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Time of India
4 days ago
- Politics
- Time of India
Interim justice: A study in contrasts
V. Raghunathan is a former Director of the Schulich School of Business (India Program), York University, Toronto, a former professor at IIM Ahmedabad and a former President of ING Vysya Bank. A prolific author, he has written over 15 books, including the national bestseller Games Indians Play (Penguin). With more than 600 published papers and articles, his latest books include The Lion, The Admiral, and A Cat Called B. Uma Vijaylakshmi (Westland, 2025) and To Every Parent; To Every Child (Penguin, 2025) and Irrationally Rational: 10 Nobel Laureates Script the Story of Behavioural Economics (Penguin 2022), among others. LESS ... MORE Justice HR Khanna, the eminent judge, jurist and advocate, renowned for his unwavering commitment to civil liberties and constitutional principles, firmly believed in the public's right to critique judicial decisions. Even in his autobiography, Neither Roses Nor Thorns, Justice Khanna emphasized the significance of dissent and open dialogue in a democratic society. He argued that the judiciary should not be immune to criticism and constructive scrutiny by the public, which serves to strengthen the legal system. His legacy, shaped indelibly by his historic dissent in the ADM Jabalpur case, has become a lodestar for those who seek to reconcile judicial authority with democratic accountability. Justice Sanjiv Khanna, during his recent tenure as Chief Justice of India—an office he vacated only last fortnight—also underscored these values. While reiterating the judiciary's accountability to the Constitution and the rule of law, he affirmed that the judiciary must remain answerable to the Constitution and the rule of law, while underscoring a crucial truth: 'Public trust has to be earned; it can't be commanded.' This underscores the fundamental principle of democracy, namely, that it is not merely the legal mandate by which judicial authority is served, but it is by public's trust in honesty, moral credibility and fairness of judiciary. In this broader constitutional context, two recent Supreme Court interventions—the cases of Professor Ali Khan Mahmudabad and Madhya Pradesh minister Vijay Shah—provide a compelling lens through which to examine the Court's application of constitutional protections and the principle of equal treatment before the law. Both cases related to the two individual's comments on 'Operation Sindoor'–– two women officers as spokespersons––and both causing public outrage, culminating in judicial oversight. Yet, how the two cases were treated by the highest judiciary reveals some stark inconsistencies. Professor Mahmudabad, a respected academic and historian at Ashoka University, was arrested for a social media post which made some critical comments on the Operations Sindoor, represented by two women officers, Col. Sofiya Qureshi and Wg. Cdr. Vyomika Singh. Though many interpreted his comments as thoughtful and critical, even if intellectually provocative, it reflected India's secular values, the state considered them inflammatory. He was detained under laws governing incitement and enmity. In the end, while the Supreme Court granted him interim bail, it did so with significant caveats. The Court reprimanded him, restricted further public commentary on the issue, and ordered the seizure of his passport. Additionally, the investigation was allowed to proceed under the supervision of a Special Investigation Team (SIT) of three IPS officers. This dual response—procedural protection coupled with explicit disapproval—invites reflection. Was the Court performing a balancing act between protecting civil liberties on the one hand and appeasing public sentiment around national security on the other? Or was this simply a pandering to public sentiment, reinforcing the narrative that freedom of expression can be selectively applied or curtailed at whim, when it goes against majoritarian sensitivities? For many observers, including this author, Professor Mahmudabad's post hardly breached the boundaries of responsible public discourse. One may be pardoned for the perception that had the same post been made by any of the majority of the country's population, the matter would not have raised so much as a judicial eyebrow. That the Hon'ble Court considered it necessary to censure and restrict the Professor's freedom suggests a growing discomfort with dissent, even when couched in reasoned argument. In stark contrast, Vijay Shah, the Madhya Pradesh Tribal Welfare Minister, made openly communal and derogatory remarks targeting Colonel Sofiya Qureshi, one of the officers associated with Operation Sindoor communications. His comments were widely condemned as unbecoming of a constitutional functionary and prompted the Madhya Pradesh high court to direct that an FIR be filed against him. When the matter reached the Supreme Court, it too criticised Shah's remarks in strong terms, noting that such language from a public official brought shame to the country. Yet, in contrast to its treatment of Mahmudabad, the Court stayed Shah's arrest pending investigation, while ordering the formation of another SIT to conduct the probe. The disparity here is not merely procedural but constitutional. An academic was arrested, censured, and effectively silenced and seemingly, a message sent out to the academic community at large, for a post that questioned political messaging; a politician was allowed to evade immediate legal consequences for