Of “instant” heroes like Abhijeet Dipke and Vidyanand Bapat

Raju Korti
India appears to have discovered a new species of public figure: the instant hero. He arrives suddenly, usually through social media, carrying a lofty cause, a vocabulary of indignation and, more often than not, an army of followers who have decided within 48 hours that they have found the messiah they had been waiting for. The same public, with equal efficiency, reverses the verdict a week later and converts the messiah into a fraud, an agent, a political plant or, in particularly imaginative circumstances, all three.

We are living in the age of instant everything. Instant coffee, instant noodles, instant opinions, instant outrage and now instant reputations. There is little appetite left for the tiresome business of investigation, comprehension, context and rationalisation. Why examine a person when a three-minute video will do? Why read a manifesto when a viral clip can provide a conclusion? Why wait for facts when an algorithm has already supplied an opinion?

Abhijeet Dipke

The phenomenon is worth examining because two young men, Abhijeet Dipke of the Cockroach Janta Party and Pune's Vidyanand Bapat, have recently found themselves propelled into public consciousness with remarkable speed, albeit through very different causes. Their individual motives, political affiliations and future ambitions deserve to be judged on evidence, not rumour. But the larger phenomenon surrounding them is unmistakable. A cause acquires a face, the face acquires followers, the followers create a hero, and before anybody has had the time to ask inconvenient questions, the hero has acquired a political biography.

Dipke's rise is particularly instructive. The Cockroach Janta Party began as an irreverent response to the controversial "cockroach" remark and subsequently became associated with the student movement around education and examination-related issues. It acquired extraordinary visibility among young people and Dipke emerged as its most recognisable face. The organisation has since developed an identifiable structure, with Dipke being named national convenor.

There was, on the face of it, nothing wrong with the cause. In fact, causes concerning students, competitive examinations and the credibility of India's education system deserve serious public attention. The problem begins when a movement's moral capital becomes indistinguishable from the political capital of its organisers.

That is precisely where Sonam Wangchuk's recent observation becomes significant. Wangchuk, who had supported the student movement, has now said that he believes Dipke and his fellow organisers do have political ambitions. Importantly, he did not suggest that having such ambitions was inherently wrong. His point was that political ambition is perfectly legitimate, provided a supposedly non-political movement is not covertly converted into a vehicle for somebody's political agenda.

That distinction is crucial. There is nothing dishonourable about wanting to enter politics. Politics is not a contagious disease from which public activists must maintain quarantine. If a young man wants to become an MLA, MP, minister or even Prime Minister, he should say so. What is questionable is the theatrical pretence that politics has nothing to do with the enterprise when politics may eventually be its destination.

Vidyanand Bapat

Pune has produced another fascinating example of how quickly a cause can manufacture celebrity. Vidyanand Bapat's campaign against excessive DJ noise during public festivities, particularly during Ganeshotsav, struck a chord with many citizens tired of having their ears subjected to what can sometimes sound less like devotional music and more like an assault on the decibel meter. His invocation of Sanskrit texts, constitutional principles and social reform gave the campaign an intellectual wrapping. There is nothing inherently objectionable in the argument itself. Indeed, the larger issue of noise pollution deserves a rational and uniform policy, irrespective of which religion, festival or political gathering produces the noise. Recent protests in Pune have shown that the concern extends well beyond one festival or one community.

But here too the public conversation soon moved away from the issue and towards the man. Questions about his background, employment, ideology and political associations began to dominate the discussion. That is the moment when the cause starts losing its innocence. It is also the moment when the public ought to become more discerning, not more hysterical.

There is, after all, absolutely nothing wrong with being a BPO employee. There is nothing wrong with being an atheist. There is nothing wrong with being on the Left, the Right or somewhere in the political middle. Nor is there anything wrong with having political ambitions. What is objectionable is concealment when transparency would have been simpler. A citizen has every right to know whether he is listening to an activist speaking for a cause or a future politician speaking through a cause.

This is where instant deification becomes dangerous. Deification is merely condemnation's more flattering cousin. Both suffer from the same intellectual disease: premature conclusion. We do not really examine people anymore. We either worship them or demolish them. The middle ground, where judgement resides, has become distinctly unfashionable.

The internet has made this worse. Social media does not reward nuance. It rewards certainty. The person who says, "Let us examine the evidence" rarely goes viral. The person who says, "I have exposed the truth" does. A complicated argument requires attention; outrage requires only a thumb. And so an individual can become a national phenomenon before the country has had the opportunity to discover whether he is a serious public figure, an energetic activist, a political aspirant or merely a particularly gifted user of social media.

The danger for the supposed hero is equally considerable. Instant fame creates an expectation of instant perfection. The public that crowns you today can crucify you tomorrow for discovering that you are human. We have created a culture in which public figures are expected to be saints until proven political, and villains until proven innocent. Both expectations are absurd.

The mythology surrounding new political formations is especially revealing. Every generation believes it has invented political purity. Young faces, fresh slogans, new acronyms and impressive mission statements are presented as evidence of a new politics. But politics has an irritating habit of remaining politics. Change the bottle, redesign the label, introduce Gen Z and add a fashionable logo, but the contents can remain remarkably familiar. Old political wine has survived many modern plastic bottles.

This is not an argument against young political leaders. Quite the contrary. India desperately needs young people to enter public life. It needs activists who can challenge established political parties, bureaucracies and institutions. It needs citizens who are prepared to question authority. But it needs them to enter the arena honestly. A political ambition declared openly is far more respectable than a political ambition concealed behind a halo.

The same principle applies to established political parties. The temptation to manufacture or appropriate spontaneous movements is hardly confined to one ideological camp. The BJP, Congress, AAP, Shiv Sena, MNS and virtually every other political formation have understood the enormous value of associating themselves with movements that already possess emotional energy. Why build a constituency from scratch when somebody else has already built one for you?

