Finding My Own Space to Speak

 

For more than a decade, I have been sharing my thoughts with friends and readers through social media. Looking back, I realize that these platforms have given me something I once struggled to find: a place to speak without waiting for someone else to decide whether my voice deserved to be heard. What began as a practical response to disappointment gradually became an important part of my life as a teacher, writer and socially concerned individual.

Opinions about social media remain divided. Some see it as a remarkable expansion of public participation. Others believe it has made public discussion shallow, encouraged abuse and allowed falsehood to travel with disturbing ease. Both positions arise from experiences that deserve attention. Yet my own experience places me closer to the first view. I recognize the harm these platforms can cause, but I cannot overlook the opportunities they have opened for people who lacked access to established channels of expression.

My relationship with social media has developed unevenly. I have used Blogger, YouTube, Facebook and LinkedIn extensively. Instagram still feels like a language I have not quite learned, although younger people seem to move through it effortlessly. I sometimes smile at this difference. Being comfortable with ideas does not automatically make one comfortable with every new way of presenting them. Still, I have found enough space on the platforms I understand to continue a conversation with people beyond my immediate surroundings.

There is a personal story behind my decision to write a blog. I was writing regularly about issues that touched me as a person and concerned me as a teacher. Some arose from my academic interests; others came from experiences, observations and questions that stayed with me. I wanted to place these thoughts before readers, invite responses and participate in public discussion. Apart from a few news portals, however, there were few opportunities to publish them.

I spoke to people, approached publications and hoped that some well-known daily or periodical would give my writing a place. Often, nothing came of these efforts. There was the familiar silence after a submission, the uncertainty of waiting and the difficulty of knowing whether anyone had even read what I had sent. Gradually, I began to feel that the obstacle was not always the quality or relevance of the writing. Access itself seemed to depend heavily on familiarity and contacts.

I do not suggest that every unpublished article deserves publication. Editors have limited space, and selection is necessary. Writing also requires discipline, revision and the willingness to accept criticism. My disappointment came from a different concern: how does someone outside familiar professional circles get a fair hearing? An editorial judgment made after reading a piece is one thing. A system in which some people struggle even to reach that stage raises a more troubling question.

Established publications sometimes appeared to me like large houses whose rooms were already occupied by familiar people. The conversations within them could be lively and intelligent, but entry from outside remained difficult. Their regular contributors had an assured place; others stood at the door, trying to introduce themselves. This was my experience rather than a description of every newsroom. Yet it helped me understand how a person can have something to say and still find no accessible place in which to say it.

Blogger changed that relationship. I could write, revise and publish without waiting for an introduction or an editor’s reply. The relief was considerable. I was no longer dependent on acceptance before beginning a conversation. A thought that mattered to me could reach readers while it was still alive in my mind. Readers, in turn, could respond directly. Publication became an exchange rather than merely a decision communicated from somewhere beyond my reach.

Over time, the blog became a record of my intellectual and emotional journey. Looking back at earlier pieces, I encounter the issues that troubled me, the events that moved me and the questions I was trying to understand. Some views have deepened; others invite reconsideration. This is part of the reason I wish to bring these writings together in A Decade of Reflections. They preserve a conversation between the world around me and the person I have become while responding to it.

My experience with television followed a somewhat similar path. Appearing on news channels initially brought excitement. There is an understandable satisfaction in being invited to discuss public affairs. Yet some channels had limited reach, and I often felt that the effort of speaking did not lead to a meaningful encounter with viewers. At times, the experience felt almost like speaking and then being the only person left to hear what had been said.

There was another difficulty. The topics were generally chosen by the channels, according to their own priorities. I could offer an opinion, but I did not necessarily feel a close intellectual or personal connection with every issue placed before me. Gradually, the excitement weakened. I began to ask whether I wanted visibility for its own sake or an opportunity to speak about matters in which I had a serious and sustained interest.

It was my students who suggested that I create a YouTube channel. Their advice was simple: if I had lectures and ideas to share, why not make them available directly? I remain grateful for that suggestion. Teachers are expected to guide students, but learning also moves in the other direction. They recognized an opportunity that I had not fully considered. Their familiarity with digital communication helped me find a more suitable way to extend my work.

I began uploading lectures and recordings of programmes in which I had participated. The channel allowed me to choose subjects closer to my convictions and to keep them available beyond the day of an event. In my experience, these videos have sometimes reached a wider audience than appearances on channels that had invited me. More importantly, they could be watched by people who actually wished to engage with the subject, at a time convenient to them.

As a teacher, I particularly value the possibility of making academic lectures available in this way. A classroom discussion usually ends when the class ends. A recorded lecture can be revisited by a student who needs another explanation or discovered by someone studying elsewhere. It does not replace the exchange that occurs in a classroom. It extends the opportunity to learn and gives the effort invested in preparing a lecture a longer life.

Another important part of my channel has been sharing programmes associated with Vanvasi Kalyan Ashram and matters concerning tribal communities. These recordings can bring speeches, experiences and cultural discussions to people who could not attend the programme. They also preserve material that might otherwise remain confined to a gathering and disappear from wider attention once the event concluded. I find this work worthwhile because many such subjects receive little sustained space in everyday public discussion.

We often describe marginalized communities as voiceless. On reflection, I feel that the expression needs care. People possess voices, memories, knowledge and aspirations. What they may lack is an audience willing to listen or a platform through which their concerns can travel. Sharing their words should therefore create room for their presence. It should not turn them into objects of someone else’s commentary or imply that they require others to give them a voice.

Social media has helped me contribute, in a modest way, to widening that room. A lecture, a cultural programme or an account of community experience can become accessible beyond its original setting. The value lies in the possibility of being heard on one’s own terms. For someone watching from a distance, such material may open a conversation that conventional news coverage has never introduced. For participants, it can preserve an account of their work and concerns.

These experiences shape my belief that social media has democratized expression. Earlier, the ability to reach a public audience depended substantially on institutions with presses, studios, distribution networks and established professional relationships. Digital platforms have lowered some of those barriers. An individual can now begin with a phone, an internet connection and the willingness to create something worth sharing. For people with limited means, that change carries a significance that criticism of social media sometimes overlooks.

Resources still matter. Those with money can employ publicity agencies, commission polished campaigns and purchase attention. Visibility can be carefully manufactured around people whose contribution does not necessarily justify the image created for them. An ordinary teacher or writer cannot easily compete with that machinery. Even so, the opportunity to publish independently offers a starting point. A person may build a relationship with readers gradually, through consistent work, without first securing the approval of an influential institution.

