top of page

By:

Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Algorithmic Anarchy

The NEET paper leak protests at Delhi’s Jantar Mantar should have remained a legitimate expression of student anger over the collapse of examination integrity. Instead, as the agitation escalated into clashes with the police, abusive sloganeering and an increasingly radical political campaign, Meta’s algorithms emerged as an invisible force multiplying the unrest. The controversy surrounding the brief removal of Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s message to the youth in the aftermath of the...

Algorithmic Anarchy

The NEET paper leak protests at Delhi’s Jantar Mantar should have remained a legitimate expression of student anger over the collapse of examination integrity. Instead, as the agitation escalated into clashes with the police, abusive sloganeering and an increasingly radical political campaign, Meta’s algorithms emerged as an invisible force multiplying the unrest. The controversy surrounding the brief removal of Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s message to the youth in the aftermath of the protests only reinforces that concern. Meta has attributed the takedown to a “technical glitch” and apologised. But when the world’s largest social media platform can temporarily suppress the message of the elected leader of the world’s largest democracy during a politically charged moments, the issue extends well beyond a single deleted post. Who decides what India sees? That question has become impossible to ignore during the Cockroach Janta Party’s protests. Across Instagram and Facebook, users have reported being inundated with CJP videos, reels and protest clips despite never following the organisation or engaging with similar political content. Whether this resulted from coordinated paid collaborations, recommendation algorithms or both deserves a thorough investigation. But the larger democratic concern is that public opinion is increasingly being mediated not by citizens, journalists or elected representatives, but by opaque algorithms designed in Silicon Valley and optimised for engagement rather than democratic responsibility. Meta’s recommendation engine is not a passive notice board. Every piece of political content that reaches millions has first been selected by an algorithm whose workings remain largely hidden from public scrutiny. This is hardly unique to India. Around the world, Meta has repeatedly been accused of amplifying polarisation, misinformation and political extremism because outrage keeps users engaged. From elections to ethnic conflicts and episodes of civil unrest, the company has faced persistent criticism that its commercial incentives reward divisive content over balanced discourse. Democracies cannot afford to outsource the architecture of public debate to corporations whose primary obligation is to shareholders rather than constitutional values. While citizens are entitled to challenge governments and demand accountability, there is an important distinction between a movement that expands because people are persuaded and one that appears to be algorithmically amplified into omnipresence. Equally disturbing has been the normalisation of abusive political language during the protests. When such content is repeatedly amplified through recommendation systems, platforms cease to be neutral intermediaries and become active participants in degrading democratic discourse. Platforms that influence elections, protests and public opinion must explain how political recommendations are generated and why particular narratives receive extraordinary amplification. Silicon Valley companies insist they are merely technology platforms. But their algorithms increasingly exercise editorial power. When software determines which protests dominate national conversations and whose voices disappear, technology has already become politics.

The Umpire Who Stood Tall in Cricket’s Golden Age

Harold Dennis “Dickie” Bird, the unmistakable figure in white who brought a touch of Barnsley banter to the world’s cricket grounds, has died at the age of 92. He passed away peacefully on September 22, 2025, at his home in the Yorkshire town where he was born, surrounded by family and echoes of the cheers that followed him for decades. Bird’s death marks the end of an era for English cricket, one defined not just by the finger raised in judgment but by the infectious joy he infused into the game. As tributes poured in from Lord’s to Lahore, Geoffrey Boycott, his lifelong Yorkshire comrade, summed it up: “Dickie didn’t just umpire; he entertained. We’ll miss him, even if he did call me out once or twice.”


Born on April 19, 1933, in a modest terraced house on Church Lane in Barnsley, West Riding of Yorkshire, Bird grew up in the shadow of the coal pits that powered the industrial north. The eldest of three children to James Harold Bird, a coal miner, and Ethel (née Smith), a homemaker, young Harold—soon nicknamed “Dickie” by schoolmates for his cheeky grin—knew hardship early. The family relocated to the New Lodge estate amid slum clearances when he was two, a move that instilled in him the grit of working-class resilience. Failing his 11-plus exam in 1944, he attended Raley Secondary Modern School, leaving at 15 to toil briefly in the mines. “It weren’t for me,” he later recalled with a chuckle. “Too dark down there—no room for a cricket bat.” Instead, sport became his escape. A promising footballer, Bird’s knee injury dashed dreams of professional soccer, redirecting his passion to cricket, the village green’s gentlemanly pursuit.


Bird’s playing days flickered brightly but briefly. Signing with Yorkshire in 1956, he navigated the cutthroat opening slot amid nerves and fierce competition from the likes of Ken Taylor. His maiden County Championship century—a gritty 181 not out against Glamorgan in 1959—earned plaudits, but inconsistency and that nagging knee saw him loaned to Leicestershire in 1960. There, he blossomed momentarily, amassing over 1,000 runs in his debut season, including a ton against the touring South Africans. Yet, by 1964, after 93 first-class matches averaging a modest 20.71—with just two centuries and 14 fifties—the injuries won. Retiring at 31, Bird turned coach, guiding talents at Paignton and Plymouth College, and even venturing to Johannesburg. Club cricket with future stars like Michael Parkinson and Boycott forged bonds that outlasted his batting average. “I never scored a run for England,” he quipped in later years, “but I made up for it standing at the other end.”


Umpiring, however, was where Bird truly flourished, transforming from journeyman batsman to global icon over 28 years. Qualifying for county games in 1970, he debuted in Tests three years later at Headingley—his spiritual home—standing with Charlie Elliott for England versus New Zealand. An innings victory for the hosts set the tone for a career that would see him officiate 66 Tests (a world record until 2009), 69 ODIs, seven Women’s ODIs, and three Cricket World Cup finals. His tally included a then-record 54 Tests in England and 15 at Lord’s, the cathedral of cricket.


The best moments? They read like a highlight reel of cricket’s eccentric soul. In 1975, Bird stood in the inaugural World Cup final at Lord’s, where West Indies clinched a 17-run thriller over Australia amid a joyous pitch invasion that nearly swept him off his feet. “Fans everywhere—chasing Viv Richards like he was the last bus home,” he laughed in his autobiography. Eight years later, in 1983, he refereed India’s seismic upset of the same foes at the same venue, kapil Dev’s men etching history as Bird’s finger stayed resolutely neutral in a match that redefined underdogs. His third final came in 1992 at Melbourne, Pakistan’s triumph under Imran Khan unfolding under his watchful eye amid the inaugural use of colored clothing and white balls. Then there was the 1980 Centenary Test at Lord’s, a nostalgic clash between England and Australia exactly 100 years on from the first. Bird and partner David Constant braved a waterlogged outfield—despite blue skies—forcing a three-day washout that sparked MCC member mutiny. Yet, in 1988 at Headingley, a biblical flood turned the outfield into a lake; Bird’s calm call to halt play amid rising waters became folklore, players rowing imaginary boats in jest.


(The writer is a senior journalist based in Mumbai. Views personal.)

Comments

bottom of page