The Beast of the Clearing

Every society of beasts, whether furred, feathered, or scaled, requires order. To keep harmony in the wilderness, the creatures of the Great Forest held their annual Assembly in the Clearing, where voices both small and mighty were given audience. From the tiniest ant to the grandest elephant, all came to listen, deliberate, and safeguard the balance of the woods.

But one fateful season, the Assembly witnessed a spectacle it would never forget: the rise of a beast who was neither lion nor ape, neither predator nor prey, but a grotesque fusion of all. His mane shone like a lion’s crown, his grin bared the slyness of a hyena, and his gestures mimicked the swagger of apes. He called himself guardian of the forest, but what followed revealed something else entirely.

The Oration of the Beast

The creature mounted the Stone of Speakers with the confidence of one who had rehearsed his triumph. His voice boomed through the trees, thick with promises and thunder. He spoke of destiny, of greatness, of unseen enemies plotting in shadows. Yet for all his sound and fury, truth was absent—like water promised to a thirsty throat but withheld at the last sip.

The forest grew uneasy, and soon the whispers of dissent began.

The Hare’s Suspicion

The hare, whose ears caught every false note, trembled. “This one is a charlatan,” he muttered. “His tongue drips with lies sweetened by vanity. He promises light but carries only shadows.”

The Buffalo’s Lament

The buffalo, weary from years of toil, stamped the ground. “I know the scent of ruin,” he declared. “This one dreams of conquest, not care. Where we see harvest, he sees pillage. A monster in deed stands before us.”

The Jackals’ Howl

The jackals, eager gossips of the forest, burst into nervous laughter. “Do you hear the frenzy in his roar?” they cried. “It is not leadership but madness. He mistakes noise for wisdom, fury for strength. Behold a maniac dressed as a savior!”

The Owl’s Warning

The owl, patient guardian of old knowledge, peered down with solemn eyes. “No, my friends,” he said gravely, “do not dismiss him as mere fool. His chaos conceals a careful pattern. Each word is a step in a trap. This is the mind of a fiend, weaving ruin as if it were order.”

The Deer’s Fear

The deer shivered, her fawns pressed close. “There is no warmth in his heart. I see only emptiness, colder than winter. He is a psychopath who counts lives as pebbles, who weighs suffering like numbers on a slate.”

The Parrot’s Mockery

From the branches came the parrot’s shrill laughter. “Ha! He speaks of the forest, yet gazes only at himself. Each sentence is a mirror reflecting his own face. A narcissist, plain and simple—he worships not the trees nor the rivers, but the echo of his own name.”

The Elephant’s Memory

At last the elephant, ancient and dignified, raised his trunk. “I have lived through many seasons,” he rumbled. “I have seen beasts who claimed crowns, only to leave ashes. Remember well, children: the perfect villain is not one vice but many—charlatan’s tongue, monster’s deed, maniac’s roar, fiend’s cunning, psychopath’s void, narcissist’s soul. And before us stands their union.”

The Silence After

The beast’s speech ended in a roar that shook the clearing. But no applause followed, no cheer, no chant of allegiance. Instead, a heavy silence fell. The animals dispersed quietly, each carrying dread in their hearts.

The rivers murmured unease, the winds whispered warnings, and even the insects fell into dissonant song. All had seen what the Assembly revealed: not a guardian of the forest, but a calamity in disguise.

Moral of the Fable

And so the owl spoke once more, his voice grave beneath the stars:

“Beware the beast who mistakes the forest for his mirror. For when such a one reigns, trees shall fall, rivers shall choke, and the wilderness itself shall be shackled beneath the weight of his vanity. To crown such a creature is not to choose a leader—it is to summon ruin.”

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श्रद्धेच्या जंजाळात अडकलेली शुद्ध हवा : कबुतरांना खाद्य घालण्याच्या हट्टामागील अंधश्रद्धा 

कुठल्याही समाजाच्या अधोगतीचा एक निश्चित टप्पा असतो — जिथे श्रद्धा आणि शहाणपण यांच्यातली सीमारेषा कायमची पुसून जाते. आणि ती रेषा आपल्या शहरांच्या फूटपाथांवर, खिडक्यांच्या सिल्ल्यांवर आणि घरांच्या गॅलऱ्यांमध्ये — कबुतरांच्या विष्ठेच्या थरांमध्ये अडकलेलीदिसते.

हो, कबुतरं — ही तथाकथित “पवित्र” जीवं. पवित्रतेच्या पंखावर विराजमान झालेले रोगांचे वाहक. काहीजण त्यांना दैवी समजतात, काही धार्मिकतेचे प्रतीक. पण आजच्या काळात ती झाली आहेत शहरांच्या श्वासमुक्तीवर बसलेली जीवघेणी सावली.

कोर्टांनी कबुतरांना खाद्य घालण्यावर बंदी घातली आहे, डॉक्टरांनी इशारे दिले आहेत, आणि आरोग्य तज्ज्ञांनी स्पष्ट सांगितले आहे की यामुळे फुफ्फुसांचे आजार, एलर्जी, श्वसनदोष आणि अनेक बुरशीजन्य रोग वाढत आहेत. पण या सर्व ज्ञानावर पंखात घेत — काही स्वयंघोषित धर्मरक्षक अजूनही बिनधास्त गहू, बाजरी, तांदूळ रस्त्यावर उधळत फिरतात.

त्यांच्यासाठी ही फक्त श्रद्धा नाही, ही एक हट्टाने फुलवलेली अंधश्रद्धा आहे, जी आता सामाजिक हानीचे रूप घेत आहे.

सामाजिक  अधिकार की सामाजिक आतंक?

श्रद्धा वैयक्तिक आहे. पण जिथे तुमची श्रद्धा इतरांच्या आरोग्याचा घात करत असेल, तिथे ती श्रद्धा नसून स्वार्थी हट्ट ठरतो. आज घरोघरी श्वसनाच्या तक्रारी, सततची खोकली, डोळ्यांची खाज, आणि अ‍ॅलर्जीक अ‍ॅस्थमा वाढत आहे, त्यामागे या कबुतरांच्या विष्ठेचे सूक्ष्म कण आहेत — जे हवेत मिसळून शरीरात शिरतात आणि आजारांचा कहर घडवतात.

कबुतरं रोज एक-दोन नव्हे तर शेकडो वेळा विष्ठा करतात. ती विष्ठा इमारतींचे प्लास्टर कुरतडते, पाईपलाइन堵 करते, बाल्कनी अडवते, आणि एकंदरीत नागरिक जीवनाचा श्वास रोखून टाकते.

आणि या सर्व संकटांवर उपाय करायला गेले की, काही तथाकथित धर्मप्रेमी, धर्माची ढाल पुढे करत ओरडतात — “आमचा श्रद्धेचा अधिकार आहे!”

हो का? मग इतरांचा श्वास घेण्याचा अधिकार कुठे गेला?

‘कबुतरखान्यांचा’ कलंक

शहरांतील तथाकथित ‘कबुतरखान्यां’ मध्ये रोज हजारो कबुतरं अन्नासाठी गोळा होतात. तेथील दृश्य म्हणजे पुण्याच्या  नावावर उभारलेली जैविक महामारी. पिंजऱ्यात घातलेल्या रोगांपेक्षा या उघड्या कबुतरखान्यांतून फैलावणारे आजार जास्त धोकादायक.

सगळ्यात हास्यास्पद म्हणजे — जे लोक ही कबुतरं खाद्य घालतात, तेच त्यांना स्पर्शही करत नाहीत. घराच्या गॅलऱ्यांत जाळ्या लावतात, स्पाईक्स लावतात, पण सकाळी तांदूळ टाकतात. ही कुठली श्रद्धा? ही तर संवेदनशून्य दांभिकता आहे.

आरोग्य, विज्ञान आणि न्यायालये – या तिघांनाही झिडकारणे

जेव्हा न्यायालये निर्णय देतात, डॉक्टर सल्ला देतात, महापालिका सूचना करते — तेव्हा ही मंडळी त्या सगळ्यांना “धर्मद्रोही” ठरवतात. कारण त्यांना त्यांची श्रद्धा विज्ञान, कायदा आणि आरोग्याच्या हितापेक्षा जास्त श्रेष्ठ वाटते.