I would not call this a completely level playing field. Access to devices, language, digital skills and available time remains unequal. Platforms also decide, through systems users do not fully control, which material receives attention. A thoughtful lecture may struggle while a provocative clip spreads rapidly. The freedom to publish does not guarantee an audience. Nevertheless, the difference between having no practical avenue and having an imperfect avenue is substantial. My own journey rests within that difference.

The expansion of independent expression has also challenged the authority of established media. Readers and viewers can now encounter accounts outside familiar editorial choices. Institutions once accustomed to deciding which voices entered public conversation face competition from people speaking directly to an audience. I welcome this development. The fourth pillar of democracy should be willing to share public space. Its authority becomes more credible when it can respond to questioning rather than rely on the scarcity of alternatives.

At the same time, independence alone does not make a communicator trustworthy. A television studio can be irresponsible, and so can an individual with a popular channel. The important questions concern evidence, fairness and the willingness to correct mistakes. Established journalism retains value when it performs careful reporting and verification. Independent voices add value when they bring neglected experiences into view and examine matters seriously. Neither deserves immunity from criticism simply because of the platform it occupies.

This is where the concerns of social media’s critics return with force. Abuse can drive people away from discussion. Falsehood can damage reputations and deepen mistrust. Repetition can make an unsupported claim appear familiar enough to be accepted. These harms should not be dismissed as the price of greater participation. They injure the very possibility of open conversation. A space that allows more people to speak must also sustain conditions in which they can speak without intimidation.

My intention in using these platforms has been to share thoughts, teaching and community programmes, rather than spread propaganda or abuse others. Intention, however, requires continuing discipline. Before sharing material, I must ask whether I understand it, whether its claims are sound and whether my language treats disagreement fairly. As a teacher, I should be especially willing to acknowledge uncertainty. Students learn from the way we conduct ourselves in public as well as from what we explain in class.

After more than a decade, I remain grateful for the readers, students and friends who have sustained these conversations. Their responses have made writing less solitary and have encouraged me to continue when institutional recognition was uncertain. Social media did not remove every barrier or settle every question about public communication. It gave me a workable space in which to begin and the freedom to keep returning to subjects that mattered to me.

When I think about its place in A Decade of Reflections, I see more than a means of distributing articles and videos. I see the circumstances that made many of these reflections possible. I had waited for others to open a door and eventually learned to create a place from which I could speak. My hope is that this space remains useful to those who read, listen and respond, and that it helps bring into conversation people and experiences too often left outside it.

Why Gandhi Still Matters

 

Whenever I return to Gandhi, I find myself thinking less about the ceremonies held in his memory and more about the choices through which we live. What happens when we encounter injustice? How do we respond to someone who disagrees with us? What do we consider a successful life? These questions bring Gandhi into the present. His relevance lies in the way he unsettles our comfortable answers and asks us to examine the relationship between our convictions and our conduct.

As we celebrate Gandhi’s birthday this 2^nd October 2026, I reminisce about an invitation, some years ago. It offered me an opportunity to speak about Gandhi’s relevance in the twenty-first century. As a teacher of the undergraduate course Understanding Gandhi, I have approached him through reading and discussion. Yet my understanding also comes from the world in which I grew up. My roots in Vidarbha, particularly the Bhamragad region and its Madiya life and culture, remind me that political ideas acquire meaning through people’s lived circumstances. A theory of justice must eventually reach the child, the village, and the family whose struggles rarely enter public conversation.

I do not approach Gandhi as someone who has found every answer in his writings. I approach him as a learner. Teaching him has made me conscious of how easily familiarity becomes an obstacle to understanding. We recognize his face, remember a few quotations, and associate him with the freedom struggle. That recognition can conceal the demanding questions he raises about power, responsibility and the dignity of ordinary people.

Gandhi was assassinated in 1948, but his moral presence has travelled beyond his lifetime and beyond India. I think of this movement as the passage from the historical Gandhi to a civilizational Gandhi. The historical figure belongs to particular struggles, decisions, and limitations. The civilizational presence appears wherever people ask how injustice can be resisted without surrendering their humanity. This larger presence should deepen our study of the actual person, including the uncomfortable parts of his legacy.

It is tempting to turn such a figure into a finished doctrine. Gandhi’s autobiography, however, presents a life of experiments. Its very title, The Story of My Experiments with Truth, invites us to see ethical understanding as a continuing effort. This matters to me because reflection should leave room for correction. A conviction may be sincerely held and still require reconsideration when confronted with another person’s suffering.

Gandhi’s political importance also becomes clearer when we look closely at his methods. His spiritual commitments did not remove him from practical politics. He worked with grievances, institutions, negotiations, and public mobilization. Champaran in 1917 and the Salt March in 1930 demonstrate how he connected larger questions of colonial authority with experiences ordinary people could understand. The peasant’s predicament and the daily necessity of salt became matters of national concern.

India’s freedom emerged from many struggles and sacrifices. Revolutionaries, workers, peasants, tribal communities, and numerous political organizations contributed to it. Gandhi’s distinctive achievement was expanding the possibilities for participation. People who possessed neither wealth nor official authority could act together and challenge an apparently overwhelming power. His politics encouraged them to see themselves as participants in the making of their country.

This capacity to bring people into public life remains valuable. Democracy loses substance when citizens become spectators who applaud leaders and wait for decisions. Gandhi’s example asks whether people have the confidence, opportunity, and organization to influence the conditions of their lives. Political freedom becomes more meaningful when those usually unheard can speak and when public institutions learn to listen.

Listening also requires accepting disagreement. Gandhi’s encounters with his critics reveal the tensions within the making of modern India. His differences with Dr B. R. Ambedkar deserve particular seriousness. Their dispute over separate electorates and the Poona Pact of 1932 concerned representation, caste oppression and the terms of belonging to a common political community. It cannot be reduced to a reassuring story in which national unity automatically settled the question of justice.

Ambedkar insisted that those subjected to caste domination needed effective safeguards and political agency. Gandhi feared the consequences of separate electorates and opposed untouchability, yet his positions on caste and social reform remained open to powerful criticism. To recognize this is to respect the complexity of history. We can value Gandhi’s concern for solidarity while understanding why Ambedkar demanded protections that goodwill alone could never guarantee.

For me, reading them together strengthens our democratic imagination. Compassion must enter institutions, and institutional rights must be supported by a public culture of equal respect. A nation becomes more secure when its citizens experience membership as dignity rather than dependence. We should be able to admire a leader while questioning his judgment. Ambedkar’s warning against political hero worship remains especially valuable when public loyalty is treated as a reason to silence criticism.

