After nearly two years of silence, rumours are spreading that the Prime Minister may finally set foot in Manipur. The news has triggered both anticipation and skepticism. For a state that has endured untold horrors—burnt villages, mass displacements, the abduction and slaughter of innocents, including six women and even an eight-month-old infant—the absence of the country’s top leader has been deafening. Now, as whispers of his arrival grow louder, one question hovers in the minds of Manipuris: why now?
The timing is telling. General elections are fast approaching, and the BJP finds itself in urgent need of reinstating public trust in Manipur. The Ministry of Home Affairs has already begun reviewing the Suspension of Operations (SoO) agreement with Kuki militant groups, a move that appears less like policy and more like pre-poll theatre. In political corridors, the speculation is whether the visit will mark a genuine turning point or simply another attempt to manufacture optics that favor the ruling party.
The Prime Minister’s silence has left scars. When violence erupted and displaced thousands, when children grew up in relief camps without hope of returning home, when bodies of innocents were left in morgues awaiting justice, the Centre maintained an almost clinical detachment. The people of Manipur felt abandoned by Delhi, betrayed by promises of unity and integrity. For many, the Prime Minister’s absence in those darkest hours symbolized the Centre’s unwillingness to confront uncomfortable truths. Now, on the eve of elections, the prospect of his sudden concern rings hollow.
The SoO review adds yet another layer of unease. While proponents argue that continuing the agreement is necessary to prevent further violence, critics point out that it has become a tool of manipulation—allowing militant groups to regroup under the veneer of peace. If the Centre decides to extend it, will it be interpreted as a gesture of goodwill, or as appeasement designed to maintain short-term calm until ballots are cast? Either way, the people sense the political calculation. They know the difference between genuine conflict resolution and a temporary plaster applied to secure electoral advantage.
Manipur has always been invoked as a symbol of India’s unity in diversity, yet its reality has been one of neglect. The Prime Minister’s rumoured visit is thus not merely a political event but a litmus test: will it address the deep wounds of the people, or reduce the state to a campaign backdrop? Will his words acknowledge the bloodshed and displacement, or will they dissolve into platitudes about development and nationalism?
It is here that satire creeps in as the people’s defense. In India’s political theatre, satire often exposes what rhetoric tries to conceal. As analysts have pointed out, Congress has frequently wielded humor as a campaign tool, while the BJP has leaned on fear and emotional manipulation. In Manipur, where tragedy has been met with silence, the sudden urgency to “reconnect” with the people smacks of irony. To speak of trust now, after two years of absence, is like returning home only when the harvest is ready, having ignored the storm that destroyed the fields.
The BJP may well believe that trust can be reinstated like a software update—install a visit, launch a few welfare announcements, and reboot the system just in time for elections. But Manipuris are not passive recipients of optics. They have endured decades of broken promises, from the June uprising of 2001 under a BJP government at the Centre to the ongoing crisis under the present dispensation. The memory of betrayal is long, and trust cannot be manufactured on an election schedule.
If the Prime Minister does come, he has an opportunity to prove that this visit is not mere performance. He must engage directly with those who have suffered, ensure accountability for atrocities, and present a credible roadmap for restoring peace and dignity. Anything less will confirm the cynicism already prevalent among Manipuris—that Delhi remembers them only when votes are at stake.