a Manipuri, Naga, Mizo or simply a “North-Easterner” before being recognised as an Indian. A person from the South is first identified as Tamil, Telugu or Malayali. A person from Maharashtra is Marathi; from Bengal, Bengali; from Punjab, Punjabi; from Gujarat, Gujarati.
It is as though “Indian” has become an additional identity rather than the common civic identity that encompasses all these identities.
This is not exclusively a North Indian problem. Regional prejudice exists across India. But when such prejudice manifests itself in Delhi, it acquires a deeper significance. Delhi is not merely another Indian city. It is the political capital of the Republic. People from every part of the country live, work and study there. If a citizen can be made to feel like an outsider in the national capital because of his or her language, appearance or regional identity, then the problem is not simply one of social intolerance. It reflects a weakness in our national consciousness.
To understand this problem, we also need to confront India's historical reality.
Modern India was not formed as a culturally homogeneous nation based on one language, one religion, one ethnicity or one social tradition. The subcontinent historically consisted of numerous political, linguistic, cultural and social communities. British rule brought large parts of this diverse territory under a common administrative framework. At Independence, India faced the enormous task of transforming this geographical and administrative unity into a shared political community.
The Constitution, democracy, universal adult franchise and a federal structure played a historic role in that process. The political vision of leaders such as Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru also sought to create a common Indian identity without erasing the country's enormous diversity.
The Constitution attempted something revolutionary: to make the individual a citizen with equal rights irrespective of caste, religion, language or region.
But nation-building is not a project that is completed once and for all.
India became a country in 1947. Indian nationhood, however, had to be continuously created.
That process is now facing serious challenges.
Over the past few decades, the fault lines of religion, caste and region have become increasingly visible. Political mobilisation has often transformed identities that could have served as sources of representation and cultural expression into instruments of emotional division. Social media has further amplified prejudice, allowing stereotypes and hatred to travel faster than ever before.
The result is a disturbing transformation in the way we see one another.
Instead of seeing a neighbour, colleague, student or fellow citizen, we increasingly see a label—caste, religion, language, region or ethnicity.
Violence is only the final and most frightening stage of this process.
It begins with a joke.
Then comes a remark.
Then social distance.
Then the creation of “us” and “them”.
And eventually, one day, a crowd begins to believe that the person standing before it is not really one of “us”.
This is where racial prejudice, caste hatred and religious hostility begin to converge.
India has traditionally discussed social discrimination primarily through the categories of caste and religion. The language of race therefore often makes us uncomfortable. Yet discrimination based on skin colour, facial features, physical appearance and geographical origin cannot simply be denied. The stereotypes directed at people from the Northeast and the questioning of their Indian identity are manifestations of a real social problem.
That is why the investigation into Vikram Singh's death should not stop merely at identifying and prosecuting those responsible. If racial or regional prejudice played a role, it must be recognised clearly. And even if such a motive is ultimately not established, the incident cannot be completely separated from the wider social environment in which people from the Northeast have repeatedly faced questions about their identity and belonging in India's metropolitan cities.
India must ask itself what its national identity actually means.
Is being Indian defined by the language of a particular region, the culture of a particular community, or the social identity of a particular group?
Or is Indian identity a civic identity capable of embracing all these differences?
If the latter is our answer, then a musician from Manipur living in Delhi is not merely a “Manipuri”. He is as much a citizen of Delhi and India as anyone born in the capital. A worker from Tamil Nadu, a student from Assam, a nurse from Nagaland, a teacher from Bengal, a trader from Maharashtra or an engineer from Kerala should never have to prove his or her Indian identity.
The unity of India cannot mean that everyone must become culturally identical.
It must mean the opposite:
People can remain different and yet recognise one another as equal citizens.
What India needs is not “one country, one identity”, but one country, many identities and equal citizenship.
We must also abandon the comforting assumption that India's unity will sustain itself automatically. History teaches us that large and diverse societies remain political communities only through continuous dialogue, constitutional institutions, justice and mutual respect.
Independence gave us a Constitution.
Democracy gave us a political framework.
But keeping Indian nationhood alive is a responsibility that belongs to society itself.
The death of Vikram Singh is therefore not merely the tragedy of one family in Manipur. It is a question for Delhi and, ultimately, for the entire country.
If an Indian citizen can be made to feel like an outsider in India's capital because of his face, language or Northeastern identity, then the problem is not only with what happened to that individual.
The problem is with the India we have still not completely succeeded in building.
The work of making India a nation did not end in 1947.
It continues today.
And perhaps Vikram Singh's death reminds us once again that India is built not only through roads, parliaments and borders, but also through one simple conviction:
Whoever stands before us—whatever their face, language, religion, caste or region—belongs to India, and belongs among us.
Dr. R. Achal Pulastey
Editor-in-Chief, Eastern Scientist
He is a multifaceted scholar with a keen insight into—and a research focus on—socio-cultural, folkloric-literary, economic, and geopolitical changes.
ORCID iD: 0009-0002-8240-2689
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