The same seriousness is needed in discussing nonviolence. It is often mistaken for passivity, as though refusing violence means accepting injustice. Gandhi’s political practice involved confrontation, sacrifice, and the willingness to bear consequences. Nonviolent action seeks to challenge the wrong without making destruction the measure of courage. Its discipline is difficult precisely because anger can feel more immediate and more satisfying than patient organization.

His decision to suspend the Non-Cooperation Movement after the violence at Chauri Chaura in 1922 illustrates this difficulty. Many believed that withdrawal sacrificed political momentum. The disagreement deserves recognition. Gandhi nevertheless believed that a struggle carried forward through uncontrolled violence would damage the society it hoped to liberate. Whether one agrees with his decision or not, the question survives: what habits are we creating through the methods we use to achieve our goals?

This question reaches beyond protest. We may justify humiliation because we believe our cause is right. We may excuse dishonesty because an opponent seems worse. We may celebrate intimidation when it benefits our own side. Gandhi’s attention to means exposes these evasions. A desirable objective does not relieve us of responsibility for the people harmed along the way. The character of public life is shaped by practices repeated long before a final victory is announced.

Violence must also be considered beyond its visible forms. Johan Galtung later developed the concept of structural violence to explain how social arrangements can prevent people from realizing possibilities available to others. I find this useful when reflecting on deprivation. A child excluded from good education, a family without accessible healthcare, or a community denied equal treatment may suffer injuries that attract little attention because no single dramatic event has occurred.

Gandhi did not formulate Galtung’s later theory. His constructive programme nevertheless invites us to connect the pursuit of peace with work against social exclusion. His concerns included the removal of untouchability, communal unity, sanitation, education and village livelihoods. The relationship is suggestive: a society cannot congratulate itself on peace while accepting avoidable deprivation as the natural condition of some of its members.

My connection with tribal life makes this concern particularly immediate. Communities must be understood through their aspirations and histories, rather than through distant assumptions. Roads, schools and hospitals matter, but so do language, culture, land and the opportunity to participate in decisions. Development deserves that name when people can recognize their own dignity within it. Assistance that ignores their voice can reproduce the distance it claims to overcome.

Legitimate grievances should be distinguished from armed violence. Public authority has responsibilities towards security, but durable peace also requires fair treatment and trust. A citizen who seeks justice should find institutions that respond. Gandhi’s emphasis on personal contact and constructive service reminds me that national belonging grows through everyday encounters with the state and with fellow citizens. Neglect can weaken that belonging; respectful engagement can strengthen it.

His vision of Gram Swaraj raises related questions about the location of power. Decisions made far away can overlook local needs. A meaningful democracy therefore requires capable local institutions, public participation, and accountability. Yet we should resist romanticizing the village. Villages can contain oppressive hierarchies, especially caste and gender inequalities. Ambedkar’s criticism prevents the language of community from concealing the domination experienced by individuals within it.

The task is to create local democracy that protects equal citizenship. People need a voice in managing shared resources, but constitutional rights cannot depend on local approval. Gandhi’s attention to the village can guide us towards participation, while Ambedkar’s insistence on equality helps us judge whether that participation is fair. Their differences become productive when they help us ask better questions about the institutions we build.

I also find Gandhi useful in thinking about technology and work. We need not reproduce the economy of his time to take his concerns seriously. The relevant question is how economic change affects human dignity. Does a new technology improve people’s capabilities? Who receives its benefits, and who bears the cost of displacement? Can those affected participate in the transition? Progress should be assessed through these consequences, alongside efficiency and output.

His insistence on restraint carries an environmental lesson as well. Human needs deserve fulfilment, but consumption can become a pursuit without a stopping point. When prestige is measured by accumulation, both nature and human relationships come under pressure. A Gandhian approach asks us to consider what is sufficient and to recognize the claims of people whose necessities remain unmet. Restraint becomes a responsibility towards others, rather than simply a private preference.

This outlook resonates with Indian civilizational traditions that speak of interconnected life. The idea of Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam, the world as one family, becomes meaningful through how we treat those beyond our immediate circle. Traditions of compassion and ahimsa offer resources for such reflection. Their worth is realized through conduct. Civilizational pride should encourage self-examination, especially when inherited practices conflict with the dignity we profess to uphold.

Gandhi’s religious sensibility also offers a way to think about living with difference. Faith can sustain ethical responsibility, yet it can become a language of exclusion when possession of truth is confused with superiority over others. A plural society requires room for belief, doubt, and disagreement. The willingness to encounter another person respectfully is a civic responsibility, whether one is religious or not.

In our own public conversations, this responsibility is often tested by speed. Messages circulate before their truth is checked, and disagreement quickly becomes personal hostility. Gandhi’s discipline of truth asks something modest but demanding of us: pause, verify, and remain willing to correct ourselves. For a teacher, this extends to the classroom. Students should feel able to question what they hear, including the convictions of the person teaching them.

As I return to the question of Gandhi’s relevance, I find that it leads back to the scale of an ordinary life. We cannot all lead national movements. We can notice exclusion, resist cruelty, and refuse to make dishonesty convenient. We can treat disagreement as an invitation to think. These acts acquire political meaning when they shape the relationships through which a society lives.

It is therefore, Gandhi represents a continuing conversation between learning and living. My readings offer concepts; my background reminds me of the people those concepts must serve. His example asks me to examine that connection with greater honesty. Remembering him becomes meaningful when it changes how we exercise authority, approach another person’s pain, and accept responsibility for our shared world. That is the Gandhi I wish to keep encountering: a presence that makes reflection answerable to life.

India and the Global South in an Age of Weaponized Trade

When I spoke today about India and the Global South, I found myself returning to a simple question: what does it mean for a nation to be independent when the things it needs every day travel across borders? Our food systems depend on fertilizers and fuel. Our industries depend on minerals, machinery and markets. A disruption at a distant port can reach an Indian factory; a rise in the price of oil can reach a household budget. Political freedom remains indispensable, but our capacity to exercise it increasingly depends on the resilience of these connections.

This is why India's engagement with the Global South deserves more than the language of solidarity. It is also a matter of national security. The countries of Asia, Africa, Latin America and the Pacific contain vital energy resources, critical minerals, markets, sea routes and people whose choices will shape the coming century. They also know what it means to have decisions about finance, technology and security made elsewhere. India can work with them to enlarge its own freedom of action while helping them enlarge theirs. That is a more demanding proposition than claiming to be their leader.

The freedom to trade without being trapped

For a long time, we were told that economic interdependence would make political rivalry less likely. Trade has indeed lifted living standards and created relationships across borders. Yet interdependence can also become an instrument of pressure. A powerful country may impose tariffs to punish another government's choices, restrict exports of a crucial input, block financial transactions or use its control over a technology to extract concessions. Trade, once imagined merely as an exchange of mutual benefit, can be weaponized.

