Does the name Rajiv Goswami ring a bell? Probably not, specially if you're younger than 40 years. Son of a postal employee, the only brother among many sisters, he was a student leader at Delhi University. Back in 1990, he had suddenly become a household name. He became the face of the student's anti-Mandal commission movement against reservations proposed by the VP Singh government when he almost died in a self immolation bid. Some reports indicated that he never meant to go through with the immolation, the plan being for his companions to immediately douse the fire once it started. But in the mob frenzy his friends got separated and he ended up getting 80% burns. He became an instant hero, the face of the agitation while he fought for survival in Safdarjung Hospital. So much so that the busy AIIMS intersection was unofficially renamed to as Rajiv Chowk by the students.

And what was the ultimate outcome? The reservation policy was implemented nonetheless. Life for the rest of the country carried on as usual, leaving only the affected family devastated for life. Rajeev passed away in 2004 after 12 years of suffering. And he’s all but forgotten, while subsequent governments continue to look at ways to provide more and more reservations.

Today, once again a section of the youth is up in arms against the government. Their grievances are justified. The government’s failure to address succession of leaks of examination papers is appalling. While there has been symbolic action against a few officials, the government has been unable to instill confidence in the people at large and students in particular. In an intensely competitive environment the youth feels cheated and despondent when the examinations are gamed.

In a democracy, protesting to display anger and dissatisfaction is an inalienable right, and the students must exercise it. But in doing so, they need to be cognizant of the bigger picture. Such genuine protests invariably attract vested interests - professional activists and politicians with axes to grind. Politics is murky business, and there are always elements who try to channelise their anger and these protests to serve their own political purposes. Peaceful protests don't serve their purpose. What they need is violence that garners eyeballs, provokes outrage and further fuels the anger in a vicious cycle where the real issues get relegated to the background. And innocent students are convenient cannon fodder for this.

What happens when the dust settles? The government goes about it's business and the activists move on to the next cause. It's the cannon fodder and their families who are left to bear the burden of a few minutes of impulsive acts for the rest of their lives. So prudence lies in continuing to protest peacefully while ensuring you don't become that cannon fodder.

Remember Rajeev Goswami.

For decades, the established convention in India for appointing the Chief of Army Staff and other apex military positions was straightforward: the senior-most eligible officer was elevated. Critics often dismissed this system as mechanical or overly rigid. Yet it rested on a sound institutional logic that is worth examining before we abandon it entirely.

At first glance, the seniority principle appears flawed. Inter-se seniority among officers is largely determined at the time of commissioning. Two cadets passing out on the same day are ranked by academy merit — itself influenced by performance across training parameters, including physical standards and leadership assessments by relatively young directing staff. That ranking then travels with them throughout their careers. Decades later, when officers rise to the rank of Lieutenant General, the one who stood higher in the passing-out order may technically retain precedence over others commissioned the same day.

It is tempting to argue that this early ordering fails to account for four decades of professional performance. That is the most common criticism of seniority. But when one examines the structure of military promotions more closely, the supposed “lacuna” appears less glaring.

Every year, roughly 1,500 officers are commissioned into the armed forces. About half clear the first major selection board for promotion to Colonel and equivalent. Thereafter, the pyramid narrows sharply at every stage. By the time officers reach the rank of Army Commander, only a handful remain — often seven or so out of several thousand originally commissioned. These officers have survived multiple competitive selection boards, intense scrutiny of service records, operational tenures, command appointments, instructional roles and staff responsibilities. They represent, by any reasonable standard, the institutional elite.

At that stage, the question is not who is competent. It is who is first among equals.

Unlike the corporate world, where performance can be measured through balance sheets, targets or profitability metrics, higher military leadership in peacetime offers few tangible, comparable deliverables. Command at senior levels involves preparedness, training standards, strategic planning, and institutional stewardship — all vital but not easily reduced to objective scorecards. When all contenders have been repeatedly vetted and filtered over decades, finding a transparent and measurable basis to rank them further becomes inherently difficult.

In such circumstances, seniority serves a stabilising function. It provides predictability. It minimises lobbying. It reduces scope for subjective preference. Most importantly, it removes incentives for aspirants to position themselves politically or cultivate favour. Officers know where they stand, and they reconcile themselves to the system long before the final rung of the ladder.

This does not mean that seniority is flawless. But it does mean that it solves a specific institutional problem: how to choose among equally qualified leaders without distorting incentives.

