The Silent Prosthetics: When Political Dissent Costs Two Legs
Poonam Sharma
There are moments in the history of a parliament that transcend the typical noise of partisan bickering. They are moments where the air in the room suddenly feels heavy, where the “Point of Order” becomes irrelevant, and where the raw, unvarnished truth of the human experience takes center stage.
Recently, the Rajya Sabha witnessed such a moment. It wasn’t a policy debate or a budget dispute that hushed the chamber. It was the sound of two artificial limbs being placed on a table by Kerala MP C. Sadanandan.
In that silence, the “world’s largest democracy” had to look itself in the mirror and reckon with a ghost from 1994—a ghost that still haunts the political landscape of Kerala and West Bengal.
The Anatomy of an Attack
To understand the gravity of Sadanandan’s gesture, we have to travel back to a Tuesday in 1994 in Mattannur, Kannur. Sadanandan Master, as he is known, was a schoolteacher. He wasn’t a warlord or a criminal; he was an educator with an ideological leaning that didn’t align with the dominant force in the region.
While heading to the market, he was intercepted by a mob. In a calculated display of brutality designed to send a message to any would-be dissenters, his legs were hacked off below the knees. The intent wasn’t just to hurt him; it was to “disable” the opposition—literally and metaphorically.
The “Party Village” Syndrome: Democracy or Hegemony?
The tragedy of Sadanandan Master is not an isolated incident of “random crime.” It is the byproduct of what political scientists often call the “Party Village” (Grama Panchayat) culture. In certain pockets of Kerala and, historically, in West Bengal, political pluralism isn’t just discouraged—it’s treated as a virus.
The critique here isn’t just of one specific party, but of a political philosophy that views the “other” as a “class enemy” rather than a “democratic competitor.” Whether it was the 34 years of Left rule in Bengal or the persistent cycle of violence in Kannur, the logic remains chillingly consistent: If you cannot win the argument, remove the person.
A Comparative Horror: From Kannur to Kolkata
The MP’s speech drew a direct line between the violence in Kerala and the legacy of political intolerance in West Bengal. For decades, the “Red Bastion” of Bengal was maintained through a sophisticated machinery of local intimidation. When the guard changed to the Trinamool Congress (TMC), many observers noted that while the colors changed, the methods remained eerily similar.
This “scandalous history,” as the post describes it, suggests a systemic failure. When a political party becomes indistinguishable from the state, the first casualty is always the dissenter. The irony is palpable: ideologies that claim to champion the downtrodden often end up crushing the very individuals they seek to “liberate” if those individuals dare to choose a different path.
”Democracy is not the law of the majority, but the protection of the minority—even a minority of one.” — This sentiment was echoes in the hollow sound of Sadanandan’s prosthetics hitting the table.
The Symbolism of the Prosthetics
When Sadanandan Master displayed his artificial legs in the Rajya Sabha, he wasn’t asking for pity. He was presenting a “Certificate of Reality.”
In a digital age where political violence is often reduced to a hashtag or a 10-second soundbite, the physical presence of those limbs served as a visceral reminder of the “flesh and blood” cost of ideology. It forced the lawmakers to acknowledge that behind every “political clash” reported in a small column of a newspaper, there is a human being who can no longer walk, a family that is shattered, and a community that lives in fear.
Critical Analysis: Is the Cycle Breaking?
Critically speaking, the reaction to Sadanandan’s speech reveals the deep-seated polarization of Indian politics. While one side sees him as a martyr for freedom of speech, the other often dismisses such incidents as “reactive” or “contextual.”
However, “context” cannot justify the severing of limbs. A democracy that requires a teacher to lose his leogs to prove a point is a democracy in need of urgent repair. The fact that this incident occurred in 1994, and we are still discussing similar patterns of violence in 2024/2025, suggests that the “culture of the sickle” (and the retaliatory sword) has deep roots that policy alone cannot pull out.
Conclusion: The Lesson of the Master
Sadanandan Master survived. He continued to teach, he continued his political journey, and he eventually reached the highest legislative body in the country. His journey is a testament to human resilience, but it shouldn’t have to be.
No citizen should have to be “brave” just to go to the market with a different political badge on their chest. As the Rajya Sabha fell silent, the message was clear: political violence is not a sign of strength; it is the ultimate admission of Human cost of political ideology in Indian democracy.
