Shri Pravin More: The Police Officer Who Inspired Me

Shri Pravin More holds a special place in my memories and in my life. When I first met him, he was a young, handsome police officer, probably in his mid-twenties, if my memory serves me well. I was a village boy, curious about the world but unfamiliar with much of it. He had come to our village on official duty. What began as a brief conversation became a relationship of encouragement and affection that has lasted through many changes in our lives.

I grew up in Kukkameta, a small village near the dense forests of Abujhmarh, on the Maharashtra side of the border with what was then Madhya Pradesh and is now Chhattisgarh. The forest was part of our everyday life. It gave us fruits, familiar paths, places to play and a world to explore. But alongside those happy childhood memories, I also remember the presence of armed men and women. Naxalite activities affected our village and the surrounding areas, shaping village life in ways that we children could feel without fully understanding.

We called them Naxalwadis in those days. The name “Maoists” became more common in later conversations, particularly after the People’s War Group and the Maoist Communist Centre of India merged in September 2004 to form the Communist Party of India (Maoist). Their Maoist ideology, of course, existed before that merger. As a child, I knew little about these organisational names. I knew the people who came to our village, the guns they carried and the songs they sang. 

Only much later did I understand the strategic importance of the forests in which we lived. Under Kondapalli Seetharamaiah, the People’s War leadership sought to establish a rear base in the wider Dandakaranya region. The idea was to have forest areas where armed squads could take shelter, recover from pressure elsewhere and build their organisation. Accounts of the movement describe squads entering this region in 1980 as part of that strategy. Our village belonged to the wider forest belt into which this movement spread. What was home to us was, for an armed organisation, also a place of strategic value. 

During my childhood, however, none of this appeared to us as a strategy drawn up by distant leaders. It appeared as people walking into the village with weapons, calling meetings and speaking to our elders. Police presence was less extensive than it became in later years. In my memory, the Naxalites often moved through our surroundings with considerable confidence. Their arrival was something villagers recognised and responded to, sometimes with familiarity and sometimes with fear.

The men were commonly addressed as Dadas and the women as Akkas. These were familiar forms of address in our local surroundings. They made the visitors sound like people connected with village life. As children, we did not always feel the same immediate fear of them that we felt when policemen arrived. The Naxalites came repeatedly, spoke to people and sometimes interacted warmly with children. Familiarity affected the way we saw them, even though we knew they carried guns.

I have a memory of sitting and playing on the laps of some of the Naxalite women. It remains a strange and deeply personal part of my childhood. I did not know their histories or understand the choices that had brought them into an armed movement. I was simply a child receiving attention from an adult. Today, I can remember that moment of warmth while also understanding the violence and coercion associated with the organisation they served.

I also remember hearing adults speak about the difficulty of having children while living that underground life. Whether those conversations described particular women or a wider practice, I could not have known. What reached me was the idea that their lives allowed little room for an ordinary family. We heard accounts of squads travelling long distances through forests after encounters with the police, moving through the night to avoid another confrontation. To a child, these stories were both frightening and difficult to imagine.

There were also local people known as Sangam members. They acted as links between the Naxalites and villagers, carrying messages and helping maintain contact. Some acquired considerable influence through this role. In my recollection, certain people used it to intimidate others. They became local dadas in another sense—people whose displeasure villagers wished to avoid. Their authority did not come from any responsibility to the village as a whole, but from their association with armed men and women.

The Naxalites also used songs to attract attention and communicate their ideas. I remember gatherings where they sang about the red flag, exploitation and the conduct of officials. We children listened, sometimes remembering the tune more clearly than the words. The songs made their message easier to follow than a long political speech. They could be repeated, discussed and carried into everyday conversations.

One line has stayed faintly in my memory: “Yerra jhenda keyanta ro Madiya Dada.” I cannot now guarantee the exact wording or pronunciation. As I understood it then, the red flag was calling the Madiya people to come together. In later years, I connected its message with the familiar communist appeal for workers to unite. At the time, however, it was simply a song we heard in our village, addressed to people whose language and surroundings we knew.

Another song, which I remember as being in Telugu, sounded something like: “Sale tum, sale male tum … i polisalu maku cheptava, mamen timtava…” The remaining words are unclear in my memory. We understood its message to be that policemen abused villagers while also taking food or receiving hospitality from them. I offer this as a childhood recollection of its meaning, rather than an exact translation. What mattered locally was the accusation it carried: those who came with official authority could depend on villagers and still treat them badly.