The International Monetary Fund has documented a growing fragmentation of trade and investment along geopolitical lines. The World Trade Organization, however, warns that a retreat into rival economic blocs could make the world poorer and less secure. These observations should be read together. India's answer cannot be to close itself off from the world. It should remain open to trade while making sure that no single supplier, market, transport route or technology provider can hold its essential interests hostage.

This is the practical meaning of trade diversification. A manufacturer who buys a vital component from only one country can find production halted by an export restriction. An exporter who depends overwhelmingly on one market can suffer when that market suddenly raises barriers. A country that has several credible suppliers and customers can negotiate with greater confidence. Diversification may sometimes cost more in the short run. The additional cost is comparable to an insurance premium against a much larger strategic loss.

Recent restrictions on critical minerals make this risk visible. The International Energy Agency reported that China is the leading refiner for 19 of 20 strategic minerals it examined, with an average share of around 70 per cent. Chinese export controls on certain rare earth elements in 2025 disrupted supplies to industries that use permanent magnets. The point is not that trade with China should cease. The point is that extreme concentration gives decisions made in one capital the power to interrupt production across the world. India, which faces a difficult security relationship with China, has particular reason to understand this vulnerability.

We must also avoid replacing one dependence with another. A policy that moves every supply chain into a single friendly bloc may appear safer until that bloc changes its priorities. India's relationships with the United States, Europe, Japan, Russia, West Asia and the developing world each serve different purposes. Strategic autonomy requires the ability to work with several partners without surrendering the final choice to any of them. Trade diversification is therefore not a slogan for indiscriminate agreements. It asks us to identify where dependence is dangerous, build alternative sources, maintain reasonable domestic capacity and keep routes of commerce open.

Energy security and energy sovereignty

Energy makes the stakes immediate. India imports much of the oil it consumes. The International Energy Agency described India as the world's second-largest net importer of crude oil in 2023 and projected that import needs could grow as its economy and refining activity expand. A disruption in supply or a sharp price rise affects transport, inflation, government finances and the ordinary citizen. Reliable and affordable energy is thus a condition of both economic development and national security.

Energy security concerns the availability and affordability of energy today. Energy sovereignty goes further: it is the capacity to decide our energy future without another country exercising an effective veto. Sovereignty does not mean that every barrel of oil, solar panel or battery mineral must originate on Indian soil. No large modern economy enjoys such complete self-sufficiency. It means retaining workable choices among fuels, suppliers, technologies and routes, and having enough domestic capability to absorb a shock.

India consequently needs a layered approach. It must maintain multiple sources of crude oil and gas, adequate reserves and reliable shipping arrangements. It must strengthen domestic power generation, grids and storage. It must use energy more efficiently. It should also expand solar, wind, nuclear and other suitable sources so that rising prosperity does not automatically translate into a proportionate rise in imported fossil fuels. The IEA's assessment of Indian energy investment notes efforts to diversify the generation mix through renewables and nuclear power. Such diversification serves climate goals, but it also serves strategic independence.

The transition itself creates a fresh dilemma. Batteries, electric vehicles, wind turbines and advanced electronics require minerals and processing capacity that are highly concentrated. A country may reduce its dependence on imported oil only to become dependent on imported batteries, magnets or refining services. We should therefore ask of every energy technology: where do its materials come from, who processes them, who owns the technology, and can we repair or replace it during a crisis? Energy sovereignty requires attention to the whole chain, not only the final product installed in India.

India should pursue partnerships with mineral-rich countries of the Global South on fair terms. These countries are understandably unwilling to remain mere exporters of raw materials while others capture the greater value from processing and manufacturing. Joint ventures, local skills, responsible mining, refining capacity and predictable market access can make cooperation worthwhile for both sides. If we speak of partnership while taking resources without helping build local capabilities, we will reproduce the inequalities we say we oppose.

Why the Global South matters to this strategy

The Global South is not a single political camp. A Gulf energy producer, an African mineral exporter and a Pacific island threatened by rising seas do not share precisely the same priorities. India should not assume that a common history of colonialism gives it automatic authority to speak for them. It should instead look for interests that can be advanced together.

Consider energy. India needs secure and affordable supplies. Several partners need stable demand, investment and better infrastructure. Island states and vulnerable countries need finance for clean energy and protection from climate disasters. Through the International Solar Alliance, disaster resilience cooperation and country-specific energy partnerships, India can help connect these needs. The arrangement must remain sensitive to the different stages of development and to the fact that a quick energy transition is much harder for societies without affordable capital.

The same applies to trade. India can expand markets in Africa, Latin America and Southeast Asia, but market access should flow in both directions. Better shipping links, simpler customs procedures, trusted digital payments and standards that smaller businesses can meet would do more than ceremonial declarations. Where a partner seeks to build its own pharmaceutical, food-processing or mineral industries, India should explore cooperation that creates local value. A stronger trading partner is a more durable partner.

There are already foundations. During India's G20 presidency in 2023, the African Union became a permanent member of that forum. India convened three Voice of Global South Summits from 2023 to 2024, creating a space to hear concerns often overshadowed in great-power meetings. Its proposed Global Development Compact included trade, capacity building, technology sharing and finance for specific projects. Training through ITEC, lines of credit and more recent work with the United Nations add practical instruments. None of these announcements alone proves leadership. Their significance lies in what they can help other countries actually do.

From a realist perspective, such cooperation enlarges India's bargaining power. When many countries ask for fairer climate finance, more representative institutions or reliable access to technology, their voice carries greater weight. India also gains diverse economic links and a more secure maritime environment. The aim should be reciprocal strength: countries that are less vulnerable to coercion are better placed to trade freely with one another.

The China question and the temptation of easy answers

China is an unavoidable presence in this story. Its banks and companies have financed infrastructure on a scale India cannot simply match. Many countries have welcomed Chinese projects because roads, power plants and ports answered genuine needs. China also presents itself as a voice of the developing world. Treating every partner's relationship with China as a mistake would be both inaccurate and disrespectful.

Yet Chinese dominance in mineral processing, industrial supply chains and parts of development finance creates vulnerabilities. Some lending arrangements can limit a borrower's financial flexibility. India's concern is sharpened by its own border dispute with China and by the strategic importance of the Indian Ocean. The sensible response is neither to demand that developing countries choose between India and China nor to promise that India will outspend China. India should offer a choice that partners find attractive: transparent financing, dependable completion, training, maintenance and respect for local decisions.

