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By:

Sagari Gupta

24 March 2026 at 7:46:04 pm

A Notice Is Not a Wall

India has no shortage of building rules. The problem is making sure they produce safer buildings. The recent collapse of a building in Delhi’s Satya Niketan area, which killed six people and trapped dozens more beneath the rubble, brings into sharp relief the precariousness of the city’s built environment. The five-storey structure, housing a boys’ paying-guest accommodation near Delhi University’s South Campus, gave way while repair work was still under way. While the precise cause of the...

A Notice Is Not a Wall

India has no shortage of building rules. The problem is making sure they produce safer buildings. The recent collapse of a building in Delhi’s Satya Niketan area, which killed six people and trapped dozens more beneath the rubble, brings into sharp relief the precariousness of the city’s built environment. The five-storey structure, housing a boys’ paying-guest accommodation near Delhi University’s South Campus, gave way while repair work was still under way. While the precise cause of the collapse remains unconfirmed, what is already clear is the lethal cost of allowing buildings to be altered, crowded and repaired without adequate regard for structural safety. Building-collapse investigations generally look at structural weakness, unapproved floor additions, removed load-bearing walls and overloading. Those are engineering questions. The policy question that sits above them is the gap between output and outcome. Delhi’s municipal system, like most regulatory systems in India, has been built to measure and reward the first. It has almost no mechanism for verifying the second. The person who decides to add a floor or convert a house into a PG is rarely the person inside it when the structure fails. That mismatch between who takes the risk and who bears its consequence is a textbook negative externality, and it is why market incentives alone will not fix unsafe construction. Land is expensive, formal housing is out of reach for most young workers and students, and demand for cheap paying-guest accommodation near college campuses stays high year-round. A house becomes a PG. A floor built for one household starts carrying three. The extra income is immediate. The structural cost, if it arrives, arrives later and lands on someone else, split between tenant, neighbour and municipality. Death Traps Structural collapses killed 8,756 people across India between 2018 and 2022, close to five deaths a day, a figure that surfaced in Rajya Sabha proceedings drawing on National Crime Records Bureau data. That is not a data gap. India has building bye-laws, approval procedures and municipal enforcement powers already on the books. What it lacks is an implementation architecture that closes the loop between identifying risk and removing it. Put simply, a notice proves the state has produced an output. It does not prove a structural assessment was completed, that residents were evacuated, that repairs happened, or that a certified engineer signed off. It proves paperwork exists, nothing more. Closing that gap is a design problem, not a resourcing one. Every high-risk building should carry a case number and a named officer accountable for it, with fixed deadlines at each stage: inspection within a set number of days, a structural assessment where required, a decision on repair, evacuation, sealing or demolition, and verification of compliance before closure. The named officer should change with the stage, so responsibility cannot sit with nobody in particular. An overdue inspection should automatically flag the officer holding it. An order left unimplemented past deadline should escalate on its own, with the reason for delay logged, whether that is litigation, an uncooperative owner, a capacity shortfall or an evacuation still pending. This turns an enforcement record into an audit trail. That record should sit in public view, within legitimate privacy limits. A ward-level dashboard showing how many high-risk properties are under inspection, how many have completed structural assessments and how many remain unresolved gives a councillor, a tenant or a journalist a way to verify whether a case is moving, rather than take an official’s word for it. At present, issuing a notice ends an official’s obligation. Under an outcome-based system, an unresolved case stays attached to the administration until the risk is addressed, realigning the incentive from documentation to resolution. The same logic applies to unauthorised construction. A booking is not enforcement. A demolition order is not a demolition. A sealing order is not closure if the property reopens later. The administrative chain should end only once the physical condition of the property has been independently verified, not when a file is marked complete. There is also a straightforward fiscal argument. The Prime Minister’s National Relief Fund pays a standard ex-gratia of Rs. 2 lakh for every death in a building collapse - a rate applied most recently after the Thane collapse this July. Apply that rate to the death toll in the Satya Niketan case and the ex-gratia payout alone crosses Rs. 12 lakh, before emergency response, hospital treatment, policing, lost working days and litigation are counted. Prevention requires spending before anything visible has gone wrong, which makes it a harder budget line to defend than a rescue operation. That asymmetry, not a lack of resources, is why prevention keeps losing inside the state. The Satya Niketan building had an owner. It had tenants, students renting rooms inside it. Someone should have flagged it for scrutiny before repair work began on a Sunday afternoon. A notice is evidence that the state has seen a risk. It is not evidence the risk has been removed. Only a verified outcome closes that gap, and until the system is built to track outcomes rather than paperwork, the next notice will tell us as little as this one did. (The writer is an independent public policy researcher. Views personal.)

A National Memory Far Greater Than Three Minutes and Ten Seconds

Paying respect to Vande Mataram is not about endorsing any party or government but is a tribute to the freedom struggle where countless Indians from all states created a singular national chorus.

The recent controversy in Keralam over the full recitation of Vande Mataram at official events has once again brought to the fore an old yet critical question that can the national memories of our freedom struggle be compartmentalized within the boundaries of states, political parties, and momentary convenience? The Keralam government maintains that, in keeping with past tradition, only the first two stanzas of the song will be sung at official functions. On the other hand, the central government is emphasizing its collective recitation nationwide to mark the 150th anniversary of its composition. Amidst this, Congress MP Rajmohan Unnithan's opposition to singing the complete song has added further political fuel to the debate.