I believe such songs found an audience partly because some people had experienced unnecessary interference by police or forest officials. An encounter that left a villager feeling humiliated could make the next speech against the state sound convincing. The Naxalites used those grievances to gain attention and support. They also urged people to oppose development activities, describing them as “jhute vikas karyakram”—false programmes of development. Looking back, I can see how actual grievances could be drawn into a political campaign that also discouraged opportunities villagers needed.

This was the atmosphere in which I met Shri Pravin More. We were afraid of the police, yet fascinated by their khaki uniforms, vehicles and weapons. Whenever policemen entered the village, we boys gathered at a little distance to watch. We wanted to see their guns closely, but their stern manner made us cautious. Our curiosity kept us nearby; our fear kept us from going too close.

He had come to investigate an incident in which one villager had attacked another with an axe. Fortunately, the injury had not been fatal. A group of us stood watching in our worn clothes. He noticed me and called me closer. I cannot say what caught his attention. Perhaps it was my curiosity, or perhaps the way I responded when he spoke.

In a firm voice, he asked which class I was studying in. I told him that I had appeared for my seventh-standard examination and planned to go to Gadchiroli, our district headquarters, for high school. I must have sounded confident despite my nervousness. He listened and asked me to meet him at the police station in Laheri, a somewhat larger village about six kilometres from Kukkameta.

I felt happy about that invitation. An officer whom I admired had taken an interest in my studies. I had heard that he was good to villagers and strict in dealing with Naxalites and their supporters. His personality left an immediate impression on me. I wanted to meet him again, although I did not yet understand what that simple wish might mean in the circumstances of our village.

Soon afterwards, I secured admission to the government boys’ hostel in Gadchiroli. Before leaving, I wanted to visit him. My father and other villagers advised me against it. They feared that the Naxalites might interpret a visit to the police station as evidence that I was an informer. Their concern was real. In an area affected by armed conflict, even an innocent meeting could create suspicion.

For me, however, the visit was about school, encouragement and a person I wanted to know better. I could not forget his invitation. Eventually, I went to Laheri and met him at the police station. I arrived with some hesitation, but he welcomed me warmly. The officer whose voice had first made me nervous was pleasant, cordial and caring.

He spoke about my education and several other matters, some of which I understood only partly. I was impressed by his manner. He gave me time and treated my hopes seriously. Before I left, he asked me to write to him regularly. I began doing so, and he replied to every letter I wrote.

Those replies meant more to me than I could have explained then. I was a boy studying away from home, trying to adjust to a different place. His letters assured me that someone remembered me and wanted me to do well. He had difficult responsibilities, yet he found time to respond. His encouragement became a steady presence in my school life.

In the eighth standard, I learned about the National Defence Academy at Khadakwasla, Pune. I became interested in preparing for its entrance examination and wrote to him about it. He replied with encouragement. He wanted to help me continue my education in Pune and prepare for that ambition. During Diwali and summer holidays, whenever I returned home, I made a point of meeting him. He was always welcoming, and I came away feeling more confident.

Then I appeared for my tenth-standard examination. I had promised him that I would score above ninety per cent, but I obtained around seventy per cent. Today, I would not describe those marks as a failure. At that age, however, the difference between my promise and my result weighed heavily on me. I felt embarrassed and thought that I had disappointed him.

Instead of writing honestly about what had happened, I stopped writing altogether. He had never made his care dependent on a percentage. That condition existed in my own mind. I was too young to understand that the people who encourage us often want to hear from us most when things have not gone according to plan.

Around that time, he was transferred, and I lost track of his posting. Through others, I heard that he was deeply involved in anti-Naxalite operations. Our contact ended, but my regard for him remained. Whenever I remembered the people who had encouraged me in my early years, I thought of the officer at Laheri who had answered my letters.

Much later, I found him through Facebook. By then, I had completed my M.A. and M.Phil. at Jawaharlal Nehru University and was working as a Private Secretary to a Member of Parliament. My life had taken me from a small forest village to the national capital. When we spoke again, he was happy to learn about my journey.