हे श्रद्धा आहे की हट्ट? भक्ती आहे की बिनडोकपणा?

कोणत्याही धार्मिक ग्रंथात “कबुतरांना विष्ठा करु दे, आणि आजूबाजूचे श्वास घेऊ शकत नसले तरी चालेल”, असे कुठेही लिहिलेले नाही.

‘पवित्रता’ की ‘पॉईझनिंग’?

कोणी पक्ष्यांना खाऊ घालणं चुकीचं नाही — पण जिथे ते सार्वजनिक आरोग्यावर घात करत असेल, तिथे ते अपराध आहे.
कोणालाही अन्नदान करायचं असल्यास शहराबाहेर, नियोजित पक्षी-आहार केंद्रांमध्ये, योग्य पद्धतीने करा.
पण घरांच्या खिडक्यांवर, रहिवासी संकुलांच्या कंपाऊंडमध्ये, किंवा रुग्णालयांच्या बाहेर कबुतरांवर अन्नवर्षाव करणं म्हणजे जनतेच्या आरोग्यावर थुंकणं होय.

शेवटी…

श्रध्देचा  उपयोग माणूस उन्नत करण्यासाठी व्हायला हवा — त्याच्या श्वासावर गुदमरवण्यासाठी नव्हे.

कबुतरांना खाद्य घालण्याचा हट्ट हा श्रद्धेचा नाही, समाजघातक अंधश्रद्धेचा मुद्दा आहे. तो थांबला पाहिजे. अन्यथा आपल्या शहरांचे भविष्य मंदिरासारखे पवित्र नव्हे, तर कबरस्तानासारखे निःशब्द असेल.

चला, पंख झाडूया — पण या अंधश्रद्धेचे, नाहीतर उद्याची हवा उरलेली नसेलच.

-महेश झगडे

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The Droppings of Devotion: When Superstition Smothers Sanity

There comes a time in every society’s slow descent into mediocrity when a line must be drawn—not in sand, but in pigeon droppings. It is here, in the dense, choked arteries of our great urban jungles—Mumbai, Delhi, Pune—that the line between faith and folly is smeared into a foul, feathered mess. And nothing embodies this grotesque fusion more pungently than the devout insistence of a few self-anointed saviours of culture to feed pigeons, come plague or pneumonia, come reason or ruling.

Yes, the sacred pigeons. The airborne carriers of piety and pathogens. The fluttering vahanas of virtue and viral load.

They descend in flocks, summoned by handfuls of wheat and misguided compassion, to alight upon every parapet and power line, every balcony and cornice—leaving behind not divine blessings, but acidic excreta potent enough to etch their theology into the very stone of civilization. And still, their feeders—those urban priests of pigeonhood—demand that their right to pour grain upon filth be protected, even as courts of law, public health departments, and lungs of asthma-stricken children cry out in protest.

Superstition: The New Public Policy

Let us be clear: the matter has transcended religion. This is no longer about reverence; it is about recalcitrance. A perverse determination to uphold ritual even when it stinks of decay—literally and figuratively. The High Courts have ruled. Medical science has spoken. Municipalities have scraped, swept, and sprayed. But none of these interventions can outflap the wings of blind belief when it is cloaked in the garb of tradition.

These pigeon feeders, emboldened by centuries of unquestioned ritual, now assert their constitutional right to infect the atmosphere with Histoplasmosis, Psittacosis, and Cryptococcal meningitis—as if the Constitution ever promised the freedom to corrode balconies and bronchi alike. Their offerings, they claim, are acts of charity. Yet in the name of this charity, they convert housing societies into guano graveyards and hospital wards into temples of the breathless.

Balconies of the Damned

One need only gaze upwards in any old quarter of a city to witness the architecture of this lunacy. What were once stately facades now bear the calcified wrath of decades of pigeon dung. The white crusts of sanctimonious indifference cling to ledges, drip from air-conditioners, and fill the corners where once children leaned out to watch the monsoon.

And inside, behind mesh screens and windows sealed tighter than secrets, families suffocate in a haze of fungal spores. The immunocompromised, the elderly, the very children the feeders claim to love—they all breathe in the slow curse of the devout.

Is this charity? Is this dharma? Or is this simply domestic terrorism dressed as devotion?

Of Faith and Faeces

The tragedy is not that people believe pigeons to be auspicious. Superstitions, after all, are as old as humanity. The tragedy is that these beliefs now demand immunity from law, from reason, and from consequences.

When a court rules against pigeon feeding in residential zones, it is not attacking faith. It is defending lungs, defending walls, defending what little sanity remains in a city at the edge of asphyxiation. But those drunk on ritual scoff at the evidence. “Let the birds be fed,” they chant, as if their piety were a pesticide. As if centuries of myth outweigh milligrams of mycotoxins.

And so, armed with a brass pot and half a kilo of bajra, they march towards residential rooftops with all the zeal of medieval flagellants—flagging not their own backs, but the future of their neighbours.

The Cult of the Kabutarkhana

Nowhere is this pathology more pronounced than in the city’s infamous Kabutarkhanas—those self-declared temples of defecation. These are not sanctuaries; they are centres of contagious compassion, where a spoonful of grain buys a pound of pestilence.

Here, amid cooing and coughing, the faithful gather to feed what they will not touch, to glorify what they dare not clean. And woe betide the civic officer who tries to interfere! For he shall be branded anti-tradition, anti-people, even anti-Hindu, by those who cannot distinguish spirituality from spore count.

The Price of Passive Governance

Refusing to regulate pigeon feeding, the State itself becomes an accomplice in this aviary apocalypse. Its silence fertilizes the very superstition it should uproot. It tolerates a culture that measures faith by grain count and holiness by how many pigeons defecate on your rooftop before noon.

A Prayer for Rationality

Let it be known: compassion is not the same as contamination. Feeding birds is not a crime—but doing so at the cost of human health, infrastructure, and sanity certainly is.

Let those who insist on feeding pigeons do so in regulated, open, non-residential spaces. Let municipal bodies establish designated bird feeding zones, supervised and cleaned. Let faith be reclaimed from filth, and charity decoupled from contamination.

And let us, as a society, learn at last to distinguish between worship and waste, between devotion and disease, between ritual and ruin.

A city is not a coop, and its citizens are not sacrificial offerings at the altar of obstinacy. The right to believe cannot be the right to blind others, and the right to feed cannot be the right to foul the very air we share.

To persist in pigeon feeding, in defiance of law and logic, is not religious—it is reckless. It is not sacred—it is selfish. And if this plague of piety is not checked, the cities of tomorrow will be not temples, but tombs—choked with feathers, fables, and the silence of those too breathless to object.

Let us not allow superstition to fly so freely that it snuffs out the very breath of civilization.

-Mahesh Zagade

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शासकीय-प्रशासकीय बेजबाबदारपणाचा विसावा स्मृतिदिन : मुंबईच्या महापूराचं मानवनिर्मित शोकगीत

लेखक : महेश झगडे, माजी आयएएस

जेव्हा आभाळ कोसळलं आणि व्यवस्थाही

२६ जुलै २००५. त्या दिवशी मुंबईवर अवकाळी नव्हे, तर नियतीसारखा कोसळलेला महापूर होता. अवघ्या २४ तासांत तब्बल ९४४ मिमी पाऊस पडला. शहर गुदमरलं. गाड्या तरंगल्या. लोक मृत्यूच्या कवेत गेले. आणि प्रशासन… बघ्याच्या भूमिकेत गप्प. जणू काही ही आपत्ती आकाशातून आली, आणि तेच केविलवाणं.