blatantly divisive and communal speech. The implications for equality before the law are troubling. It seems that that the Professor's post was misinterpreted as his disloyalty to the nation due to his identity, background, and presumed ideological stance, while Shah's inflammatory pomposity was buffered by the institutional privileges and political patronage afforded to him as a minister. This raises a difficult question: are constitutional rights contingent on who exercises them? Constitutionally, secularism and freedom of expression are supposed to be universal guarantees; on the ground, these cases suggest they are not equitably treated. The perception of some tilt in judicial response risks undermining public perception and faith in legal impartiality and the integrity of democratic governance. Moreover, the public perception—which lies at the heart of the controversy surrounding Mahmudabad's reference to 'optics'—is hard to overlook, as the unfolding events appear to validate it in real time. His arrest, passport confiscation, and travel restrictions convey a chilling message to academics and dissenting voices. In contrast, the court's relatively restrained stance toward Shah, despite the explicitly communal tenor of his remarks (and a likely pattern of sexist commentary), risks sending an inadvertent signal: that political incivility is more tolerable when it comes from positions of power. How do these two cases measure up on the scales of our Lady Justice—now seemingly unblinded? If the lady were to be witness to how these two cases have been treated, would she not instinctively flinch? At least in the eyes of the public, if not in those of Lady Justice, perhaps the stark contrast between the two cases––a minority academic and a majority minister; between a critical intellectual and a provocative politician; between one whose language was dissected for intent and another whose video evidence was overlooked for arrest––only reinforces why the blindfold was essential: to ensure that justice is dispensed without regard to identity, status, or power. In conclusion, these contradicting rulings suggest the need for introspection within the judiciary. For India to honour its constitutional commitments to secularism, equality, and individual liberty, its institutions—above all, the judiciary—must uphold a uniform and impartial standard. Justice must not only be done but must be seen to be done—without fear, favour, or the shadow of political expediency. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
19-05-2025
- Business
- Time of India
Strategic myopia: Why India stumbles as China plans
V. Raghunathan is a former Director of the Schulich School of Business (India Program), York University, Toronto, a former professor at IIM Ahmedabad and a former President of ING Vysya Bank. A prolific author, he has written over 15 books, including the national bestseller Games Indians Play (Penguin). With more than 600 published papers and articles, his latest books include The Lion, The Admiral, and A Cat Called B. Uma Vijaylakshmi (Westland, 2025) and To Every Parent; To Every Child (Penguin, 2025) and Irrationally Rational: 10 Nobel Laureates Script the Story of Behavioural Economics (Penguin 2022), among others. LESS ... MORE It is worth reflecting on whether India, as a nation, operates with an integrated strategic mindset. Not in the superficial sense often invoked in political speeches or media panels but in the substantive understanding of long-term planning, policy consistency, and institutional coordination. As a large nation, do we think strategically in the long term, beyond the next elections or bureaucratic inertia? When contrasted with China, the answers appear sobering. For nearly half a century now, China has, over the last four decades, demonstrated a national agenda consistent with its priorities and ambitions. It pursues long-term strategic thinking and planning, integrates policies across domains, and maintains coherence in foreign and domestic goals. India, by contrast, has struggled to maintain focus and follow-through. We often announce projects with fanfare but fumble when it comes to implementation. Policies emerge without adequate inter-ministerial alignment. Our fragmented administration and political volatility frequently undermine our strategic intent. Let us take the infrastructure strategy––a keystone of national development and security. China's Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) has reshaped global geopolitics and reconfigured economic ties across national geographies. Their focussed investments in infrastructure—namely in roads, ports, railways, and energy corridors—have extended their influence through three continents: Asia, Africa, and Europe. India, meanwhile, has struggled to complete its own regional projects. The modest Indian initiative on India, the other hand, namely the Myanmar-Thailand Trilateral Highway, remains incomplete years after initiation, hobbled by funding scarcities, missing contractors, and lack of inter-governmental alignment. Another example is China's increasing influence in South Asia. It has become a key strategic player in our North, South, East, and West through sustained investment and engagement, namely in Nepal, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, and the Maldives. India's relationships with these same neighbours have often been reactive rather than proactive and marked by inconsistencies. While valuable, cultural diplomacy and historical ties have proven inadequate when weighed against