Narendra Modi’s anticipated visit to Manipur has been framed as a long-overdue gesture. But to anyone familiar with the history of prime ministerial tours to the Northeast, it is déjà vu.
The Northeast has always been treated as a stage for symbolism, and Manipur more than most. Prime ministers arrive with fanfare, drape themselves in local attire, announce projects and promises, and then return to Delhi. The cycle is familiar, and its hollowness equally so.
Manipur’s politics, unlike that of the Hindi heartland, does not bend easily to the presence of Delhi’s leaders. People here turn out in large numbers during elections, but their votes are often influenced by local compulsions and complex networks of kinship, obligation, and distrust, rather than the aura of national figures.
This is why the so-called “Modi wave,” so potent elsewhere, barely registers here. Prime ministerial visits, however grand in presentation, do not sway electoral outcomes in Manipur.
The deeper truth is that these visits resemble inspections more than engagements. Governance in the Northeast has been delegated to governors, client politicians, and, above all, security forces for decades.
The prime ministerial visit is less about addressing the lives of citizens than about demonstrating control, reminding both the region and the rest of India that Delhi remains the owner of the land, even if absent most of the time.
This raises the obvious question: why now? For months, Modi’s silence on Manipur’s crisis has been a political embarrassment. Even as violence flared, women and children were brutalised, and tens of thousands were displaced, the prime minister refrained from speaking, let alone visiting.
His absence became a recurring theme in Parliament, a weapon wielded by the opposition to highlight indifference at the very top. With elections in Bihar approaching, and Assam soon after, the silence could no longer be sustained. The visit, then, is not about Manipur. It is about national politics.
It is about neutralising criticism, reassuring distant electorates, and reasserting a strongman image that was beginning to show cracks.
What follows will be predictable. Imphal’s streets will be spruced up, its walls painted, its markets cleared. Security forces will tighten their hold on the city, creating an atmosphere more of a siege than a celebration. Modi will deliver a carefully crafted speech, invoke Manipur’s culture, announce development packages, and call for peace.
The cameras will flash, the media will amplify, and within days the spectacle will fade from the national conversation. Meanwhile, relief camps will remain full, ethnic mistrust will remain raw, and governance will remain paralysed.
Insurgent groups, too, will play their part. The ritual boycott calls will come, perhaps accompanied by shutdowns or scattered acts of defiance. Once, these gestures carried weight, animated by the anger of annexation, occupation, and militarisation. Today, they have become predictable, even hollow.
Decades of militarisation, internal splits, and co-option have weakened insurgencies into a shadow of their former selves. What remains is a tired theatre: Delhi stages sovereignty through prime ministerial visits, insurgents rehearse their resistance through boycotts, and ordinary Manipuris carry on with weary resignation.
Yet behind the ritual lies a history that cannot be wished away. Manipur’s incorporation into the Union, the imposition of the Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, and the long years of counterinsurgency have left scars that remain raw.
Delhi’s leaders may choose to speak of “development” and “integration,” but for Manipuris, the memory of betrayal and violence continues to shape political life. A prime ministerial visit that sidesteps this history is not merely symbolic; it is a denial of reality.
Could things be different? In theory, yes. A visit by the head of government could mark the start of a genuine political process: dialogue with communities across divides, accountability for violence, and a long-term roadmap for reconciliation.
It could signal that Delhi is ready to confront uncomfortable truths and to treat Manipuris not as subjects to be managed but as citizens to be engaged. But such a transformation would require humility, courage, and a willingness to move beyond spectacle. None of these qualities has been on display in Delhi’s handling of the crisis so far.
Instead, the likely outcome is another entry in the long catalogue of symbolic gestures. The visit will serve its purpose in the national arena: it will quieten the opposition, provide images for the campaign trail, and reassure those far from the conflict that the government remains firmly in command.
For Manipur, however, it will mean little. The relief camps will still be there, the fault lines will still run deep, and the alienation will still grow.
The tragedy is not simply the emptiness of the gesture. It is the corrosion it causes. Each visit without substance deepens the cynicism of a people who already feel abandoned.
Each promise unkept reinforces the sense that Delhi treats the state with contempt. Each spectacle without follow-up ensures that history’s burdens grow heavier. Manipur’s crisis is real, but its repeated use as a prop in national politics makes resolution ever more elusive.
Modi’s presence in Imphal will silence critics in Parliament and perhaps strengthen his hand in Bihar and Assam. But for the hills and valleys of Manipur, it will be one more reminder of how little the Union values its citizens here.
A visit framed as reassurance will, in practice, underline abandonment. Symbolism will once again substitute for substance, and the state will continue to bear its burdens alone.
Views expressed are that of the author and do not reflect EastMojo’s stance on this or any other issue.
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