If Women Constitute Half the Population, Why Not Give Them Half the Republic?

The Constitution (131st Amendment) Bill, 2026, failed in the Lok Sabha. This bill was intended to pave the way for expanding the size of the Lok Sabha, undertaking a fresh delimitation exercise, and implementing reservations for women starting with the 2029 elections. A total of 528 members cast their votes; 298 in favour and 230 against. As a constitutional amendment requires a two-thirds majority, the threshold remained out of reach, falling short by 352 votes. 

It was a defeat that felt cold, dispassionate and almost cruel.

Yet, what fell was not merely a legislative bill; it was a shattered mirror placed upon the table of Indian democracy – a mirror in which desire, justice, strategy, women, power, numbers, fear and the future, all appeared deeply blurred. Consequently, this defeat was not a sudden, dramatic climax; rather, it marked the specific moment in the life of a democracy when the pursuit of justice is left tethered to the trembling fissures within its very institutional architecture.

Acknowledged as citizens, denied as natural claimants to power

Amidst the haze, dust and parliamentary cacophony surrounding this controversy, a question remains that continues to challenge any genuine democracy. For years, opposition parties have advocated for the principle that, following a caste census, the maxim "representation proportionate to population share" – “jiski jitni hissedari, uski utni bhagidari” – must be upheld. 

If we accept this premise, who then stands as the most direct, most undeniable, most morally compelling – and perhaps most challenging – claimant to this very logic?

Women. 

Women constitute half of this country's population; half of its electorate, too; and, half of society's collective memory. But do they contribute merely half of the labour? Do they shoulder only half of the caregiving responsibilities? Do they possess only half of the patience? Do they endure only half of the suffering? Do they nurture only half of the hope? No. 

Women harbour within themselves – like a deep, blue, tranquil lake – twice the labour, thrice the care, and four times the patience; they navigate through life concealing five times as many wounds beneath the fragile layers of her smile; and from this society, they hold 10 times the hope. Why, then, only 33%? 

If Indian politics is to speak the language of representational justice, it must not shy away from its own logic. The most luminous, most uncomfortable, and most disruptive conclusion of the maxim "representation proportional to share" is this: that a 50% share for women is not merely a demand, but the inevitable outcome of logic itself.

Here, one must take a moment to understand the historical context surrounding the 33% figure. For a long time, it has not signified immediate justice, but rather a deferred promise. The figure is not an eternal principle of justice, but a historical compromise within Indian politics. Compromises can, at times, propel history forward; yet, to mistake them for the ultimate form of justice is akin to mistaking the crimson glow of twilight for the full light of dawn. It may be beautiful, but it is not the sunrise.

The true crisis lies in the fact that, for a long time, Indian democracy has acknowledged women as citizens, yet failed to recognise them as natural claimants to power. Even today, their participation in parliament and state assemblies is perceived as if it were merely a "special" occurrence – something rare, exceptional and almost akin to a divine favour – rather than a natural, intrinsic, and indisputable right.

The language of politics, electoral violence, the skewed flow of money, the opaque labyrinths of ticket distribution, partisan networks, dynastic succession, a culture of character assassination, and a gaze, pervading public life, that is rife with suspicion toward women: all these elements combine to construct a wall – a wall that male-dominated politics, with casual indifference, chooses to label simply as "competition".

This "competition" is every bit as fair as a group of people standing atop the ramparts of a high fortress calling down to those standing in the dust below: "Run! Leap! Climb up here! After all, we judge solely on merit."

Therefore, when someone asserts that capable women can succeed even without reservations, they are not defending merit, but rather privilege. In a democracy, merit does not imply that only those who are already inside the door should be repeatedly declared qualified. In a democracy, the primary definition of merit is equal access. And without equal access, every mantra of merit ultimately devolves into nothing more than a sophisticated prayer for privilege.

For this very reason, viewing women's reservation merely as an act of charity, tokenism, or benevolent magnanimity constitutes intellectual dishonesty. Representation is not merely a matter of numbers; it is the institutionalisation of experience – the act of giving space, within the language of law, the architecture of policy, and the list of public priorities, to those scents, fatigues, fears, hopes, and invisible labours of life that, for centuries, were cast aside as strictly private matters.

Equal partnership is not merely a feminist demand

Any society that permits the absence of women's experiences within its legislative bodies inevitably interprets – even within its laws – those facets of life as incomplete; facets that women carry daily upon their shoulders, within their bodies, in their sleep, in their memories, and in their silence: caregiving, nurturing, access to water, education, healthcare, safety during travel, domestic violence, gender-based harassment, wage inequality, access to property, and that unpaid labour without which the home, the market, the family, the caste system, tradition, and, ultimately, this entire society would fail to spring to life anew each morning.

In a republic, an equal share – a 50 % stake – is not merely a feminist demand; it is the natural culmination of democratic logic. To restrict half the world’s population to a mere one-third share constitutes a dilution of representation, not justice. 

If the BJP truly intends to practice the politics of Nari Shakti Vandan – veneration of women's power – it must acknowledge that the ethical essence of such veneration lies not in symbolism, but in partnership; and that partnership implies a share of 50% – not 33%.