But the public is not quite as naive as political strategists imagine. It may be slow, but it is not permanently stupid. Sooner or later the question emerges: who benefits? Who funds? Who organises? Who stands behind the curtain? And most importantly, where does the movement go when the original cause has exhausted its news value?

That is the real test of instant movements. If the cause survives after the celebrity disappears, it was probably a genuine cause. If the cause begins disappearing the moment the individual starts acquiring political prominence, the public is entitled to ask whether the cause was ever the destination or merely the vehicle.

There is also a lesson here for the media. We have become enthusiastic manufacturers of heroes. Television studios need faces, digital platforms need clicks and newspapers need headlines. The young activist with a memorable line is infinitely more marketable than the anonymous citizen who has spent ten years working quietly on the same issue. Serious causes are therefore increasingly personalised. The issue becomes secondary; the influencer becomes primary.

And therein lies the irony. We complain about personality cults in politics while creating miniature personality cults every day on social media.

Perhaps the wiser response is neither adulation nor condemnation. It is patience. Let the cause be tested. Let the individual be questioned. Let political affiliations be declared. Let the record accumulate. Let time do what virality cannot do: reveal character.

Dipke may eventually become a politician. Bapat may or may not. Either would be perfectly legitimate. What matters is that neither should need to pretend otherwise if that is indeed where the road leads. Politics is not a crime. Ambition is not a crime. Ideology is not a crime. But disguising politics as pure activism, if that is what happens, is precisely what invites suspicion.

India's political landscape is changing, and the young will inevitably occupy more of it. That is welcome. But the country does not need instant heroes. It needs durable leaders. The distinction is enormous. An instant hero is produced by a moment. A leader is tested by time.

The age of instant fame has taught us to press the accelerator before starting the engine. We discover somebody on Monday, adore him on Tuesday, defend him on Wednesday, suspect him on Thursday and denounce him by Friday. By the weekend, another hero has arrived.

Perhaps the only sensible response is to slow down. Before putting anybody on a pedestal, ask who built the pedestal. Before tearing it down, ask why. And before assuming that a lofty cause has no political destination, remember the oldest rule of politics: the most important part of the journey is often the destination nobody wants to talk about.

The Indus Waters Treaty: What Comes After the Hague?

Raju Korti
For 65 years, the Indus Waters Treaty survived what diplomacy between India and Pakistan could not. Wars, terrorism, political upheavals and repeated crises failed to dislodge an agreement signed in 1960 under the auspices of the World Bank. Yet the treaty is now suspended by India, challenged by Pakistan and, following the latest ruling from The Hague, caught in an extraordinary legal and diplomatic limbo. The Permanent Court of Arbitration has ruled that the treaty remains binding and that India cannot unilaterally place it in abeyance. India, however, has rejected the ruling, maintaining that the court has no jurisdiction and that its decision to keep the treaty in abeyance remains firmly in force.

The background is well known. Following the Pahalgam terror attack of April 2025, in which 26 people were killed, India announced that the Indus Waters Treaty would remain in abeyance until Pakistan credibly and irrevocably ended its support for cross-border terrorism. The decision represented a fundamental departure from India's traditionally cautious handling of the treaty. The agreement had given India the principal rights over the eastern rivers, Ravi, Beas and Sutlej, while Pakistan received the larger share of the western rivers, Indus, Jhelum and Chenab, subject to specified Indian uses, particularly for hydropower.

The Hague ruling has now complicated an already difficult situation. The Court of Arbitration concluded that the treaty does not provide for unilateral suspension or termination by either country and directed India to continue observing its obligations. It also imposed interim restrictions on certain construction at the Ratle hydro-electric project in Jammu and Kashmir, pending consideration by the treaty's separate neutral-expert mechanism. India has rejected the award in its entirety, describing the arbitration body as illegally constituted and reiterating that it has never recognised its jurisdiction.

Indus Waters (File grab) 

Pakistan, predictably, has welcomed the ruling. Islamabad sees it as an affirmation of its contention that India cannot use the treaty as an instrument of political pressure and cannot unilaterally alter the established water-sharing arrangement. Significantly, however, Pakistan has also indicated that it is studying the decision and considering how it might help create a pathway back to engagement under the treaty. That phrase may ultimately prove more important than the celebratory rhetoric surrounding the verdict.

For neither country does the present impasse offer a satisfactory long-term solution. India cannot reasonably be expected to accept a judicial mechanism whose jurisdiction it disputes, particularly when it believes Pakistan has exploited the treaty's dispute-resolution machinery to delay or complicate Indian hydroelectric projects. Pakistan, equally, cannot afford to treat the Indus system merely as another arena of confrontation. Around four-fifths of its agricultural land depends on the river system, while its food security, power generation and drinking-water requirements are deeply intertwined with it. Water is therefore not simply an economic issue for Pakistan. It is an existential one.

What, then, happens next? The answer is unlikely to emerge from another courtroom. The more plausible route is a return, however reluctant, to direct diplomacy. The two countries will eventually have to distinguish between the legal dispute over the treaty and the practical necessity of managing rivers that do not recognise political frontiers. A functioning dialogue on reservoir operations, hydrological data, flood management, hydropower projects and future storage capacity would serve both sides better than an endless succession of competing legal proceedings.

India has acquired considerable strategic leverage by placing the treaty in abeyance, but leverage is most useful when it produces an outcome. Its objective cannot simply be to demonstrate that it possesses the capacity to alter the status quo. The larger objective would be to secure a new understanding in which India's legitimate developmental and strategic requirements are acknowledged while Pakistan receives credible assurances about downstream water flows. Such an arrangement could involve revisiting outdated technical provisions, strengthening data-sharing mechanisms and creating a more contemporary dispute-resolution framework.