मात्र ही नैसर्गिक आपत्ती नव्हती. हा एक ‘मानवनिर्मित नरसंहार’ होता. कारण पावसाने नाही, तर माणसाने ठार केलं. व्यवस्था, प्रशासन आणि त्यांच्या बरोबर मांडवली करून वावरलेल्या बिल्डरांच्या आणि भ्रष्ट राजकीय नेतृत्वाच्या संमतीने केलेली ही हत्याकांडी होती.

आज त्या दु:खद घटनेला २० वर्षे झाली. परंतु हा लेख केवळ त्या घटनेच्या स्मरणार्थ नाही, तर त्या दु:खद आठवणींमागील बेजबाबदार शासकीय यंत्रणेचा चार्जशीट आहे. आणि हे लिहिण्याची नैतिक जबाबदारी आहे, कारण मी त्या काळात वेगवेगळ्या जबाबदाऱ्या सांभाळताना कितीतरी वेळा अशा आपत्ती टाळता येण्याचे मार्ग स्वतः पाहिले आणि वापरले आहेत.

पाऊस नव्हे, तुम्ही दोषी आहात!

पाऊस हे नैसर्गिक चक्र आहे. त्याला न आवडणारा, न रोखणारा कोणीही नाही. तो येतो, वाहतो आणि निघून जातो. पण मुंबईत त्याचा प्रवाह थांबवण्यात आला. कारण माणसाने नद्यांच्या, ओढ्यांच्या, नाल्यांच्या वाटा बुजवल्या. झाडं तोडली, माळरानं खाल्ली, झोपडपट्ट्या वाढविल्या, डोंगर फोडले, खाडी बुजवली आणि वर बिल्डिंग्स उभारल्या.

शहराचे निसर्गाशी असलेले नाळेसारखे संबंध विकल्या गेले. जलप्रवाहांच्या मार्गांवर उभ्या राहिल्या काचांतील टोलेजंग इमारती, व्यावसायिक संकुले, मॉल्स आणि पार्किंग कॉम्प्लेक्स. त्यांना परवानगी दिली ती अधिकाऱ्यांनी, ज्यांनी नियमांचं वस्त्रहरण केलं.

मग पाऊस कसला दोषी?

बटीक अधिकारी – भ्रष्टाचाराची गाथा

मुंबई महानगरपालिकेपासून राज्याच्या नगरविकास विभागापर्यंत – नियोजनाचे अधिकार असणाऱ्या सर्व संस्थांनी विकासाच्या नावाखाली विनाशाला परवानगी दिली. बिल्डर, राजकारणी आणि अधिकाऱ्यांमधील त्रिकुटाने ‘विकास’ म्हणजे जमीन तुडवून वर इमारत रचणं, एवढाच अर्थ लावला.

फायलींमध्ये मंजुरीच्या सहींसोबतच होती – आत्म्याची गद्दारी. कुठेच पर्यावरण अहवाल, पर्जन्यमान विश्लेषण, जलप्रवाह नकाशा, भूजलस्तर यांचा विचारच नव्हता. नियम लवचिक होते, नियमांचे रक्षण करणारे अधिक लवचिक!

शहर गुदमरलं तेव्हा हेच अधिकारी पावसाला दोष देत होते. त्यांचानाईलाजहोता – त्यांनास्वतःचंमनमरणपावलंहोतं.

निवडून दिलेले नेते – पण काय केलेत् यांनी?

मुंबई महानगर प्रदेशातील प्रत्येक मतदारसंघात निवडून आलेले लोकप्रतिनिधी वर्षानुवर्षे त्याच गलिच्छ राजकारणात मश्गुल राहिले. जेथे योजना, नियोजन आणि सार्वजनिक हिताचं काहीही नव्हतं. त्यांच्या डोळ्यांदेखत जलमार्गांवर चढलेल्या झोपड्या वाढत राहिल्या, इमारतींना उंची मिळत गेली, पण माणसांना श्वास गुदमरायला लागला.

कोणी प्रश्न विचारला का? कोणत्याही अधिवेशनात २००५ च्या घटनेनंतर मुंबईच्या शाश्वत जलनियोजनाचा अजेंडा ठेवला का?

त्यांचं मौन हेच त्यांचं अपराध स्वीकारणं आहे. हेलोकप्रतिनिधीआहेतकीअन्यकाही ?

आपत्ती व्यवस्थापन की आपत्ती नाटक?

आपत्ती व्यवस्थापनाची संकल्पना आता एक दिखाऊपणाचं साधन झाली आहे. पोहोचायला वेळ लागणारी बोटी, फोटोसाठी वापरली जाणारी हेल्मेटं, थोड्याफार तात्पुरत्या मदतीच्या बातम्या आणि बुडणाऱ्या लोकांसाठी उशीरा येणारे आश्वासने – ही आपत्ती व्यवस्थापनाची भयाण शोकांतिका.

पण खरं काम काय आहे? आपत्ती प्रतिबंध!

मुंबईत २६ जुलै २००५ रोजी पावसाने हाहा:कार घातला त्यावेळेस मी जिल्हाधिकारी नाशिक म्हणून वैयक्तिक जोखीम पत्करून पाऊस सुरू होण्यापूर्वी धरणातील पाणी सोडून देवून ते रिक्त करून ज्यावेळेस प्रत्यक्ष प्रलयकारी पाऊस सुरू झाला त्यावेळेस ते पाणी धरणातच अडवून पुढे ओढवणारी आपत्ती प्रतिबंध करून जीवितहाणी टाळली होती. हे शक्य आहे, फक्त नियोजन, शिस्त आणि वैज्ञानिक दृष्टीकोन लागतो.

पुणे व पीएमआरडीए – प्रतिबंधात्मक नियोजनाचा प्रयोग

पुणे महानगरपालिकेचा आयुक्त आणि नंतर पीएमआरडीएचा महानगर आयुक्त म्हणून काम करत असताना, माझा स्पष्ट उद्देश होता – शहर नियोजन हे आपत्ती प्रतिबंधक व्हायला हवं.

मी नैसर्गिक जलप्रवाहांचे नकाशे तयार करून, त्यावर कोणतीही अतिक्रमणं थांबवण्याचे आदेश दिले. वर्षा जल संचयनाला प्रोत्साहन दिलं. झोपडपट्ट्यांच्या पुनर्वसनासाठी विकासक आणि प्रशासन यांच्यात उत्तरदायित्व निश्चित केलं. नदीकाठच्या जागांचा कायदेशीर वापर व पुनर्रचना केली.

हे करता येतं – फक्त अधिकाऱ्यांनी निर्बुद्धपणा सोडून जनतेप्रती आपुलकीने प्रशासन केलं पाहिजे.

विसाव्या वर्षीदेखील ही चूक, तोच मूकविराम

आज वीस वर्षांनंतरही मुंबईत काहीच बदललेलं नाही. नव्या इमारती, नवे पूल, मेट्रोचे सगळे गाजावाजा प्रकल्प – पण मूळ पायाभूत समस्या तशाच. नाले सफाईचा ढिसाळपणा, वर्षा नाल्यांची बंदिस्ती, झोपड्यांचे अतिक्रमण आणि राजकीय प्रलोभनं – सगळं जसं आहे तसं.

मग पुढचा महापुर येणारच. आणि पुन्हा होणार – शोकसभा, मदतीची घोषणा, आणि कर्तव्यदोषाचे खापर पावसावर फोडणं.

हाविसावास्मृतिदिनआहेकीपुन्हाएकभविष्यवाणी?

प्रतिबंध हवा – तात्कालिक उपाय नव्हे, शाश्वत धोरण हवे!

या लेखाचा उद्देश केवळ टीका करणे नाही. ही एक हाक आहे – शहाणपणाची. शासन, प्रशासन, राजकारणी, नागरी संस्था आणि सामान्य माणूस – सर्वांनी एकत्र येऊन हे स्वीकारायला हवं की आपत्ती ही नियती नसून नियोजनाची परीक्षा आहे.

शहर नियोजन म्हणजे केवळ एफएसआयच्या आकड्यांचा खेळ नव्हे. ती आहे निसर्ग, माणूस, आणि विज्ञान यांच्या सहअस्तित्वाची साक्ष. जर हे लक्षात आलं नाही, तर पुढचा महापुर केवळ मुंबईत नव्हे, तर आपल्या प्रशासनाच्या विवेकावर येईल.

