When media becomes theatre and anchors perform propaganda, democracy doesn’t die in darkness—it dies in high definition.
By Hamid Rather
There are moments in the life of a nation when truth becomes a casualty—not of war, but of words; not of silence, but of noise. In the days and nights that followed the recent hostilities between India and Pakistan, our television screens blazed with righteous fury. Social media feeds surged with fervent nationalism. Flags were waved, hashtags trended, and declarations of victory were made before the dust of reality could settle. But somewhere beneath the frenzy and the fire, a quiet betrayal unfolded. It wasn’t the enemy across the border that wounded us most. It was the fiction paraded as fact, the lie told with conviction, the falsehood consumed with passion. It was fake news—and it did not merely distort the contours of events; it disfigured the soul of our public reason.
This was not the first time, and tragically, it will not be the last. In India today, fake news has become the invisible gas we breathe—odourless, colourless, tasteless, and deadly. It seeps silently into drawing rooms, hostel corridors, WhatsApp groups, newsrooms, and even cabinet meetings. It paints fear on the faces of innocents and pride in the hearts of mobs. It turns pixels into pitchforks, memes into manifestos, and propaganda into patriotic performance. In its most insidious form, it wraps itself in the national flag—seeking not to inform, but to inflame.
During the recent escalation with Pakistan, this phenomenon reached grotesque proportions. Video game footage was broadcast as exclusive visuals of military operations. Explosions from other nations’ conflicts were recycled to depict Indian airstrikes. Archival clips were dressed in new uniforms, given new headlines, and marketed as breaking news. A symphony of vengeance played on primetime, and the anchors danced. There was no room for doubt, no time for verification. Caution was drowned in the chase for ratings. Truth, slow and methodical, could not keep up with the frenzy of misinformation masquerading as reportage.
But the real danger is not just in the lie—it is in its repetition, in its amplification, and in the reverence with which it is delivered. We are no longer in an age where news merely reflects reality. Increasingly, it constructs reality. And when that constructed reality rests on falsehoods, we find ourselves living in a hall of mirrors—each image more distorted than the last, each reflection further from the truth.
India, in its quest to rise as a digital superpower, has built one of the world’s largest and most dynamic information economies. But this rapid growth has not been matched by a legal and ethical infrastructure to shield its citizens from the viral toxins of fakehood. Today, we find ourselves exposed. There is no comprehensive law in India that criminalises the deliberate dissemination of fake news. The Indian Penal Code and the Information Technology Act, though occasionally invoked, are woefully inadequate—too slow, too vague, too blunt. And in their loopholes, the purveyors of disinformation find sanctuary.
What India urgently needs is not another platitude about media ethics, but a law—clear, firm, and just—that treats the calculated spread of fake news not as a slip or error, but as a punishable offence. Such a law must make a moral distinction between a journalistic lapse and a malicious campaign. Mistakes are human. Lies, weaponised and targeted, are criminal. When a media outlet knowingly broadcasts false content during wartime, elections, communal tensions, or public emergencies, it is not committing journalism—it is committing sabotage.
We must shed our illusions. The threat does not only lurk in obscure chat rooms or fringe websites. It stares us in the face during primetime, cloaked in the charisma of celebrity anchors who package fiction in nationalist fervour. It resides in editorial rooms where integrity is routinely outbid by TRPs. It is embedded in algorithms that prioritise virality over veracity. In such an ecosystem, truth needs not just defenders—it needs a legal shield.
But that shield must not be a club in the hands of the state. It must not be wielded to silence dissent or stifle criticism. Any law against fake news must be drafted with surgical precision, protected by institutional oversight, and implemented by an independent regulatory authority. This body must have the mandate to investigate violations, impose fines, suspend licenses, and, in extreme cases, initiate criminal proceedings. At the same time, the law must contain safeguards for satire, good-faith journalism, and whistleblowing. The goal must be to punish deception, not dissent—to target malice, not mistake.
Digital platforms, too, must carry their share of responsibility. When a rumour spread on WhatsApp leads to a lynching, or a deepfake video on YouTube sparks communal violence, accountability cannot dissolve into the digital ether. These platforms, which thrive on user engagement, must also invest in harm reduction. Real-time fact-checking, user education, and swift takedown mechanisms must be part of their core architecture. If they fail to act as responsible intermediaries, they must face legal consequences—not advisory letters and polite appeals.
Across the globe, the legal tide is turning. Germany’s NetzDG law imposes stiff penalties on platforms that fail to remove illegal content within a specified timeframe. Singapore’s Protection from Online Falsehoods and Manipulation Act (POFMA) grants the state powers to issue correction notices and penalise false content. These laws are not perfect, and some have sparked debate about overreach. But they reflect a growing international consensus: fake news is no longer a harmless byproduct of digital life. It is a threat to democratic health. India must now craft its own legal framework—not a borrowed replica, but a homegrown solution that balances constitutional freedoms with the urgent need for truth. A democratic nation cannot be built on misinformation. A digital economy cannot thrive on deceit.
Beyond law, however, lies the more enduring challenge of learning. The greatest antidote to fake news is an informed, critical, and questioning citizenry. Media literacy must find a place in our classrooms. Children must be taught not just how to use media, but how to evaluate it. Newsrooms must revisit the ethics of their trade. And the public must learn that patriotism is not proven by forwarding a message, but by pausing, questioning, and verifying it. The revival of truth is not a solitary act—it is a collective responsibility.
As a society, we are now caught in a dangerous dance with delusion. We have mistaken volume for veracity, performance for proof, and outrage for analysis. But the costs of this confusion are not academic. They are brutal and real—lynchings in villages, riots in cities, diplomatic flare-ups, ruined reputations, and lives lost. All because someone decided that a lie delivered with certainty is more valuable than a truth spoken with care.
To allow this to continue is to let democracy decay from within. Freedom of expression cannot mean freedom to deceive. Journalism cannot survive if facts are fungible. National unity cannot be built on doctored footage and studio theatrics. If we are serious about protecting our democracy, we must first protect the language it speaks—the language of truth.
We are not calling for censorship. We are calling for conscience. And when conscience fails—as it often does—we must turn to consequence. A robust law against fake news will not restore truth overnight. But it will send a signal that in this republic, facts are sacred, and falsehoods are not entitled to freedom. In a nation where myths can move mobs and bytes can become bullets, we owe it to ourselves to anchor our minds in reality. Let that anchor be law. And let that law be just.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this Magazine. The author can be reached at [email protected]
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