top of page

By:

Akhilesh Sinha

25 June 2025 at 2:53:54 pm

Beyond the Waiver Reflex

As Tamil Nadu approaches a high-stakes election, its farm policy will test whether voters favour a blend of immediate relief and long-term reform over familiar short-term populism CM MK Stalin uses a handloom during an early morning outreach campaign ahead of the state Assembly elections in Ramanathapuram. Pic: PTI New Delhi: India’s farm policy is generally trapped in a loop. Each crisis, whether drought or flood has shown state governments usually reaching out for the same palliative...

Beyond the Waiver Reflex

As Tamil Nadu approaches a high-stakes election, its farm policy will test whether voters favour a blend of immediate relief and long-term reform over familiar short-term populism CM MK Stalin uses a handloom during an early morning outreach campaign ahead of the state Assembly elections in Ramanathapuram. Pic: PTI New Delhi: India’s farm policy is generally trapped in a loop. Each crisis, whether drought or flood has shown state governments usually reaching out for the same palliative instruments – be it loan waivers, raising procurement or subsidising inputs. However, these are measures that do not solve the problem, The underlying system of fragmented holdings, fickle markets and water stress remains brittle. What distinguishes Tamil Nadu’s recent approach in recent years - particularly under Edappadi K. Palaniswami’s tenure as Chief Minister - is not that it broke from this cycle, but that it tried to bend it. That matters all the more in a poll-bound state. As Tamil Nadu edges toward its next electoral test, farm policy is poised to become more than a ledger of promises. It is a referendum on whether voters reward immediate relief or longer-term repair - or, as this model suggests, a calibrated mix of both. Take the Rs. 12,110 crore crop loan waiver of 2021. The waiver came in the wake of the economic dislocation caused by COVID-19 and the destruction wrought by cyclones Cyclone Nivar and Cyclone Burevi. It functioned as a stabiliser during systemic shock. Crucially, it was paired with measures designed to reduce the likelihood of such distress recurring. Among the most consequential was the notification of the Cauvery delta as a Special Protected Agricultural Zone. Covering eight districts, the policy imposed restrictions on non-agricultural activities, effectively redrawing the boundary between industrial expansion and fertile land. In a country where urbanisation often consumes prime farmland, this was an explicit political choice: preservation over encroachment. Revival and Expansion Water management - Tamil Nadu’s perennial Achilles’ heel - was tackled through a blend of revival and expansion. The Kudimaramath scheme, rooted in traditional community-led tank restoration, was scaled up significantly, with thousands of works completed. Alongside this decentralised effort, the state pushed forward with the Athikadavu-Avinashi project, a large-scale attempt to divert surplus water from the Bhavani River to drought-prone regions. River-linking proposals and negotiated land acquisitions aimed to extend irrigation benefits further. The logic was that resilience begins with water security. Yet improving production is only half the battle. Farmers’ incomes depend less on what they grow than on what they earn. Here, too, Tamil Nadu attempted incremental correction. Procurement under price-support schemes was expanded beyond staples to include pulses and copra. The state set relatively generous support prices for paddy and sugarcane, seeking to inject a degree of predictability into an otherwise erratic market. Such measures cannot eliminate volatility, but they can soften its edges. Mitigating Ecological Risk Diversification has formed another layer of the strategy. India’s long-standing bias towards water-intensive monocropping has heightened ecological risk. Incentives were therefore introduced to promote millets and horticulture - crops better suited to changing climatic conditions. By integrating millets into the public distribution system in cities such as Chennai and Coimbatore, the state attempted something more ambitious: aligning production incentives with consumption patterns. It is a subtle but important shift. Lowering the cost of cultivation was another priority. Subsidised solar pump sets hinted at a convergence between agriculture and renewable energy, while assurances of continuous three-phase electricity addressed a mundane but critical constraint on farm productivity. These are not headline-grabbing reforms, but they shape the everyday economics of farming. Beyond the farm gate, attention turned to value addition. Plans for Mega Food Parks in districts such as Dindigul, Krishnagiri and Salem sought to integrate farmers into processing-led supply chains, reducing post-harvest losses and capturing greater value. Meanwhile, Tamil Nadu Agricultural University released dozens of new crop varieties and hybrids, spanning cereals, pulses and horticulture. Such investments in research and development rarely yield immediate political dividends, but they underpin long-term productivity. Institutional reform, too, has been part of the picture. Proposals for a State Agricultural Commission suggest a move towards continuous policy calibration rather than episodic intervention. Efforts to strengthen Farmer Producer Organisations through financial support, federated structures and tax relief reflect an understanding that aggregation is essential in modern agricultural markets. The contrast with the broader Indian pattern is instructive. Agriculture is often treated as a sector requiring periodic rescue rather than systemic redesign. Tamil Nadu’s approach, imperfect and incomplete though it is, hints at a different framing: farming as an economic system that must be made more resilient, diversified and knowledge-driven. The emphasis shifts from producing more to earning better. Under subsequent administrations, including that of M. K. Stalin, improvements in irrigation and output have continued, though the translation into higher farm incomes remains uneven. Tamil Nadu does not offer a ready-made template for India. Its geography, politics and institutional capacity are distinct. But its experience illustrates that where political intent aligns short-term relief with long-term restructuring, the contours of a more stable agrarian system begin to emerge. Over to the voters now.

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.

Comments

bottom of page