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Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Merit Imperilled

From NEET paper leaks to the CBSE’s digital fiasco, India’s examination system appears to be confronting a major crisis of competence and credibility. For generations of our countrymen, examinations have been the principal mechanism through which talent, discipline and hard work could overcome social circumstance. In a country where millions compete for limited opportunities, examinations serve as the foundation of meritocracy. When that foundation begins to crack, the consequences extend far...

Merit Imperilled

From NEET paper leaks to the CBSE’s digital fiasco, India’s examination system appears to be confronting a major crisis of competence and credibility. For generations of our countrymen, examinations have been the principal mechanism through which talent, discipline and hard work could overcome social circumstance. In a country where millions compete for limited opportunities, examinations serve as the foundation of meritocracy. When that foundation begins to crack, the consequences extend far beyond classrooms. The latest turmoil within the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE) is yet another warning signal in a broader governance crisis engulfing India’s examination ecosystem. The transfer of the CBSE chairman and secretary, alongside the Centre’s decision to establish an inquiry into the procurement of services for the board’s on-screen marking system, comes amid mounting concerns about transparency, accountability and technological competence. The fiasco started when students seeking scanned copies of answer sheets reportedly received papers that did not belong to them. Cases of answer-sheet mismatches emerged and allegations surfaced regarding evaluation errors and grade misallocation. Just days before, India witnessed one of its most significant exam crises in form of the National Eligibility cum Entrance Test (NEET) paper leak scandal. What links the NEET scandal and the CBSE controversy is not merely administrative incompetence but the growing perception that institutions entrusted with safeguarding merit are struggling to safeguard themselves. India’s examination architecture has become extraordinarily complex. Every year, boards, universities and recruitment agencies process candidates through increasingly digitised systems. Yet, it is seen that technological adoption has often raced ahead of institutional preparedness. Digital platforms are introduced before adequate safeguards are established. As more work is outsourced, accountability becomes harder to fix and procurement decisions grows less transparent. The result is a dangerous erosion of trust. Examination systems depend not merely on procedural fairness but on public confidence in that fairness. Students must believe that answer sheets are secure. Parents must believe that marks reflect genuine performance rather than administrative error. The social costs of these failures are immense. Behind every examination controversy stand millions of young students who have invested years of effort and emotional energy into a competitive process. India’s demographic future depends heavily upon its ability to reward merit fairly and consistently. That demands rigorous technological audits, transparent procurement processes and clearly defined accountability mechanisms for vendors and administrators alike. Most importantly, policymakers must recognise that examination governance is not a peripheral administrative function but a core pillar of social mobility and state legitimacy. The danger facing India today is that repeated failures across institutions are normalising distrust. A nation that aspires to become a knowledge superpower cannot afford an examination system whose credibility is perpetually under question. When students lose faith in the fairness of examinations, the idea of merit itself begins to lose meaning. No governance failure could be more consequential.

The Soul of Bharat on the Big Screen

Mumbai: April 4, 2025, my heart feels heavier than it ever has. The news hit me like a monsoon storm—Manoj Kumar, the towering legend of Bollywood, the man who painted patriotism across our screens, is no more. At 87, he slipped away at Mumbai’s Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital, leaving behind a reel of memories that flicker in my mind like a projector that won’t stop spinning. As a movie fan who grew up with his films, I’m not just mourning an actor—I’m grieving the loss of a piece of my soul, a piece of India itself. They called him "Bharat Kumar," and oh, how he earned that name.


I remember the first time I saw ‘Upkar’ (1967). I was a kid, sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to our old TV. Manoj ji played Bharat, the farmer who gave everything—his dreams, his love—for his country’s soil. That song, “Mere Desh Ki Dharti,” wasn’t just a tune; it was a heartbeat, pulsing with pride and sacrifice. I’d hum it walking to school, feeling like I, too, could be that noble, that selfless. He won a National Film Award for that one, and rightly so—it wasn’t acting; it was living.

Then there was ‘Shaheed’ (1965), where he brought Bhagat Singh back to life. I’d sit there, popcorn forgotten, as he roared defiance against the British, his eyes blazing with a fire that could’ve lit up the darkest colonial night. It wasn’t just a film—it was a revolution on celluloid, a call to remember the blood that bought our freedom. Manoj ji didn’t just play the martyr; he became him, and every time I watch it, I feel that lump in my throat, that sting in my eyes. It’s no wonder it snagged three National Awards—his passion was a gift to us all.


Oh, and ‘Purab Aur Paschim’ (1970)—how do I even begin? He directed and starred as Bharat again, this time wrestling with the clash of East and West, showing us the beauty of our roots while the world tried to pull us away. I’d laugh at Saira Banu’s antics, then choke up when Manoj ji stood tall, singing “Hai Preet Jahan Ki Reet Sada.” It was a blockbuster, sure, but it was more—it was a love letter to India, penned in his signature hand-over-face style. That move, mocked by some, was his shield, his quiet strength, and I adored it.

And who could forget ‘Roti Kapda Aur Makaan’ (1974)? He directed and starred as Bharat—again, because who else could?—tackling poverty, injustice, and the gut-wrenching struggle for the basics of life. I’d watch, fists clenched, as he fought for the everyman, his voice cracking with raw emotion. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a mirror to our society, a cry for change. Seven Filmfare Awards across his career, they say, but this one felt like it carried them all—his heart bled through every frame.


Then there’s ‘Kranti’ (1981), the epic that had me on the edge of my seat. Manoj ji as the freedom fighter, leading Dilip Kumar and Hema Malini through a storm of rebellion—it was grand, it was gritty, it was everything Bollywood could be. “Zindagi Ki Na Toote Ladi” still echoes in my ears, a reminder of the battles he fought on screen, battles that felt so real I’d dream of joining the fight. He didn’t just direct that film; he sculpted a monument to resilience, and I’d cheer like a fool every time he outsmarted the British.


As I sit here, flipping through these memories, I can’t help but feel cheated. Manoj Kumar wasn’t just an actor or director—he was family. Born Harikrishan Goswami in 1937, he carried the Partition’s scars from Abbottabad to Delhi, turning pain into purpose. He gave us over 50 films in a career spanning four decades, snagging the Padma Shri in 1992 and the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2015—honors that felt too small for a man who gave India its cinematic soul. His last role in ‘Jai Hind’ (1999) might’ve flopped, but it didn’t dim his light in my eyes.


I’d read how he met Bhagat Singh’s mother before ‘Shaheed’, seeking her blessing—can you imagine the weight of that? Or how PM Lal Bahadur Shastri urged him to make ‘Upkar’ after the 1965 war, handing him “Jai Jawan Jai Kisan” like a sacred torch? That’s who he was—a man who didn’t just entertain but carried a nation’s dreams.


Manoj ji, you weren’t just “Bharat Kumar” to me—you were the uncle who taught me pride, the friend who shared my anger, the poet who sang my hopes. Your films weren’t movies; they were my childhood, my rebellion, my tears. I’ll miss you like I miss the India you dreamed of—flawed, fierce, and forever ours. Rest in peace, sir. Om Shanti.

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