We should apply the same standards to ourselves. An Indian project that is delayed or negotiated without adequate consultation will not become good simply because it is Indian. If India asks others to diversify their dependencies, it must be willing to help them gain real agency. This requires patient institutions and honest evaluation. What was promised? What was delivered? Who gained the skills to run the project after the visitors left? Such questions may seem prosaic, but they determine whether a partnership survives a change of government or a diplomatic crisis.

A civilizational idea tested by material realities

India's invocation of Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam, the world as one family, speaks to an aspiration that I value. It reminds us that national interests need not be pursued by denying another nation's dignity. But no family remains healthy if one member alone decides what everyone else needs. The civilizational idea becomes credible when India listens, shares knowledge without claiming ownership of every solution, and respects the independence of smaller states.

There is no conflict between this ethic and prudent statecraft. A partner that trusts India is more likely to sustain trade, cooperate at sea and stand with it on a question of institutional reform. Conversely, a grand statement about shared destiny rings hollow if an energy project never supplies power or a promised credit line never produces a functioning facility. Our credibility is built in the ordinary details of delivery.

India must invest in its own strength as well. Better manufacturing, research, universities, ports and power systems are not separate from foreign policy. They are what allow India to offer useful alternatives when a supply chain is disrupted. Domestic capacity and outward-looking partnership belong together. A country secure in its capabilities can remain open to the world without being easily coerced.

I return, finally, to the question with which I began. Independence in the twenty-first century is not isolation. It is the ability to keep choosing under pressure. Trade diversification protects that choice when commerce is weaponized. Energy sovereignty protects it when fuel, technology or minerals become instruments of leverage. Engagement with the Global South can help India achieve both, provided it also increases the choices available to its partners.

India does not need a crown as the singular leader of a diverse Global South. It needs the harder reputation of a country that listens carefully, acts consistently and helps others stand more firmly on their own feet. If it can build that reputation, its strategic interests and its civilizational imagination will reinforce one another. That would be leadership worth remembering a decade from now.

Tibet, the Dalai Lama and the Geopolitics of the Himalayas : Reflections on Dr. Lobsang Sangay’s Address at Shyam Lal College

 

Some academic engagements do not end with the conclusion of a lecture or the dispersal of an audience. They remain with us, compelling us to revisit questions larger than the immediate occasion. On 24 September 2026, as the Teacher-in-Charge of the Department of Political Science at Shyam Lal College, University of Delhi, I had the privilege of convening a seminar titled “The Geopolitics of the Dalai Lama’s Reincarnation.” What began as an academic initiative became, for me, an occasion for deeper reflection on Tibet, China, India, and the future of the Himalayan region.

We were privileged to have as our Chief Guest and keynote speaker Dr. Lobsang Sangay, Lecturer on Law and Senior Visiting Fellow at Harvard Law School and former Sikyong, or President, of the Central Tibetan Administration. His association with Delhi made the occasion particularly meaningful. Before proceeding to Harvard Law School, Dr. Sangay had studied at the University of Delhi. He subsequently served two terms, from 2011 to 2021, as the democratically elected political head of the Central Tibetan Administration. He therefore spoke not merely as an academic observer of Tibet but as someone who has spent a considerable part of his public life representing and articulating the Tibetan question internationally.

For me personally, Tibet has never been merely another subject in International Relations. I have always felt an emotional connection with the Tibetan people. Their history, their experience of exile, and their struggle to preserve their culture have remained close to my heart. I have written a detailed human rights report on Tibet while I served as the Secretary General of the Center for Democracy, Pluralism and Human Rights (CDPHR), a New Delhi-based research institute. I had the privilege of inviting Dr. Sangey as the Chief Guest at the report release event at the Constitution Club of India in 2021. Since then, Tibetan people's aspiration to exercise meaningful autonomy over their religious and cultural traditions has compelled me to engage academically with the issue. Sympathy should never become a substitute for critical academic enquiry, but scholarship need not require the abandonment of human empathy either. It is difficult to remain completely detached from the predicament of a people who have struggled for decades to preserve their monasteries, language, religious institutions and inherited traditions.

It is equally important to state accurately what the Tibetan leadership has formally sought. The Middle-Way Approach advocated by the Central Tibetan Administration does not seek Tibetan independence from the People’s Republic of China. It seeks what the Tibetan leadership describes as genuine autonomy, particularly in areas such as religion, culture, language, education, and environmental protection. The distinction is important because the Tibetan question is frequently reduced to a binary choice between Chinese sovereignty and Tibetan independence, whereas the stated approach of the Tibetan exile leadership attempts to locate a negotiated space within that debate.

Perhaps the continuing resonance of the Tibetan question became evident to me in an unexpected way after our seminar. I uploaded Dr. Sangay’s lecture to my YouTube channel so that students and others unable to attend the programme could listen to him. Within barely two days, the lecture had crossed 6,500 views, accompanied by an unusually large number of comments, likes and responses. For a channel such as mine, primarily devoted to academic lectures, discussions and public affairs, this was a rare response. I do not regard digital viewing figures as scientific evidence of public opinion, but the experience was nevertheless revealing. Something about Tibet, the Dalai Lama and the question of religious freedom had clearly touched a chord well beyond the physical audience that had gathered in our College.

The response also reminded me that Tibet is not merely an issue concerning Tibetans. Questions about a people's relationship with their homeland, their ability to preserve their religion, and their right to sustain inherited cultural institutions possess a universal human resonance. This perhaps explains why the Tibetan cause continues to attract attention and sympathy in India and in many parts of the world despite the passage of decades. The extraordinary global moral stature of the Dalai Lama has certainly contributed to that visibility, but beneath the personality lies a larger question: how does a community preserve its civilizational identity when the institutions through which that identity is transmitted become subject to extensive state regulation?

For India, Tibet carries an additional significance because it is simultaneously geopolitical, geocultural and ecological. Long before modern nation-states drew boundaries across the Himalayas, monks, scholars, pilgrims, traders, texts and ideas travelled between India and Tibet. Buddhism journeyed from India into Tibet, where it developed into one of the great traditions of Buddhist philosophy and monastic scholarship. Indian masters such as Shantarakshita, Padmasambhava and Atisha occupy an enduring place in Tibetan Buddhist memory. Much of India's Buddhist intellectual heritage that subsequently declined in its land of origin survived through Tibetan translations, commentaries and monastic traditions.

Tibet, therefore, cannot be regarded as culturally distant from India. There exists a civilizational relationship that predates the political boundaries and strategic anxieties of the twentieth century. This makes Tibet a geocultural question for India, even as contemporary developments have made it an unavoidable geopolitical one. The Himalayas were certainly formidable geographical barriers, but historically they were also bridges through which civilizations interacted. To look at Tibet only through the contemporary India-China boundary is consequently to see only one layer of a much older relationship.