Pakistan, for its part, will have to recognise that the old assumption of an immutable treaty operating independently of the broader India-Pakistan relationship has become untenable. Islamabad cannot expect the water relationship to remain insulated indefinitely from terrorism, security concerns and the larger deterioration in bilateral relations. If it wants the treaty restored, it may eventually have to address the political conditions India has attached to its suspension.

The World Bank, meanwhile, is unlikely to be able to impose a solution. Its role was instrumental in facilitating the original treaty, but the present crisis is fundamentally political. The parallel mechanisms involving the Court of Arbitration and the neutral expert have themselves become part of the dispute. The Hague ruling may establish one legal interpretation, but it cannot compel India to accept a jurisdiction it does not recognise.

The ultimate irony is that both countries have a powerful reason to negotiate. India may possess the advantage of being the upper riparian, but it cannot manufacture water at will, nor can it escape the ecological and humanitarian consequences of a destabilised Indus basin. Pakistan may be the more water-dependent country, but its best protection lies not in international declarations alone, but in a workable relationship with the country upstream.

The Indus Waters Treaty may therefore be entering not its final chapter, but a period of renegotiation in everything but name. India is unlikely simply to return to the old status quo, while Pakistan cannot permanently live with an arrangement in abeyance. Somewhere between these two uncompromising positions lies the only sustainable answer. The Hague may have delivered a ruling, but the real verdict will ultimately be delivered across the negotiating table. And that is where India and Pakistan must eventually meet.

A controversial interview and Imran Khan’s battle beyond prison!

Raju Korti
Michael Atherton probably knew he was opening a sensitive door when he sat down with Imran Khan’s sons, Sulaiman and Kasim, at Lord’s. What he may not have anticipated was the political storm that the 18-minute Sky Sports interview would unleash. The sons alleged that their father was being kept in extreme isolation, that his health was deteriorating and, most alarmingly, that the authorities were "blatantly trying to kill him". The Pakistan Cricket Board reacted with such intensity that it reportedly considered preventing its team from returning to the field after lunch and subsequently lodged a formal complaint with Sky. The players eventually resumed the Test.

The disproportionate reaction says something important. The interview was not merely about a jailed former prime minister. It was about a man who remains one of Pakistan's most recognisable sporting and political figures, and whose name continues to carry enormous emotional resonance. By trying to contain the interview, Pakistan's establishment arguably gave it an international reach that it might otherwise never have achieved. PTV Sports reportedly did not carry the segment, but millions outside Pakistan heard the allegations.

(Imran Khan (inset his sons): Facebook grab)

What makes the episode more significant is that Atherton is not an outsider commenting casually on Pakistani politics. He is a former England captain who has known the cricketing world in which Imran was once an undisputed giant. He has now joined a growing chorus of former international captains asking Pakistan's authorities to ensure that Imran receives proper medical treatment. Twenty-two former captains, including India's Sunil Gavaskar and Kapil Dev, Australia's Greg and Ian Chappell and other international cricketing figures, have appealed to Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif.

Greg Chappell's intervention has been particularly poignant. Having met Imran in Pakistan six years ago, Chappell said the man he sees today is no longer the "strong, robust" personality he remembers. He expressed concern over Imran's reported eye disability, isolation and declining physical condition. Javed Miandad, another man who shared the dressing room with Imran during Pakistan's golden cricketing years, has also spoken emotionally about his former captain. Australian batsman Usman Khawaja, himself born in Islamabad, openly mocked the PCB's reaction to the Atherton interview. These are not political activists. They are cricketing voices invoking a humanitarian obligation.

The question, however, is whether such moral pressure will actually change anything. Pakistan's government insists that Imran is being properly treated and says he has received hundreds of visits from relatives, lawyers and doctors. The authorities have also rejected allegations of mistreatment. Yet the controversy surrounding his recent medical examination has deepened rather than settled doubts. A Supreme Court order concerning his medical assessment was followed by his brief examination at a government hospital before he was returned to prison, prompting renewed questions from his family and supporters.

The uncomfortable reality is that the phrase "Pakistan government" often conceals a more powerful institutional equation. Imran's imprisonment is inseparable from the struggle between his political movement and the country's military establishment. Consequently, the issue is unlikely to be decided merely by the Prime Minister's office or the prison authorities. The military establishment has regarded Imran not simply as a political opponent but as a potential challenge to the power structure that has shaped Pakistan for decades.

That explains why the cricketing fraternity's appeal may have limited immediate effect. International cricketing prestige can create embarrassment, but it cannot easily override a security establishment that regards Imran's political resurgence as a threat. Yet the appeals are not entirely futile. They internationalise the issue, create a record of concern and raise the political cost of any deterioration in his condition.

There is also a darker dimension. Speculation about Imran's wellbeing has periodically produced questions about whether the public is being given a complete picture of his condition. Such speculation should not be presented as fact without evidence. But when a 73-year-old former prime minister remains largely inaccessible, when his family complains about medical care and when independent verification is difficult, an information vacuum inevitably develops. The best antidote to such speculation would be transparency: regular independent medical examinations, access to family and lawyers, and credible disclosure of his actual condition.

For Imran, therefore, the future remains deeply uncertain. Release appears politically improbable in the immediate term unless there is a significant recalibration within Pakistan's power structure. Continued imprisonment, however, carries its own risks. Keeping him alive but politically silenced may preserve a problem; allowing his health to deteriorate could transform him into an even more potent symbol of resistance.

That may ultimately be the paradox confronting Pakistan's establishment. Imran Khan can be imprisoned, isolated and excluded from political life. What it cannot easily imprison is his legacy. The man who once led Pakistan to its only World Cup triumph has now become the subject of an international cricketing appeal for humane treatment. The more the authorities try to keep his story behind prison walls, the more the cricketing world appears determined to take it beyond them.i 

The Himalayas are sending a warning, beyond borders!

