By Greenananda Suresh Nautiyal
India continuously tells itself a beautiful story: Unity in Diversity. We celebrate our languages, cultures, ethnicities, cuisines, and traditions, proudly proclaiming that India is one nation where every citizen is equal before the law. But between constitutional promise and lived reality lies an uncomfortable truth: India may be politically united, but socially, we have not yet learned to see every Indian as an equal.
George Orwell famously noted in his 1945 political satire, Animal Farm, all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. Similarly, in the Indian context, certain citizens enjoy far greater social belonging than others.
The recent death of famous Manipuri musician Chongtham Vikram Singh in Delhi following an alleged assault, alongside the murder of Tripura’s Angel Chakma in Dehradun, has thrust this reality back into the public consciousness. While legal investigations must determine motives, these tragedies reopen a deeper question: why do people from the Northeast constantly have their “Indianness” questioned?
Why is an Indian from Manipur called “Chinese”? Why are people from the Northeast reduced to slurs like “Chinki” or “Momo”? Why should facial features, food, or accents invite ridicule? These are not harmless jokes. A slur is a social act—it signals to another human being that they do not belong.
India is inherently multiracial, multicultural, and multilingual. The Northeast holds extraordinary internal diversity; Adivasi communities maintain distinct languages and relationships with land; Himalayan communities possess unique social cultures. Yet, the dominant idea of “Indianness” is routinely constructed around specific regional, linguistic, and physical norms. Anyone outside those parameters is marked as “other.” The problem is not diversity itself, but the hierarchy we construct within it.
Ethnic prejudice is fuelled by geographical distance, ignorance, migration, economic competition, and the absence of meaningful social interaction. When genuine knowledge is lacking, stereotypes take over. A person stops being an individual and becomes a category: He is from Manipur. She is tribal. They are Pahari. Once an individual disappears behind a stereotype, discrimination becomes effortless. Mockery and exclusion become normalised, dangerously shortening the distance between “you are different” and “you do not belong.”
This issue cannot be dismissed merely as a law-and-order problem. We must ask what produces an ordinary citizen who feels entitled to humiliate another Indian based on ethnicity. What makes someone associate a Northeastern face with a foreign country, view an Adivasi as “backward,” or reduce mountain communities to cheap labour and tourist backdrops?
The answer lies in our homes, schools, workplaces, media, and political discourse. We must confront the reality of racism within India. While often dismissed as a Western phenomenon, racism exists wherever physical appearance dictates perceived nationality, character, or worth. Calling an Indian citizen “Chinese” due to facial features is not simple geographical ignorance; it is racial stereotyping. Adivasis cannot be celebrated as original inhabitants while treated as primitive in daily life, nor can Himalayan citizens be valued only for military service and picturesque scenery. They are citizens with full rights, histories, and aspirations. India cannot demand their patriotism while denying their dignity.
There is deep hypocrisy in celebrating diversity ceremonially while tolerating prejudice socially. We showcase tribal dances and Northeast festivals, but do mainstream communities readily rent apartments to these citizens? Can they walk down a city street without being mocked, or raise children without their nationality being questioned?
Unity requires more than a shared passport; it requires shared dignity. A Manipuri is not a guest in Delhi, an Adivasi is not a guest in Mumbai, and a Naga is not a guest in Srinagar-Kashmir. A citizen does not become more Indian by moving closer to the capital, nor less Indian by living near an international border. The Constitution does not divide citizens by eye shape, dialect, or ancestral geography. India belongs equally to all.
Constitutional equality cannot survive on paper alone. We need robust legal mechanisms to address ethnic abuse, sensitive policing, hate crime accountability, and better representation. Yet law alone cannot reform the public mind. We must teach children that physical differences are not threats. We must stop mocking accents, turning faces into punchlines, using food habits to judge civilization, or calling fellow citizens “outsiders.” Jokes teach children whom to laugh at, stereotypes teach them whom to distrust, and unchecked prejudice eventually manifests as physical violence.
Justice must be demanded irrespective of the victim’s ethnicity or the accused’s identity. The true test of our nation is not how loudly we chant “India is one,” but whether any Indian can walk into any city and feel: “This country is mine too.”
If we cannot guarantee that sense of safety and belonging, we must admit that our political integration has far outpaced our social unity. India will truly become one not when every citizen looks, speaks, or eats alike—but when no Indian needs to conform to the majority to be treated with equal human dignity.