Meanwhile, the Tamil Nadu Legislative Assembly has passed a resolution mandating the rendition of Tamil Thai Vazhthu at the beginning of public events across the state. While taking pride in one's language and cultural identity is natural, can regional and national identities truly be considered rivals? The beauty of India's pluralism lies in the reality that Tamil is uniquely Tamil and Malayalam is uniquely Malayalam, yet the history of our freedom belongs to everyone. Political ideas travelled through poems, songs, newspapers, street performances and public meetings, allowing nationalism to acquire a local vocabulary without losing its larger meaning. The importance of the movement was precisely this ability to make the idea of India intelligible in many different cultural languages.


Transcending Barriers

The attempt to restrict Vande Mataram to a single region or ideology does not hold up against the history of Tamil Nadu. Mahakavi Subramania Bharati (1882-1921) was a legendary Tamil poet, freedom fighter, and social reformer. He translated and adapted Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay's immortal song into Tamil. His poetic works such as Kannan Pattu, Nilavum Vanminum Katrum, Panchali Sabatham, and Kuyil Pattu stand as testaments to his vast creative genius. His nationalist consciousness connected the freedom movement in South India deeply with the popular sentiment of the masses.


Bharati's importance in this context goes beyond translation. He understood that nationalism could not survive as an elite political doctrine; it had to become part of popular culture. His songs gave political ideas a form that could be remembered and repeated, and helped bridge the distance between political leaders and ordinary people. His Tamil rendering of Vande Mataram was therefore part of a wider process through which a Bengali composition entered the cultural vocabulary of another major Indian linguistic region.


Subramania Bharati
Subramania Bharati

Bharati published Swadesha Geethangal in 1908. According to the Indian government's Azadi Ka Amrit Mahotsav portal, his writings played a pivotal role in generating public opinion for the Swadeshi movement in the Madras region. One of his cartoons even depicts the Vande Mataram flag. In his published poetry collections, Vandemataram is recorded as an independent composition. This work is also included in Poems of Subramania Bharati, published by the Sahitya Akademi in 1977, and Subramania Bharati: Chosen Poems and Prose (1984).


This was also the period when the Swadeshi movement was demonstrating how quickly nationalist symbols could cross provincial boundaries. The partition of Bengal in 1905 had begun as an administrative act, but the opposition to it produced a much wider cultural and political awakening. Songs, flags, boycotts and public processions became instruments of resistance. Vande Mataram emerged from this atmosphere not simply as a literary work but as a public expression of political defiance.


Official documents from Tamil Nadu related to the freedom movement describe Vandemataram in Bharati's Swadesha Geethangal as the first national song and a profound clarion call that inspired freedom fighters. It is also documented that his songs served as a medium to convey national consciousness to the illiterate masses, who would sing and recite them to others. Naturally, the question arises that how can a song that Bharati carried into the hearts and minds of the Tamil populace not belong to South India? After all, a national symbol becomes national precisely when people outside its place of origin adopt it as their own.


In truth, Vande Mataram was born in Bengal, but it was never confined to Bengal. It transcended linguistic boundaries, reaching Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, Malayalam, Hindi, and other Indian languages. Its translations and adaptations made it an integral part of a shared national consciousness across Indian languages. Rabindranath Tagore sang it at the 1896 Congress session. By the Swadeshi movement of 1905, it had evolved into a powerful cry of national resistance. In 1950, the Constituent Assembly accorded it the same status and equal respect as Jana Gana Mana.

Bankim Chandra Chatterjee
Bankim Chandra Chatterjee

Its journey is remarkable. Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay first published the song in Bangadarshan in 1875, and later incorporated it into Anandamath. Two decades later, Tagore's rendition at the 1896 Congress session gave it a prominent place in the public life of the nationalist movement. After the partition of Bengal in 1905, its political significance grew enormously, and the colonial authorities came to regard its public invocation as a symbol of anti-British agitation.


Historically Flawed

Therefore, viewing Vande Mataram as a symbol of the BJP is historically as flawed as labelling it the song of any single political ideology. Decades before the BJP came into existence, it had already become the voice of the freedom struggle, echoing from the platforms of the Congress to the hideouts of revolutionaries.


The argument put forward by a Congress MP that singing the full song takes three minutes and ten seconds, and that standing for that long poses a practical difficulty, may well be a subject of discussion. It is also true that respect cannot be legislated, and patriotism cannot be instilled in someone's heart by order. But should the honour of a national song be weighed by its duration? In the face of the supreme sacrifices made by our freedom fighters, is three minutes and ten seconds really all that long?


This is the very India whose freedom fighters spent years in prisons, lost properties, gave up careers, stayed away from their families, and dedicated their entire lives to the nation. Measured against that history, the argument of three minutes and ten seconds appears trivial indeed.


Vande Mataram was composed during an era when India was not free. Arousing national consciousness amidst colonial rule was an act of resistance in itself. It was first published on November 7, 1875, in the periodical Bangadarshan. Later, it found its way into Bankim Chandra's novel Anandamath, and its journey from the 1896 Congress session to the Swadeshi movement transformed it into a potent symbol of national awakening. The fact that it completes 150 years in 2026 is significant because it gives us an opportunity to re-read our shared national memory.


Let Keralam take pride in its language and culture, let Tamil Nadu honour Tamil identity, and let every Indian cherish their regional traditions; but doing so does not require distancing oneself from our national memory. Bharati's warning remains as relevant today as ever: without the unity of Indians, freedom is impossible.


Today, paying respect to Vande Mataram is not about endorsing any party or government. It is a tribute to that freedom struggle in which countless Indians-from Bengal to Tamil Nadu and Keralam-added their individual voices to create a singular national chorus. The new generation must also know the voices and sacrifices that laid the foundations of that future. Vande Mataram is one of those definitive voices. A journey spanning 150 years cannot be constrained by the ticking of a three-minute-ten-second clock.


(The writer is a senior Patna-based journalist and political analyst. Views personal.)

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