“नदीचा मार्ग बंद करणाऱ्याला नदी क्षमा करत नाही. ती मार्ग शोधते – आणि मग ती थांबत नाही.”

ही वेळ आहे शुद्धी येण्याची. नाहीतर पुढचा लेख, विसाव्या नव्हे तर चाळीसाव्या स्मृतिदिनी, अजूनही मृतांची नावेच मोजत राहील…

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The 20th Anniversary of Administrative Irresponsibility:

By Mahesh Zagade (Former IAS )

The Day It Rained Death

On July 26, 2005, the heavens tore open over Mumbai, unleashing a torrential fury—944 millimetres of rain in less than 24 hours. The city, known for its resilience, stumbled, choked, collapsed, and ultimately, bled. But let us be clear: the hundreds who perished that day were not victims of rain. They were not martyrs to monsoon. They were not, as the state would lazily term them, “casualties of natural calamity.”

No.
They were victims of unnatural negligence, institutional incompetence, and administrative hubris. They died not because it rained, but because the system refused to plan for what had always been inevitable. This is not nature’s crime. It is man’s sin.

Twenty years have passed since that black day, and what have we learned? Nothing. And that is perhaps the most dangerous lesson of all.

Concrete in the Arteries of the Earth

Rain, by its nature, is not a destroyer. For millennia, it has been the harbinger of life, the rhythm of renewal. It descends from the sky, seeks the path of least resistance, and flows — through rivulets, brooks, and streams — to the rivers, and finally, to the sea. In this grand and harmonious orchestra of nature, man was once merely a quiet spectator.

But not anymore.

In the last two centuries, and with brutal acceleration in the past fifty years, we have choked every vein and artery of the earth with our greed. Natural water channels have been obliterated, streams silenced under roads, nullahs narrowed into cemented coffins, floodplains usurped by parking lots, and hills flattened to build high-rises that scrape the sky and scratch at fate.

And we dared to call this development.

In Mumbai, rivers were reduced to dirty slivers. The Mithi River — once a free-flowing, life-giving artery — was transformed into a gutter of sewage, hemmed in by unregulated construction, mindless reclamation, and plastic-choked drains. The stormwater drainage system, designed for an earlier century with far less rainfall and far fewer people, was neither upgraded nor maintained.

So when the clouds opened their belly on that July afternoon, it wasn’t a calamity. It was a reckoning.

Bureaucracy in Bed with Greed

Who stood between the citizens of Mumbai and the flood? Apathy. That monstrous, many-headed hydra that festers within government offices, thrives in circular files, and hides behind jargon. The municipal and metropolitan authorities, whose duty it was to safeguard the city from foreseeable disasters, had long abdicated that responsibility.

Their silence was bought, borrowed, or bartered.

Rules were bent, exceptions granted, land-use maps redrawn in back rooms. Builders, politicians, and complicit bureaucrats together formed an unholy trinity that prioritised square footage over square integrity. In this moral vacuum, safety was an afterthought, if a thought at all.

The very officers entrusted with enforcement of the law became its most cynical violators. They handed out clearances as if they were alms, not realising—or perhaps not caring—that every illegal slab of concrete was a nail in the city’s coffin.

I say this not from hearsay, but from experience. In my tenure as Municipal Commissioner of Pune and later as Metropolitan Commissioner of PMRDA, I consciously worked to prevent disasters—not merely manage them after they unfolded. I initiated city planning frameworks that respected the terrain, honoured the natural water flow, and integrated monsoon mitigation into urban design. It can be done. But only if administrators shed their indifference and embrace their duty with empathy and intellect.

Unfortunately, Mumbai’s administrators in 2005 did neither.

The Apathy of the Elected

And where were our elected representatives in all this?
Ah, they were there — on hoardings, in convoys, in ribbon-cutting ceremonies — mouthing populist platitudes while doing absolutely nothing of worth. Their brand of politics thrived on short-term visibility, not long-term viability. When questioned on the disaster, they were quick to point fingers at the rain, at climate change, at fate — at anything but themselves.

Let us ask this: What did these men and women do in the monsoon sessions of their legislative assemblies to demand real urban reform? What laws did they draft? What pressure did they exert on the executive arm to prepare the city?

None.
Because genuine reform requires courage. And they had none.

The same political class that supports slum encroachments for vote banks and greenlights dubious infrastructure projects for donations, was now wringing its hands and lamenting the wrath of the skies. It was the performance of a lifetime — crocodile tears for cameras while the waters claimed corpses.

Disaster “Management” – A Euphemism for Failure

There’s a seductive complacency in the phrase “Disaster Management”. It implies that the disaster is a freak event — unpreventable, untameable — and that all one can do is manage it.

Rubbish.

Real leadership lies not in managing disaster but preventing it. Yet, this distinction is lost on most administrators. They stock sandbags after the flood, buy rubber dinghies once the waters rise, and distribute compensation cheques to the bereaved as if that could ever replace a lost child.

In 2005, Mumbai’s disaster “response” was not just late; it was lethargic, ill-coordinated, and wholly inadequate. Hospitals were overwhelmed. Roads became rivers. Communication collapsed. Relief was sporadic. Panic was pervasive.

Contrast this with my experience in Nashik district, where, anticipating heavy rainfall, I ordered controlled release of water from dams well before the monsoon peaked. When the deluge arrived, our reservoirs absorbed the surplus, thereby averting a major calamity. That wasn’t luck. It was planning.

And if a district officer can do it with limited resources, what excuse does a mega-city like Mumbai have?

The Unburied Dead and the Buried Lessons

Twenty years have passed. The graves have aged. The headlines have faded. The files have gathered dust. But the lesson—if one had been learnt—should have remained etched in institutional memory. Instead, we seem poised to repeat the catastrophe.

What has changed in these two decades? The city has grown taller but more fragile. Glass towers stand where mangroves once breathed. Flyovers have risen where floodplains should lie. Policy remains ornamental, execution optional.

And the people? They have grown numb.

Some even romanticise the rains — the poetic despair of a drowning city. But poetry must never be mistaken for governance. Nostalgia is not policy.

This annual monsoon waltz, where citizens prepare for floods as they do for festivals, is a national disgrace. The death of preparedness is the death of civic dignity.

A Call to Action, A Warning to Power

This article is not a eulogy. It is a summons.

Let this 20th anniversary be more than a solemn memory. Let it be a turning point — where administrators remember their purpose, where planners rediscover science, and where elected representatives grow a spine.

Urban India, especially cities like Mumbai, cannot afford the luxury of denial any longer. Climate change will bring more rainfall, more unpredictability. Our margins of error are thinning.

We must build cities not just to impress the investor but to protect the inhabitant. City planning is not the domain of architects alone. It is a covenant — between nature, governance, and humanity.

A Personal Testament

I speak not merely as a former officer, but as a citizen who has held responsibility during monsoon’s fury. I have seen how a timely decision — grounded in science and empathy — can avert destruction. I have witnessed how urban systems respond when operated with discipline and foresight.

But I have also seen the other side — the rot, the callousness, the complicity. And I will not be silent about it.

Because silence is the bureaucrat’s most comfortable sin.

The Final Word

If after two decades, we still treat a 944 mm rainfall as a “shock,” then the real deluge is not outside. It is within — a flood of ignorance, irresponsibility, and institutional decay.

We must dam this internal flood. Or drown in it.

The monsoon will return.
What shall we do this time?
Wait again… to count the dead?

Or rise at last — to save the living?

– Mahesh Zagade
(Former IAS )
A servant of the Constitution. A witness to the storm. A voice for accountability.

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Agriculture in India: The Forgotten Revolution and the Unwritten Future

-Mahesh Zagade

If one must truly understand the story of Indian agriculture, it is imperative not to begin merely from Independence in 1947, nor even from the colonial plunder that preceded it, but from the very dawn of human civilization itself. The history of farming is not just the history of a profession — it is the story of humanity’s most defining revolution.