Geography adds another dimension. The Tibetan Plateau and the wider Hindu Kush-Himalayan high-altitude system are often described as the “Asian Water Tower.” The region forms the headwaters of major Asian river systems and supports water security for vast downstream populations. Recent scientific research estimates that the wider Asian Water Tower sustains water resources for approximately 1.9 billion people and encompasses the headwaters of eleven major river systems.

This hydrological geography makes Tibet and the wider Himalayan region enormously consequential for India. The Brahmaputra, Indus and other river systems demonstrate how developments in the upper reaches can eventually acquire ecological, economic and strategic consequences downstream. India and Nepal are among the countries whose societies and economies are deeply connected to Himalayan river systems. Climate change, glacial retreat, changing precipitation, hydropower development and river management therefore make the ecological future of the Tibetan Plateau and surrounding mountains a matter of regional rather than exclusively domestic concern.

The terrible Himalayan disaster of August 2026 provided a painful reminder of this ecological interconnectedness. A massive collapse involving the Langtang Lirung glacier in Nepal, close to the Tibetan frontier, triggered a devastating flood and landslide. By 21 September, more than 1,400 deaths had been reported and thousands remained missing, while hydropower infrastructure and settlements suffered enormous destruction. Earlier scientific assessments pointed towards unusually high temperatures and accelerated glacier loss as important background conditions, although investigation into the precise dynamics of the catastrophe continued.

There is no credible evidence that Chinese actions caused this catastrophe, and it would be irresponsible to suggest otherwise. The more important issue is structural. A rapidly changing Himalayan cryosphere does not respect political boundaries. Scientific understanding of glaciers, river flows, extreme events and infrastructure risks therefore requires transparency, continuous observation, exchange of hydrological information and cross-border research. A recent scientific review specifically identifies enhanced transboundary coordination and data-sharing as important components of water security across the Asian Water Tower.

It is in this context that restricted external access to Tibet acquires an ecological dimension as well. The Tibet Autonomous Region remains subject to special entry requirements for foreigners, and independent foreign journalists have repeatedly faced substantial restrictions. U.S. State Department reporting covering 2023 recorded that requests by American officials for official travel to the region were not approved and that journalistic access remained tightly controlled; independent reporting also documents Tibet as uniquely restrictive compared with other provincial-level regions of China. These restrictions should not be conflated with the causes of natural disasters, but limited independent access can complicate outside observation and scrutiny of a region whose ecological changes have consequences extending across national borders.

This is why Tibet should increasingly be approached not merely as a territorial or human-rights question but also as an issue of ecological security. Scientific research shows that the Asian Water Tower is undergoing significant warming and hydrological change, with consequences for the Brahmaputra, Indus and other transboundary rivers. In an age of climate change, upstream-downstream cooperation, environmental transparency and scientific exchange are not concessions by one state to another; they are increasingly necessities imposed upon all of us by geography.

The same question of openness arises in another, very different sphere—the condition of Tibetan Buddhist religious institutions. The experiences of Larung Gar and Yachen Gar, two major centres of Tibetan Buddhist learning, have attracted considerable international concern. Human-rights organisations have documented demolitions, expulsions of monks and nuns and increased administrative controls at these institutions. Chinese authorities have explained measures at Larung Gar partly in terms of safety, overcrowding and administrative management, while human-rights organisations have regarded their scale and character as severe restrictions upon Tibetan religious life.

A monastery, however, is rarely only a physical structure. It is a repository of memory, scholarship, ritual and community. It is one of the institutional spaces through which knowledge passes from one generation to another. When the autonomy of such institutions is curtailed, what is potentially at stake is therefore not simply control over buildings or land but the ability of a civilization to preserve and reproduce its intellectual and spiritual inheritance.

This brings us directly to the subject of our seminar: why should the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama become a geopolitical issue at all? Reincarnation belongs fundamentally to the religious universe of Tibetan Buddhism. Yet the future succession of the Dalai Lama has become a matter of political contestation because two different conceptions of authority confront one another. The 14th Dalai Lama has reaffirmed that the institution will continue and has assigned responsibility for recognising his future reincarnation to the Gaden Phodrang Trust, acting according to Tibetan Buddhist traditions. Beijing maintains a fundamentally different position, asserting that the reincarnation must comply with Chinese law and procedures involving state approval.

The resulting paradox is difficult to overlook: a Communist Party-state grounded officially in an atheist ideological tradition claims regulatory authority over the reincarnation of Buddhist spiritual leaders. Dr. Sangay’s explanation of this apparent contradiction was one of the most thought-provoking parts of his lecture. His argument was that Beijing is less interested in the theology of reincarnation than in the institutional authority represented by the office of the Dalai Lama.

For millions of followers, the Dalai Lama derives authority from a centuries-old religious tradition. From the perspective of statecraft, however, that same institution possesses a form of transnational influence that cannot easily be created through administrative power. The spiritual influence associated with the Dalai Lama extends beyond Tibet into the wider Himalayan Buddhist world, including regions such as Ladakh and Arunachal Pradesh in India and communities in Nepal, Bhutan, Mongolia and elsewhere. Sangay therefore argued that controlling the succession process could provide Beijing with an opportunity to influence the institution itself. In his words, the objective is to “control the office of the Dalai Lama.”

There is a larger lesson here about the nature of power. Students of International Relations are accustomed to understanding power through armies, economies, technology, territory, and material capabilities. Yet legitimacy itself is a form of power. Religious institutions, cultural memory and civilizational authority can transcend political boundaries in ways that armies cannot. A government may appoint an official, but it cannot automatically manufacture spiritual acceptance among believers.

If, after the present Dalai Lama, two competing processes eventually produce rival claimants, one recognised through the Tibetan Buddhist process identified by the present Dalai Lama and another approved by Beijing, the resulting contest could extend far beyond two individuals. It would potentially become a contest over religious legitimacy, Tibetan identity and political authority, with consequences throughout the Himalayan Buddhist world. The geopolitics of reincarnation is therefore, at its deepest level, also a geopolitics of legitimacy.

It was in this context that Dr. Sangay connected the Dalai Lama question with what has popularly become known as China’s “Five Fingers” strategy. According to this metaphor, Tibet constitutes the palm of a hand, while Ladakh, Nepal, Sikkim, Bhutan and Arunachal Pradesh constitute its five fingers. Sangay related this strategic imagination to developments such as Doklam, Galwan and continuing Chinese claims concerning Arunachal Pradesh.

