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Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Ageing Wings

The crash of an Indian Air Force Antonov AN-32 during landing at Jorhat in Assam, which claimed the lives of five air force personnel, is a sombre reminder of the risks routinely borne by India’s servicemen and women. It also raises difficult questions about ageing military platforms that remain in service long after their intended prime. The Antonov AN-32 has been one of the unsung workhorses of the Indian Air Force. Since its induction in the 1980s, the Soviet-designed twin-engine turboprop...

Ageing Wings

The crash of an Indian Air Force Antonov AN-32 during landing at Jorhat in Assam, which claimed the lives of five air force personnel, is a sombre reminder of the risks routinely borne by India’s servicemen and women. It also raises difficult questions about ageing military platforms that remain in service long after their intended prime. The Antonov AN-32 has been one of the unsung workhorses of the Indian Air Force. Since its induction in the 1980s, the Soviet-designed twin-engine turboprop has carried troops and equipment across some of the most inhospitable terrain on earth. From the icy heights of Ladakh to the dense forests of the Northeast, the aircraft has performed missions indispensable to India’s defence preparedness. During the Kargil conflict and subsequent military mobilisations, it proved its worth countless times. And yet, the Jorhat accident is the third major AN-32 crash in the past decade. In 2016, an aircraft disappeared over the Bay of Bengal, taking with it 29 personnel. In 2019, another AN-32 crashed in Arunachal Pradesh, killing 13. Together with Saturday's tragedy, these accidents have exacted a heavy human toll. Even if the aircraft enjoys a reputation as one of the more reliable platforms in the Air Force’s inventory, repeated crashes inevitably raise questions about fleet age, maintenance practices and technological obsolescence. Military aviation is inherently hazardous. It would be simplistic and unfair to attribute every accident solely to the age of an aircraft. But there is a broader issue that cannot be ignored. India’s armed forces continue to rely on several platforms designed during the Cold War. The AN-32 fleet was acquired in 1984. Though upgrades have been undertaken, including avionics modernisation and engine overhauls, the aircraft remains fundamentally a product of another era. Modernisation programmes have themselves been hindered by geopolitical disruptions, notably the deterioration of relations between Russia and Ukraine after the annexation of Crimea. The result has been a patchwork approach to sustaining an ageing fleet. This challenge extends beyond a single aircraft type. Across the world, military forces face the dilemma of balancing operational readiness against the enormous costs of replacing legacy platforms. India, with its vast security commitments and finite defence budget, is no exception. Yet every crash underscores the hidden costs of postponing difficult procurement decisions. Defence capability is not measured solely by fighter jets and warships showcased during national celebrations. It rests equally on logistics, maintenance infrastructure and safety culture. A military can project power only if it can reliably move people and equipment where they are needed. For now, the immediate priority is a thorough and transparent investigation. If systemic shortcomings are identified, they must be addressed without bureaucratic delay. The AN-32 has served India faithfully for four decades. But faithful service is not a reason to avoid hard questions. It is a reason to ask them.

Lingua Pragmatica

Updated: Mar 20, 2025

As Southern leaders like M.K. Stalin rage against Hindi, Andhra Pradesh’s Chief Minister Chandrababu Naidu offers a model of pragmatism over parochialism.

Chandrababu Naidu
Andhra Pradesh

Amid the cacophony of opposition in southern states to Hindi, Andhra Pradesh CM N. Chandrababu Naidu has taken a markedly pragmatic stance by remarking recently in the state Assembly that there was no harm in learning other languages. Hindi, Naidu noted, was useful for communication across India, particularly in political and commercial hubs like Delhi. His remarks, though avoiding explicit mention of the NEP, were widely seen as an endorsement of multilingualism and a rebuke to the linguistic chauvinism that has gripped parts of the South.


Few issues in India stir political passions quite like language. It is not merely a means of communication but a marker of identity, a relic of colonial resistance, and a source of political mobilization. In the southern states, where anti-Hindi sentiment has long been entrenched, the National Education Policy (NEP) 2020 and its three-language formula have reignited old tensions. No state embodies this defiance more than Tamil Nadu, where the ruling Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) led by M.K. Stalin has framed the policy as an assault on its linguistic autonomy.


Naidu’s words, welcomed by his ally and Deputy Chief Minister Pawan Kalyan, mark a sharp contrast with the DMK’s position. Tamil Nadu’s hostility towards Hindi dates back to the 1930s, when C. Rajagopalachari’s attempt to introduce it in schools met with fierce resistance. The anti-Hindi agitations of the 1960s cemented the DMK’s ideological stance, with its first Chief Minister, C.N. Annadurai, famously warning that Hindi imposition could push Tamil Nadu towards secession.


The question, however, is whether this rigid opposition serves Tamil Nadu’s interests. While Stalin, with an eye to the upcoming Tamil Nadu Assembly polls, has been relentlessly portraying Hindi as a threat to his state’s regional identity, Naidu, a partner of the BJP-led Centre, is framing it as a tool for economic mobility. His argument is not that Hindi should replace Telugu or English but that it offers a competitive advantage.


The economic case for multilingualism is compelling. Indians who speak multiple languages tend to have better job prospects, higher earnings and greater geographic mobility. Andhra Pradesh’s Telugu-speaking diaspora is a case in point. Telugus make up a significant proportion of Indian-origin professionals in the United States, the Gulf, and Southeast Asia as Naidu pointed out, hinting that this success story was built not on linguistic rigidity but on adaptability.


In a country where inter-state migration is rising and where Hindi remains the most widely spoken language, refusing to learn it amounts to self-imposed isolation. Tamil Nadu’s approach, by contrast, risks limiting its youth. The DMK government has refused to implement the three-language policy, keeping schools strictly bilingual with Tamil and English. Its justification that Hindi is not necessary for global success could be true in a narrow sense but ignores the domestic context. If Tamil filmmakers can dub their movies into Hindi to expand their audience, why should Tamil students be denied access to the language that could open more doors for them within India?


The DMK has accused successive central governments, particularly under the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), of pushing Hindi at the expense of regional languages. Yet, rejecting Hindi outright is an overcorrection. The reality is that Hindi is an important language in India’s economic and political landscape. Naidu’s position, one of accommodation rather than confrontation, offers a middle ground that other Southern leaders would do well to consider.


Some states already recognize this. Karnataka, despite its own history of linguistic pride, has allowed Hindi to be taught as an optional language. Kerala, whose migrants work in Hindi-speaking regions and the Gulf, has been less hostile to Hindi education. Naidu’s model, balancing regional identity with practical necessity, offers a way forward. Languages should be embraced, not politicized. Southern leaders would do well to listen to him.

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