What kind of ‘veneration’ is it to sideline the party’s own strong and capable women? To worship a woman and to empower her politically are two entirely different things. For centuries, Indian politics has simultaneously engaged in the cultural glorification of women and their political marginalisation. 

It has hailed them as goddesses, yet denied them a seat at the decision-making table. It has sung ballads of their sacrifice – sacrifices that, when it came to the question of actual political equity, suddenly seemed to shrink into insignificance within the political calculus. Any system that demands a ‘century’ of sacrifice from women while granting them only a ‘third’ of political power does not truly honour them; rather, it perpetrates a proportional injustice.

Yet, it is precisely at this juncture that the limitations of the government’s political imagination become apparent. To tether the cause of just representation for women to some other project of power restructuring is, in essence, to hold the women’s issue hostage. Had the government truly regarded women’s representation as a historical priority, it would have moved in this direction either by working within the existing framework of 543 parliamentary seats, through a clear, consensual, and federally balanced formula, or via binding mechanisms such as mandatory quotas for party tickets.

Raising these objections does not imply that women should simply wait; it merely asserts that the State must not condition their fundamental rights on the demands of other political agendas. The pursuit of justice for women is neither so delicate that it can be dependent upon every political alliance, nor so feeble that it can only thrive in the shadow of some other power-dynamic. If justice is to remain true to its essence, it must stand tall and shine in its own independent light.

‘Proportional representation’ in the context of caste

Furthermore, there remains another critical question – one that Indian democracy has, with remarkable convenience, consistently sidestepped. When the language of representation, in the context of caste, demands ‘proportionality,’ should the social disparities existing within the category of women be rendered invisible?

A woman is not a monochromatic, flat, or monolithic category. She is Dalit, she is Adivasi, she belongs to the Backward Classes, she is a minority, she is poor, she is rural, she is an urban labourer, she is the educated middle-class – and amidst all these identities, she is also that individual whose voice is constantly stifled by the combined forces of family, caste, religion, and the market. Therefore, within this ‘half-share’ of the population, a just reflection of India’s social diversity must also be present.

In the Indian Republic, women must receive their half-share of representation not only vertically but also horizontally. This is precisely the juncture where the discourse on women's reservation and the caste census do not clash; rather, they render each other more truthful, more precise, and more democratic.

The question regarding the Rajya Sabha and the legislative councils is even more peculiar – and, in a certain sense, even more revealing. If these Houses are intended to serve as forums for deliberation, depth, institutional wisdom, expertise, and federal balance, then their male-dominance appears all the more incongruous, artificial, and unbecoming. Even within the legislative framework of 2023, there was no direct provision addressing this issue, despite earlier parliamentary recommendations having already acknowledged the necessity of formulating a framework for representation within these bodies.

Today, when women's representation stands at approximately 14% in the Lok Sabha, 17% in the Rajya Sabha, and around 10% in the state legislative assemblies, allowing the Upper Houses to remain – by ​​‘default’ – a sanctuary for male privilege constitutes a democratic deception. For these Houses, mandatory measures of some kind must be implemented – whether through constitutional reservation, binding ticket quotas for political parties, or statutory gender balance within the processes of nomination and indirect elections. Otherwise, what will ensue under the guise of ‘deliberation’ will merely be a more sophisticated reiteration of old privileges.

Some may contend that the demand for a 50% share is extremist. It is not; rather, it represents the courage to honestly place the concepts of proportionality and democracy within the same sentence.

The real absurdity lies in the fact that women shoulder a manifold burden within society, yet are expected to display gratitude merely for receiving a one-third share of political power. Once again, some will put forth the argument regarding "proxy women". This argument has repeatedly diminished in significance when juxtaposed with the actual experience of local self-governing bodies; in fact, parliamentary evaluations themselves have indicated that the apprehensions once stoked regarding women's reservation have not materialised in the decisive manner so frequently claimed.

And even if the possibility of proxies does exist in certain instances, the remedy lies not in rejecting reservation, but rather in constructing robust frameworks of training, financial support, security, internal party democratisation, access to political resources, and institutional safeguards.

Indian politics must now decide how it perceives women – as a mere moral presence in the assembly, there only to applaud, or as equal partners seated at the decision-making table? If the latter is the answer, then it is difficult to justify stopping at a mere 33%.

A 33% reservation may serve as a stepping stone in history, but it is not the destination. The true destination is a point where – should any political party proclaim Nari Shakti Vandan – the nation responds by asking: is it a salutation you offer, or equality? Is it respect you grant, or a rightful share?

And that party must then declare, without a moment's hesitation: equality, a rightful share, and half the republic. The most precise articulation of justice for women remains this: half the population demands not merely a third, but a minimum of half the share.

For in a democracy, granting less to women is not merely an injustice against women; it is to deprive the republic of its own 'other half', its very soul. And any republic that bars this other half of its soul at the threshold, no matter how many flags it may hoist, remains, deep down, not truly free.

Tribhuvan is a senior journalist.

This article was first published on The Wire Hindi. It has been translated by Naushin Rehman.

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