The Power of Rulers and the Power of Being Ruled
By: Narayanan Kizhumundayur
The story of civilisation is not a solo performance; it is a duet. On one side stands the ruler—visible, commanding, and often celebrated in history books. On the other side stands the ruled—vast, quiet, and often absent from those same books, yet no less powerful in shaping history’s course.
The rise and fall of empires, the flowering and withering of nations, the triumph of justice and the decay of tyranny—all these have been determined by the constant, sometimes invisible interplay between the power to rule and the power to be ruled.
From the earliest kings of Mesopotamia to the presidents of modern republics, rulers have been the architects of law, order, and vision. In ancient Egypt, the Pharaoh was worshipped as a god on earth, commanding pyramids to rise from desert sands. In Rome, emperors like Augustus transformed a chaotic republic into a stable empire, wielding power that could summon legions or remake cities.
Yet history also reminds us that the grandeur of the ruler hides a fragile truth: their power lasts only as long as the people’s obedience. Napoleon Bonaparte, for instance, rose from obscurity to become master of Europe, redrawing the map with his campaigns. But when his armies faltered and his people’s faith waned, the empire he built crumbled like sandcastles before the tide. The ruler’s authority is both a gift and a burden.
Ashoka the Great, after his brutal conquest of Kalinga, was haunted by the sight of slaughter. He used his imperial might not for further conquest, but to spread Buddhism, foster tolerance, and establish welfare measures centuries ahead of their time. In this lies the test of every ruler—whether they use their power as a whip or as a staff.
At first glance, the ruled seem like passive recipients of orders, faceless crowds in the shadow of thrones. But the true measure of their power becomes clear when they act together. The French Revolution was not sparked by the whim of a few politicians—it erupted because millions of peasants, artisans, and thinkers refused to accept hunger while palaces overflowed with feasts.
The storming of the Bastille in 1789 was as much an act of political defiance as it was a statement of human dignity: “We will no longer be silent.” In colonial India, the British Empire ruled over millions with a relatively small administrative force. That control held only because the people, for decades, cooperated—whether out of habit, fear, or lack of unity.
When Gandhi transformed that cooperation into non-cooperation—boycotting British goods, refusing to pay certain taxes, and marching to the sea for salt—the empire trembled. The rulers’ power did not end with a bloody rebellion; it ended when the ruled simply withdrew the fuel that kept the imperial engine running. The ruled may not command armies, but they command consent. And consent, once withdrawn, can be more powerful than cannon fire.
Rulers and ruled exist in a relationship of mutual dependence. The ruler governs, protects, and organises; the ruled support, obey, and legitimise. In a healthy democracy, this relationship is visible and formal—citizens vote, rulers serve, and the cycle renews. In an autocracy, it may be hidden beneath layers of fear and propaganda, but even there, the ruler must maintain a certain degree of public acceptance to survive.
When this balance is honoured, nations flourish. The Scandinavian monarchies, though largely ceremonial today, endure because their rulers respect their people’s trust and the people value the stability they represent. When the balance is broken, however, disaster follows—tyranny when rulers grow arrogant, chaos when the ruled rebel without a plan.
The French Revolution offers both lessons: the fall of a corrupt monarchy proved the people’s power, but the ensuing Reign of Terror proved that the people’s power must be guided by vision and restraint.
History’s wheel turns in cycles. Rulers rise, rule, and fall; the ruled watch, endure, and sometimes rise themselves to become rulers. Cromwell in England, Lenin in Russia, and countless revolutionaries elsewhere began as ordinary subjects before seizing the reins of power. In their ascent, they often learned what their predecessors knew: it is far easier to criticise power than to wield it well.
Even in our age of elections and mass media, the same dynamic persists. A government’s authority is tested not only in the parliament but in the streets, in public opinion, and increasingly, in the digital space where the ruled can now speak directly and collectively. Social media has become a new arena where the ruled can challenge policies, demand justice, or withdraw trust—sometimes toppling ministers without a single physical protest.
The power of rulers is like a sword—sharp, visible, and immediate. The power of the ruled is like water—quiet, patient, yet capable of wearing away stone. Both are dangerous when uncontrolled, but both are necessary when balanced. The most enlightened rulers—Ashoka, Abraham Lincoln, Nelson Mandela—understood that their authority came not from titles alone but from the trust and will of the people.
The most empowered citizens understand that their role is not only to resist when wronged, but also to sustain when just governance is in place. Without the ruler, the people risk disorder. Without the people, the ruler is only a figure in an empty hall. The two are not enemies by nature, but partners in the great, unending work of building and maintaining civilisation.
The chronicles of humanity teach us this: the ruler’s throne rests on the shoulders of the ruled, and the ruled’s destiny is shaped by the vision of the ruler. When either side forgets this truth, imbalance follows—sometimes in whispers, sometimes in fire.
The great empires of the past—Egypt, Rome, the Mughals, the British—were all, in their own time, monuments to the partnership between those who led and those who followed. And in every case, when that partnership collapsed, the monuments became ruins. The power of rulers dazzles in its immediacy; the power of the ruled endures in its persistence. One burns like the sun, the other flows like the river. Civilisation thrives only when the two meet—not in collision, but in harmony.
(The author is an accounts professional based in Kerala. He is a regular contributor to ‘Kashmir Vision’)
