When saying “I am Indian” is not enough

The death of Angel Chakma, a young MBA student from Tripura, in Dehradun, is not merely a tragic criminal incident. It is a moment that compels India to pause and think on a deeper and unresolved question: how inclusive is Indian citizenship in practice, especially for people from the Northeast? While the incident has drawn condemnation across political lines, its significance goes beyond immediate outrage. It highlights a long-standing gap between the constitutional idea of India and the lived experiences of many citizens from its eastern frontier.

Angel Chakma had travelled to Uttarakhand with an aspiration to study, to work hard, and to build a dignified future. On the evening of the attack, he and his brother were subjected to racial abuse, labelled as outsiders, and questioned for their appearance. When Angel asserted that he was Indian, the situation escalated into violence that eventually claimed his life. This sequence of events forces us to confront an uncomfortable reality: for many from the Northeast, national belonging is questioned in everyday social interactions, despite their formal citizenship.

Citizenship is not only a legal status but also a social relationship. TH Marshall’s classic understanding of citizenship emphasises civil, political, and social rights. While citizens from the Northeast possess legal and political rights, their social citizenship, the sense of recognition, dignity, and acceptance in everyday life, remains fragile. Angel Chakma’s case tragically demonstrates how this gap between formal equality and social reality can have fatal consequences.

The Northeast occupies a unique position within the Indian Union. Historically, the region was integrated into the postcolonial Indian state through administrative decisions rather than mass political participation. This has shaped a complex relationship between the region and the mainland, marked by geographical distance, limited representation in national narratives, and stereotypes. Over time, these structural factors have contributed to what scholars describe as “internal othering,” where certain groups are legally inside the nation but socially perceived as outsiders.

Racial discrimination against people from the Northeast is not new, nor is it confined to any single city. Students, professionals, and workers from the region have repeatedly reported verbal abuse, social exclusion, and physical violence in metropolitan as well as smaller urban spaces. The language of abuse often reduces diverse communities to simplistic racial categories, denying them individuality and citizenship. Such everyday practices of discrimination rarely attract sustained public attention unless they result in extreme violence, as in the case of Angel Chakma.

What makes this incident particularly disturbing is not only the brutality involved but also the institutional response that followed. Allegations of delayed police action and the slow recognition of the crime’s seriousness raise important questions about the state’s capacity to protect vulnerable citizens equally. In political theory, the legitimacy of the state rests on its ability to ensure security and justice without discrimination. When certain groups consistently experience weaker protection, it erodes trust in public institutions and deepens feelings of alienation.

India’s constitutional framework strongly prohibits discrimination and guarantees equality before the law. Articles 14 and 15 form the moral and legal backbone of this promise. However, the absence of a comprehensive national law specifically addressing racial discrimination limits the effectiveness of these guarantees. Crimes motivated by racial prejudice are treated as ordinary assaults, overlooking the broader social harm they cause. Political theorists argue that hate crimes differ from ordinary crimes because they send a message of exclusion not just to the victim, but to the entire community they represent.

Several expert committees and scholars have long argued for a dedicated anti-discrimination law in India. Such legislation would not only provide clearer legal definitions but also signal a strong normative commitment by the state against racism. In comparative perspective, many democratic societies recognise that formal equality alone is insufficient and that targeted legal instruments are necessary to address historically rooted forms of exclusion. India’s reluctance to adopt such a framework shows a broader hesitation to acknowledge racism as a structural issue rather than an individual failing.

The political reactions to Angel Chakma’s death have been swift and emotionally charged, with leaders across parties condemning the incident. While these responses are important, political accountability requires more than statements. From an institutional standpoint, the key question is whether this tragedy will lead to durable reforms in law enforcement practices, legal frameworks, and public education. Without such changes, public outrage risks fading while underlying conditions remain unchanged.

Education plays an important role in shaping social attitudes. The marginal presence of Northeast histories, cultures, and contributions in national curricula reinforces ignorance and stereotypes. Political socialisation begins early, and when young citizens grow up with limited exposure to the diversity within their own country, prejudice finds fertile ground. Addressing racism, therefore, is not only a legal task but also an educational one, which demands sustained engagement rather than symbolic gestures.

Universities and educational institutions deserve particular attention in this context. Students from the Northeast migrate far from home in pursuit of higher education, which marks them vulnerable to isolation and discrimination. Institutions must go beyond formal inclusivity policies and actively create support systems that ensure safety, representation, and dialogue. The campus should be a space where citizenship is experienced in its most inclusive form, not questioned or contested.

At a deeper level, the Angel Chakma incident invites reflection on the meaning of national unity. Unity in a diverse society cannot be sustained through uniformity or denial of difference. Scholars like Bhikhu Parekh have argued that a stable multicultural democracy needs recognition, respect, and dialogue among its constituent communities. When difference becomes a basis for exclusion rather than mutual learning, unity weakens rather than strengthens.

It is important to approach this discussion without assigning collective blame or fuelling division. Racism in India, including against people from the Northeast, is embedded in everyday practices rather than organised ideology. This makes it harder to confront but no less damaging. A nonconfrontational yet honest approach, which is grounded in law, education, and institutional reform is essential if India is to move forward.

Angel Chakma’s death should not be remembered only as a moment of sorrow but as a turning point for introspection. His assertion of being Indian was not an act of defiance; it was a statement of belonging. That such a statement could provoke violence indicates how incomplete India’s democratic project remains. A mature democracy is measured not by how it treats its most visible or powerful citizens, but by how it protects those whose belonging is routinely questioned.

As the nation reacts on this incident, the challenge lies in transforming grief into responsibility. Justice for Angel Chakma is necessary, but it is not sufficient. What is required is a renewed commitment to the idea that Indian citizenship is not conditional on appearance, language, or region. Only when this principle is realised in everyday life can India truly claim to be a union that values all its citizens equally.