For nearly 200,000 years of Homo sapiens’ existence, our ancestors, like every other creature on Earth, wandered in forests and grasslands, gathering what nature offered or hunting what their tools permitted. Their relationship with food was purely transactional, dictated by nature’s whims and the body’s hunger.

And then came a miraculous rupture in this continuum.

Some 12,000 to 15,000 years ago, a quiet yet monumental transformation began — humankind, in scattered patches across the globe, ceased its restless wanderings and chose to stay. The pursuit of food gave way to the cultivation of food. Thus began agriculture — the first great revolution. Alongside it emerged animal domestication, the concept of food storage, and eventually, the early institutions of governance to regulate surplus and scarcity. Agriculture, then, is not merely a livelihood — it is the origin of civilization.

For millennia thereafter, agriculture formed the bedrock of human sustenance, sovereignty, and social order. In India, this legacy was particularly profound. For nearly two millennia, India thrived as a global economic powerhouse, largely due to its agrarian strength. Crops, cotton, spices, and grain fed not only its own population but fueled international trade.

Then came the storm.

The Colonial Erosion

By the mid-18th century, the First Industrial Revolution had begun reshaping the West. For India, however, it marked the start of a systematic decimation. The arrival of the British altered our economic architecture beyond recognition. India’s agrarian structure — once productive and resilient — was uprooted and recast into a tool of imperial extraction. Agrarian output was diverted, taxed, and monetized to fund imperial ambitions. Between famines and forced cultivation, India was reduced from a net exporter of grain to a net importer of misery.

By 1700, we were still the world’s largest economy by GDP share. A century and a half later, we were among the poorest.

Post-Independence: The Policy Reawakening

When India awakened to freedom in 1947, it bore the scars of colonial exploitation — 34 crore people, many malnourished; a mere 50 million tonnes of food grain production; and an agrarian sector on life support.

To their enduring credit, Prime Minister Nehru and his contemporaries placed agriculture at the very heart of national planning. The First Five-Year Plan (1951) had one resounding motto: agricultural development. And from this blueprint rose a nation committed to feeding itself.

Today, India produces over 310 million tonnes of food grains, a six-fold increase, even as the population has grown four times since Independence. This is a silent triumph — not of technology alone, but of human resilience and public policy.

Yet, beneath this statistical success lies a profound and painful irony: agriculture has progressed, but the farmer has not.

The Disquieting Paradox

Let us look at the numbers.

In 1950-51, agriculture accounted for over 51% of India’s GDP, and employed over 70% of its population — a fair alignment of economic contribution and livelihood dependency.

Fast forward to today: nearly 54-55% of Indians are still dependent on agriculture for their livelihood, but agriculture’s contribution to GDP has plummeted to 17-18%. In Maharashtra, the situation is even starker — 45% of the population relies on agriculture, but the sector contributes a mere 10% to the state’s GDP.

This is the very definition of structural imbalance.

It means low per capita income, chronic indebtedness, and a profession where the freedom to determine the price of one’s own produce — a basic economic right — is denied to farmers.

In contrast, India’s manufacturing and services sectors — contributing 90% of GDP — have the liberty to price their goods and services, adjusting for cost, inflation, and profit margins.

Why is the farmer denied this same dignity?

The Next 25 Years: A Fork in the Furrow

As we look to the next quarter-century, a sobering reality confronts us: India cannot replicate the Western model.

In the United States and Europe, economic evolution allowed surplus rural populations to migrate into industrial or service jobs. As agriculture became mechanised and corporatized, fewer people produced more food. GDP aligned with employment.

But India now stands on the cusp of the Fourth Industrial Revolution. Automation, Artificial Intelligence, and machine learning threaten to reduce job availability even in the very sectors — manufacturing and services — where surplus agricultural labour was once expected to be absorbed.

The window has closed.

India and Maharashtra must now confront a truth that no amount of rhetoric can mask — the agrarian population must be made economically viable within agriculture itself. The only way forward is to increase the value derived by farmers from the same land and the same produce.

How?

Beyond Yields: Towards Value and Freedom

Increasing productivity alone will not suffice. The need of the hour is value addition through processing, agro-industrial linkages, and pricing freedom.

If a farmer produces tomatoes, let him earn not just from the crop but also from its transformation into puree, sauce, or dehydrated products. This cannot happen until we build agro-processing clusters, improve rural logistics, and — most importantly — grant the farmer the right to price his produce profitably.

To this end, one innovative policy suggestion has been proposed: a shift from the current Minimum Support Price (MSP) regime to a more dynamic and empowering concept of First Trade Minimum Price (FTMP). Under this model, the farmer sets the floor — the price below which the first transaction of the crop cannot legally take place.

Such a system will not burden the exchequer as MSP does, and will give the farmer control over his own economic destiny.

What Ails Us is Not Technology, But Willpower

Let there be no illusions — India has the technological and institutional capacity to transform agriculture into a profitable, dignified, and sustainable profession. What it lacks is the political imagination and the administrative will.

Governments must stop viewing agriculture as a sector in perpetual need of subsidy and start treating it as a sector capable of investment, innovation, and income generation.

Policies must aim to equalize the liberties of the farmer with those enjoyed by the industrialist. If profit is not a dirty word in the boardroom, it must not be a crime in the barnyard.

The Clock is Ticking

If we fail to act, the consequences will be unforgiving. Farmers, dispossessed and disillusioned, will abandon their fields not out of choice but compulsion. Agriculture will pass into the hands of the wealthy, the corporate, and the absentee owner. The very foundation of food sovereignty will erode.

Already, we are witnessing this migration — not just of labour, but of land ownership, away from the marginal farmer and towards large agribusinesses.

What lies ahead, then, is not just an economic challenge, but a civilizational crossroad.

The Soul of the Soil

For India, agriculture is not merely an economic sector — it is a civilizational anchor, a cultural identity, and a social glue. To preserve its relevance and reward its keepers is not just an economic imperative, but a moral obligation.

The next 25 years will define whether we emerge as a nation of equitable growth or one of concentrated wealth and abandoned fields.

The farmer does not ask for charity. He asks for justice — in policy, in price, and in respect.

It is time we give it to him.

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कोलाहलाचा बोजा: भारताच्या प्राथमिक शिक्षणातील त्रिभाषा सूत्राचा पुनर्विचार

“प्रत्येकमूलजगाचानवाआरंभकरते — आपणकायशिकवतोयाचेस्मरणठेवण्यासाठीनव्हे, तर ‘जगआहेतरीका?’ हेविचारण्यासाठी.”

शब्दांचा भरकटलेला संग्राम

भारतातील भाषिक कोलाहलात अनेकदा नुसत्या गोंगाटालाच भाषिक सूक्ष्मतेचा फसवा मुखवटा चढतो. शाळांमधील भाषा धोरणावरून सध्या सुरू असलेली सार्वजनिक चर्चा — जी बहुतांशी मराठी विरुद्ध हिंदी असा बनाव करते — ही एक दिशाभूल करणारी द्वंद्वात्मकता ठरते. हा वाद जणू झाडांच्या पानांवर चर्चा करताना जंगलच विसरून जाण्यासारखा आहे. येथे मूळ प्रश्न एका भाषेच्या विरुद्ध दुसरीची मांडणी नसून, सहा वर्षांच्या अल्लड, कोवळ्या, अद्याप ‘अस्तित्वाच्या वर्णमाले’चा परिचय होत असलेल्या बालमनावर थोपविल्या जाणाऱ्या तीन स्वतंत्र भाषांचा शैक्षणिक विवेक, किंवा त्याचा अभाव, हाच खरा प्रश्न आहे.

