A curious piece of political theatre unfolded in the Indian capital on April 24th. At a joint press conference, three Aam Aadmi Party Rajya Sabha members—Raghav Chadha, Sandeep Pathak and Ashok Mittal—announced that they and four colleagues were merging with the Bharatiya Janata Party. A letter signed by all seven, including Harbhajan Singh, Rajinder Gupta, Vikram Sahney and Swati Maliwal, had been delivered that morning to the Rajya Sabha Chairman, complete with the requisite documents. Only the trio faced the cameras; the others remained publicly silent. AAP leaders, led by Sanjay Singh, denounced the move as “Operation Lotus”, the ruling party’s alleged knack for coaxing rivals to bloom in saffron. They vowed to petition for the seven’s disqualification. The defectors, however, rested easy on a constitutional nicety: when two-thirds of a party’s legislators in a house agree to merge, the anti-defection law offers protection. With AAP holding ten seats in the upper house, seven comfortably cleared the threshold. The choreography, by several accounts, had been months in the making, steered by Mr Chadha after his recent removal as the party’s deputy leader in the Rajya Sabha.
Such episodes are becoming familiar. They reveal how the BJP has grown into India’s dominant political force, not merely through the ballot box but by steadily incorporating pieces of its opponents. In the Lok Sabha the party holds 240 seats, the largest bloc, and anchors the National Democratic Alliance in government. Its Rajya Sabha strength, hitherto more precarious, has risen from 106 to 113 with the new arrivals, easing the passage of legislation in a 245-member chamber. At state level the saffron map is even more striking: outright rule in 14 states and, with allies, sway over 19 of India’s 28. Recent wins in Haryana, Maharashtra and Bihar have extended the pattern. In many assemblies, benches have lengthened as much by floor-crossing as by electoral triumph.
This is no mere coincidence of voter mood. Since Narendra Modi’s breakthrough in 2014, the BJP has blended ideological discipline, organisational muscle and a pragmatic openness to new recruits. In Maharashtra a split in Shiv Sena allowed Eknath Shinde’s faction to realign with the BJP, toppling a rival coalition. Across northern states, waves of Congress legislators have switched sides, often citing fatigue with dynastic ways or the appeal of “double-engine” governance—BJP rule at both centre and state. The latest intake from AAP fits the mould. A party once noisy in its claims to purity is now losing senior parliamentarians to the very establishment it once railed against.
The Aam Aadmi Party’s own story helps explain the BJP’s magnetism. AAP emerged from the anti-corruption ferment of 2011-12, when Anna Hazare’s movement laid bare the scandals of the Congress-led government. Arvind Kejriwal, a former Income tax officer with a gift for righteous indignation, broke ranks to found the party on Mahatma Gandhi’s birth anniversary in 2012. Its broom symbol and earthy promises—cheap electricity, water, improved schools, clean administration—struck a chord with urban, lower-middle-class voters weary of the old party’s entitlement and inefficiency.
The formula delivered spectacularly in Delhi. After a short-lived minority government in 2013, AAP swept 67 of 70 assembly seats in 2015, stopping the Modi juggernaut in its tracks. It repeated the feat in 2020 and captured Punjab in 2022 on a tide of anti-incumbency. For a spell, AAP looked like the natural successor to Congress’s progressive urban base: pragmatic on welfare, culturally moderate, fixated on tangible delivery. Mohalla clinics and subsidised utilities became its signature.
Success, however, proved brittle. Expansion beyond its strongholds stalled. Central agencies pursued Mr Kejriwal and his circle over excise policy and money-laundering cases. Internal frictions grew. The defection of seven Rajya Sabha MPs—more than two-thirds of its upper-house contingent—marks a deeper malaise. Swati Maliwal has spoken pointedly of “unchecked corruption” under Mr Kejriwal, recalling her own past grievances. The remaining three silent MPs have yet to explain themselves in public. AAP is left with just three Rajya Sabha members and must now defend its government in Punjab against further erosion, particularly with state polls on the horizon.
The consequences for Indian democracy are weighty. Control of the centre and most states gives the BJP unusual scope for policy continuity on infrastructure, digital public goods and cultural signalling. Managing allies in the NDA requires tact, yet the party’s resources and cadre dwarf those of its partners. The opposition, by contrast, appears increasingly splintered. Congress has been hollowed out by successive defeats and defections. Regional redoubts survive in the south and east, but they offer no coherent national alternative. The very space AAP once carved from Congress is, in part, quietly reverting—either directly to the BJP or through the quiet assimilation of its personnel.
Whether this represents healthy democratic consolidation or a gentle slide towards one-party dominance will be argued for years. The BJP’s defenders point to repeated electoral mandates, welfare schemes and India’s rising global heft. Its critics highlight the use of investigative agencies and the narrowing of dissent. The constitutional provision allowing two-thirds mergers is unambiguous. Yet when such manoeuvres multiply, often accompanied by raids and rewards, they inevitably raise questions about the robustness of competitive politics.
For the moment, the lotus continues its quiet expansion. The BJP is growing not only by winning over voters but by absorbing fragments of its rivals’ political DNA. As India approaches the next electoral cycle, the real question is less whether the party remains the country’s largest—it clearly does—than whether any credible counterweight can still take shape. Friday’s events in Delhi suggest that, for now at least, the answer remains elusive. (Word count: 838)