China's economic leverage and infrastructure diplomacy. On the defence strategy front, the contrast continues. All across the Indo-China Himalayan border, China has built dual-use infrastructure, strengthening its logistical capabilities. China has established naval bases and logistical hubs from Djibouti to Gwadar, consolidating its strategic presence across the Indian Ocean. In contrast, while India has taken notable strides in recent years, we are, at best, a poor second to China when it comes to infrastructure and coordinated operational capability. Our roads, air strips, and logistics are all still vulnerable to bureaucratic bottlenecks and climatic disruptions. Digital infrastructure and technology present a similar dichotomy. China has invested heavily in artificial intelligence, quantum computing, surveillance technology, and space exploration. It sees these as foundational to future economic and military power. India has world-class talent and entrepreneurial energy but lacks coordinated investment and policy clarity. While initiatives like Digital India have helped expand access, no overarching national strategy is comparable to China's Made in China 2025 or its AI development plans. Even in space, which one of India's long-held strengths, the difference in scale and ambition is evident. China has successfully established its space station, undertaken crewed missions and embarked on deep space exploration projects. India's space agency, ISRO, while well-known for its frugality and cost-effective achievements, remains financially starved and overworked. Regulatory hurdles and insufficient political backing remain obstacles in their key decision-making areas. Nor is India's domestic policy landscape free of persistent inconsistencies. Recent developments relating to electric vehicles (EVs) make a good example of what not to do. : For instance, while we offered subsidies to the sector to encourage quick adoption, these efforts were frequently undermined by tax hikes or regulatory uncertainty, like restrictions and bans imposed on electric bike taxis. One may push for exports, while another imposes restrictions to meet unrelated objectives. Coordination is sporadic and usually crisis-driven. Unlike China, where strategic planning institutions such as the National Development and Reform Commission help align various arms of government, India has no comparable mechanism for cross-sectoral planning and implementation. Our foreign policy reveals a clear gap between ambition and execution. While the country envisions itself as lead voice in multilateral fora and sees itself as a rising global power, when it comes to turning that vision into reality, we typically fall short. While India may be persuasive on international platforms, it lacks the financial clout and strategic coherence to shape outcomes decisively. In contrast, China integrates its diplomacy with well-aligned economic and military strategies, consistently converting intent into tangible influence. It is easy to dismiss much of China's successes in their strategic planning to their authoritarian regime while chalking up our own lesser achievements to our democracy. But that would hardly be convincing. After all, democracies like Germany, South Korea, and others have shown that democracy does not necessarily conflict with long-term strategic planning. Russia is an example of an authoritarian regime with much less success than China. Whether a nation is dictatorial or democratic, what works is the robustness of institutions, consistency in strategic thinking, and sustained political commitment. India may have the capability, but it needs to overcome its internal contradictions and inertia. What is required is a cultural shift in governance: from ad hoc decision-making to deliberate planning, from fragmented action to coordinated strategy. We should expect our Planning Commission (Niti Ayog) to work in this direction. Ministries must communicate, policies must be stress-tested for coherence, and long-term goals must transcend electoral calculations. Civil-military synergy needs institutional backing. Someone must guide infrastructure projects to abide not only by local priorities but also by national security and economic strategy. There must also be a rethinking of how India approaches technology and industrial policy. Instead of reacting to global trends, India must proactively identify sectors of strategic importance and invest in building capabilities over time. Space, semiconductors, clean energy, and advanced manufacturing require incentives and integrated missions involving academia, industry, and government. If India is to be taken seriously by innovators, investors and strategic partners, we must be seen to be consistent and reliable. This is unlikely when we indulge in frequent policy changes, delayed and convoluted judicial decisions, retrospective legislation, regulatory unpredictability, and administrative opacity, and it damages our credibility. Clearly, we can't have strategic clarity without transparency and accountability. A strategic vision goes hand in hand with transparency and accountability. Frequent policy reversals, retrospective application of laws, delayed judicial orders, regulatory unpredictability, and bureaucratic opacity hurt India's credibility as a functioning and dependable nation. We lack neither ideas, nor talent, nor ambition. What it lacks is institutional alignment and strategic continuity. It must recognize that planning is not the enemy of innovation, and discipline is not the enemy of democracy. If India is to emerge as a global power in the decades ahead, it must move beyond slogans and announcements and instead build systems and strategies that endure. Strategy is not just about thinking big. It is about thinking ahead, thinking together, and thinking through. India must rise to this challenge—or risk being left behind by those who already have. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