His warmth had not changed. There was no sense that I had to earn my place again after the long silence. But he did ask why I had not remained in touch. He told me that he could have helped me. Hearing that, I thought of the schoolboy who had hidden his result and stopped writing. I wished that boy had understood how much kindness was still available to him.

I was even more moved to discover that his family knew about me. His brothers, sisters and members of his extended family had heard of me during the years when we were out of contact. I had continued to think about him, but I had not realised that he also continued to remember and speak about me.

Meanwhile, his career had taken him into further responsibilities, including service with the United Nations and work as an Assistant Commissioner of Police in Maharashtra’s Anti-Corruption Bureau. I felt proud to learn of his service. Yet the qualities I admired most were already familiar: his confidence, his goodwill and his ability to make another person feel valued.

Today, I feel like a member of his family. When I look back at my childhood, I remember forests, friends, songs and the uneasiness of living amid armed conflict. Within those memories, his presence remains especially clear. He showed me a form of authority that could be firm and still be caring.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if he had not called me out of that group of boys. Perhaps he saw the conversation as a small gesture. For me, it became a lasting source of encouragement. Shri Pravin More noticed a village child, listened to his hopes and asked him to write. Years later, when that child returned as a grown man, he welcomed him with the same affection.

The Republic Must Never Retreat : Kashmir, the Pandit Exodus and the Imperative of National Resolve

A nation reveals its character through the people it protects, and those it leaves unprotected. Its strength is tested when a citizen is threatened, when an armed organisation challenges its authority, and when political convenience competes with the duty to act. Kashmir’s recent history confronts Bharat with this test. The persecution and displacement of Kashmiri Pandits exposed a grievous failure of protection. The decades that followed exposed an equally troubling failure to deliver justice.

The renewed prosecution concerning Sarla Bhat, a young Kashmiri Pandit nurse murdered in Srinagar in April 1990, has reopened these wounds. On 29 June 2026, Jammu and Kashmir’s State Investigation Agency filed a chargesheet naming Yasin Malik and four other alleged Jammu Kashmir Liberation Front operatives in her abduction and killing. Thirty-six years separate the crime from this development. That interval should trouble the conscience of the Republic. For me, the issue reaches beyond one case. It concerns the relationship between national power and human dignity. A State that cannot secure a citizen’s right to remain in her home, practise her profession and live without intimidation has failed in a foundational responsibility. No vocabulary of political accommodation can make that failure acceptable.

The nurse who remained

Sarla Bhat worked at the Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of Medical Sciences—SKIMS. She was twenty-seven. At an age when life should have opened before her, she became a victim of the violence consuming the Valley. Her vocation required care for others; the State owed her protection. The prosecution reportedly names Mohammad Yasin Malik, Abdul Hameed Sheikh, Ghulam Mohammad Taploo, Mohammad Yousuf Sofi and Khursheed Ahmad Chalkoo. Three of the other accused are dead, while Chalkoo is reported to be absconding. Responsibility for this particular crime must be determined through trial. Malik’s existing conviction in another terrorism-related case does not itself establish his guilt in Sarla Bhat’s murder.

This legal distinction should sharpen our insistence on prosecution. Justice requires evidence, witnesses, competent investigation and a reasoned judgment. It requires the State to do the difficult work of establishing responsibility. Allowing a case to remain unresolved for decades is an abdication of that duty. Time does not heal such injustice automatically. It can destroy evidence, silence witnesses and permit perpetrators to die without answering for their actions. For families, the unanswered question survives every anniversary: why did the institutions responsible for justice take so long? Sarla Bhat’s name must therefore stand for both remembrance and accountability. Her life deserves more than periodic outrage.

Terror sought to change Kashmir’s society

The targeting of Kashmiri Pandits was an assault upon their continued presence in their ancestral homeland. Its consequences were demographic, cultural and psychological. Individual killings communicated a threat to a much larger community: ordinary life could no longer be assumed to be safe. Advocate and BJP leader Tika Lal Taploo was murdered on 14 September 1989. Retired Sessions Judge Neelkanth Ganjoo was killed on 4 November that year. Doordarshan official Lassa Kaul was murdered in February 1990. These attacks struck people engaged in law, public life and communication, professions through which a community participates in society.