The recent emphasis on “merit over seniority” at apex levels changes that equation.

On paper, the idea is attractive. Meritocracy resonates in a democracy. Governments must retain the authority to choose leaders they believe best suited to the strategic environment. Civilian control of the military is non-negotiable in a constitutional system. No appointment process can or should eliminate executive discretion.

The challenge arises not from the principle of merit, but from its operationalisation at the highest levels of military command.

If merit is to supersede seniority, it must be measurable and demonstrable. But what constitutes superior merit among officers who have already passed through decades of competitive filtration? In the absence of clearly articulated and transparent criteria, discretion inevitably expands. And where discretion expands without visible parameters, incentives shift.

Senior officers who previously reconciled themselves to an ordered line of succession may now perceive that the top appointment is open to broader interpretation. When a position once governed by predictable convention becomes discretionary, aspirants naturally seek to understand what factors influence selection. In a domain where operational achievements in peacetime are difficult to quantify, attention may drift toward signalling — consciously or otherwise.

This is not an indictment of individuals. It is a comment on institutional behaviour under altered incentives.

In a hierarchical, rank-conscious organisation like the armed forces, symbolism matters. Public visibility matters. Perceptions matter. Unlike the civil services, which function as a cadre-based system with lateral mobility and less public symbolism attached to individual officers, the military’s apex leadership carries immense representational weight. The image of a senior general in uniform is not merely personal; it reflects on the institution.

When selection criteria are opaque, officers may attempt to demonstrate alignment with perceived national priorities. They may seek visibility. They may emphasise particular initiatives. None of this is inherently improper. Yet the cumulative effect can blur the line between professional military conduct and perceived political positioning.

It is important to stress that no government deliberately seeks to politicise its armed forces. Such a course would be strategically self-defeating. Comparative examples in the region illustrate the dangers of military-politics entanglement. Democratic governments have every incentive to preserve the armed forces as an apolitical instrument of the state.

The risk lies not in intent, but in perception and incentive design.

Recent instances of supersession in top appointments, along with amendments that expanded eligibility pools for positions such as the Chief of Defence Staff to include a larger cohort of serving and even recently retired officers, have altered long-standing expectations. From the government’s perspective, this may represent flexibility and freedom to choose the best leader for evolving challenges. From within the institution, however, it can create uncertainty about what distinguishes one contender from another.

Uncertainty at senior levels has second-order effects. Officers may devote energy to differentiation rather than quiet professionalism. Peer relationships may acquire an undercurrent of competition. Most significantly, the subtle pressure to align with perceived executive preferences could affect the candour of professional advice.

Civil-military relations in a democracy depend on a delicate balance. The military must offer frank, sometimes uncomfortable assessments. Political leaders must weigh that advice alongside diplomatic, economic and political considerations. If senior officers begin calibrating advice based on how it may be received — rather than what they judge professionally sound — the quality of national decision-making may suffer.

Even if such calibration never occurs, the perception that it might occur can erode confidence.

None of this suggests that seniority should be sacrosanct or that reform is unwarranted. Institutions must evolve. Strategic environments change. Leadership requirements shift. But reforms that alter incentive structures at the highest levels require careful design.

If merit is to be the guiding principle, it must be accompanied by clearly articulated criteria, transparent evaluation frameworks, and institutional safeguards that reinforce apolitical norms. The objective should be to enhance executive flexibility without creating a marketplace of visibility at the top.

It is also worth remembering that the armed forces are not merely another branch of the executive machinery. They are a hierarchical combat organisation built on trust, cohesion and clarity of command. Predictability in promotion pathways contributes to that cohesion. Abrupt shifts in convention, even if constitutionally valid, ripple through the pyramid.

Ultimately, the debate is not about one appointment or one regime. It is about preserving the institutional character of the armed forces while respecting the legitimate authority of elected leadership.

Seniority provided stability but limited discretion. Merit promises flexibility but requires careful calibration. The dilemma lies in balancing these competing virtues.

If reforms are to endure, they must strengthen both civilian oversight and military professionalism — not place them in subtle tension. The goal should be a system in which the nation’s top military leaders are chosen through a process that is not only legally sound, but institutionally wise, strategically prudent, and beyond reproach in perception.

That balance is delicate. Once disturbed, it is not easily restored.

