From Opportunism to Renewal
By Lang Kupar Kharpuri War
Zenith Sangma’s return to the Congress is more than a political act—it signals a chance for Meghalaya’s politics to turn away from opportunism and return to first principles: integrity, accountability, and public service. At a time when politics across the state has grown increasingly transactional, when trust between citizens and institutions has thinned, his decision to return to the Congress calls for reflection. It feels both personal and political, but it also signals something larger— a call to reclaim integrity from the cynicism of opportunism.
To grasp the significance of Zenith’s return, one must revisit the experiment that preceded it—the brief and turbulent journey of the Trinamool Congress (TMC) in Meghalaya. From the start, the TMC’s entry into the state was marred by contradictions. Even with the formidable leadership of Dr. Mukul Sangma and the experienced Charles Pyngrope, who despite his long political career could not steer the party or establish its presence in the state, the party’s presence was built not on ideology or moral clarity but on ambition. It came promising change, but it lacked the empathy, patience, and understanding needed to take root in Meghalaya’s unique political soil. Like many projects driven by the thirst for power rather than the desire to serve, it crumbled once its immediate goals went unmet.
The TMC’s leadership—both in Bengal and in Meghalaya—approached politics as a transaction, not as a relationship. When power proved elusive, purpose vanished. The party’s defeat was therefore not accidental but inevitable. The “Bengal model,” with its history of political violence, factionalism, and populist aggression, never appealed to the people of Meghalaya. Here, politics moves to a gentler rhythm—through community dialogue and through slow consensus rather than confrontation. The combative style that defined Bengal’s politics felt alien to Meghalaya’s temperament. Voters saw through the performance. The TMC was not simply an outsider—it carried an outsider’s temperament.
For many in the Garo Hills, there were other, more rooted choices. The National People’s Party (NPP), despite its compromises and growing closeness to the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), still embodied something recognisably local. It offered familiarity, pride of place, and the comfort of leadership drawn from within. Even as the Congress struggled with defections and fatigue, it retained deep roots—an organisational memory and moral familiarity that the TMC could not replicate. The TMC’s failure was thus not just electoral—it was moral and cultural, a lesson in how politics collapses when divorced from belonging.
It is within this landscape that Zenith Sangma’s return to the Congress gains its full meaning. His admission that the Congress is where he “truly belongs” is not merely sentiment—it is an act of reflection. His critique of the NPP-led government—of corruption, institutional decay, and the weakening of essential sectors like education, health, and law and order—echoes what many citizens feel. In a state where people are losing faith in their government, his return is not a matter of tactics but of conscience — a recognition where people are losing faith in their government, his return is not a matter of tactics but of conscience — a recognition that when politics loses its principles, democracy begins to decay. At a time when the Congress is fighting to reassert itself in Meghalaya, Zenith’s return bolsters both its base in the Garo Hills and its broader moral claim—to represent renewal and integrity in public life. The Congress, despite its internal flaws, remains the only national party that has spoken consistently against the authoritarian drift of the BJP-RSS combine. Through campaigns like Bharat Jodo Yatra and Vote Chori, Rahul Gandhi and others have tried to restore the moral vocabulary of Indian politics—to remind citizens that democracy is not only about victory but about values, not just about power but about purpose. The Congress, for all its wear and tear, still stands for the sanctity of the Constitution at a time when its spirit is being hollowed out.
Leaders like Zenith Sangma, having witnessed the erosion of both state and national institutions, seem to understand that the only real counter to the NPP-BJP juggernaut is a revitalised Congress. The fight is not merely about elections; it is about defending the Republic’s soul. The BJP-RSS ecosystem has worked steadily to weaken democratic institutions, erode federalism, and replace civic reasoning with ideological obedience. Beneath its rhetoric of regional autonomy, the NPP practises a politics of expediency—one that trades loyalty for power, corrodes institutions through corruption and defections, and survives in symbiosis with its master at the Centre, the BJP. It has become less a voice of the people than a broker of power. To resist this, Meghalaya needs not just regional assertion but a national moral alliance—one that binds the defence of local identity with the protection of constitutional integrity. The Congress, with its historic reach and democratic imagination, remains best equipped to carry that torch.
At the same time, the rise of the Voice of the People Party (VPP) captures the restlessness of Meghalaya’s electorate. Its anti-corruption message and youthful appeal have struck a chord, particularly in the Khasi Hills. Yet its strength also exposes its limits. Rooted in Khasi regionalism, the VPP struggles to reach beyond its cultural base. Meghalaya’s political fabric—woven from Khasi, Jaintia, and Garo identities—demands a broader, more inclusive vision. The VPP may clean part of the system, but it cannot rebuild the whole. The moral renewal of the state will depend on a politics that unites rather than divides — one that can speak to Khasi, Jaintia, and Garo alike, instead of retreating into narrow identities.
That is where the Congress’s enduring relevance lies. For all its challenges, it remains the only party capable of bridging regional aspiration with national purpose. It carries within it the legacy of the freedom movement, the institutional experience to uphold democracy, and the moral vocabulary to counter the creeping authoritarianism of the NPP-BJP alliance. Meghalaya, burdened by joblessness, addiction, and a struggling health system, needs less spectacle and more sincerity—a form of governance rooted in empathy, responsibility, and everyday realities.
Zenith Sangma’s return, then, should be seen as more than nostalgia—it is an invitation to renewal. But renewal demands courage: the courage to rebuild a party, to restore trust, and to inspire a new generation. Alongside younger leaders like Saleng Sangma, Zenith has the opportunity to help the Congress rise above the confines of party politics and the pursuit of power—to become a genuine civic movement that rebuilds trust, encourages citizens to question and care, and nurtures empathy and moral imagination in the making of a more just and compassionate Meghalaya.
What should Zenith Sangma’s return mean for the classroom, for civil society, for the youth of Meghalaya? Perhaps it is a reminder that democracy begins in how we teach, how we listen, and how we imagine the common good. If the Congress and its leaders can use this moment to revive trust and moral purpose, it could mark a turning point—not only for the party, but for the state’s democratic soul. If, instead, it remains a strategic move in the chessboard of power, then the deeper crisis will persist—the crisis of how we live, and how we teach the fragile art of democracy itself.
(The author is Assistant Professor Department of English NEHU, Shillong. [email protected])