The writer and social worker Sarwanand Koul Premi and his son Virender Koul were abducted and murdered in 1990. Investigative action in their case has also gathered renewed attention in 2026. Their deaths remind us that scholarship, cultural contribution and goodwill offered no reliable protection against the gun. I reject attempts to reduce these events to an unfortunate disturbance accompanying a political movement. The murder of civilians cannot acquire legitimacy through a political objective. A demand advanced through intimidation must be judged by the coercion it imposes upon those who do not consent. The Pandit tragedy belongs at the centre of our understanding of Kashmir. Any account that treats it as peripheral presents an incomplete history of the conflict.

Refugees within their own country

The expression “exodus” is familiar enough to conceal its human meaning. It describes families leaving houses built by their ancestors, abandoning livelihoods and travelling towards an uncertain future. It describes children whose education was disrupted and elderly people who lost the surroundings that gave their lives continuity. A home is more than property. It holds language, memory, relationships and belonging. Displacement breaks these connections together. Even when material recovery becomes possible, the loss of a lived world remains.

The Ministry of Home Affairs’ Annual Report 2021–22 records that militancy in 1989–90 drove large numbers of people, predominantly Kashmiri Hindus and Pandits, alongside smaller numbers of Sikh and Muslim families, from their ancestral residences. It records 44,684 migrant families comprising 154,712 individuals registered with the Jammu relief authorities, and another 21,333 migrant families settled elsewhere in the country. These administrative figures illustrate the scale of displacement; they are not a complete census of the historical Pandit exodus. Citizens driven from their homes within their own country suffered the collapse of a promise implicit in citizenship: that the Republic would defend their right to belong where they had always belonged. Their subsequent achievements cannot excuse that collapse. Families rebuilt their lives through education, enterprise and extraordinary endurance. Their resilience deserves admiration. It does not absolve institutions of responsibility for the circumstances that made such endurance necessary.

The moral failure of selective remembrance

I have little patience with a public discourse that becomes evasive when Kashmiri Pandits demand acknowledgment. Secularism should require equal concern for victims. When the religious identity of the victim determines the willingness to recognise suffering, secularism becomes a political convenience. The persecution of a Hindu minority in Kashmir deserves unequivocal condemnation. Its recognition requires no preliminary apology and no permission from those concerned about its political implications. The dignity of victims cannot be subordinated to the reputation of an ideology.

Terror also killed Muslims who stood in its way. National Conference leader Mohammad Yousuf Halwai was murdered in August 1989. Mirwaiz Mohammad Farooq was assassinated on 21 May 1990; police announced the arrest of two accused, Javaid Ahmad Bhat and Zahoor Ahmad Bhat, in 2023. Their alleged roles remain matters for judicial determination. These deaths reveal the wider reach of intimidation. Recognising them reinforces the case against terrorism. It demonstrates how armed organisations sought power over Kashmir’s people, including those they claimed to represent. A nationalist response must defend every loyal and peaceful citizen while identifying the organised violence that threatened them. Responsibility belongs to perpetrators and their support networks. It must be pursued precisely and relentlessly.

December 1989 and the price of capitulation

The kidnapping of Rubaiya Sayeed was a decisive demonstration of terrorist leverage. The daughter of Union Home Minister Mufti Mohammad Sayeed, she was undertaking medical internship training when abducted on 8 December 1989. She was released on 13 December after the release of five imprisoned militants. My assessment of that concession is severe. It showed armed organisations that kidnapping could compel the government to surrender something they could not obtain through lawful means. A State confronting terrorism must understand the consequences of the incentives it creates.

The abducted woman’s life was precious. Precisely because lives are precious, the government had to consider the future citizens who might be endangered by a successful coercive precedent. The immediate crisis demanded urgency; the strategic consequences demanded foresight. That decision alone did not produce Kashmir’s insurgency. But it exposed weakness at a moment when terrorist organisations were testing the State’s resolve. In such circumstances, perceptions of retreat can become operational opportunities. Governments must prepare for hostage crises before they occur. Intelligence, response capabilities and clear decision-making are essential. Improvisation under pressure is an expensive substitute for preparedness.

Strong government is a national requirement

My study of International Relations and International Organizations at JNU strengthened my interest in institutions, diplomacy and international norms. Kashmir strengthened my conviction that these must rest upon effective power. I identify with a realist understanding of national security. Kautilya’s concern with statecraft and Machiavelli’s attention to the consequences of political weakness speak to a reality that democratic governments cannot evade: authority that cannot protect becomes authority without sufficient meaning.