22-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Welcome to the republic of randomness: Annotated commentary on India's glorious lack of standardisation
V. Raghunathan is a former Director of the Schulich School of Business (India Program), York University, Toronto, a former professor at IIM Ahmedabad and a former President of ING Vysya Bank. A prolific author, he has written over 15 books, including the national bestseller Games Indians Play (Penguin). With more than 600 published papers and articles, his latest books include The Lion, The Admiral, and A Cat Called B. Uma Vijaylakshmi (Westland, 2025) and To Every Parent; To Every Child (Penguin, 2025) and Irrationally Rational: 10 Nobel Laureates Script the Story of Behavioural Economics (Penguin 2022), among others. LESS ... MORE Welcome to Incredible India—where everything works… as an enduring proof that God exists and has a sense of humour. This is a country where the plug rarely fits the socket, the tap threads seldom align with the pipe, and the city you're in today may have an entirely new name by next weekend. But please—don't be rigid or unimaginative. Who needs dull predictability and boring uniformity and standardisation when one can have chaos, colour, and the constant thrill of the unknown? We may have big dreams of 'making in India' or fantasise about slipping into the manufacturing shoes China may one day leave behind, but we can't seem to standardise a single thing to save our lives. Take, for instance, our electrical plugs. No two plugs seem to agree on what a 'standard' socket should be. You'll find two-pin, three-pin, round pin, flat pin, and slanted pin—as if the entire system was designed by a committee that never met. Plug in your phone charger, then stand perfectly still while holding it at just the right angle, silently praying that your breathing won't dislodge the tenuous connection. It's less a question of elementary engineering and more of yogic posture—for both the plug and the user. Let's now consider our taps. Shower knobs may rotate clockwise, anti-clockwise and hot water is sometimes on the left, sometimes on the right giving you in all four permutations. Changing a tap may mean replacing your pipeline, or vice versa, because tap threads are not standardised and are therefore not compatible with thread fasteners and connectors. Then comes the joy of building a home. Fancy constructing a room with neat right angles? Good luck. Bricks and tiles come in gloriously random sizes—each supplier's own personal vision of what 'standard' might be. Even the most geometrically sound plan can end up looking like Picasso's take on architecture. Precast concrete? Prefab walls? Cute. Here, infrastructure is often artisanal: a lone man with a plastic mug and a bucket, lovingly splashing water over a gunny-sack-covered flyover pillar. No standard operating procedures here, just muscle memory and divine intervention. Vehicle number plates in India are another realm of expressive freedom. Fonts, colours, plate sizes, screw placements, and vertical or horizontal alignment all lie in the hands of the owner—or his local sticker guy. It's where artistic liberty meets regulatory shrug. Sure, rules exist. But enforcement is, like many other things in India, 'flexible', like the side we drive on. We are, after all, the land of jugaad—our celebrated national doctrine of improvisation. It is innovative, flexible, and delightfully chaotic. Unfortunately, it also allows us to sidestep systems and standards that actually function. Why build a reliable, standardised structure when you can come up with temporary fixes forever? Public transport is an excellent showcase. Our buses are as varied as our festivals. Sizes, designs, door placements, and floor heights differ not only between states but often within the same city. Route numbers follow no logical sequence. Destination boards can be in English, in local scripts, or completely absent. Ticketing systems range from tiny paper slips to QR codes, depending on the conductor's mood or the decade the depot was built. Bus stops too are a visual adventure—steel shelters, streetlight poles, and imaginary stops only in the whims of the driver and or the imagination of the passengers. Trains? Where to begin? Yes, India has multiple gauges due to colonial legacies and geography. But platform heights vary wildly—even within the same zone—transforming boarding into a feat of athleticism. Train coaches lack uniformity in design and comfort. Numbering systems are inconsistent, announcements temperamental, and signage whimsical. Timetables serve more as hints than commitments. And while we trumpet our digitisation efforts, ticketing platforms offer a masterclass in confusion. Each railway zone seems to have its own dialect of dysfunction. Safety systems differ across zones, and ticketing interfaces vary online and offline. It's a transport network held together not by uniformity, but by jugaad, patience, and sheer human determination. Then we come to roads, where the lack of standardisation becomes a public health hazard. Traffic signals, where they exist, are mere advisory tips. Lane