Raju Korti
What happened along the Nepal-China border on August 26 is difficult to comprehend because it began with something that appears almost immovable: a glacier. A vast mass of ice and underlying rock near Langtang Lirung suddenly collapsed, producing a seismic shock initially mistaken for an earthquake. Satellite observations subsequently confirmed that the tremour was generated by an enormous ice and rock avalanche. A huge section of ice and bedrock plunged from an altitude of around 5,200 metres, setting off a chain reaction that sent ice, boulders, mud and water into the Lhende Khola and subsequently the Bhote Koshi and Trishuli river systems.

The consequences were devastating. Water levels reportedly surged by eight to nine metres within about 30 minutes, while a fast-moving mixture of ice, rock, mud and water swept through valleys, destroying settlements, roads, bridges and hydropower infrastructure. The damage extended across the border into Tibet, including the important Gyirong trade and border area. What began as a high-altitude geological event thus became a transboundary catastrophe, demonstrating that a disaster born thousands of metres above sea level can quickly become a crisis far downstream.

A glacier is essentially a gigantic, slowly moving river of ice, formed when snow accumulates over many years, compresses under its own weight and turns into dense ice. Normally, its movement is gradual and predictable. A glacial collapse occurs when that equilibrium breaks dramatically and a section of ice, often accompanied by the rock supporting it, suddenly gives way.

Several factors can contribute. Rising temperatures melt and weaken ice, while warming can also thaw permafrost, the permanently frozen ground and rock that acts like natural cement in high mountains. Meltwater can enter cracks, increase pressure and lubricate surfaces. Heavy snowfall, intense rainfall, avalanches, erosion or earthquakes can then provide the final trigger. In a landscape as steep and unstable as the Himalayas, these forces can combine with devastating speed.

(Pic courtesy Instagram grab)

The Himalayas have always been geologically restless. They are among the world's youngest major mountain systems, created by the continuing collision of the Indian and Eurasian tectonic plates. The same geological forces that created the mountains continue to deform and destabilise them. Climate change adds another layer of risk. Scientists are therefore cautious about attributing any single avalanche or collapse exclusively to global warming. But there is increasing evidence that a warmer high-altitude environment is altering glaciers, snowfields and frozen ground, making some slopes and ice masses less stable.

This distinction matters. The Langtang disaster was not simply a "man-made" event. No human activity can be identified as having directly caused that particular mass of ice and rock to fall on August 26. Yet humanity cannot entirely wash its hands of responsibility. Climate change is overwhelmingly driven by human activity, especially the burning of fossil fuels. The Hindu Kush Himalaya is warming rapidly, and glacier loss in the region has accelerated sharply. According to the International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development, glaciers in the Hindu Kush Himalaya are losing ice at an increasingly alarming rate, threatening water security for almost two billion people who depend directly or indirectly on rivers originating in the region.

The most frightening lesson is that people do not have to live beside a glacier to be endangered by it. A collapsing glacier can block a river, creating a temporary natural dam. Water accumulates behind it and, when the blockage fails, an enormous volume can be released almost instantaneously. Add boulders, ice, mud, trees and debris to the torrent and an ordinary flood becomes something resembling liquid concrete. It can demolish almost everything in its path.

This means downstream communities face a recurring risk. The danger is not necessarily that the same glacier will collapse again, but that another unstable glacier, slope or glacial lake could produce a similar chain reaction. The answer cannot simply be to abandon every mountain settlement. Millions depend upon these valleys for homes, agriculture, tourism, transport and hydropower. But neither can governments continue building as though the climate and mountains remain unchanged from the twentieth century.

Nor is this uniquely a Himalayan problem. Glacier-related avalanches and floods have occurred in the Andes, Alaska, western Canada, the European Alps and New Zealand. Peru has experienced some of the world's most devastating glacier disasters, including the 1970 Huascarán avalanche that killed thousands. What makes the Himalayas particularly vulnerable is the combination of rapidly changing glaciers, steep and fractured terrain, monsoon rainfall, dense downstream populations and the concentration of roads, dams, hydropower projects and settlements in narrow valleys.

The Langtang tragedy therefore demands a new approach to disaster management. There is no technology capable of stopping a glacier from collapsing. The realistic objective is to identify danger early and reduce human exposure. That means continuously mapping unstable glaciers, slopes and glacial lakes, using satellites, seismic sensors, drones, river gauges and increasingly sophisticated computer models. Early-warning systems must be linked directly to communities, with mobile alerts, sirens, evacuation routes and designated shelters.

The greatest investment may not be another concrete structure but information. A warning received ten minutes before a flash flood can save hundreds of lives. A warning received an hour earlier can save many more. Disaster management must therefore move from responding to catastrophe to anticipating it.

There is also a larger geopolitical lesson. Nature does not recognise international boundaries. The collapse occurred in the Himalayan border region, the resulting debris affected both Nepal and Tibet, and the river systems carry water further downstream into the wider Ganga basin. A glacier may belong geographically to one country, but the consequences of its collapse can belong to several.

This makes Nepal's position particularly delicate. Sandwiched between India and China, Kathmandu has traditionally sought to balance its relationships with both. The Langtang disaster demonstrates why environmental security cannot be separated from regional diplomacy. Nepal needs China for connectivity, infrastructure and trade, while its geography, markets and downstream river systems make India indispensable. China, Nepal and India therefore have a shared interest in reliable information about glaciers, weather, rivers and potential floods.

The temptation would be to view every such issue through the India-China geopolitical prism. That would be counterproductive. Climate and geology are becoming too powerful to be subordinated to strategic rivalry. What is needed is a regional mechanism for sharing satellite observations, hydrological information and early warnings without political hesitation. When a mountain collapses, sovereignty does not stop the water.

This is also where the allegations surrounding infrastructure and information sharing in the border region deserve scrutiny, but not speculation. Claims that construction or development around Gyirong directly caused this particular collapse require scientific evidence. Similarly, allegations of deliberate withholding of information should be established through facts rather than conjecture. The larger principle, however, is beyond dispute: where rivers, glaciers and hazards cross borders, timely sharing of environmental information is a matter of public safety, not diplomatic courtesy.