राष्ट्रीय शैक्षणिक धोरण २०२० (NEP 2020) हे व्यापक दृष्टीकोनातून स्तुत्य असले, तरी या अत्यंत मूलगामी बाबतीत ते जरा अपुरे पडते. तीन भाषा शिकवण्याच्या धोरणामुळे राष्ट्रीय एकात्मतेस व भाषिक प्रतिनिधित्वास प्राधान्य दिले जाते — परंतु बालकांच्या मेंदूच्या आरोग्यावर त्याचा विपरित परिणाम होतो. ‘विविधतेतील एकता’ हे जसे उदात्त तत्त्व आहे, तसेच ‘विकसनशील समतोलाचा बळी’ हे एक धोकादायक समीकरण ठरते. अर्थात पहिल्याच वर्गापासून तीन भाषा शिकण्याची वैधानिक तरतूद या धोरणातसुद्धा नाही कारण हे धोरण आहे, कायदा नव्हे!

२. बालपणाची नाजूक माती: विज्ञान काय सांगते?

या धोरणाचा परिणाम समजून घेण्यासाठी आधुनिक मेंदूविज्ञान व मानसशास्त्र काय सांगतात, हे समजून घ्यावे लागते.

हरवर्ड विद्यापीठातील ‘Center on the Developing Child’ नुसार, जीवनाच्या पहिल्या काही वर्षांत मुलांच्या मेंदूत दर सेकंदाला १० लाखाहून अधिक नवे न्यूरल कनेक्शन तयार होतात. हे वर्ष — जन्मापासून सुमारे आठव्या वर्षापर्यंत — वैज्ञानिक दृष्ट्या ‘संवेदनशील कालावधी’ मानले जाते. या काळात मेंदू पर्यावरणीय उद्दीपनांस प्रतिसाद देतो, पण तेवढाच संज्ञात्मक भारही सहन करत नाही.

स्विस मानसशास्त्रज्ञ Jean Piaget यांच्या मते, पाच ते अकरा वर्षांचे वय हे ‘संकल्पनात्मक क्रिया टप्पा’ (Concrete Operational Stage) असते. या टप्प्यात मुले संकल्पना, वर्गीकरण, तार्किक अनुक्रम अशा बाबी समजू लागतात, पण विचारांची अमूर्तता अजून नवजात असते. म्हणूनच त्यांना स्पर्शिक अनुभव, शोधाभिमुख शिक्षण व त्यांच्या स्वाभाविक कुतूहलाची जोपासना आवश्यक असते.

आणि अशा या नाजूक वास्तुरचनेत आपण एकाच वेळी तीन भाषा ओततो — स्वतंत्र व्याकरण, उच्चारप्रणाली, भाषासंरचना व साहित्यसंपन्नतेसह! परिणामी काय होते? बहुभाषिक सशक्तीकरण नव्हे तर संज्ञात्मक गोंधळ, पाठांतराची कंटाळवाणेपणा, आणि सर्जनशीलतेचा श्वास घोटणारी भयानक वास्तवता!

३. आकडे काय सांगतात: भाषाभार आणि शैक्षणिक अपयश

या मांडणीला आधार देण्यासाठी वस्तुनिष्ठ आकडे तपासूया.

प्रथम संस्थेने २०२३ मध्ये केलेल्या Annual Status of Education Report नुसार, ग्रामीण भागातील पाचवीच्या सुमारे ५०% विद्यार्थ्यांना दुसरीच्या पातळीवरील मजकूर मातृभाषेतसुद्धा भाषेत वाचता येत नव्हता. इतकेच नव्हे, तर त्या टक्केवारीत गण्याच्या प्राथमिक क्षमतेतही अपयश दिसून आले. मुले मातृभाषेतही कार्यक्षम साक्षरता गाठू शकत नसतील तर तीन भाषांचा भर त्यांच्यावर टाकणे हीच शोकांतिका.

PISA (Programme for International Student Assessment) या OECD च्या आंतरराष्ट्रीय चाचणीमध्ये, भारताचा क्रमांक २००९ मध्ये ७४ पैकी ७३ वा आला. भारत त्यानंतर सहभागी झाला नाही. परंतु सिंगापूर, जपान, दक्षिण कोरिया हे देश दरवेळी आघाडीवर असतात — आणि हे देश दोन भाषांवर लक्ष केंद्रित करतात, तीनवर नव्हे.

फिनलंडमध्ये औपचारिक शिक्षण सातव्या वर्षी सुरू होते, तेही फक्त एका भाषेत. येथे खेळ, शोध, आणि समजूतदार विचारप्रणाली यावर भर असतो. शिक्षणतज्ज्ञ Pasi Sahlberg यांनी म्हटले आहे: “लहानवयातशिक्षणासाठी ‘कमीम्हणजेअधिक‘ हेतत्त्वलागूहोतं.”

त्यामुळे भारतीय त्रिभाषा सूत्र हे शैक्षणिक नव्हे, तर विचारसरणीचे अवशेष बनले आहे — सुंदर पण उपयोगशून्य अलंकार.

४. बहुभाषिकता : एक दुधारी तलवार

इथे स्पष्ट करणे गरजेचे आहे — बहुभाषिकता हा खलनायक नाही. उलट, UNESCO व American Academy of Pediatrics च्या अभ्यासांनुसार, द्विभाषिक मुलांमध्ये उत्तम विचारक्षमता, कार्यकारी कार्यपद्धती व समस्या सोडवण्याची जास्त क्षमता दिसते. पण हे लाभ हळूहळू भाषा शिकवले तरच प्रकट होतात — आधी मातृभाषेत भक्कम साक्षरता आणि संख्याज्ञान हे आवश्यक.

Journal of Experimental Child Psychology मध्ये २०१८ मध्ये प्रसिद्ध झालेल्या संशोधनानुसार, एकाच वेळी अनेक लिपींशी (जसे देवनागरी, रोमन, उर्दू) ओळख झाल्यास वाचनक्षमता उशिरा विकसित होते. मेंदूचा जास्त वेळ उच्चार समजून घेण्यावर जातो, अर्थ समजावण्यावर नाही.

समय हेच निर्णायक तत्व आहे. विचार करायला शिकणाऱ्या मेंदूला एकाच वेळी तीन भाषेत विचारायला लावणे म्हणजे घातच!

५. शिक्षणाचा पडसाद : शिक्षक, पालक आणि पुस्तकांची हुकूमशाही

या त्रिभाषा धोरणाचे प्रत्यक्ष परिणामही तितकेच गंभीर आहेत. विशेषतः सरकारी शाळांतील शिक्षक आधीच गोंधळात आहेत — त्यांना एकच भाषा नीट शिकवण्याचे प्रशिक्षण मिळालेले नसते, तर तीन शिकवण्याची अपेक्षा ठेवली जाते! पाठ्यपुस्तके वेळेवर मिळत नाहीत. वर्ग कोंदट आणि गच्च असतात. आणि नवोदित, पहिल्या पिढीतले विद्यार्थी — या भाषिक जंगलात स्वतःच वाट काढण्यास भाग पाडले जातात.

पालकही गोंधळतात. एकीकडे मराठी बोलणारी आई, दुसरीकडे हिंदी समजणारे वडील, आणि इंग्रजीत शिकवणारी शाळा — अशा त्रिकोणात शिक्षणाचा आत्मा हरवतो. गृहपाठ युद्ध बनतो. शिक्षण कष्ट बनते. आनंद हरवतो.

आणि परिणामी, आपण अशा पिढीची निर्मिती करतो की जिच्या मुखी तीन भाषांतील क्रियापदे असतात, पण एका भाषेतही “का?” असा प्रश्न विचारायची आत्मिक उमेद नसते.

६. आंतरराष्ट्रीय आरसा : इतर देश आपल्याला काय शिकवतात?

जरा आंतरराष्ट्रीय दृष्टीने पाहूया की शैक्षणिक दृष्ट्या यशस्वी देश काय वेगळं करतात.

फिनलंड: सातव्या वर्षापर्यंत फक्त एकच भाषा, जिज्ञासावर्धनावर आधारित शिक्षण, शिक्षकांना स्वायत्तता, आणि सोळाव्या वर्षापर्यंत कोणतीही प्रमाणित परीक्षा नाही.