Five hundred global AI thought leaders, 300 exhibitors, 60 ministers and 24 heads of state participated in the recently concluded AI summit in New Delhi. Yet it was a private Indian university showcasing a Chinese robot dog that garnered most eyeballs — and for all the wrong reasons. Details of the incident bear no repeating as they have streamed endlessly on our screens the past few days. However, the episode reflects something deeper, going beyond a misrepresented machine.

Stephen Covey, in The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, distinguishes between the “Character Ethic” and the “Personality Ethic.” As per his research, through much of history, success literature emphasised character — humility, integrity, authenticity and substance. Over time, that emphasis shifted toward personality — image, projection, technique and perception management aimed at quick gains.

The deeper takeaway from the hullabaloo is not a robot dog. It is the trend involving triumph of projection over principle.

What we witnessed was Personality Ethic in action. When image becomes paramount, truth becomes dispensable. Inconvenient facts are glossed over and convenient narratives are amplified. If challenged, denial and deflection are the initial recourse. If exposed, apologise — even if the apology lacks sincerity. And if no one notices, reap the rewards. The calculation is simple: visibility trumps credibility.

But what does this do to trust? What does it signal about the seriousness of Indian innovation at a global stage?

The episode also raises uncomfortable questions about parts of India’s private higher education ecosystem. Are glossy brochures, aggressive marketing and five-star campuses masking deeper academic weaknesses? Does projection substitute for rigour? The faculty member at the centre of the controversy was, ironically, responsible for teaching communication — yet struggled to communicate clearly under scrutiny. It is difficult not to wonder what standards of knowledge, skill and attitude such environments cultivate in the next generation.

The problem is magnified by social media’s short, intense attention cycle. Spectacle travels faster than substance. Projection can launch careers and institutions overnight. In the attention economy, notoriety is often deemed preferable to anonymity. Shrinking attention spans and declining due diligence among large sections of online audiences only reinforce this trend.

The result is out there for all to see. After the summit, almost everyone online knows about “Orion,” the imported robo-dog presented as indigenous. Far fewer have heard of genuinely Indian innovations — such as the robotic MULE developed to carry military payloads across mountainous terrain, or the UN-WFP warehouse robot designed to eliminate human entry during fumigation of food storage facilities. These are not theatrical exhibits. They are solutions to real problems. Yet they struggle for attention.

That contrast is the real loss.

Perhaps the most constructive response is to shift what we amplify. Instead of rewarding spectacle, we should spotlight genuine innovation — the engineers, researchers and students quietly solving hard problems without theatrical claims. When recognition follows merit rather than marketing, incentives begin to change. And when incentives change, behaviour follows.

Institutions pursue what is rewarded. If headlines celebrate exaggeration, exaggeration will multiply. If credibility, rigour and honesty receive sustained attention, they will become the new aspiration.

If India truly intends to lead in AI and emerging technologies (or in any field for that matter), it must build a culture where substance outweighs spin — where innovation does not need embellishment to command respect. That responsibility does not lie with universities alone. It rests equally with regulators, the media and each one of us who chooses what to amplify.

There is a deeply ingrained public perception that in professional armies worldwide following orders unquestioningly is a virtue, practically an absolute must. Bollywood’s “Sir, yes Sir” stereotype has long reinforced this image. But the truth is more nuanced. Blind obedience weakens an army. So does reckless dissent. What distinguishes great military leadership is constructive dissent — the ability for subordinates to challenge plans before decisions are final, and then accept the chosen course once it is made.

Healthy dissent is not mutiny. It is an indicator of moral and professional courage. The key lies in understanding the difference between dissent, defiance, and disobedience — concepts that are often grouped as one in public debate. The first occurs before a final decision, offered as reasoned, professional input. A commander who genuinely values collective decision-making welcomes it; it improves plans, anticipates risks, and deepens ownership among those who must execute. The second and third — defiance and disobedience — occur after decisions have been made. They undermine unity of effort or lead to deflection of blame later. So dissent belongs to the stage of deliberation. Defiance and disobedience belong to the stage of execution or after.

Great commanders invite the perspectives of those entrusted with execution before finalising any plan. As many in the military know well, open discussion usually produces stronger plans and prepares for contingencies. However, once the leader decides — taking into account dissenting views or dismissing them as per his judgement — the cycle of debate ends. At that point, what was once healthy dissent must give way to professional cohesion. To refuse orders after the decision is made is disobedience; to carry them out half-heartedly is defiance. Both are harmful to the operation in particular and the military environment in general.