The catastrophe inevitably raises another question for those undertaking the Kailash Mansarovar pilgrimage: is the spiritual journey worth the physical risk? There can be no universal answer. For a devotee, Kailash is not simply a tourist destination but a profound spiritual undertaking. Yet faith cannot repeal geology. The tragic death of dancer Protima Bedi in a landslide in 1998, while on the Kailash Mansarovar pilgrimage, remains a poignant reminder that the route has always demanded respect. In a warming Himalaya, that respect must now include modern scientific risk assessment, real-time weather monitoring, evacuation plans and a willingness to postpone journeys when nature issues a warning.

The Langtang catastrophe is ultimately much bigger than a glacier collapsing in Nepal. It is a warning about the relationship between a changing planet and an increasingly exposed civilisation. For centuries, humanity treated mountains as permanent, rivers as predictable and glaciers as eternal. None of those assumptions remains entirely safe.

The glacier that collapses tomorrow may be in Nepal, Peru, Alaska or the Alps. The people affected may live hundreds of kilometres away, possibly in another country. That is why this is not merely a problem of Himalayan geography. It is a problem of global environmental security.

We cannot prevent every natural disaster. We can, however, decide how vulnerable we are when nature strikes. The Himalayas are not collapsing because humanity exists, but humanity is creating a warmer world in which the Himalayas are becoming less predictable. The real question is no longer whether climate change will alter the mountains. It already is. The question is whether governments and societies will change fast enough to survive what the mountains may do next.

From cutting chai to cabinet power: The Gadkari I knew then, and now I don't!

Raju Korti
I and Nitin Gadkari were born in the same year, 1957, in the same city, Nagpur, now famously acknowledged, other than for oranges, as the bastion of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh. Our chosen professions were different, but our paths crossed quite early. I came to know him on first-name terms after he began emerging as a student leader of the Akhil Bharatiya Vidyarthi Parishad, the student wing associated with the Bharatiya Janata Party.

Those were simpler days. I would drop my wife at a nearby bus stop at Shankar Nagar Square, where we would occasionally catch up perchance. There was nothing remotely grand about those encounters. We would share a cutting chai at a ramshackle tea stall, a tapri, exchanging small talk and pleasantries. There was no entourage, no security cordon and certainly no political theatre. He was simply Nitin, an energetic young man making his way in politics.

Extreme left me with Gadkari, book in hand 

Later, after I joined The Indian Express, he invited me to the thread ceremony of his sons at his residence in the Mahal area of East Nagpur. He was as portly then as he became later, given his well-known penchant for gluttony. Yet what struck me was not his girth but his temperament. Gadkari came across as sincere, open to reason, energetic and willing to engage. He was also active and dashing, two essential traits for any politician wanting to make a mark.

He made that mark decisively. True to his grit and political acumen, Gadkari rose from student politics to become an MLA, then an MP and eventually a Union minister. I have watched that journey from close quarters, from the days of the humble student leader to his current stature as the Union Minister for Transport and Highways. Somewhere along that journey of four and a half decades, however, I began to discern a perceptible change in his demeanour and approach.

Gadkari was never, in my assessment, a politician who stood out as an overwhelmingly popular electoral phenomenon. His rise was driven by something else: a reputation for organisational ability, administrative competence, political networking and an image of being committed to exemplary leadership. That combination took him a long way. So did his robust backing from the RSS, which remains an important factor in understanding his political standing even today.

Me speaking at the book release

That backing assumes particular significance against the persistent speculation about a supposed cold war between the Nagpur lobby and the Ahmedabad lobby, shorthand for the respective power centres associated with Narendra Modi and Amit Shah on one side and Nagpur on the other. Whether one accepts every dimension of that speculation or not, Gadkari's continuing relationship with the RSS is a political fact that cannot simply be wished away.

Yet the man I knew seemed to be changing. The once sincere-sounding and sincere-looking Gadkari increasingly appeared, to me, to be full of himself, high-handed and, at times, even arrogant. The transformation was gradual enough to be missed by those who knew him only from public appearances, but visible enough to someone who had encountered him before the trappings of power became so overwhelming.

I saw another glimpse of that transformation last year when Gadkari arrived habitually late, as chief guest at the release of Companion, or Sobati in Marathi, written by my journalist friend Chandrashekhar Velankar and subsequently translated into English by me. We were on the same dais. I am not sure whether, given his current stature, he failed to recognise me or chose not to. I am inclined to believe the latter, because politicians generally know their connections very well and conveniently remember or ignore them according to circumstance, convenience and occasion.

I did not, for my part, make any attempt to display the familiarity of our earlier days. As an accredited journalist, I would occasionally bumped into him at Mantralaya, where we would share tea with other media friends. But at the book release I remained where I was, without attempting to revive an old association merely because the man on the dais had risen spectacularly in stature. Perhaps that was just as well. The lines between us had long been clearly drawn. He was the politician. I was the journalist.

The more troubling transformation, however, was not whether Gadkari recognised me. It was the manner in which political success appeared to have altered his relationship with power, wealth and influence. Alongside his political career, Gadkari also grew as an entrepreneur, most notably through Poorti, the departmental-store venture that later found itself caught in a public storm over alleged financial irregularities. His fluency with seven and eight-digit figures became almost legendary, earning even rival politicians a measure of secret admiration. There was something undeniably impressive about his command of numbers, business and administration.

But somewhere along that progression, I believe he crossed the fine line between confidence and overconfidence. He became brusque. At times he seemed like someone who could not care less. The body language became more assertive, the speech more emphatic, the demeanour less accessible. Confidence, which had once been one of his strengths, increasingly seemed to harden into self-assurance of a different kind.

