Fly on the Wall
The Elite Lose Sleep
Ever since Narendra Modi took office, India’s bureaucracy has been jolted out of its comfort zone. The Prime Minister’s relentless work ethic—often stretching close to 20 hours a day—has steadily reset expectations across ministries. While most departments felt the shift early, the traditionally insulated elite of the Indian Foreign Service (IFS) managed to glide through with limited disruption, barring brief pressure spells during episodes like “Operation Sindoor.”
That insulation is now gone. A complex global crisis—one India is not party to, yet cannot escape—has dragged the Ministry of External Affairs into an unforgiving, high-velocity environment. At the centre is the Prime Minister’s Office (PMO), operating in overdrive and demanding real-time responsiveness. For a service steeped in protocol and process, the change has been stark.
Take a recent instance: as tensions escalated overseas, the PMO sought an urgent conversation with a key global leader. What would earlier take hours—if not a full day—through diplomatic channels, was compressed into minutes. Senior IFS officials were on the phone past midnight, scrambling across time zones to secure the line. The old rhythm of calibrated diplomacy is giving way to a results-driven, time-bound approach. With conversations spanning time zones, officials are clocking 18–20 hour workdays, matching the tempo set at the top. A slight delay invited direct calls from the PMO, seeking explanations. This is the new normal.
This round-the-clock culture is unprecedented for the MEA. It marks a shift from ceremonial diplomacy to mission-mode execution, where delivery trumps decorum. For India’s blue-blood diplomatic corps, long accustomed to measured pace and hierarchy, the message is unmistakable: adapt or be left behind. The elite, it seems, are finally losing sleep.
Rahul’s Scripted Politics, Unscripted Damage
People often ask who writes Rahul Gandhi’s speeches. The stock answer: elite aides from Harvard and Oxford. But speechwriters are universal—from the Prime Minister downwards. The real question is judgment, not drafting. Rahul is widely seen as fearless, honest, and unbending before the government. Fair enough. But elections aren’t won on virtue alone. If they were, Communist parties—equally vocal and combative—would dominate everywhere. Winning demands political instinct and sustained grind, where Rahul still appears wanting.
His
latest remark in Lucknow, at an event marking Kanshi Ram’s birth
anniversary, underscores the problem. He said that if Jawaharlal
Nehru hadn’t existed, Kanshi Ram would have become Chief Minister.
The statement lands as both careless and condescending. Kanshi Ram
didn’t need Congress patronage—he built his own movement and
installed Mayawati as Uttar Pradesh CM multiple times through sheer
political engineering. The remark also exposes a dated strategy:
revive the Nehru-era Congress coalition of Dalits, Muslims, and
Brahmins. That arithmetic no longer holds. In fact, it invites
scrutiny—how many Dalit CMs did Congress actually produce?
The
answer is uncomfortable. Despite governing widely, Congress elevated
only a handful of Dalit chief ministers. The most recent was
Charanjit Singh Channi in Punjab. Even the BJP has yet to appoint
one. Nehru ruled for 17 years and produced just one Dalit CM. Against
that record, invoking him to elevate Kanshi Ram rings hollow. For
Rahul Gandhi, the takeaway is simple: less rhetoric, more rigour.
Loose lines don’t just miss the mark—they damage credibility.
Mallikarjun Kharge once thought of broaching the subject with Rahul
Gandhi. But couldn't muster the courage, say sources.
From Parliament to ‘Tapori’: When Politics Goes Bambaiya
Indian politics briefly took a detour into Mumbai street slang after Kangana Ranaut decided to label Rahul Gandhi a “tapori”—a word more at home in Bollywood banter than parliamentary discourse. The remark raised eyebrows, not least because “tapori” doesn’t quite feature in standard political vocabulary. For the uninitiated, it loosely translates to a street-smart vagabond—part rogue, part charmer, and occasionally a cinematic hero. Think less policy paper, more Rangeela energy.
Predictably, the backlash was swift. The Congress ignored it. But Priyanka Chaturvedi stepped in with a pointed rebuttal, calling the comment “wrong” and gently reminding critics of Gandhi’s public positioning on women’s issues—while also noting the irony of targeting someone from a lineage known for its women leaders.
But the real curiosity is linguistic. “Tapori,” with its roots in Marathi street culture, once described flamboyant, mischievous young men loitering around Mumbai’s tapris. Over time, Bollywood polished the edges, turning the term into something almost aspirational—a badge of rebellious cool.
Which perhaps explains the confusion. Insult, caricature, or accidental compliment? In today’s politics, even street slang can briefly steal the national spotlight.
A Tale of Two Cases
The recent closure of the Sterling Biotech case involving the Sandesara brothers who fled the country in 2017 —Nitin and Chetan—has drawn attention to the fine balance between legal closure and public perception. The settlement, approved by the Supreme Court of India, allows for a payment of ₹5,100 crore as “full and final” resolution between the promoters, lending banks and investigative agencies. On paper, it brings closure. In practice, it raises questions. Sterling Biotech’s total dues were estimated at nearly ₹19,400 crore. Yet, roughly a quarter of that amount has been accepted to settle not just civil liabilities but also accompanying criminal proceedings. The allegations by agencies included complex financial irregularities and the use of 200 shell entities. The settlement, therefore, marks a legal endpoint, though not without discomfort within banking circles.
Contrast this with the case of Vijay Mallya. His liabilities, pegged at a little over ₹6,000 crore, stemmed largely from the collapse of his Kingfisher airline business rather than proven fraud at the time of default. Having left India in 2016, he was later declared a fugitive. Since then, recovery agencies claim to have realised over ₹14,000 crore through asset seizures—well above the principal. Yet, with interest accruals, his dues are still treated as unsettled, hovering near ₹20,000 crore.
Two cases, two outcomes—both legally sanctioned, yet starkly divergent. The contrast underlines the complexities of financial justice, where recovery, culpability and closure do not always align in ways that appear intuitive.