A culture that permits — even encourages — such professional debate is a sign of institutional maturity. But if promotions reward yes-men over thoughtful challengers, dissent dries up, and the institution loses its edge. A “Baa Baa Black Sheep…” culture in the armed forces is extremely detrimental, not just to the organisational fabric, but in long term to national defence.

India’s own military history offers a powerful illustration of how professional dissent can coexist with discipline. In 1959, as tensions with China escalated, India’s Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru found himself confronting a grim strategic reality: Chinese troops were constructing a road through Aksai Chin, deep in territory claimed by India. Despite repeated intelligence warnings and misgivings from career officers, the political leadership remained optimistic about Beijing’s intentions, dismissing them as benign moves to strengthen negotiating positions. Events in 1962 later showed how dangerous that strategic optimism had been.

When questioned in Parliament about what was being done to counter Chinese incursions, Nehru famously replied that the matter had been “handed over to the Army.” Army Chief General KS Thimayya knew that with the forces, resources, and communications infrastructure available at the time, India was not ready to meet a large-scale Chinese offensive. His dissent — grounded in professional judgement — was not heeded. Instead of bowing to that exclusion or engaging in defiance, he chose the one dignified way available to express resolute disagreement: he tendered his resignation. His act was neither defiance nor disobedience, but a principled assertion of professional truth. Nehru persuaded him to withdraw it, but then threw him under the bus by deflecting the reasons behind his move to personal differences with the Defence Minister Menon. (Details of how the incident unfolded is given in this thread.) Subsequently there was an uproar in the parliament when the opposition targeted the government over the episode. But the episode remains a powerful example of how senior military dissent can spotlight strategic misalignments without damaging institutional cohesion.

Contrast that with the recent uproar over the memoir of former COAS General M.M. Naravane. His reflections are yet unpublished but reports reveal moments when as the top commander he wrestled with complex operational choices and the interface between military advice and political direction. In his recounting of the 2020 border tensions, he describes periods of intense uncertainty, multiple calls to senior political leadership, and the tension of balancing restraint with readiness — the burden of command in a democracy. That he has chosen to go public in this manner, in contrast to the way in which Gen Thimayya dealt with a similar predicament, shows the moving away from a culture of constructive dissent. The key difference lies not in whether a General disagreed, but when and how that disagreement is expressed. Thimayya protested while in uniform, within the system, and accepted institutional outcomes. Public disclosures years later, after decisions have been executed and consequences absorbed, shift the act from professional counsel to retrospective judgement. That distinction matters deeply in a military organisation built on trust, confidentiality and collective responsibility.

Bottomline - there is wisdom in discipline, but there is also strength in the courage to dissent before a decision is final. The legitimacy of military leadership in a democracy rests on this balance: unity in execution, with openness in deliberation. But post facto criticism of decisions doesn’t come across as dissent. It seems to fall more under the category of defiance. And if sensitive operational matters are revealed without due clearance, the issue moves beyond ethics into the realm of institutional responsibility and legal obligation - ie disobedience.

Armies do not run on silence. They run on honest counsel before decisions, and unquestioned commitment after. Confusing post-fact commentary with professional dissent weakens that foundation. If politicians will be politicians, soldiers too must remain soldiers — and Generals, above all, must remain Generals.

A lot has been spoken and written about the politicisation of the Armed Forces in the recent past. The latest is a recent article in Deccan Herald by AVS Namboodiri which claims that in the recent past—presumably during the tenure of the current NDA government—”politicisation of the wrong kind, of a party-political or ideological nature, sometimes revolving around a political personality” is now affecting the Armed Forces. This piece aims to dissect the narrative about the politicisation of the Armed Forces in general and specifically examine the veracity of the claims made in this article, since it represents typical arguments given in favour of that narrative.

Understanding Civil-Military Relations in a Democracy

First, it is necessary to establish a clear understanding of what constitutes politicisation and the proper relationship between the Armed Forces and the government.

In a democracy, a political party presents a manifesto laying down their intended policies and programmes to the electorate. Each party’s manifesto is based on the party’s ideology and beliefs on what’s the best for the nation. The party elected to form the government then formulates those stated policies and puts them into action. Once in office, it can no longer be viewed merely as a political party and it’s policies can not be viewed merely as political ideology. It is transformed into a legally elected government by the will of the majority of the people.