सिंगापूर: दोन भाषांची नीती (मातृभाषा + इंग्रजी), शिक्षकांचे दर्जेदार प्रशिक्षण, आणि सुरुवातीपासून STEM (विज्ञान-तंत्रज्ञान) वर भर.

दक्षिण कोरिया: लहान वयातील शिक्षणात मोठी गुंतवणूक, राष्ट्रीय भाषेवर आधारित द्वैभाषिकता, आणि कमी धावपळीचा अभ्यासक्रम.

या कोणत्याही देशाने पहिल्याच इयत्तेपासून तीन भाषा लादलेल्या नाहीत. त्याऐवजी, शिक्षणाचे बांधकाम हळूहळू, एक एक दगड रचत, बालकाच्या मानसिक क्षमतेचा सन्मान राखत केले आहे.

७. भारतीय विसंगती : शैक्षणिकतेचे सोंग घेतलेली धोरणे

भारताची त्रिभाषा योजना ही खरे तर उदात्त हेतूंनी प्रेरित होती — भाषिक ऐक्य राखणे, प्रादेशिक वैविध्य जपणे, आणि उत्तर-दक्षिण समन्वय साधणे. पण केवळ हेतू पवित्र असले म्हणजे परिणामही पवित्रच होतील, असे नाही.

प्रत्यक्षात ही योजना आता एक ‘शासकीय अवशेष’ बनली आहे — एक अशी धोरणात्मक मूर्ती जी मेंदूविज्ञान, शिक्षणशास्त्र व जागतिक अनुभव यांच्याशी काहीही देणेघेणे न ठेवता, जुन्या साच्यात गोठून राहिली आहे.

जेव्हा भाषिक प्रतिनिधित्व हे शैक्षणिक विवेकाच्या जागी येते, तेव्हा आपण अशा पिढीला जन्म देतो जी तीन भाषांत कविता म्हणू शकते, पण एका भाषेत वैज्ञानिक घटना समजावून सांगू शकत नाही. हे रूंदीचा आभास देणारे खोलीचा अभाव असलेले शिक्षण आहे — पाठांतराला प्रतिष्ठा देणारे, पण समजून घेतल्यावर मौन पसरवणारे.

८. घटनात्मक पार्श्वभूमी: कायदे, स्वायत्तता आणि बंधनाची सीमारेषा

भारताची राज्यघटना शिक्षणाला एकीकडे वैयक्तिक प्रवास मानते, तर दुसरीकडे सार्वजनिक कर्तव्य. अनुच्छेद२४६ आणि सप्तमअनुसूचीतील ‘सामायिक यादी’ (List III) हे याचे प्रतिबिंब आहेत. यामध्ये केंद्र व राज्ये दोघांनाही शिक्षण क्षेत्रात कायदे करण्याचा अधिकार आहे. तथापि, जर केंद्र व राज्य यांच्यात एकाच विषयावर मतभेद झाले, तर अनुच्छेद२५४ प्रमाणे केंद्रीय कायद्यास वरील स्थान आहे.

परंतु विशेष बाब म्हणजे — शाळांमध्ये पहिल्याच वर्गापासून तीन भाषा सक्तीने शिकवण्याचा कोणताही केंद्रीय कायदा अस्तित्वात नाही. ही त्रिभाषायोजना केवळ शिफारस म्हणून मांडण्यात आली होती, ती कायद्याने बंधनकारक नाही.

म्हणूनच, महाराष्ट्रशासन अशा धोरणात्मक निर्णय घेत असताना राज्यघटनेच्या मर्यादेत वावरते. मात्र, कायदा करण्याचा अधिकार असूनही, तो ‘शहाणपणाने’ वापरणे ही त्याची नैतिक आणि शैक्षणिक जबाबदारी आहे. केवळ प्रतिनिधित्व किंवा प्रशासकीय समता यासाठी नव्हे, तर मुलांच्या विकासासाठी हे धोरण असले पाहिजे.

९. राष्ट्रीय शैक्षणिक धोरण २०२० : दिशा, आदेश नव्हे

NEP 2020 ही भारताच्या शिक्षणाला नव्याने घडवण्यासाठी आखलेली महत्त्वाकांक्षी रूपरेषा आहे. ती भाषिक विविधतेला स्वीकारते, पण लहान वयातील मेंदूवर होणाऱ्या अति-भाषिक भाराबद्दल सावध करते. त्रिभाषा योजना यात आहे खरे — पण ती प्रथम इयत्तेपासून सक्तीची नव्हे, आणि सर्वांवर लागू होणारी ‘एकसंध’ अटही नव्हे.

विशेषतः कलम 4.12 नुसार, पहिल्या दोन इयत्तांपर्यंत मुलांना मातृभाषेत किंवा प्रादेशिक भाषेत शिकवावे असे सुचवले आहे. कारण या टप्प्यावर लक्ष केंद्रित असते — अक्षर व अंक साक्षरता यावर.

धोरणात हेही सांगितले आहे की, इतर भाषा हळूहळू व विवेकी पद्धतीने शिकवाव्यात — मुलांची मानसिक क्षमता, भाषिक परिसर आणि शिक्षकसामग्री लक्षात घेऊन. मूल एका भाषेत विचार करायला शिकल्याशिवाय त्याच्यावर इतर भाषांचा भार टाकणे म्हणजे पद्धतशीर अन्याय.

त्यामुळे महाराष्ट्र सरकारचे त्रिभाषिक धोरण NEP 2020 च्या मूळ दृष्टीकोनाशी आणि शैक्षणिक भावनेशी विसंगत आहे. जे धोरण विद्यार्थ्यांना सक्षम बनवण्यासाठी होते, त्याचे इथे कोवळ्या मेंदूंवर बोजा बनले आहे.

१०. एक नवी दिशा : भाषाशिक्षणाचा नव्याने विचार

मग पुढचा मार्ग कोणता?

मूलाधार साक्षरता प्रथम: मातृभाषेत मजबूत साक्षरतेने प्रारंभ. UNESCO Global Education Monitoring Report (2022) नुसार, मूल आपल्या मातृभाषेत उत्तम शिकते.

द्वैभाषिक संरचना नंतर: इंग्रजी किंवा हिंदी (किंवा दोन्ही) हळूहळू इयत्ता ५ किंवा ६ पासून सुरू करणे.

विज्ञानवादी दृष्टिकोन: लहान वयात प्रश्न विचारण्याची सवय, कथाकथन, कोडिंग, विज्ञान व तर्कशास्त्र यांचा समावेश.

शिक्षकांचे सशक्तीकरण: भाषाशिक्षणासाठी योग्य प्रशिक्षण, संज्ञानात्मक भार ओळखण्याची क्षमता.

पाठ्यपुस्तकांची पुनर्रचना: भाषा व मजकूर वयानुसार व संस्कृतीशी सुसंगत.

मुलाला श्वास घेऊ द्या…

शिक्षणाला ओळखाच्या राजकारणाचे रणांगण बनवू नका. भारताचे भविष्य भाषिक अभिमानाच्या खंदकात गमावण्यासारखे महाग आहे. एकता हवीच — पण ती हेतूची असावी, नव्हे की आदेशांची.

मुलाला श्वास घेऊ द्या. त्यांना प्रश्न विचारू द्या. चूटचूटीत वाक्य लिहू द्या. नवीन शब्द निर्माण करू द्या. ते खडूने जमिनीवर सूर्यमालेचे चित्र काढतील, कागदातून रॉकेट बनवतील. त्यांना अगोदर एक भाषा आत्मसात करू द्या — मगच तीन शिकवा.

त्यांना शिकण्याचा गोडवा निर्माण होवू द्या — केवळ “रामधारी सिंह दिनकर” आणि “कुसुमाग्रज” पाठ करण्यासाठी नव्हे, तर अणूमधील जादू आणि आकाशातील काव्य शोधण्यासाठीसुद्धा!