markings are faded doodles, U-turns crop up in the most illogical places, and even busy crossings can often be dangerous, unscientific, and escapable only if you're lucky. One-way service roads are often merrily driven in both directions. And road signs are a matter of whim as to when and where they may crop up, with no dependability. Electricity is equally enlightening, or flickeringly so. In the high-tech capital of Karnataka, Bengaluru—India's own Silicon Valley—the power supply flickers so frequently you might think the grid is sponsored by a strobe-light manufacturer. Voltage fluctuations are the standard, power cuts among the few constants, and load-shedding timetables (or any other kinds of timetables) remain mysteriously absent. Electricity is not so much about standardised power generation but the generation of vague suggestions. Our cities are proud celebrations of spontaneous growth—organic, chaotic, and defiantly unplanned. Roads are rarely parallel, their orientation so arbitrary that North, South, East, or West have little meaning in our geographies. Intersections are accidental, streets mostly unnamed, and addresses more of a riddle than a location. Navigation relies on landmarks—often ones that no longer exist. Unsurprisingly, GPS apps routinely give up, sending you on wild goose chases or leading you to the back wall of your destination. In a country allergic to standardisation, even coordinates lack coordination. But woe betide you if you use an old city name. Say 'Bangalore' instead of 'Bengaluru,' or 'Allahabad' instead of 'Prayagraj,' or 'Ahmedabad' instead of 'Karanavati' and you may trigger a cultural backlash. Names change, maps evolve, but potholes, open drains, and overflowing dumpsters remain remarkably consistent in their lack of maintenance. The bureaucracy, of course, is the crown jewel of randomness. You might think Nandan Nilekani's Aadhaar project has standardised identity. Think again. Every agency demands fresh KYC, proof of age, address, education, income, religion, ancestry, and probably your blood type. Multiple passport-sized photos, rubber stamps, notarised copies, and the unshakeable faith that you remembered all six documents they didn't mention. For added efficiency, an 'agent' lurks nearby to expedite your misery—for a goodly fee. Even Digital India is a victim of our national allergy to standardisation. Yes, there are thousands of Apps, and you can scan a QR code to buy peanuts from a roadside cart. But try getting a digital land record, a death certificate, or filing a grievance online, and you'll enter a Kafkaesque maze. Government portals crash, cybercrime units are ornamental, and online complaint systems are largely symbolic. Official email addresses either bounce back or fall into a digital coma. The only reliable standard? You won't get a reply. Rules? Our legal system treats them like those Terms and Conditions we all click 'Accept' on—existing, but irrelevant. Helmets are sold with fake ISI marks for Rs. 150. Police procedures depend on the day, the officer's mood, or the accused's surname. Bail is a roulette wheel. Justice is a charmingly unpredictable theatre. Unlike China, we don't bother with standardising rail gauges, city layouts, or school curricula. Instead, we focus on renaming cities, building statues, and choreographing drone shows. Nation-building here is not about quality of life—it's about quantity of spectacle. Even free speech, supposedly a constitutional right, suffers from India's deeper malaise: the absence of standardisation. You can technically say anything you want—but only if it doesn't touch religion, caste, cows, history, nationalism, the ruling party, or, heaven forbid, reality. The boundaries of what's permissible shift like sand dunes in a storm. Ask the wrong question—say, how the Prime Minister maintains a couture-level wardrobe on a modest public salary—and you risk arrest, a sedition label, or even a bulldozer visit to your home. (Of course, you can't really ask him directly—he doesn't grant press interviews.) The rules of expression, like most things here, are selectively applied, inconsistently enforced, and perfectly unstandardised. And yet, amid all this randomness, one thing is standardised—our festive spirit. We may lack standardisation in firecracker safety, water treatment or hardness, or garbage segregation, but come Diwali, Eid, or Christmas, housing society WhatsApp groups light up in perfect synchrony. You can be certain that multilingual greetings will pour in with clockwork cheer, accompanied by 47 emojis and animated GIFs. Never mind the absence of civic discipline—'Happy Ganesh Chaturthi!' will arrive right on cue. It's chaos, yes, but with a dependable rhythm. A sort of emotional standardisation, if you like. And so, we march forward—awkwardly, inefficiently, often hilariously. Sandwiched between nostalgia and hyper-nationalism. Powered by jugaad, guided by luck, held together with faith and duct tape. We may not have working sockets, but we do have an impressive variety of failures—each more inventive than the last. But don't worry. Everything's under control. Mostly. Kind of. And when it's not, well, we have a phrase for that too. 'Chalta hai.' That shrug. That half-smile. That lullaby of resignation. It explains everything, excuses everything, and fixes nothing. After all, it's far easier to dismiss those who raise such issues as unpatriotic—and then let the trolling take care of the rest. But hey, at least we're never bored. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