I have often suspected that both Narendra Modi and Amit Shah were uncomfortable with the manner in which the ambitious Gadkari conducted himself after the BJP came to power with a massive mandate in 2014. Publicly, Gadkari always acknowledged that he functioned under the leadership of Modi. Yet he often came across as a self-styled minister who operated substantially on his own writ. I suspect Modi and Shah did not want to ruffle those feathers unnecessarily, partly because of the RSS rider that hung between them. Gadkari marched on regardless, fortified by his firm backing in Nagpur. The discomfort, at least to my reading of the political atmosphere, was palpable.

And then came the latest episode. Gadkari's recent remarks suggesting that he cannot do much work anymore and should make way for someone from the new generation have inevitably set tongues wagging. As happens with almost every politician whose words acquire an inconvenient interpretation, clarifications followed. He made it clear that he had no plans to quit active politics. Technically, that may settle the matter. Politically, it does not.

There is already a perception that Gadkari may have an inkling that an impending Cabinet reshuffle could leave him without a berth and that he may therefore be contemplating a face-saving, dignified exit before the decision is made for him. I do not claim that this is necessarily what is happening. But the perception exists, and politicians of Gadkari's experience know better than most that perceptions themselves can become political facts. For someone who became BJP president, emerged as a virtually confirmed name for the Union Cabinet and occupied one of its most important portfolios, the possibility is both sad and surprising.

As someone who knew him on first-name terms, once I found the episode personally disappointing. As an independent-minded media person, I found it perplexing and, frankly, annoying. This was not the Gadkari I thought he would become. Not that I claim any proprietary interest in his political career. I do not. Our lines were clearly drawn long ago. He was the politician. I was the journalist.

But I remain astonished at the extent to which he has courted unpopularity, including among people in his own party and some of his personal well-wishers. The most striking example is his insistence on ethanol-blended fuel. After creating immense difficulties and confusion for vehicle owners across the country, the manner in which the ethanol issue has been pursued has, in my view, damaged much of the goodwill Gadkari painstakingly accumulated over three decades of political life.

The criticism is not merely about ethanol as an idea. Ethanol blending has legitimate arguments in its favour, including energy security, reduced dependence on imported crude and support for domestic agriculture. The problem is the manner, pace and perceived conflict of interest surrounding its advocacy. What was the need to force such a transition so abruptly, particularly when domestic manufacturing of ethanol-compatible vehicles was not even slated to begin until 2023? A little patience could have prevented much of the chaos.

The allegation made by his critics is that the decision was pushed through with extraordinary haste, with a unilateral decision being taken late in the evening in the expectation of nationwide applause. When the backlash followed, responsibility appeared to move elsewhere, with Hardeep Singh Puri becoming a convenient name in the subsequent political explanation. Whether that characterisation is entirely fair is open to debate, but it illustrates the degree to which Gadkari's image has become vulnerable to suspicion.

That is precisely why the present perception troubles me more than it might trouble someone who had never known the earlier Gadkari. His critics have gone further, drawing an unflattering parallel with Dhritarashtra, whose blind devotion to his son clouded his judgement and brought the situation to what it is today. I would hesitate to make such a sweeping moral equivalence. But there is an uncomfortable political question that Gadkari cannot simply dismiss: when a powerful minister vigorously promotes an industry in which his own sons have business interests, can he reasonably expect the public to remain indifferent to the appearance of a conflict?

His two sons' involvement in the ethanol business has been openly criticised, and many have expressed anguish over what they perceive as a troubling intersection between public policy and private family interests. Whether every allegation made against the family stands scrutiny is another matter. But perception, again, matters enormously in public life.

I do not pretend to live in a political world innocent of vested interests. Show me one politician who has never had a vested interest, who has remained entirely unselfish, pliant when the need arises, or untouched by the moral compromises that accompany the exercise of power. Politics, by its very nature, is rarely an antiseptic profession. My anguish, therefore, is not about Gadkari being a politician who has acquired wealth, influence or ambition. It is about the distance he seems to have travelled from the down-to-earth man I once knew.

There was a time when a cutting chai at a roadside tapri was enough. A young Gadkari could sit down, laugh, exchange pleasantries and talk without the burden of office weighing upon the conversation. He appeared sincere and accessible. He listened. He could disagree without necessarily becoming disagreeable. At the book release last year, I saw something quite different. His speech, his body language and his overall bearing seemed to me to reflect a metamorphosed Gadkari. It was not the man with whom I had once shared laughter and pleasantries over a roadside cup of tea.

Perhaps power does that to people. Perhaps prolonged proximity to authority creates a protective wall around those who wield it. Perhaps success slowly convinces a politician that disagreement is opposition and criticism is envy. Or perhaps I am simply reading too much into a few encounters separated by decades. But the change is difficult for me to ignore.

Gadkari has undoubtedly achieved much. His tenure in the highways and transport ministry has given him an opportunity to leave a substantial infrastructural imprint, and his political journey from Nagpur's student politics to the national stage is, by any measure, remarkable. He has demonstrated administrative energy, political resilience and an entrepreneurial instinct rare in Indian politics. That is precisely why his present predicament is so intriguing.

A politician does not become diminished merely because he leaves office. Nor does retirement necessarily amount to defeat. If Gadkari genuinely believes that the next generation should take over, there would be dignity in saying so plainly and leaving on his own terms. But if retirement is merely a pre-emptive manoeuvre to avoid being dropped in a Cabinet reshuffle, then the grandeur of the gesture begins to look rather different. There is a subtle distinction between choosing one's exit and dressing up an enforced exit as a sacrifice.

I do not know which of the two applies to Gadkari. He alone does. What I do know is the Gadkari I once knew. I remember a young student leader from Nagpur, ambitious but approachable, active and dashing, sitting across a ramshackle tapri and sharing a cutting chai with me. I remember the invitation to his sons' thread ceremony. I remember the occasional tea at Mantralaya with fellow journalists. I remember a man who seemed secure enough in himself to listen.