An important qualification is necessary. The formulation is frequently attributed to Mao Zedong, but its documentary provenance is disputed. Interestingly, Dr. Sangay himself acknowledged during his address that one cannot readily identify an official speech or document in which Mao articulated the doctrine precisely in these terms. Recent academic scholarship has similarly questioned whether a formally articulated Maoist “Five Fingers strategy” ever existed. Serious academic writing must distinguish between a useful geopolitical metaphor and a historically authenticated state doctrine.

Yet uncertainty about the phrase does not make the underlying geography irrelevant. Tibet occupies an extraordinary strategic position overlooking the Himalayan arc. Ladakh, Nepal, Bhutan, Sikkim and Arunachal Pradesh possess very different histories and political circumstances and cannot simply be grouped together. Nevertheless, China's relations, territorial disputes and strategic activities across the Himalayan region make the geography itself worthy of sustained attention.

Sangay went further. China, he argued, now possesses substantial economic, political or strategic influence beyond the traditional “five fingers,” including in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and the Maldives. With characteristic rhetorical flourish, he described the contemporary environment as one of “ten fingers.” This too should be understood as Sangay’s geopolitical metaphor, not as an officially declared Chinese strategy. Yet the question behind it deserves reflection: as Chinese influence expands across India's continental and maritime neighbourhood, how should India conceptualise the changing strategic environment around itself?

Perhaps the most important observation Sangay made that morning was also one of the simplest: if one wants to understand China, one must understand Tibet. I found myself returning repeatedly to this statement. India has understandably invested considerable intellectual energy in studying China from the perspective of Beijing that includes its Communist Party, economy, military, foreign policy and global ambitions. But perhaps India also needs to understand China from the Himalayas inward.

Tibet offers a vantage point from which borders, water, culture, religion, security and state power converge. Yet Tibetan studies remain far less prominent in Indian academic institutions than their strategic significance would warrant. During his lecture, Dr. Sangay suggested that institutions such as the University of Delhi should devote greater academic attention to Tibetan studies. For students of Political Science and International Relations, such study would hardly be antiquarian. Tibet brings together almost every major theme of our discipline: sovereignty and autonomy, power and legitimacy, territory and identity, ecology and security, religion and politics, civilization and statecraft.

As I reflected upon the seminar afterwards, I realised that our title, “The Geopolitics of the Dalai Lama’s Reincarnation”, contained within it a much larger question: Who has the right to preserve and interpret a civilization? Can political authority manufacture religious legitimacy? Can a modern state determine the succession of a spiritual institution when the community of believers locates that authority elsewhere? And what happens when an institution developed through centuries of religious tradition becomes entangled in the strategic calculations of powerful states?

My own conviction is that religious communities ought to enjoy the space to preserve their traditions and institutions without coercive political interference. Tibet reminds us that the survival of a civilization cannot be measured merely through control over territory. Civilizations live through languages, monasteries, texts, rituals, teachers and collective memories. And, above all, through the freedom of one generation to transmit its inheritance to the next. This is why the autonomy of religious institutions matters and why the question of the Dalai Lama’s reincarnation cannot be dismissed as an obscure theological controversy.

It is also why Tibet matters so profoundly to India. It matters because of the Himalayas and India's security; it matters because of rivers, glaciers and ecology; and it matters because a significant part of Tibet’s religious and intellectual inheritance grew from an ancient civilizational dialogue with India. Understanding Tibet need not imply hostility towards China, nor should scholarship become a substitute for diplomacy. It means recognising realities that geography and history have placed before us. Dialogue is indispensable in international relations, but dialogue is strengthened, not weakened, by historical awareness, cultural literacy, ecological knowledge and strategic clarity.

The seminar at Shyam Lal College began for me as an academic initiative undertaken in my responsibility as Teacher-in-Charge of the Department of Political Science. It ended as a deeper reflection on the relationship between power and civilization. The unexpected response to Sangay’s lecture after I uploaded it online only reinforced that impression. A discussion that began inside a college auditorium travelled within days to thousands of viewers. Perhaps that response itself tells us something: despite the enormous changes in world politics, Tibet has not disappeared from public consciousness.

Dr. Lobsang Sangay’s address reminded us that the future of the Dalai Lama cannot be understood simply by asking who will be recognised as his reincarnation. Behind that question lies another: who will possess the legitimacy to make that recognition meaningful? Behind even that lies the larger question of Tibet itself, its people, its monasteries and religious traditions, its glaciers and rivers, its civilizational memory and its place in the strategic geography of Asia.

Perhaps, therefore, Sangay’s proposition deserves to be remembered: to understand China, we must understand Tibet. I would add that to understand Tibet, we must look beyond political maps. We must understand its people and monasteries, its mountains and rivers, its religious traditions and civilizational memories. Only then can we comprehend why the succession of a Buddhist spiritual leader has become an issue of international politics, and why the future of Tibet remains inseparable from the geopolitics, ecology and civilizational future of the Himalayas.

Merit Morality and the Making of Viksit Bharat

 

“The destiny of India is now being shaped in her classrooms.” These memorable words of the Kothari Commission remain as relevant today as they were six decades ago. Classrooms, universities and examination halls are not merely places where knowledge is imparted and academic ability is assessed. They are spaces in which the future of the Republic is quietly shaped. The quality of education influences the quality of citizenship, while the credibility of examinations determines whether young citizens continue to believe in the fairness of public institutions.

India today stands at a historic juncture. As the nation moves towards the goal of Viksit Bharat by 2047, public discourse understandably focuses on economic growth, modern infrastructure, technological advancement, defence preparedness and India’s expanding global influence. These are indispensable dimensions of national development. Yet beneath these visible achievements lies another foundation that is less tangible but equally vital: the moral credibility of our institutions.

A nation does not become truly developed merely because its economy expands or its cities acquire impressive infrastructure. It becomes developed when ordinary citizens believe that honesty will be rewarded, merit will be respected and justice will be delivered without fear or favour. Institutional trust is among the most valuable forms of national capital. Once weakened, it cannot easily be restored.

 

The recurring controversies surrounding examination paper leaks and other irregularities must be understood in this wider context. For millions of young Indians, competitive examinations are not simply academic exercises. They represent hope, dignity, social mobility and the possibility of transforming the circumstances into which they were born. Across villages, tribal regions, small towns and cities, families sacrifice their limited resources to educate their children. Students devote some of the most productive years of their lives to preparation, believing that disciplined effort and ability will determine their future.

When an examination paper is leaked, therefore, it is not merely a confidential document that is compromised. The faith of students is violated. The sacrifices of parents are devalued, and the moral compact between the State and its young citizens is weakened.