For Bharat, a strong government must be able to make decisions, sustain them and accept responsibility for their consequences. It must prevent electoral calculations from paralysing security policy. It must ensure that intelligence reaches decision-makers and that operational agencies possess the resources and direction to act. Coalition government is not inherently incapable of this. Nor does a majority automatically produce courage. My objection is to political dependence that turns every necessary decision into bargaining among elites while citizens remain exposed. The essential question is whether national security commands priority. Parliamentary arrangements must serve the Republic’s responsibilities. Those responsibilities cannot wait until every political participant finds action convenient.

Political access must never displace justice

For years, separatist leaders received attention and access within efforts to negotiate a settlement. Yasin Malik met Prime Minister Manmohan Singh in 2006 as part of that engagement. Governments considered dialogue a means of reducing conflict. The enduring question is whether sufficient attention was paid to accountability. Engagement must have conditions and consequences. A claim to have renounced violence requires examination through conduct. Political access must never become a substitute for investigating unresolved crimes.

Malik was sentenced to life imprisonment by a special NIA court on 25 May 2022 in a case concerning terrorism and secession-related activities in 2016–17. This established criminal accountability in that case. Proceedings concerning other allegations must follow their own evidentiary course. I welcome a State prepared to pursue such accountability. The families of victims should not have to watch influential figures occupy public platforms indefinitely while their own cases gather dust. Dialogue is one instrument of statecraft. Prosecution is another responsibility altogether. A competent government can negotiate where necessary while ensuring that political prominence offers no shelter from law.

Article 370: the importance of a decision

I support the Modi government’s 2019 decision to end Jammu and Kashmir’s special constitutional status under Article 370. It demonstrated political resolve on a question that successive governments had treated as exceptionally difficult to address. Jammu and Kashmir already belonged to India. The decision changed constitutional arrangements within the Union and sought a fuller common framework of governance. Its significance lay in the willingness to act despite predictions that the consequences would be unmanageable.

The Supreme Court upheld the abrogation in December 2023. The judgment also addressed representative government and the restoration of statehood. Constitutional integration must produce institutions through which citizens participate confidently in national and local life. Nation-building demands sustained work. It includes constitutional decisions, administrative reform, infrastructure, security and public participation. A government cannot permit the threat of violence to become a permanent veto over its constitutional authority. I give the Modi government credit for exercising that authority. The responsibility now is to consolidate the gains and address the vulnerabilities that remain.

Resolve must be measured through results

The security record provides grounds for recognising substantial improvement. A July 2024 parliamentary reply reported that terrorist-initiated incidents fell from 228 in 2018 to 46 in 2023. Civilian deaths fell from 55 to 14, while security-force deaths declined from 91 to 30. These reductions matter. They represent fewer lives destroyed and a diminished space for organised violence. They support the case for sustained security operations, intelligence coordination and action against terrorist financing and support structures. The 2024 Assembly elections, with a turnout of 63.88 per cent, demonstrated substantial participation in representative politics. A secure democratic arena gives citizens the opportunity to shape their future through institutions rather than intimidation.

But realism demands vigilance. The April 2025 Pahalgam attack killed twenty-six people. The NIA subsequently chargesheeted Lashkar-e-Taiba/The Resistance Front and identified the alleged attackers as Faisal Jatt alias Suleman Shah, Habeeb Tahir alias Jibran and Hamza Afghani. These are the agency’s findings and allegations in the case. Pahalgam demonstrates why improved security must never become complacency. Terrorist networks seek opportunities even after losing territory, cadres or public influence. One successful atrocity can devastate families and threaten confidence built over years. The answer is persistence: preventing infiltration, strengthening intelligence, disrupting financing and pursuing those who organise and facilitate attacks.

Power must protect ordinary life

My interactions with officials in Bharat’s security establishment have deepened my appreciation of the demands placed upon those responsible for protection. Their work requires judgment, endurance and cooperation across institutions. These conversations inform my perspective; public evidence remains the basis for the factual claims made here. Security personnel require clear political backing and the authority to respond effectively to armed threats. Operational freedom must function within law and professional discipline. That is how a democratic State maintains both effectiveness and legitimacy.

