By Suresh Unnithan
In India the Fourth Estate was once reputed the lion tamer—cracking the whip at power, exposing the absurd, and occasionally making rulers sweat. Today, it’s the clown in the saffron-coloured wig, honking the same horn on cue and tripping over its own oversized shoes for laughs. Credibility? Buried with full state honours, complete with a 24×7 ticker tribute and a prime-time requiem.
Enter the latest masterpiece of narrative ninjutsu: the Constitution (131st Amendment) Bill, 2026. The Nari Shakti Vandan Adhiniyam—the actual women’s reservation law—had already cleared by both the Houses in 2023, received presidential assent, and was solemnly notified on April 16, 2026, right before the special Parliament session kicked off. It was law. Done. Signed, sealed, and ready to gather dust until delimitation sorted itself out years later.
But the government wanted to fast-track things by linking it to delimitation based on the 2011 Census, potentially rejigging constituencies, expanding the Lok Sabha, and—whispers suggested—carving a few more safe seats for the eternal rulers. The opposition, ever the party poopers, smelled gerrymandering, complained about zero consultation, and voted the 131st Amendment down. The women’s reservation law itself? Still very much alive on the statute books. No “defeat.” No “betrayal of Nari Shakti.” Just parliamentary maths failing to deliver a constitutional amendment.
Cue the Prime Minister’s address to the nation. With the solemn gravity of a Shakespearean tragedy and the tactical timing of an election strategist (Bengal and Tamil Nadu polls looming), he painted a vivid picture: the opposition had cruelly “defeated” women’s reservation, even indulging in rhetorical “foeticide” of their dreams. It was masterful misdirection—turning a failed delimitation gambit into a national sob story about anti-women villains.
And the media? Oh, they didn’t just report it. They inhaled it like incense at a victory rally. Headlines blared: “Opposition Sabotages Women’s Empowerment!” Anchors performed ritual outrage, eyebrows arched higher than the TRP charts. Debates became one-sided dunk tanks where any guest daring to murmur “But the 2023 law is already notified…” was shouted down as a misogynist, anti-national, or worse—boring. The public broadcaster, guardian of impartial airwaves, sang backup vocals while the Model Code of Conduct was allegedly in force. Opposition leaders filed complaints with the Election Commission. The media filed them under “irrelevant noise” and moved to the next manufactured breaking news.
This wasn’t subtle bias. This was bias doing cartwheels in a saffron tutu. For years, large swathes of TV and print have perfected the ancient art of “narrative alignment.” Government sets the flute; channels dance like ecstatic serpents. A policy failure becomes “masterstroke of humility.” An opposition critique becomes “anti-India conspiracy.” And a defeated delimitation bill becomes “murder of women’s hopes.” Anchors who once grilled ministers now audition for junior spokesperson gigs, complete with matching indignation levels. The few who still ask tough questions are relegated to late-night slots or quietly shown the door.
The public has noticed. Once, families treated the evening news like scripture and the morning paper like gospel. Today, they treat both like a raucous family WhatsApp group—loud, entertaining, occasionally unhinged, but never a reliable source of truth. Trust in Indian media has sunk lower than a TRP during a cricket match. Viewers tune in for the fireworks, the shouting matches, the dramatic pauses, and the breaking-news ticker that breaks its own record for repetition. It’s prime-time entertainment, sponsored by access journalism and fear of lost government ads. Actual information? That’s what YouTube, podcasts, and cynical memes provide while the legacy media performs acrobatics to stay relevant.
Critically, this isn’t mere commercial compulsion or “both sides” laziness. It’s a deeper surrender. When survival depends on not upsetting the dispensation that controls ads, investigations, and access, independence becomes a luxury few can afford. The result is a perfect echo chamber: the ruling party tests wild narratives, the media amplifies them with surround sound, and reality gets politely escorted out the back door. Every time an anchor channels a party press release with more passion than the minister, another chunk of the audience switches off—or worse, switches to independent voices that haven’t yet learned the new dance steps.
The delicious irony? The very desperation on display—the frantic rewriting of a simple legislative defeat into an epic betrayal—may be accelerating what it fears most. The opposition, once a fractured circus of its own, finds unexpected unity in shared exasperation. Every over-the-top headline, every selective silence, every “exclusive” that reads like a briefing note, pushes more neutral observers toward skepticism. The BJP may not be in panic mode yet, but the media certainly is—desperately clinging to relevance by becoming a willing propaganda wing, only to discover that the public has started treating it as background noise at best, and a cautionary tale at worst.
Indian media was once feared and respected. Today it’s mostly giggled at. Families gather not to learn, but to mock the latest somersault. The tent is still brightly lit, the makeup thick, the clowns energetic—but the audience has wandered off to find real entertainment elsewhere. In the theatre of Indian democracy, the fourth estate didn’t fall. It volunteered for the role of court jester, complete with bells, and is now wondering why no one takes its warnings seriously.
The punchline writes itself: in trying to make the ruling party look invincible, much of the media has only succeeded in making itself look ridiculous. And in the sharp glare of public cynicism, ridicule is the one narrative that refuses to be spun.