Himanta Biswa Sarma's 'Mama Politics': Affection, Control, and Erosion of Democracy in Assam

Written by: Anee Haralu

They call him Mama. The word sounds harmless, even sweet. But in Assam’s political vocabulary, it now signifies something larger: access to the ruler framed as family.

Himanta Biswa Sarma did not stumble into this. The nickname, which began in crowds and classrooms, was deliberately amplified. Clips of schoolgirls hugging him and calling him Mama circulate widely; beneficiaries of welfare schemes address him the same way. A national quiz show used the nickname as a question. Slogans like “Mamar guarantee” have since turned policy pitches into personal promises.

This is more than a stylistic tweak; it is a method. By inviting people to treat him as kin, the leader reshapes their relationship with the state. You skip the office to ask the person. You appeal to an uncle instead of petitioning a system. In the process, the critical distance between citizen and state collapses, eroding the habits that keep a democracy sane.

The method rests on three pillars. First, an image of reach: Mama hears, helps, visits, and answers the phone. Second, an image of care: the Chief Minister speaks in the grammar of family, blessing, consoling, scolding, and rewarding. Third, an image of force: when care is not enough, he acts. The same hand that pats a child’s head can also point and command. These elements do not clash; they form a coherent design.

The media often presents this as warmth, yet much of it is choreography. Cameras find the angle, sound bites travel on cue, and a produced positivity fills the air. This does not deny real affection. It shows how affection can be manufactured, scaled, and returned to the public as proof of authenticity.

What happens to governance under this model? Decisions begin to look like favours. Responsiveness becomes a matter of access. People learn the new language: “Mama will sort it out.” It works until it does not. When he is unreachable, the state feels absent again. When a decision goes against you, it feels like family rejection, not an administrative ruling. Politics devolves into personal blessings and exclusions.

This points to a deeper shift in how authority presents itself. In a republic, the law is impersonal by design. It protects you even if the ruler dislikes you, and it restrains you even if he likes you. The Mama model reverses this order. The person comes before the rule. The rule is flexible; the person is not. This is paternalism with a smile, a style that slides toward authoritarianism through familiar signs**:** a) personalization of power, where the leader’s will outweighs the office; b) contempt for intermediaries, where parties and civil groups are dismissed as obstacles; c) spectacle over process, where announcements and performances replace debate; d) moral sorting, where citizens are framed as deserving or suspect; and e) pressure on dissent, where criticism is treated as disloyalty.

Assam has seen versions of all five. Individually, they may not prove a break with democracy. Together, they show a direction of travel. The Mama persona draws a soft boundary for hard politics. It lowers the public’s guard and makes command feel like care.

Defenders call this good retail politics, a leader who shows up, listens, and gets things done. People rightly want speed and access, and bureaucracies often earn the anger they receive. But you can fix a file without breaking the frame. The frame matters because it shapes what happens when the leader is wrong, tired, or gone.

There is also a gendered dimension. The maternal uncle in Assamese life is indulgent, admired, and sometimes feared. He gives gifts, steps in during crises, and decides who belongs. When the Chief Minister inhabits this archetype, he borrows its authority. On-camera hugs and public intimacy normalize the “Mama” address. Later, that familiarity is used to sell policy for votes.

How should Assam read this moment? With clarity, not fear. The test is simple. Do institutions remain stronger than the man? Are reasons given for decisions, not just sentiments? Are laws applied even when inconvenient? Can critics speak without fear? Are the poorest served by systems that will outlast this leader?

If the answer is yes, the Mama persona is a style. It may distort public life, but it will not break it. If the answers drift toward no, intimacy has become an instrument of control.

One more question for the government. Does it want citizens who are adults, or wards? Adults argue, demand, and change their minds. Wards wait for the uncle. Build politics around wards and you may win elections. You will shrink the republic.

Assam has always been a place of strong feeling. Grief, pride, anger, and loyalty run thick here. A clever politician can turn that into a permanent campaign. A good government turns it into policy and leaves room for disagreement. The first path makes the leader large. The second makes the citizen large.

The choice is visible in how welfare is announced, how criticism is met, whether law serves principle or sentiment, and whether a selfie masquerades as governance. Leaders come and go. Institutions endure, if we let them. Call him Mama if you like. But never forget to call the law by its name.

Anee Haralu is an aspiring novelist and she is based in Guwahati.