All instruments of the government are mandated by the people to follow the instructions of the government. Needless to say, various functionaries are within their rights to advise the government on the pros and cons of policies and decisions. The final decision, however, rests with the government, as does the accountability for the outcome of those decisions. The ultimate test of that accountability is the next election, when the people decide whether they agree with the policies of the past five years by either re-electing the government or throwing it out of power.

The Armed Forces are one of the organs of the nation through which the government exercises its security policies.It is incumbent on the Armed Forces to implement the policies of the government. Individual commanders who strongly feel that any such policies are inimical to national interest have the option of resigning—as Gen Thimmayya did in 1959 when he had a strong disagreement with the then Defence Minister VK Menon regarding the handling of the Chinese situation. Barring resignation, the military leadership in a healthy democracy has no option other than carrying out the orders of the government.

What Has Changed? Examining the Manifestos

Given this framework, let us examine what apparent changes have led to claims of politicisation. To do so, it is necessary to look at the election manifestos regarding stated policies on security and the Armed Forces.

BJP Manifestos: 2014 and 2019

In the 2014 manifesto, three pages were devoted to national security and the Armed Forces. Key points included:

1. Greater participation of Armed Forces in the Ministry of Defence decision-making process

2. Implementation of One Rank One Pension for Armed Forces personnel

3. Construction of a War Memorial to recognise and honour the gallantry and sacrifice of soldiers

4. Bolstering India’s indigenous arms industry and DRDO

5. Revision and updation of the country’s nuclear doctrine

The 2019 manifesto stated that India’s security doctrine would be solely guided by national security interests, with zero tolerance against terrorism and a free hand to security forces in combating terrorism. It emphasised continued focus on operational readiness through induction of equipment and indigenisation of defence production.

Congress Manifestos: A Contrast

In contrast, the 2014 Congress manifesto has almost no clearly stated agenda for national security or the Armed Forces. Their 2019 manifesto spoke about security in generalised terms, the only specifics being the scrapping of the Agnipath scheme and institutionalising the selection process of the CDS.

A Clear Policy Difference

From the above, it is apparent that the BJP came to power with a clear vision of how they wanted the national security apparatus to function, including greater integration of the Armed Forces in decision-making and a more muscular security doctrine. Most of the points listed have either been carried out or are under implementation.

While erstwhile governments kept the Armed Forces at an arm’s length, the current dispensation has allowed it to become part of the decision-making process and paid closer attention to its functioning. Both of these are well within its prerogative.

It is this closer interface between the government and the Armed Forces—as opposed to the latter virtually functioning in a silo hitherto—that has likely led to allegations of politicisation. What appears to critics as politicisation may in fact be the implementation of an explicitly stated security policy that differs fundamentally from previous approaches. To examine this theory, let us analyse the specific allegations made by Namboodiri.

Analysing Specific Allegations

The Cult of Personality?

Namboodiri argues that “politicisation of the wrong kind, of a party-political or ideological nature, sometimes revolving around a political personality” is now affecting the Armed Forces. While he does not specify the personality, it is reasonable to assume he is referring to Prime Minister Modi.

In the past, Prime Ministers rarely visited forward troops, except in times of war. One of them even used military vessels and resources for a private family vacation. The current Prime Minister changed that trend—visiting more formations, air bases and ships than all the rest put together would have. He has even spent every Diwali since becoming Prime Minister with troops in some distant frontier, including recently on board INS Vikrant.

Do such visits serve to bolster the morale of the troops? Or do they contribute to establishing a cult of personality? Or both? Does it give him a political advantage? And if it does, is it legally, ethically or morally wrong for him to do so? That is for the reader to decide.

Supersession of Senior Officers

Namboodiri’s next point concerns Late Gen Rawat’s appointment as CDS, superseding two officers senior to him. He has a valid point here, since the principle of seniority has generally been followed in appointing the COAS and other senior military officers.

However, precedence for such supersession exists from the Congress era:

• In 1972, Gen GG Bewoor was appointed COAS, superseding Lt Gen PS Bhagat, a Victoria Cross awardee

• In 1983, Lt Gen SK Sinha was crossed over to appoint Gen AS Vaidya as COAS

• In 1988, Air Marshal SK Mehra was appointed CAS, superseding Air Marshal MM Singh

The appointments in the Armed Forces are technically the prerogative of the government. While the prudence of overriding seniority can be debated, Namboodiri’s assertion that Gen Rawat was “considered to be overly responsive to the government’s sensitivities and demands” is intriguing. As established earlier, implementing government decisions—after providing professional advice—is precisely the job of the COAS. A COAS who is responsive to government orders is the norm, not an exception. The alternative—of the military acting independently or overriding civilian authority—is unthinkable in a democracy.