Paper leaks should consequently not be treated as routine administrative lapses or ordinary criminal offences. They are organised assaults on merit. They allow manipulation to prevail over sincerity, influence over ability and dishonest privilege over perseverance. Their most damaging consequence may not be the cancellation of an examination or the postponement of recruitment. It is the message conveyed to honest students that integrity may not be sufficient for success.

Such a message is particularly dangerous for India, which rightly regards its youthful population as a demographic dividend. A large young population does not automatically become a national asset. It becomes an asset only when young people receive education, opportunities and a fair institutional environment in which their abilities can flourish. If they begin to believe that corruption and connections can routinely defeat merit, the demographic dividend can gradually turn into frustration, distrust and alienation.

The anxiety expressed by students must therefore be heard with seriousness and sensitivity. Today’s youth are more informed, connected and questioning than previous generations. They compare institutions, discuss public affairs on digital platforms and expect transparency from those exercising authority. Their impatience is sometimes criticised, but impatience is not always evidence of irresponsibility. It can also reflect the aspirations of a generation unwilling to accept institutional failures that earlier generations may have tolerated silently.

Young citizens who raise difficult questions are not necessarily hostile to the State. In a democracy, they often remind the State of its constitutional responsibilities. Governments do not become weaker by acknowledging deficiencies and correcting them. On the contrary, responsiveness enhances their legitimacy. The strength of a democratic institution lies not in its ability to avoid criticism but in its willingness to learn from it.

At the same time, democratic protest carries ethical responsibilities. The Constitution protects freedom of expression and peaceful assembly, but violence and the destruction of public property cannot be justified in the name of dissent. Buses, railway stations, educational institutions and government buildings do not belong to a political party or a particular government. They are national assets created through the contributions of ordinary citizens. Their destruction ultimately harms the society whose interests a protest claims to represent.

The State, too, bears a corresponding responsibility. Law-enforcement agencies must maintain public order with restraint, professionalism and constitutional sensitivity. A mature democracy requires citizens to protest peacefully, governments to listen patiently, opposition parties to act responsibly and the police to exercise authority proportionately. Democracy is strengthened when grievances lead to reform rather than confrontation.

Stronger laws against organised examination fraud and improved security arrangements are necessary. Those who leak papers, operate criminal networks or purchase unfair advantage must face swift and credible punishment. Yet legislation alone cannot solve what is ultimately also a moral and institutional problem. Laws can punish wrongdoing, but institutions must prevent it. Institutions, in turn, are shaped by the character of the individuals who lead them.

Technology can contribute substantially to examination security. Encrypted question papers, biometric verification, digital tracking, secure distribution systems and artificial intelligence may reduce opportunities for malpractice. But technology remains a tool; it cannot replace integrity. No software can manufacture moral courage, and no algorithm can create public trust. If those entrusted with safeguarding an examination are themselves compromised, even the most sophisticated system can be manipulated.

Appointments to examination authorities, recruitment agencies and regulatory institutions must therefore be based on competence, experience, impartiality and unimpeachable integrity. Public institutions cannot command confidence unless their leadership is considered worthy of confidence. India needs public servants whom neither the attraction of office nor the rewards of corruption can purchase.

This emphasis on character is deeply rooted in India’s civilisational understanding of education. The Indian tradition did not view education solely as a means of acquiring employment. Education was also a process of cultivating self-discipline, wisdom and social responsibility. The Taittiriya Upanishad exhorts students completing their education to speak the truth, practise righteousness and remain committed to learning. Knowledge was not separated from the ethical use of knowledge.

The Bhagavad Gita similarly assigns intrinsic value to sincere action rather than to success obtained by any means. Swami Vivekananda regarded education as the manifestation of the perfection already present within the human being and consistently placed character formation at its centre. Mahatma Gandhi insisted that noble ends could not justify impure means. Dr B. R. Ambedkar recognised education as an instrument of emancipation but also warned that constitutional democracy could not survive without constitutional morality. Pandit Deendayal Upadhyaya’s Integral Humanism likewise cautioned against reducing development to material prosperity alone. Although these thinkers emerged from different intellectual traditions, they converge on a fundamental truth: national progress cannot be sustained without character.

The responsibility for protecting merit does not rest with the government alone. Examination fraud survives through networks of willing participants: officials who betray confidentiality, intermediaries who organise transactions, coaching operators who seek unlawful advantage, candidates who purchase leaked papers and families that celebrate success without questioning the means through which it was obtained. If society condemns corruption only when others benefit from it but tolerates dishonesty when it serves personal interests, institutional reform will remain incomplete.

Educational institutions, teachers and parents must therefore help create a culture in which integrity is valued even when dishonesty appears profitable. The National Education Policy 2020 rightly emphasises holistic development, ethical reasoning, constitutional values and responsible citizenship. These goals should not remain confined to policy documents. Schools and universities must produce not merely successful professionals but citizens capable of strengthening the moral foundations of the Republic.

Political parties and the media also carry an important responsibility. Student anxieties should not be converted into instruments of political spectacle. The Opposition has a legitimate duty to expose institutional shortcomings and demand accountability. However, supporting students is different from inflaming their grievances for electoral gain. Similarly, governments must not dismiss every criticism as politically motivated. Responsible journalism must distinguish verified facts from allegations and illuminate public issues rather than deepen anger through sensationalism.

The vision of Viksit Bharat must ultimately be understood as more than an economic project. A developed India should be one in which the son of a farmer in Vidarbha, the daughter of a labourer in Bihar, a student from a tribal village in Bastar, an aspirant from Tamil Nadu and a young graduate from Uttarakhand all believe that their future depends upon their ability rather than their influence. It should be a nation in which honest effort carries greater value than dishonest advantage.

Roads, ports, airports and digital networks connect places, but ethical institutions connect citizens with the Republic. Character is the invisible infrastructure of a nation. Without character, institutions lose credibility; without credible institutions, democracy loses public trust; and without public trust, development loses its moral foundation.

India’s greatest strength is not merely its youth but the hope that resides within it. That hope persuades students to persevere, families to make sacrifices, researchers to innovate and citizens to participate in national life. A nation that protects this hope protects its future.

The choice before us is therefore profound. Will India become a country in which success can be purchased, or one in which success must be earned? Will influence continue to challenge integrity, or will character remain the highest qualification for public responsibility?

The answer will determine whether Viksit Bharat becomes merely an economic destination or a civilisational achievement. Only when every young Indian can confidently believe that honesty is not a disadvantage, merit is not negotiable and sincere hard work will never be rendered meaningless can India truly claim to have become a developed nation.