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Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Manufactured Martyrs

The attempt by the Cockroach Janata Party (CJP) to turn activist Sonam Wangchuk into the next Anna Hazare has exposed how manufactured symbolism cannot compensate for the absence of genuine public outrage. What began as a grievance over the NEET paper leak, one of India’s gravest examination scandals in recent times, has drifted into an exercise in political pageantry, where the cause has been eclipsed by its chosen mascots. Wangchuk’s indefinite hunger strike was plainly meant to recreate a...

Manufactured Martyrs

The attempt by the Cockroach Janata Party (CJP) to turn activist Sonam Wangchuk into the next Anna Hazare has exposed how manufactured symbolism cannot compensate for the absence of genuine public outrage. What began as a grievance over the NEET paper leak, one of India’s gravest examination scandals in recent times, has drifted into an exercise in political pageantry, where the cause has been eclipsed by its chosen mascots. Wangchuk’s indefinite hunger strike was plainly meant to recreate a familiar script where an allegedly unassuming public figure embraces personal sacrifice and a reluctant government buckles under mounting moral pressure. But history does not repeat itself on command. Anna Hazare’s fast in 2011 succeeded not because fasting possesses mystical political powers, but because it rode a tidal wave of public anger against corruption. Millions identified with the cause. That equation is conspicuously absent today. The platform that ought to have belonged to students who suffered from the NEET paper leak, or to parents whose children bore its consequences, instead became crowded with the usual constellation of professional activists, ideological campaigners and political fellow travellers. The faces dominating the stage were not those most directly affected by the scandal. A movement demanding educational accountability gradually came to look like another gathering of Delhi’s permanently aggrieved activist class. Even Wangchuk appeared to sense the contradiction. During the protest he reportedly lamented that while he was observing an indefinite fast, many around him were happily eating meals, urging at least a token one-day fast in solidarity. Successful protest movements depend upon authenticity. Once the public begins suspecting that an individual is being deployed less as a leader than as a moral accessory for someone else’s ideological project, sympathy quickly evaporates. Nor does Wangchuk arrive without controversy. Questions have been raised over the cancellation of the FCRA licence of SECMOL, the educational organisation associated with him, and over allegations regarding subsequent foreign funding arrangements. Critics have also challenged aspects of the carefully cultivated public mythology surrounding his achievements, from the origins of the ice-stupa concept to the popular belief that he inspired the protagonist of 3 Idiots. These matters deserve scrutiny on their own merits rather than hagiography or character assassination. The greater failure here surely belongs to the protest’s organisers. The CJP has mistaken optics for momentum and symbolism for public sentiment. Instead of allowing the victims of the NEET scandal to speak for themselves, they attempted to manufacture another national conscience by placing a familiar face at the centre of the stage. Political legitimacy cannot be outsourced to celebrity. Nor can mass movements be assembled from social-media influencers and habitual protesters. Anna Hazare became powerful because the public chose him. Attempts to manufacture his successor merely underline how rare such moments really are.

The Wall Who Gave Cricket Its Quiet Strength

One of the most technically perfect batsman the world cricket has produced, Rahul Sharad Dravid was born on January 11, 1973, and as he celebrates his 53rd birthday on Sunday, Indian cricket pauses to honour a man whose career embodied the spirit of the gentleman’s game. In an era defined by flamboyance, noise and instant gratification, Dravid stood apart—calm, composed and unyielding. Aptly nicknamed “The Wall,” he was not merely a cricketer but a moral compass for the sport.


A man who justified why cricket is called a gentleman’s game, Rahul Dravid was—and remains—a true gentleman.


Dravid’s greatness cannot be measured only by numbers, though they are formidable: over 13,000 Test runs, 10,000-plus ODI runs, centuries across continents, and a reputation as one of the finest slip fielders the game has seen. What truly defined him was how those runs were scored—often under pressure, frequently in adversity, and almost always in service of the team rather than personal milestones.


While others chased glory, Dravid chased responsibility.


He was the batsman you turned to when the top order collapsed, when conditions were hostile, or when the opposition sensed blood. Whether it was grinding out centuries in Rawalpindi, facing lethal pace attacks in Johannesburg, or holding one end together on crumbling subcontinental pitches, Dravid built his innings brick by brick. He did not dominate bowlers with swagger; he defeated them with patience, discipline and mental fortitude.


Dravid’s batting was a lesson in restraint. There was no unnecessary aggression, no theatrical celebration—just quiet acknowledgment and a return to the crease. In a cricketing culture increasingly driven by entertainment, he reminded the world that defence, technique and temperament were virtues worth celebrating.


Yet, reducing Dravid to a defensive batsman does him grave injustice. When the situation demanded, he could accelerate with precision and purpose. His ODI strike rotation, his ability to bat through innings, and his adaptability across formats showcased a cricketer far more complete than the stereotype suggested.


Leadership, too, came naturally to him—though never loudly. As India’s captain during a transitional phase, Dravid led with integrity. He encouraged youngsters, backed talent through failure, and upheld discipline without intimidation. The famous 2004 Adelaide Test win and the resurgence of Indian cricket abroad during that period bore his understated imprint.


Perhaps Dravid’s finest legacy emerged after retirement. As a mentor, coach and administrator, he chose the harder path—working with India’s Under-19 and ‘A’ teams rather than chasing high-profile roles. The results are evident today. A generation of Indian cricketers—technically sound, mentally resilient and ethically grounded—carry Dravid’s influence in their approach.


As head coach of the Indian men’s team, he once again put process before hype. Wins mattered, but preparation, humility and collective growth mattered more. In victory or defeat, Dravid’s post-match demeanour mirrored his playing days—measured, respectful and honest.


In a sporting world increasingly vulnerable to controversy, ego and excess, Rahul Dravid’s career stands as a counterpoint. He proved that greatness does not require noise, that success need not come at the cost of values, and that respect is earned through consistency of character.


At 53, Rahul Dravid remains what he always was—a wall not just of technique, but of principles. Cricket is richer for having witnessed him, and generations to come will continue to learn from the quiet strength of a man who truly justified why cricket is called the gentleman’s game.

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