The Valid Concern: Canvassing for Position

Where Namboodiri has a genuine point—perhaps without fully realising it—is this: by setting aside the well-established practice of adhering to seniority, the government has sent a problematic message.

The adherence to seniority had solid reasoning. Given the pyramidal structure of armed forces and the absence of tangible measurable deliverables in peacetime, determining who is more competent for promotion becomes a subjective decision. Setting aside seniority has opened up the possibility of senior officers in line for promotion trying to curry favour with the government.

Whether this is actually happening would be difficult to determine for external observers. One hopes it is not the case. This is the only substantive concern raised in Namboodiri’s article that merits serious attention and rectification.

Government Taking Credit for Military Achievements

Namboodiri’s next assertion concerns the government taking credit for the achievements of the Armed Forces. Two points need to be made here.

First, the decision to take strong action in response to provocation through cross-border terrorism is a direct outcome of the muscular security doctrine outlined in the BJP manifesto. This stands in contrast to responses after earlier attacks such as the Mumbai attack on 26/11 and the Parliament attack, when military action was not authorised.

Second, while the success of any operation is undoubtedly an achievement of the Armed Forces, they require authorisation from the government to undertake the operation itself. Each has a distinct and essential role: the government provides policy direction and authorisation; the Armed Forces execute operations. Acknowledging the government’s role does not diminish the credit due to the Armed Forces.

Religious Symbols and Ceremonies

Namboodiri talks about changes in SOPs and inclusion of religious symbols such as ‘aartis’, ‘Om’ and ‘Bharat Mata ki Jai’ in parades and other functions. Here his knowledge about the Armed Forces seems limited, as such practices are not new.

Religious ceremonies are part and parcel of military life. Before every field firing, the unit pandit ji or granthi performs prayers for successful and safe conduct. Shastra pooja takes place in every unit on Dussehra. Different Regiments have religion based war cries depending on troop composition, including religious chants such as “Har Har Mahadev”, “Bole So Nihal Sat Sri Akal”, “Jai Mahakali, Aayo Gorkhali”, “Jwala Mata ki Jai” and “Raja Ram Chandra ki Jai”. In many Regiments, troops greet officers with “Ram Ram Saab”. When the President confers Regimental colours to a unit, they are consecrated by religious teachers during the ceremonial parade.

All these are age-old practices. It is unclear what change in SOP Namboodiri is referring to.

Public Statements by Service Chiefs

Namboodiri’s final concern is public statements made by Army and Air Chiefs, issuing threats to adversaries and discussing damages during recent operations—a departure, he says, from previous practices.

However, statements by service chiefs are expressions of government policy, issued with government consent. Greater aggression in these statements reflects the muscular security policy adopted by the government. Restrained statements by predecessors reflected the policy of restraint by then governments.

This must also be viewed in the context of the social media age, where appropriate messaging is part of psychological warfare strategy. Such statements carry more credibility when coming directly from the executors of policy.

Conclusion: Policy Implementation, Not Politicisation

All the instances cited by Namboodiri to suggest that the Armed Forces are being politicised are in fact indicators of changed security policy rather than party-political ideology infiltrating the military.

The government’s policies do stem from the ideology of the party forming the government—that is how democracy works. But it is not for service chiefs to sit in judgement on policy, irrespective of its source. As long as it is the enunciated policy of the government, they are duty-bound to implement it or, if they believe it is against national interest, resign.

What critics perceive as party ideology is in fact government policy. Government policy is national policy that the Armed Forces are duty-bound to implement. The closer integration of the Armed Forces in decision-making, the more muscular security doctrine, and the more assertive public messaging all flow from the explicitly stated manifesto commitments that brought the current government to power.

The only legitimate concern raised is the bypassing of seniority in promotions to senior ranks, which could lead to officers canvassing political leadership for appointments. This is something the government must examine and rectify to preserve the professional integrity of military appointments.

The purpose of mythology and folklore is to convey valuable lessons couched in fascinating stories. And those striding the corridors of power in Washington would do well to familiarise themselves with the ancient Indian story of Bhasmasur. He was a demon who acquired a boon to burn anything he touched. The boon turned into a curse when he destroyed himself in the arrogance begotten by the sense of invincibility that it bestowed upon him.

