When Guwahati Bans Dissent, Democracy Pays the Price

There was a time when the heartbeat of democracy could be felt on the streets. Crowds gathered, voices rose, and causes marched forward—even if only a few kilometres. The road was more than a conduit for cars—it was a space of conscience, a platform for people.

But in Guwahati today, that heartbeat has been silenced.

Citing mounting traffic congestion and disruptions to emergency services, the Guwahati Police Commissionerate on June 6 announced a blanket ban on all forms of public rallies, processions, walkathons, marathons, and similar gatherings. The order, effective immediately, has been issued under Section 163 of the Bharatiya Nagarik Suraksha Sanhita (BNSS), 2023, with violations punishable under Section 223 of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), 2023. No end date. No nuance. Just silence—until further notice.

At first glance, the order might seem like a firm step toward streamlining urban life. But scratch the surface, and what reveals itself is not discipline, but discomfort with democracy.

Let’s get one thing out of the way: Guwahati’s traffic chaos is real. Anyone who’s spent a morning inching across GS Road will agree. But the answer to that chaos is not to shut down civic expression—it's to fix the city’s failing infrastructure. Managing traffic is the job of urban planners, not the pretext for rolling back civil liberties.

This ban doesn’t regulate—it erases. It doesn’t balance rights—it buries them. In one sweeping order, the state has told its people: you may drive, but you may not dissent.

And that’s a problem far bigger than traffic.

Because what is a city without protest? What is a democracy without noise? From national freedom movements to regional rights struggles, every inch of India’s democratic progress has marched through the streets. Guwahati is no exception. Its pavements have seen student uprisings, labour processions, environmental sit-ins, and voices that refused to be ignored. To now cordon off these streets in the name of convenience is to sterilize the soul of the city.

It’s tempting for authorities to portray such bans as temporary inconveniences. But history teaches us that rights, once taken away "for a while", rarely return unchanged. The risk of normalization is real. When a government finds it easier to ban expression than to manage its consequences, it sets a precedent of fear over freedom. And fear, once institutionalized, doesn’t end with rallies—it seeps into speech, art, gatherings, ideas.

Even more concerning is the illusion of remedy built into the order. Citizens can appeal to the Deputy Commissioner of Police (Administration) for “modification or revocation.” But how often do people win such appeals? How do you contest a ban placed by the same office you’re appealing to? This is not democratic process—it’s a loop of powerless permission-seeking. When discretion replaces due process, rights become favours.

This editorial is not a call for chaos. It’s a call for competent governance. If public events are disrupting emergency services, the answer is to build systems that can hold both protest and ambulance. If rallies jam roads, then create regulated protest zones or time-bound permits. Cities across the world do this without bulldozing basic rights. Why can’t we?

More importantly, the timing and tone of the ban speak volumes. India is entering a moment of intense political churn. Discontent is brewing across sectors—youth unemployment, inflation, agrarian crises, ethnic tensions. At such a moment, to suddenly declare that no one may gather in protest within a state capital reeks not of urban concern, but political insulation.

The government must ask itself: is it afraid of traffic, or the truth that sometimes rides along with it?

Because dissent, however uncomfortable, is not the enemy of governance—it is its pressure valve. Silence is more dangerous. A city where no one shouts is not a city in harmony—it is a city in fear.

It’s easy to dismiss this as a local issue. But if Guwahati’s streets can be silenced today, what stops it from happening in Bengaluru tomorrow? Or Lucknow, or Kolkata, or Delhi? This is not about one city—it’s about a national nervous system that connects citizen to state. The more you sever that connection, the more brittle your democracy becomes.

Guwahati deserves better. It deserves both—flowing traffic and flowing voices. The state must prove that it can handle criticism and chaos with equal care. Bans are not signs of strength; they are signs of panic.
Let the roads remain open. But more importantly, let the voices remain louder.

Because the cost of quiet is never paid by the powerful. It is always paid by the people.

ALSO READ: Gaurav Gogoi’s Posters Pull a Houdini — Now You See Them, Now You Don’t!