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Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Cheap Politics

Democracy does not merely test a politician’s ability to win elections. It tests character when applause is easiest to earn through the cheapest of means. Udhayanidhi Stalin, son of former Chief Minister DMK chief M.K. Stalin, has repeatedly failed that test. His arrest over an allegedly vulgar, sexually suggestive remark aimed at Chief Minister C. Joseph Vijay and actor Trisha Krishnan is, in one sense, a legal matter that must be adjudicated by the courts. Whether his words meet the...

Cheap Politics

Democracy does not merely test a politician’s ability to win elections. It tests character when applause is easiest to earn through the cheapest of means. Udhayanidhi Stalin, son of former Chief Minister DMK chief M.K. Stalin, has repeatedly failed that test. His arrest over an allegedly vulgar, sexually suggestive remark aimed at Chief Minister C. Joseph Vijay and actor Trisha Krishnan is, in one sense, a legal matter that must be adjudicated by the courts. Whether his words meet the threshold for criminal liability under the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, the Information Technology Act or Tamil Nadu’s law against harassment of women is for judges to decide. But legality is not the only standard by which public life should be measured. Political decency matters. And the DMK leader has once again demonstrated a startling absence of judgment. During a protest over the Cauvery water dispute, Udhayanidhi, the opposition’s most recognisable face allowed himself to descend into playground innuendo after sections of the crowd chanted an actor’s name. A rally meant to spotlight one of Tamil Nadu's most pressing water disputes was instantly reduced to gossip and insinuation. That may have amused partisan supporters, but it did nothing to advance the cause they had assembled to champion. The DMK predictably insists this is political vendetta by the ruling TVK government, a convenient diversion from administrative failures. This does not absolve Stalin of responsibility for his own conduct. Those who aspire to govern must also know where civility ends and crudity begins. His latest controversy is part of a troubling pattern. Udhayanidhi’s repeated pouring of vitriol over Sanatana Dharma – in 2023, he compared Sanatana Dharma to malaria, dengue and COVID-19 – has generated precisely the outrage it appeared designed to provoke. His subsequent reiteration in the Tamil Nadu Assembly that Sanatana Dharma “must certainly be abolished” suggested his penchant for manufacturing controversies and dominating headlines. This is especially disappointing because Tamil Nadu has long prided itself on an intellectually rigorous political culture. The state’s public discourse has produced formidable debaters, social reformers and administrators capable of combining ideological conviction with rhetorical sophistication. Now it seems that dynastic entitlement has become a substitute for political maturity. The burden on second-generation leaders is heavier precisely because inherited prominence invites heightened scrutiny. Every careless phrase reinforces the suspicion that public office has become less about public service than permanent performance. India’s politics already suffers from performative outrage and collapsing standards of public debate. It needs fewer provocateurs and more statesmen. Until politicians understand that distinction, the coarsening of democratic discourse will continue, regardless of which party occupies the treasury benches or the opposition front row.

When Exams Lose Credibility

Far more than opportunity or access, Indian students are increasingly asking whether the examination system itself deserves their trust.

My name is Meera, and my story could belong to millions of students across India. I stand with the students protesting today because their anger is not only about an examination but about a breach of trust.


My grandmother left school because the nearest secondary school was too far away. My mother went to college, earned a degree and found work. I have grown up with coaching classes, online lectures, competitive examinations and the assurance that merit will determine how far I go.


Three generations of my family tell the story of India’s social contract in education. My grandmother asked the question of Opportunity: if I am willing to learn, will you allow me to enter? My mother asked the question of Capability: if I give the system my time and effort, will it prepare me for work, citizenship and life? I ask the question of Credibility: when you teach, assess and certify me, can I trust the process?


Inclusive Education

For much of independent India, opportunity was the priority. The country needed schools, universities, teachers and institutions. It had to bring girls, rural children and excluded communities into the education system. Governments widened access through institution-building, reservation, Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan and, eventually, the constitutional right to education.


Then came my mother’s question. Enrolment was not enough. Students needed to learn, acquire skills, and be prepared for a changing economy. Policies emphasised teacher development, vocational education, foundational literacy, and employability. Education must do more than accommodate a student; it must develop one.


I am the product of both advances. I have a seat and the ability to compete for what comes next. That is precisely why I will no longer accept that the institution judging me need not meet the standards it imposes on me.


This is not the first time educational reform has met resistance. Two consequential education ministers, Saiyid Nurul Hasan and Murli Manohar Joshi, came from academic backgrounds. Both sought structural change and advanced ideas about curriculum and knowledge.


Hasan strengthened historical and social-science research institutions, but his tenure became associated with the growing authority of Marxist and left-secular historians within state-supported academia. Joshi advanced Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan and the constitutional entitlement to education while seeking to replace the inherited intellectual establishment with a Hindu-civilisational interpretation.


Each said he was correcting an existing distortion. Opponents saw ideological capture. Structural reform became entangled with the question of who controls knowledge, and resistance came largely from academics, institutions, political parties and courts.


My generation’s protest is different. We are separating structure, knowledge and process for ourselves. I may argue with the syllabus, the government’s conception of history, centralisation, reservation or pedagogy. But I should not have to debate whether the paper was secure, whether candidates faced equal conditions, whether marks were correct, or whether anyone will accept responsibility when the system fails.


A curriculum can be contested. But an examination process must be credible. The government has constituted a task force on examination reform under Nandan Nilekani. I agree that his experience in digital public infrastructure is considerable, and that technology must be integral to an examination system. But the choice also suggests a familiar diagnosis: that an examination becomes credible when it is digital.


Need for Accountability

Technology can help. However, it cannot, by itself, make them trustworthy. A digital system can be poorly designed, compromised by insiders, or manipulated by vendors. Centralisation may improve standardisation, but it also concentrates risk. One breach or software failure can harm millions at once. Trust is not a feature that can be coded into a platform. It comes from governance, independent scrutiny, accountability and remedy.


Nor is the government short of a blueprint. The K. Radhakrishnan Committee, constituted after the 2024 NEET controversy, submitted 101 recommendations covering the examination cycle. It proposed secure digital transmission, hybrid and computer-based testing, government-run centres, reduced dependence on private vendors, stronger state involvement, and a professionally restructured NTA.


Before another task force proposes further solutions, I want to know what was implemented, what was rejected, and why earlier reforms failed. A new committee cannot replace accountability for the previous one.


The deeper weakness lies in the architecture. NTA conducts examinations, manages vendors, responds to failures, and defends the process. The operator is also expected to act as guarantor.


As a country, we protect another process on which public trust depends through an independent Election Commission. If it can safeguard the vote by which governments are chosen, it can safeguard the examinations by which our futures are decided.


India needs an independent National Examinations Commission to set standards, audit examination bodies and vendors, investigate failures, hear appeals and prescribe remedies. NTA may remain an operator. It cannot be the sole guarantor of its own credibility. The commission need not conduct every test; it must ensure that common standards of security, transparency and accountability are independently enforceable.


I have fulfilled my obligations under the contract. I studied, paid the fee, travelled to the assigned centre, and accepted that a few hours could determine my future. I am entitled to know who safeguards that process and what remedy is available when it fails.


The state helped my grandmother enter. It helped my mother become capable. It taught me to reason, question evidence and demand accountability. It cannot celebrate that capability when I become a doctor, engineer or entrepreneur, yet resents it when I turn it on the system.


“You asked me to learn, reason and compete,” I am saying. “I did. I can now identify exactly where you have failed. What you lack is credibility.”


(The writer is a learning and development professional. Views personal.)

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