I also remember the Gadkari I saw last year. Between those two men lie roughly four and a half decades of politics, power, business, success, controversy and changing equations. Somewhere in that long journey, the man who once seemed confident without being overbearing appears, at least to me, to have become increasingly overconfident, high-handed and brusque. That is not an indictment of his entire political career. It is a personal observation born of having seen him before and after power acquired its full weight.

And perhaps that is the hardest truth about politics. The public rarely knows the person behind the politician. Those of us who encountered them before the barricades, security details, official cars and towering offices sometimes get a glimpse of the distance travelled. In Gadkari's case, I have travelled that distance with him, albeit from the other side of the political fence.

I began by sharing a cutting chai with Nitin Gadkari. Today, I watch Union Minister Nitin Gadkari from a distance and wonder what happened to the man who sat beside me at that tapri. The politician may have become bigger. The question is whether, somewhere along the way, the man became smaller.

Pakistan's battle with itself, from its own in power!

Raju Korti
Pakistan's present predicament is becoming increasingly difficult to conceal. Inflation remains painful, economic growth modest and the government heavily dependent on external support. At the same time, Balochistan remains troubled by separatist violence, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa faces persistent militancy, and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir has recently witnessed serious public unrest. Against this backdrop, unusually frank remarks from senior political figures have exposed an uncomfortable debate about where the country is headed.

(Sharif and Naqvi: At cross purposes (Insta grab)

Defence Minister Khawaja Asif's comparison with India is perhaps the most revealing. He pointed out that India and Pakistan became independent at virtually the same time, yet have travelled very different distances. “Look at how far apart the two countries have come,” he said, before referring to the difficulties in Balochistan, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir. The significance of the statement lies not merely in acknowledging India's progress, but in recognising Pakistan's own failure to convert its considerable human and strategic potential into sustained national development.

India's rise in technology, infrastructure, manufacturing, services and global influence has become an uncomfortable benchmark for Pakistan. This does not imply that India has solved all its problems. It has not. But the comparison is legitimate because both countries began their independent journeys in broadly comparable circumstances. Pakistan's difficulty is that the gap has widened considerably, particularly in economic scale, technological capacity and international influence.

Asif had also spoken more starkly some weeks ago about Pakistan's deteriorating position. Such remarks suggest that the country's leadership is becoming conscious that its traditional narrative of security and confrontation cannot indefinitely compensate for weaknesses in governance and economic performance. The India comparison, therefore, is best understood as an admission of relative decline rather than a sudden endorsement of India.

Interior Minister Mohsin Naqvi has gone even further in diagnosing the problem. Speaking at the Pakistan Economic Summit in July, he declared: “Whether you agree or not, the system we have been living under has collapsed.” He argued that Pakistan needed fundamental administrative reform, including consideration of new provinces or administrative units. He also said that Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif could work 12 or even 18 hours a day, but that the government was essentially “firefighting”.

That is a remarkable admission from a serving interior minister. Naqvi was not necessarily indicting Shehbaz Sharif personally. His argument was that the inherited administrative structure itself had failed to deliver justice, jobs, public services and economic opportunity. But the political implication is unavoidable. If the system has collapsed, those running the system must inevitably face questions about their responsibility for its condition.

The proposal for new provinces is therefore more consequential than it may initially appear. Decentralisation could potentially bring government closer to citizens, but redrawing administrative boundaries cannot by itself cure corruption, fiscal weakness, political patronage or poor institutional capacity. Significantly, the military spokesman has subsequently supported the idea of new administrative units and called for a broader “reset”. That makes Naqvi's intervention particularly interesting because of his well-known proximity to the establishment.

The Army will inevitably view the Asif and Naqvi remarks through a different lens. For decades, India's perceived threat has been central to Pakistan's security doctrine and to the military's dominant role in national affairs. A senior defence minister publicly acknowledging India's superior trajectory inevitably raises an uncomfortable question: if Pakistan has devoted such enormous political and financial resources to security, why has it fallen so far behind its principal rival in economic and technological terms?

The likely military response is not necessarily to retreat from politics. It may instead conclude that Pakistan requires stronger administrative control and structural reform. That is precisely where the civilian and military interpretations could diverge. Civilian politicians may see the crisis as a reason for greater democratic accountability and institutional autonomy, while the establishment may see it as evidence that the existing political system requires firmer management.

Maulana Fazlur Rehman has challenged that proposition more directly. He has urged the military to stay out of politics and challenged Army chief Field Marshal Asim Munir to remove his uniform and contest elections if he wishes to participate in politics. More recently, he invoked the traumatic memory of 1971, reminding the military establishment that power has limits and that history can punish institutions that overestimate their strength.

Fazlur Rehman's intervention is important because he is an experienced political operator rather than an outsider to Pakistan's power structure. His message is essentially that the Army may remain the most powerful institution in the country, but political legitimacy cannot be acquired through military authority alone.

The regional situation reinforces his argument. Balochistan remains afflicted by a separatist insurgency, while Khyber Pakhtunkhwa continues to face attacks from the Tehrik-e-Taliban Pakistan and other militant groups. The security challenge is therefore not confined to the conventional India-Pakistan frontier. The state is simultaneously confronting internal insurgencies and political discontent.

Pakistan-occupied Kashmir presents a different warning. Recent unrest there has demonstrated that dissatisfaction is no longer confined to traditionally volatile provinces. Complaints about economic hardship, governance and political interference have acquired sufficient intensity to produce serious confrontation. When discontent spreads into a territory that Islamabad has traditionally portrayed as central to its national narrative, the problem becomes political as much as administrative.