I do not seek a Republic that merely displays strength. I seek one whose strength can be experienced by its citizens: a nurse reaching her workplace safely, a teacher entering a classroom without fear and a family remaining in its ancestral home. For displaced Pandits, rehabilitation must mean credible choices concerning return, livelihood, property and security. Return cannot be demanded as a symbolic demonstration of normalcy. The State must create conditions that make it sustainable. Justice must also become systematic. Old cases require dedicated investigation, witness support and competent prosecution. Remembrance belongs in scholarship, public institutions and education, so that the tragedy survives beyond political occasions.

The lesson of Kashmir is uncompromising. When the State retreats, organised violence advances and vulnerable citizens pay. National resolve is therefore a duty owed to human life. Sarla Bhat, Tika Lal Taploo, Neelkanth Ganjoo, Lassa Kaul, Sarwanand Koul Premi and countless others must remain within our national memory. Their names demand more than sympathy. They demand a Republic determined to protect the living and pursue justice for the dead. That is the nationalism I believe in: confident in Bharat’s sovereignty, firm against terrorism and unwilling to abandon a citizen because protection has become politically difficult. The Republic must never retreat from that responsibility.

The Distance Between a Right and Its Realisation

There is a considerable distance between possessing a right and being able to exercise it. A constitutional provision may establish an entitlement, a government order may prescribe a procedure, and an institution may announce its commitment to equality. Yet, for the individual standing outside its gates, the decisive question remains: will these promises make a difference to my life?

I often return to this question when discussions about reservation and social justice become heated. As a teacher at the University of Delhi, and as someone whose roots lie in a village near the Abujhmarh region, I encounter these issues through both academic debate and lived proximity to tribal society. My own community is non-tribal, but generations of association with the Madiya people have shaped my understanding of their world. That proximity does not authorise me to speak for every tribal person. It does, however, make it difficult to view their aspirations as an abstract policy question.

The debate surrounding the University Grants Commission’s equity regulations has brought these concerns into sharper focus. Behind arguments about definitions, institutional authority and possible misuse lies a larger question: how far has our society travelled towards making equal citizenship a practical reality?

My answer is that we have travelled a meaningful distance, but the journey remains unfinished.

Progress and its uneven reach

The achievements of independent Bharat deserve recognition. Education and affirmative action have opened opportunities that earlier generations could scarcely imagine. The emergence of teachers, administrators, professionals and public representatives from historically disadvantaged communities is an important achievement of our constitutional democracy.

But the success of some individuals cannot become the measure of an entire community’s circumstances. A family’s first graduate may represent extraordinary progress while neighbouring families remain far from completing school. A tribal scholar appointed to a university does not demonstrate that every student from a remote settlement now competes under comparable conditions.

Official figures illustrate this unevenness. According to the Ministry of Education’s AISHE 2021–22 findings, the higher education Gross Enrolment Ratio for Scheduled Tribes rose from 13.5 in 2014–15 to 21.2 in 2021–22. This improvement deserves appreciation. Yet the overall ratio stood at 28.4, leaving a substantial gap. The figures establish neither the cause of every disadvantage nor the experience of every student. They nevertheless challenge the assumption that educational equality has already been achieved.

The public debate often moves too quickly from acknowledging progress to questioning the continued need for support. I find this troubling. If measures intended to expand opportunity have helped people advance, their success should encourage a careful assessment of what remains to be done. It should not automatically become an argument for withdrawing them.

What a student carries into the classroom

Teachers know that students arrive with different preparations, resources and expectations. Some have attended well-equipped schools, received private coaching and grown up in households familiar with university life. Others have negotiated interrupted schooling, financial uncertainty and the absence of anyone who could guide them through an application form.

For a student from a remote tribal settlement, the university may involve several transitions at once: geographical, linguistic, academic and social. A language spoken confidently at home may find little space in the classroom. A student accustomed to a different educational environment may hesitate to ask a question, even when the capacity to understand is present.

Such hesitation can easily be mistaken for lack of ability. Silence can become an informal judgment about merit.

I believe teachers must be alert to this possibility without assuming that every tribal student has the same needs. Communities are internally diverse, and individuals possess different strengths. What matters is whether an institution can identify a student’s actual difficulties and respond constructively.