The 21st Century Bhasmasur is armed, not with ash producing hands, but executive orders and tariff walls. The backdrop of the modern version is not Himalayan forests but the global geopolitical-economic stage. But the curse is once again entirely self inflicted.

In the story, Lord Shiva granted a powerful boon to Bhasmasur, to reward the arduous penances he performed. In the modern version, the boon was granted by the US policymakers to themselves. Instead of “whatever you touch will turn to ashes” the modern day boon was “whatever I tariff will protect my people and punish my rivals”. This was the doctrine of Bhasma-nomics.

When Bhasmasur received the boon, he was delighted like a child with a shiny new toy, and ran around touching things to try it out. Rocks, trees, animals - whatever came in his way he touched and burnt to ashes. The Washington avatar tried something similar - trying it out on Chinese semiconductors, European steel, and Indian goods and H1B visas.

Expectations were that the enemy would burn down, and its own industry would rise from the ashes. But strangely, ashes began piling up on its own doorstep. Prices rose, supply chains broke. Farmers, manufacturers and retailers groaned. Yet, intoxicated with power the modern avatar of Bhasmasur smiled to himself and said, “Let me try one more tariff for good measure.”

In the ancient myth, the demon Bhasmasur was so delighted by the sense of power that it began dancing, one hand poised precariously over his own head. The Washington version did the same. Waltzing with Pakistani Generals, doing the Mambo with Syrian Warlords with eyes firmly fixed on that alluring jewel - the Nobel Peace Prize. And while we all know the end of the ancient tale, outcome of the modern day version is open to speculation.

In the original tale, Lord Vishnu took the form of Mohini to save the world from Bhasmasur’s destruction—enticing him into a dance where he ultimately placed his own hand on his head and turned to ash.
Who, then, is Mohini today?
Perhaps it is the global marketplace—calm, elegant, and indifferent—seducing every protectionist demon into dancing to her tune. No nation, however mighty, can resist her rhythm.
And already, supply chains re-route, trade blocs re-form, and countries once sidelined quietly take centre stage. India, Vietnam, and others smile politely as the new Bhasmasur dances faster and faster.

To his own downfall?

Full Disclosure - Above article has been revised and polished using AI

The elderly gentleman advised me to call 999 and report the theft to the police, which I did immediately. The operator was most helpful and efficient, taking down all the relevant details and giving me the report number. I also promptly got an acknowledgement via text. I had emphasised to the operator that the devices are continuously being tracked by my phone, and if the police took immediate action they could apprehend the thief with the help of that. I even shared my login and password with the police, so that they could use the tracker. For the rest of the day, I constantly monitored the location of the devices, and was confident that the police were also doing the same and would soon contact me to confirm that the bag had been recovered. Well - that did not happen.

Next morning, really disappointed, and still able to see the location of the devices, I tweeted about it. Apparently the number of eyeballs my tweet was getting galvanised the police into action, and I got a call from them asking me if I could still see the location of the devices. I gave them the updated location, and pleaded with them to dispatch someone there immediately. I also told them that the login details had been shared with the police and would be in the report, and the officers going to the location could log in and track the devices in real time. My hopes were raised again, and I spent half a day in excited anticipation. Then I got a call again, saying that the officers had gone to the location, and it being a residential area they could not ascertain exactly which house to enter. Shortly afterwards I got a letter via email saying that my case had been closed. I would give full marks to them on their paperwork - if only their police work was half as good. I was thinking that a local beat cop in Delhi, given the location of stolen goods, would probably know who were the likely culprits in the area and wouldn’t take long to recover them.

Incidentally, my passport was also in the bag. I contacted the Indian High Commission, and went down there next day with the papers they had asked me to carry. Full marks to them for their efficiency, an Emergency Certificate to enable me to travel back was issued within half a day. In contrast, my request to the police for getting a copy of the crime report filed by me (to help my application for new passport) is still going back and forth over email. I think the London Metropolitan Police has more bureaucrats than cops.

Then came my nightmare with the British Healthcare system. My medicine was also in the bag, and I needed 5 days worth of one vital medicine to see me through the rest of the stay. The pharmacist obviously couldn't help and advised me to get a prescription. I called the NHS helpline who asked me to go to Emergency at St Thomas hospital. The Emergency saw my Indian prescription and referred me to a GP. Waiting time to see the GP was 4 hours, and when our turn came the doctor was most understanding. She said that obviously I needed the medicine, she wanted to help me out, but the system wasn’t allowing her to write a prescription. The reasons she tried to explain went over my head.