Economically, the picture remains fragile despite efforts at stabilisation. The central problem is that macroeconomic rescue does not immediately translate into prosperity for ordinary Pakistanis. Inflation, unemployment, debt and limited development spending continue to weigh heavily on households. Recent economic assessments have also highlighted Pakistan's low growth and continuing poverty, while development allocations have come under pressure from fiscal and security requirements.

Does all this mean that the Shehbaz Sharif government is about to fall? Not necessarily. Indeed, Naqvi himself subsequently said that Sharif would complete his five-year term, clarifying that his criticism of the “collapsed” system was not a chargesheet against the Prime Minister or his government.

The more realistic assessment is that the Sharif government is vulnerable but not immediately endangered. In Pakistan, the survival of a civilian government depends not merely on parliamentary arithmetic but also on its relationship with the military establishment. Unless the Army decides that the present arrangement has become a liability, there is little reason to assume that it will be abruptly removed.

The greater danger is therefore gradual erosion rather than sudden collapse. Inflation can undermine public confidence, regional unrest can weaken state legitimacy, militancy can expose administrative weakness and political rivalry can prevent the consensus required for difficult economic reform.

The common thread running through the remarks of Asif, Naqvi and Fazlur Rehman is that Pakistan's problem is no longer simply who governs it. It is how it is governed. Asif's comparison with India highlights the widening developmental gap. Naqvi's declaration that the system has “collapsed” highlights institutional failure. Fazlur Rehman's challenge to the military highlights the unresolved question of civilian authority.

Pakistan is not necessarily a country in irreversible decline. It retains substantial human resources, strategic importance, natural wealth and institutional capabilities. But its present crisis cannot be solved by changing governments alone, creating new provinces alone or relying indefinitely on the military establishment.

The uncomfortable truth emerging from Pakistan itself is that national security cannot substitute for economic development, military power cannot substitute for political legitimacy, and political rhetoric cannot substitute for governance. The real test for Pakistan is whether its powerful institutions are prepared to recognise that distinction before today's crisis becomes tomorrow's structural decline. 

When bureaucrats break silence with praise!

Raju Korti
It is uncommon for one serving bureaucrat to openly praise another, given the service conduct rules that discourage commentary on colleagues, the professional distance maintained to avoid perceptions of bias, and the competitive nature of postings.

Yet Ms Ashwini Bhide, IAS, has chosen to speak with conviction about the work of Mr Tukaram Mundhe, IAS, Commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration. She has lauded his crackdown on violations of food safety and hygiene norms, describing it as not only necessary but transformative. In her words, Mundhe is a mature officer who understands that visible, aggressive enforcement is sometimes required to make society take notice of issues that otherwise remain neglected. She stressed that such “initial noise” is essential to trigger public discussion, and expressed confidence that he will establish systems strong enough to endure beyond his tenure.

(Pic from a net thread)

With a robust reputation in her preceding stint as “Metro Woman”, Ms Bhide’s own record in municipal administration reflects a similar proactive spirit. As the first woman Commissioner of Mumbai’s civic body, she has consistently demonstrated a citizen-centric approach. Her “pedestrians first” initiative to reclaim the city’s footpaths for public use is emblematic of her belief in systemic change and the prioritisation of everyday urban needs.

In interviews, she has emphasised that the FDA’s drive is appreciable not merely for its enforcement but for its capacity to instil discipline and awareness, thereby creating a window where citizens themselves become demanding of higher standards. She has also cautioned that the sustainability of such initiatives depends on embedding systemic reforms, a view that resonates with her own efforts to strengthen municipal governance.

The Marathi articulation of her support captures the essence of her endorsement: “समाजात जागरूकता निर्माण करण्यासाठी आणि चांगल्या स्वच्छतेची सवय लावण्यासाठी सुरुवातीला अशा तीव्र पावलांची, गाजावाजाची गरजच असते,” which translates to her belief that strong initial measures and visible action are indispensable to awaken public consciousness and instil habits of hygiene. By calling Mundhe a “mature officer”, she has underscored his ability to balance immediate enforcement with long-term institution-building.

The significance of this exchange lies in the broader ethos of the Indian Administrative Service. Officers swear allegiance to the Constitution and are entrusted with the responsibility of ensuring good governance. When two senior bureaucrats demonstrate mutual respect and a shared vision for reform, it signals the possibility of collaborative change that transcends individual postings.

Ms Bhide’s praise of Mundhe is not merely an endorsement of his style of functioning but also a reminder that governance thrives when administrators are willing to acknowledge and support each other’s efforts.

In a society often sceptical of officialdom, such gestures of solidarity can reinforce public faith in institutions. They show that principled, fearless, and conscientious administration remains the cornerstone of positive transformation. The rare public commendation by Bhide is therefore more than a passing remark; it is a statement of confidence in the power of like-minded officers to create lasting systems, to embed reform into the civic and regulatory fabric, and to demonstrate that bureaucracy, when guided by integrity and vision, can indeed be versatile, responsive, and transformative.

This instance also finds resonance in the history of Indian bureaucracy where figures such as T. N. Seshan, the legendary Chief Election Commissioner, were openly praised for their institutional overhaul of electoral processes, albeit often by retired colleagues who could speak without restraint. Similarly, officers like Mr Ashok Khemka and Mr Tukaram Mundhe himself have been commended in memoirs and public forums for standing firm against political pressures despite frequent transfers. Retired civil servants such as E. A. S. Sarma and J. Satyanarayana have written extensively in support of upright peers, while associations of former officers have passed resolutions lauding extraordinary courage during crises.

Ms Bhide’s words therefore stand out as a rare but powerful example of serving officers breaking the mould of silence, affirming that mutual respect and shared conviction can indeed strengthen the foundations of governance. 

A disclaimer: I have nothing to gain from this piece. I am also aware that it is generally believed that if bureaucrats do exemplary work, there is nothing to rave about it. It is very much expected of them.  The thrust is about how rare it is for one bureaucrat to say something laudatory about a peer/contemporary.