A few days ago, the Maharashtra government quietly passed the 'Special Public Security Bill, 2024' introducing one of the most sweeping expansions of state power in recent memory. Framed as a response to rising internal threats — particularly so-called “urban Naxalism”, the bill grants the state extraordinary powers: to declare individuals, organisations, and even unaffiliated sympathisers as “unlawful”, seize their property, freeze their bank accounts, and shut down offices.

On the surface, it appears to be an anti-terrorism measure tailored for contemporary threats. But the language of the bill is alarmingly vague. Terms like "unlawful activity" and "interference with public order" are so broadly defined that they could encompass everything from armed rebellion to peaceful protest, political satire, or even cultural critique. It also includes any encouragement of 'disobedience' or perceived threats to public servants. The law also protects state officials from prosecution for actions taken “in good faith”, making it even harder to challenge or appeal.

Crucially, the bill doesn’t require prior judicial approval to designate an organisation as unlawful — a public notification is enough. Once labeled, even renting space to such a group, offering logistical support, intentionally or not, could land one in jail. All offences under the Act are 'non-bailable and cognisable', meaning arrests can be made without a warrant. An advisory board is technically in place for review, but its independence is questionable, given it is composed of members appointed by the very state it is meant to keep in check.

Civil liberties groups have been quick to respond to the dangers of the bill. Congress state president Harshavardhan Sapkal have likened it to a contemporary version of the colonial-era Rowlatt Act, a 1919 law that allowed the British government to imprison Indians without trial, widely seen as a tool to suppress political dissent. Much like that, this new bill grants the state pre-emptive power to criminalise dissent in the name of public security.

Others have pointed out that Maharashtra already has existing legislation — such as the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) and Maharashtra Control of Organised Crime Act (MCOCA), to address organised crime and extremism. The necessity of this bill, then, seems less rooted in legal gaps and more in the desire for a faster, less accountable instrument of control. These legal mechanisms, critics argue, could become instruments of 'pre-emptive criminalisation' — a way to silence dissent before it becomes visible.

In cities like Mumbai and Bengaluru, language has increasingly become a litmus test for belonging. A few weeks ago, an autorickshaw driver in Virar was physically assaulted by political party workers because he couldn’t speak Marathi. He was forced to apologise on video. In Bengaluru, two migrant workers from Bihar were stabbed earlier this year for not knowing Kannada. Incidents like these are not isolated; they are signals of a growing anxiety around identity, migration, and urban space.

What makes these tensions even more complex is that they emerge from a place of historical marginalisation. For decades, speakers of Marathi, Kannada, Tamil, Bengali, and other regional languages have pushed back against Hindi hegemony, against the assumption, often unspoken, that Hindi is the national language and the default mode of cultural expression. In that sense, the assertion of regional languages has often come from an intent to resist erasure.

But in its current form, this assertion feels less like empowerment and more like policing. It plays out on the street; in rickshaws; in hospitals; in everyday interactions. It’s not just about asking someone to learn the local language for convenience, but also establishing territorial authority. It's forcefully asking Who gets to occupy space? Who is welcome, and on what terms? Who must perform cultural deference to remain safe?

There is no explicit clause in the Maharashtra Special Public Security Bill that targets language. It does not mention migrants, or regional pride. Yet, the timing of its passage feels unnervingly in sync with these linguistic flashpoints. The bill was passed just as multiple incidents of regional assertion through language were making headlines.

Given how broadly “unlawful activity” is defined — anything that disrupts public order, incites disobedience, or creates 'apprehension', it’s not difficult to imagine a future where language and regional-based conflicts are interpreted through the lens of security. Could a migrant-led protest against linguistic discrimination be deemed disruptive? Could a cultural organisation supporting multilingual inclusion be branded as “interfering with state administration”? These are not abstract hypotheticals. These are the kinds of questions that vague laws inevitably force us to ask.

There is a concerning convergence of top-down state power and bottom-up cultural sentiment. On one end, the state arms itself with laws that give it discretion to surveil and punish without transparency. On the other, sections of society, fuelled by perceived cultural dilution or historical neglect, begin to define who counts as a 'real' citizen.

In this landscape, language can become a proxy for legitimacy. And legitimacy, once selectively granted, becomes a rationale for who deserves protection and who doesn’t. The person who cannot speak Marathi is not just linguistically different; they might be viewed as socially expendable. Add a state law that can criminalise 'fear-inducing behaviour', and the stage is set for a very specific kind of violence — one that masks exclusion as security.

The real risk of this bill is not just misuse but active weaponisation. What begins as a response to ideological violence could slowly stretch to include journalists, student groups, community organisers, or anyone resisting the mainstream narrative. The combination of legal opacity and social polarisation creates a dangerous feedback loop. Fear leads to restriction, and restriction justifies further fear.

And when the law is written to accommodate the anxieties of the moment — be they political, cultural, or ideological, with no clear boundaries around who and what it can criminalize, it ceases to function as a safeguard and begins to mirror the shifting priorities of the state itself.

You can go through a detailed breakdown of the whole bill here.

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