Admission, therefore, is only the beginning. A delayed scholarship, unaffordable accommodation or lack of academic guidance can undermine an opportunity already secured. Equality must be examined throughout the educational journey, including the ability to remain, succeed and progress.

The constitutional understanding of equality

Our Constitution anticipated that equal treatment alone would not erase inherited disadvantage. Articles 15(4) and 15(5) enable special provisions for the advancement of socially and educationally backward classes and Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes. Article 16(4) provides a constitutional basis for reservation in public employment for backward classes inadequately represented in state services.

Article 46 places a further responsibility upon the State: promoting the educational and economic interests of weaker sections, particularly Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes, and protecting them from social injustice and exploitation. As a Directive Principle, it guides public policy rather than functioning in the same manner as an individually enforceable fundamental right. Together, these provisions demonstrate that the constitutional understanding of equality includes purposeful efforts to address disadvantage.

I regard affirmative action within this framework. It requires competent implementation, scrutiny and periodic assessment. Its benefits must reach those for whom they are intended. However, the discussion should begin with the circumstances that made such measures necessary, rather than with impatience towards their beneficiaries.

Param Pujaniya Sarsanghchalak Dr. Mohan Bhagwat ji has stressed sensitivity in approaching this subject. The RSS’s official account of his August 2025 interaction reiterated his support for constitutionally valid reservation and his assurance of standing with beneficiaries for as long as they felt its need. I find the emphasis on listening particularly significant. Those who experience disadvantage must have a meaningful place in discussions about whether it has ended.

Rights beyond the university

My association with Akhil Bharatiya Vanvasi Kalyan Ashram has reinforced my belief that tribal development and the protection of rights belong together. Education, livelihoods, community institutions and dignity influence one another.

A household facing insecurity over its livelihood may struggle to sustain a child’s education. A community with little effective influence over local decisions may find its priorities repeatedly overlooked. These connections explain why laws concerning self-governance and forest rights matter within a broader discussion of opportunity.

The Panchayats (Extension to the Scheduled Areas) Act, 1996, commonly known as PESA, provides safeguards for local governance in Scheduled Areas. The Forest Rights Act, 2006, recognises specified individual and community forest rights of eligible forest-dwelling Scheduled Tribes and other traditional forest dwellers. Their practical effectiveness matters deeply to community security and participation.

Kalyan Ashram’s September 2015 resolution called for effective implementation of PESA, restoration of powers intended for Gram Sabhas and coordinated implementation of PESA and the Forest Rights Act. This documented position reflects an understanding that development requires communities to exercise rights, rather than merely receive assistance.

For me, the principle extends naturally to education. Tribal youth must be able to participate in institutions that shape knowledge, policy and public life.

An administrative decision with social consequences

The controversy over the 13-point faculty reservation roster offered a revealing example of how procedure affects opportunity. To someone unfamiliar with university recruitment, the difference between a department-based roster and a university-based roster might appear technical. For communities seeking representation, the choice of unit was consequential.

I recall with satisfaction that it was in Raipur, Chhattisgarh, that I brought the implications of the 13-point faculty reservation roster to the attention of senior functionaries of Akhil Bharatiya Vanvasi Kalyan Ashram. They immediately recognised the seriousness of the matter, particularly its consequences for tribal candidates aspiring to appointments as Assistant Professors. A delegation was constituted, of which I was a member, and in February 2019 we met the Union Ministers responsible for Education, Tribal Affairs and Home Affairs, seeking an ordinance to address the issue.

Parliament subsequently passed legislation restoring the university or college, rather than the department or subject, as the unit for reservation in covered Central Educational Institutions, thereby reinstating the earlier system based on the 200-point roster. For me, this experience demonstrated how timely engagement and collective effort could help protect constitutional safeguards and the aspirations of tribal youth.

The episode further strengthened my conviction that policies must be judged through their operation. A commitment expressed in an advertisement can lose much of its meaning if the procedure governing appointments does not provide effective opportunities.

This is why attention to apparently technical matters is indispensable. The structure of a roster, the treatment of vacancies and the criteria used in assessment can shape careers and representation over many years.

Understanding the UGC debate

The University Grants Commission (Promotion of Equity in Higher Education Institutions) Regulations, 2026, notified on 13 January 2026, sought to establish institutional arrangements against discrimination, including Equal Opportunity Centres, complaint procedures and appeals.

