An entirely imaginary conversation. Any resemblance to persons living, fasting, or governing is purely coincidental.
Disclaimer: “An entirely imaginary conversation. Any resemblance to persons living, fasting, or governing is purely coincidental.”
Through an imagined conversation with “Bade Saheb,” Mr Subrat Ratho reflects on why governments often choose patience over panic when confronted with protests, public pressure and demands for political accountability.
“You seem remarkably relaxed,” I said.
“About the hunger strike?” Bade Saheb asked, stirring his tea slowly.
“Yes.”
He took a sip before answering.
“Governments are always under pressure. The real question is whether the moment demands action or patience.”
“The protesters are demanding a minister’s resignation.”
“That is how these things usually begin—when people want to be heard.”
“They seem quite determined.”
Bade Saheb smiled faintly.
“So are marathon runners.”
“A hunger strike creates a moral duty to engage, doesn’t it?” I pressed. “Refusing to meet them looks cold.”
“Engaging can be riskier still. Every meeting grants the protest legitimacy and momentum. Silence may earn some sympathy, but it rarely causes lasting damage. Governments should not create precedents faster than they make policy.”
“What if public opinion swings behind them?”
“Public opinion usually backs whoever appears to be making progress. If the opposition raises the issue in Parliament, they will simply have done what oppositions do best—turn a protest into a test of the government’s nerve.”
“Doesn’t that increase the pressure?”
“Only if the government mistakes noise for a shift in power. The opposition can raise its voice. The government still controls the timetable.”
“Won’t this damage the government’s image?”
“Governments are rarely destroyed by a few bad headlines. They are weakened when they look cornered. A single careless precedent can do more damage than a month of criticism.”
“So the government simply waits it out?”
“We govern,” he replied calmly. “By patience, procedure and self-control.”
“Shouldn’t ministers at least explain themselves publicly?”
“They should—when necessary. But every explanation becomes part of the story, and every story invites a reply. Say too little and you look evasive. Say too much and you look defensive. The line is thinner than most imagine.”
“And if the hunger strike drags on?”
“It will end,” Bade Saheb said.
“Because the government finally acts?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Because the protesters give up?”
“Not always.”
“Then why?”
“Because attention always moves on. Or because one side eventually decides that the cost of continuing is higher than the cost of compromise.”
“That sounds cynical.”
“Mere bhai,” he said with a small shrug, “that is public life.”
As I rose to leave, I asked one final question.
“So this is David versus Goliath?”
“Oh yes.”
“And who usually wins?”
Bade Saheb looked at me directly.
“The one who understands that politics is strength plus timing. Crowds make noise. Time decides who is still standing when the noise fades. Headlines matter—but never for long. What survives are precedents, and the people patient enough to outlast the news cycle.”
I paused at the door.
“And if the public eventually forgets?”
He smiled again, softly this time.
“Then the government has already won. That, my friend, is the quiet art of doing nothing.”
