There’s something almost theatrical about the oath-taking ceremony in the Parliament. Freshly minted MPs march up, draped in pride, puffed up with victory. They place their hand on a holy book of choice, invoke their chosen god, mumble “in the name of the Constitution”, and exit stage.

The moment is meant to be sacred, binding, and reassuring to the citizen. But does it really restrain anything? Does it stop the defections, the forgotten manifestos, the scams gift-wrapped as “policy” or the endless wishing to govern the nation like a family start-up with misplaced entrepreneurship?

Today’s oath is as effective as a “terms and conditions” box on a shopping app. You click “agree” and continue with the activity.

Why? Because swearing in the name of God or the Constitution for the elected doesn’t carry either fear or consequence anymore. The gods, after all, are infinitely forgiving. What’s a little scam, a broken promise, or a minor betrayal of democracy? One holy dip, one whispered “Michchhami Dukkadam”, and sins are wiped out faster than an expired loyalty card reissued free.

If things get messy, there’s always the evergreen line: ‘Past is past; let’s focus on the future.’ Or ‘it takes time to restructure and rebuild on the damage of decades.’ Unless, of course, power slips away and cupboards open, rattling skeletons that no brand consultant or........

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