I reached out to a friend who had been posted at the Indian High Commission earlier, and he connected me with an Indian doctor. The kind gentleman explained to me that there was no legitimate way for him to prescribe the medicine to me without me undergoing tests - which, besides being expensive, would consume precious vacation time.

Ultimately it was good old Indian Jugaad to the rescue. Understanding my predicament over one measly strip of medicine, he promised to help me out. He told me to go to a particular pharmacy in Southall run by an Indian gentleman, and that he would speak to the person concerned there. I went to the pharmacy, gave the name of the doctor, and was given the medicine. The good Samaritan did not even let me pay for it despite my insistence.

So in the ultimate analysis Indian bhaichara trumped the "advanced" Medicare system of NHS.

I came away from UK minus my devices but with a newfound appreciation of Indian systems - policing, healthcare and consular services.

PS - Two weeks later, I can still see the location of my devices. I open the app once in a while and wistfully look at it. What more can I do? The only consolation I have is that the thief will also never be able to use the devices thanks to Apple’s theft protection.

Those who lived through the late 1990s would remember the panic surrounding the “Y2K bug.” For younger readers, here’s a quick recap.

Older computer systems stored years in a two-digit format to save space. As 2000 approached, these systems would read “00” as 1900 instead of 2000, potentially disrupting everything from banking and airlines to inventories and government records.

India, with its large pool of English-speaking software engineers, became the world’s problem-solver. Indian companies worked tirelessly to fix the code before the deadline. What could have been a global catastrophe turned into a launchpad for India’s IT industry. The Y2K challenge created global demand for Indian talent, triggered an outsourcing boom, and set the stage for decades of growth.

Today, India faces another turning point. Recent restrictions on H1B visas have left thousands of Indian professionals and students uncertain about their future. Many already working in the US risk losing jobs or being forced to return. For new aspirants, the pathway to overseas opportunities is narrowing.

This moment recalls the lesson from “Who Moved My Cheese?” — when change comes, you can either sit and lament or adapt and find new opportunities.

For decades, India’s brightest minds—often educated at heavily subsidised premier institutions like the IITs—moved abroad to pursue careers. No one could fault them for chasing opportunities, as India did not have the business environment to appropriately reward their talent and provide growth opportunities. Now, with prospects in the US no longer looking as bright, India has a chance to retain this talent and direct it toward nation-building.

India today is better positioned than in 1999. We have a large digital economy, a thriving startup ecosystem, and growing confidence in building for the world. Besides, since AI is at almost a nascent stage, we have a chance to be at the forefront of developments in the field - just like we were with Y2K. What is needed is the right push from all the stakeholders.

In his Independence Day address, the Prime Minister called on youth to innovate and create indigenous platforms instead of relying on global ones. To move from being a software service provider to a software product nation, India must act boldly.

What the Government Can Do

• Incentivise and facilitate innovation: Provide tax breaks and policy support for companies investing in software products. Viciously cut the red tape that strangulates enterprise. A lot has been done to this end but more is required.

• Lead by example: Adopt domestic software in government departments.

• Invest in R&D: Create infrastructure and funding for cutting-edge research.

• Attract foreign firms: Encourage global companies to set up development centres in India rather than attracting Indian talent overseas.

What Businesses Can Do

• Diversify beyond services: India’s IT giants should accelerate product development.

• Big industrial houses like Adani and Ambani, though not in software yet, have the resources to enter this space. With talent becoming available, the timing is right.

• Explore new markets: Reduce dependence on the US by targeting Asia, Africa, and Europe.

What Individuals Can Do

• Upskill: Focus on areas like AI, cybersecurity, and cloud computing.

• Build at home: Explore entrepreneurial opportunities in India’s digital economy.

• Go global remotely: Use remote work and freelancing platforms to access international projects without relocating.

Conclusion

If the government creates enabling policies, businesses innovate beyond services, and individuals seize opportunities at home, India can turn this challenge into a breakthrough.

Y2K transformed India into the world’s back office. The H1B crisis could help India take the next leap—from back office to product lab.

History teaches us that crises often disguise opportunities. Y2K proved it once. H1B could prove it again.