A major point of contention concerned their definitions. The specific definition of caste-based discrimination referred to Scheduled Castes, Scheduled Tribes and Other Backward Classes, while the broader definition of discrimination extended more generally to stakeholders. The relationship between these provisions became central to the controversy.

On 29 January 2026, the Supreme Court directed that the regulations be kept in abeyance and that the 2012 equity regulations continue until further orders. The Court identified ambiguities and questions requiring detailed examination. Its intervention was an interim order, not a final determination of constitutional validity. In August, the Centre informed the Court that the regulations were being reconsidered.

I believe this legal context requires a considered response. Supporting protection against discrimination does not oblige us to defend every formulation in a regulation. Equally, identifying weaknesses in a formulation does not establish that institutional safeguards are unnecessary.

We should seek a clear, fair and effective framework. Every person deserves protection from discrimination, while the framework must remain attentive to the particular disadvantages experienced by historically marginalised communities.

The question of misuse

Concerns about misuse should be examined when evidence supports them. No responsible institution should disregard deliberately fabricated allegations. Yet allegations against individuals cannot justify suspicion towards an entire community.

A fair complaint mechanism must protect both the complainant and the respondent. It should provide confidentiality, impartial inquiry, an opportunity to answer allegations, reasoned findings and an effective appeal. Protection from retaliation is equally necessary if people are to report wrongdoing without fear.

An unsubstantiated complaint is not automatically a malicious one. Evidence may be insufficient, unavailable or difficult to establish. Deliberate falsification requires its own fair determination.

Conversely, an adverse academic judgment or an ordinary disagreement should not automatically be treated as discrimination. Context and evidence matter. Clear procedures can help distinguish these situations while preserving confidence in the institution.

I see fairness as essential to the durability of protective measures. People are more likely to trust safeguards when they know that complaints will be taken seriously and decisions reached impartially.

When “unsuitable” needs an explanation

Faculty recruitment presents another challenge. Universities need professional discretion to assess candidates. Minimum eligibility cannot, by itself, guarantee appointment. Nevertheless, discretion should be exercised through criteria that are consistent, recorded and open to appropriate review.

Official figures presented to Parliament showed that, as on 30 June 2025, Central Universities had 704 sanctioned Scheduled Tribe Assistant Professor posts, of which 595 were filled. At Professor level, 24 of 144 sanctioned ST posts were filled. The same response stated that figures for candidates declared “Not Found Suitable”, or NFS, were not maintained centrally.

These numbers require examination. They do not establish that every vacancy resulted from discrimination, nor do they explain every recruitment outcome. But they make it reasonable to ask whether institutions adequately understand the barriers to representation.

Where eligible candidates repeatedly appear before committees and reserved posts repeatedly remain vacant, a recorded explanation becomes important. Published assessment criteria, documented evaluations, category-wise recruitment information and scrutiny of recurring NFS outcomes would strengthen accountability.

Academic excellence benefits from credible selection. Qualified candidates should know that their work will receive fair consideration, and institutions should be able to explain how they reached their decisions.

The responsibility that remains

As a teacher, I believe our responsibility includes examining the judgments we make about students and colleagues. Accent, confidence, social familiarity or access to influential networks should not become substitutes for assessing knowledge and potential.

As someone concerned with tribal advancement, I also believe we must listen carefully. Communities need opportunities to articulate their priorities, assess institutional performance and participate in policy decisions. Their dignity requires recognition of their agency.

Affirmative action should be accompanied by scholarships delivered on time, affordable accommodation, mentoring, language assistance and transparent recruitment. Each addresses a different stage at which an opportunity can become inaccessible.

The debate should ultimately bring us closer to institutions worthy of public trust. We need safeguards strong enough to confront injustice, procedures fair enough to protect everyone and evidence reliable enough to guide improvement.

I remain convinced that withdrawing protections prematurely would disregard the distance many people still have to travel. Our task is to reduce that distance through sustained and accountable work.

A constitutional right acquires its fullest meaning when the person entitled to it can exercise it with confidence. For the tribal student entering a university, the scholar seeking an appointment and the community seeking a voice in its future, that confidence remains a measure of how well we have fulfilled our democratic promise.

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.