शेवटी शिक्षण म्हणजे आपण काय शिकवतो हे नव्हे — मूले काय विचार करतात, काय प्रश्न करतात, काय नव निर्माणाची क्षमता ठेवतात अशा बाबींना प्रोत्साहन देणे, वैचारिकतेला वाव देणे, सर्जनशीलता वाढविणे — हेच खरे शिक्षण. आणि त्यासाठी, कमी म्हणजे अधिक, खोलपणा म्हणजे शहाणपण, आणि नेहमी, ‘अभ्यासक्रमा’आधी ‘मूल’ महत्वाचे हे तत्व अवलंबिने!

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The Burden of Babel: Rethinking India’s Three-Language Formula in Early Education

“Every child begins the world anew—not to remember what we teach them, but to wonder why the world is.”

A Misplaced War of Words

In the cacophony of India’s linguistic landscape, it is easy to mistake noise for nuance. The recent public debate swirling around the language policy in schools—often couched as a contest between Marathi and Hindi—is, at best, a false dichotomy. This parochial framing misses the forest for the trees. The issue is not one language pitted against another, but rather the educational wisdom—or lack thereof—of thrusting three distinct languages upon the shoulders of a six-year-old, fresh from the womb of wonder and still discovering the alphabet of existence.

The National Education Policy (NEP) 2020, laudable in its broader vision, falters in this crucial area. By advocating three languages, it prioritizes national integration and linguistic representation over the cognitive well-being of children. While unity in diversity is indeed a noble motto, unity at the cost of developmental harmony is a dangerous wager, if it is not construed in scientific perspective.

II. The Fragile Clay of Childhood: What Science Tells Us

To understand the gravity of this policy’s impact, we must first revisit what modern neuroscience and psychology tell us about childhood learning.

The brain of a child in the early years is a marvel of neuroplasticity. According to the Center on the Developing Child at Harvard University, over 1 million new neural connections are formed every second in the first few years of life. These formative years—roughly from birth to age 8—represent what scientists call a “sensitive period” for learning. During this phase, a child’s brain is most responsive to environmental stimuli, but also most vulnerable to cognitive overload.

Jean Piaget, the Swiss psychologist whose theories still shape pedagogical frameworks worldwide, defined the ages between 5 and 11 as the “concrete operational stage.” At this stage, children begin to grasp concepts such as conservation, classification, and logical sequencing. However, abstract reasoning is still nascent. They learn best through tangible experiences, inquiry-based exploration, and the nurturing of their innate curiosity.

Into this fragile architecture, we now pour the weight of three fully-formed languages—each with its own grammar, phonetics, syntax, and literary traditions. The result is not multilingual brilliance but cognitive clutter, rote fatigue, and the quiet suffocation of creativity.

III. What the Data Reveals: Language Load Versus Learning Outcomes

Let us anchor this argument with empirical evidence.

The Annual Status of Education Report (ASER) 2023, conducted by Pratham, revealed a troubling trend: nearly 50% of Class 5 students in rural India could not read a Class 2-level text in any language. A similar percentage struggled with basic arithmetic. The implications are stark—despite studying multiple languages, children are not achieving functional literacy in even one.

The PISA assessments, conducted by the OECD every three years to evaluate 15-year-olds in reading, math, and science, rank India far below its Asian peers. While India withdrew from the test after a poor performance in 2009 (where it ranked 73rd out of 74), countries like Singapore, Japan, and South Korea consistently top the charts—each of them focusing on two-language systems, not three.

In contrast, Finland, where formal education begins at age 7 with just one language, continues to produce students with the highest scientific literacy. The Finnish model emphasizes play, discovery, and critical thinking, especially in early grades. As Sahlberg (2011), a Finnish education expert, famously remarked: “Less is more when it comes to learning in the early years.”

The three-language formula in India, therefore, stands as an anomaly—more ideological than educational, more ornamental than effective.

IV. Multilingualism: A Double-Edged Sword

To be clear, multilingualism is not the villain in this narrative. On the contrary, studies by the American Academy of Pediatrics and UNESCO show that bilingual children often exhibit greater cognitive flexibility, better executive function, and enhanced problem-solving skills. But these benefits emerge when second and third languages are introduced gradually, ideally after foundational literacy and numeracy are secured in the mother tongue.

A 2018 study published in the Journal of Experimental Child Psychology found that premature exposure to multiple orthographic systems (different scripts) can delay reading fluency in all languages. The brain, when forced to juggle three scripts—say, Devanagari, Roman, and Urdu—allocates more energy to decoding than to comprehension or creativity.

The key variable is timing. A mind still learning to think in a language should not be asked to think across three.

V. The Pedagogical Fallout: Teachers, Parents, and Textbook Tyranny

The practical consequences of the policy are equally troubling. Teachers, especially in government schools, are stretched thin. Many are undertrained in teaching even one language proficiently, let alone three. Textbooks arrive late. Classrooms are overcrowded. And children, especially first-generation learners, are often left to fend for themselves in the linguistic wilderness.

Parents, too, find themselves alienated. A mother who speaks only Marathi, a father familiar with Hindi, and a classroom taught in English create a triad of confusion. Homework becomes a battleground; learning becomes labor; education loses its joy.

And thus, we raise a generation of children who may know how to conjugate verbs in three tongues, but cannot ask “why” with conviction in even one.

VI. The International Mirror: What Other Nations Teach Us

Let us now peer across the globe to see what educationally successful nations do differently.

Finland: One language until age 7, focus on curiosity-driven learning, teacher autonomy, and no standardized tests till age 16.

Singapore: Two-language policy (mother tongue and English), high-quality teacher training, and STEM focus from early grades. Ranked No.1 in science and math by PISA (2018).

South Korea: Heavy investment in early education, bilingualism with a national language focus, minimal curriculum clutter.

None of these nations impose three concurrent language streams from Grade 1. Instead, they carefully scaffold learning—one building block at a time, respecting the child’s cognitive bandwidth.

VII. The Indian Contradiction: Policy Masquerading as Pedagogy

India’s three-language formula was born out of good intentions: to ensure linguistic unity, preserve regional diversity, and balance north-south sensibilities. But noble intentions do not absolve flawed implementations.

In practice, it has become a bureaucratic relic—a policy frozen in time, immune to the advances in brain science, pedagogical research, and comparative education.

By prioritizing linguistic representation over scientific reasoning, we risk raising a generation that can recite poetry in three languages but cannot write a coherent paragraph analyzing a scientific phenomenon. We confuse breadth for depth, representation for retention, and memorization for mastery.

VIII. The Constitutional Canvas: Law, Autonomy, and the Limits of Prescription

India’s constitutional architecture, in its wisdom, has long recognised education as both a personal journey and a public duty—a shared responsibility between the Centre and the States. This delicate balance finds expression in Article 246, read in conjunction with Schedule VII, where education occupies the Concurrent List (List III). In this shared legislative space, both the Union and individual States are empowered to enact laws and shape educational policy. Yet, the Constitution also anticipates friction: should a conflict arise between a central and state statute on the same subject, Article 254 asserts the primacy of the central law—a safeguard against legislative dissonance.

However, on the specific matter of the imposition of three languages from the very first year of formal schooling, it must be noted with clarity: no central legislation exists mandating such a framework. The much-invoked Three-Language Formula, far from being a statutory command, was a recommendatory device, intended to reflect linguistic pluralism rather than enforce uniformity. It was never enshrined in law; it bears no coercive force.

In the absence of such a central mandate, the States are left free to chart their own linguistic trajectories. They may adopt, modify, or set aside the formula based on their unique demographic, cultural, and educational considerations. Thus, the Government of Maharashtra, in crafting its language education policy, acts well within the bounds of constitutional legitimacy.

Yet, with great autonomy comes profound responsibility. While empowered to legislate, the State is also morally and pedagogically bound to act in the best interests of its children—not merely in the name of cultural representation or administrative uniformity. The developmental needs of the child—cognitive, emotional, and linguistic—must guide the hand that drafts such policies. To legislate is a right; to legislate wisely, a duty.

IX. The National Education Policy 2020: Guidance, Not Mandate

The National Education Policy (NEP) 2020, an ambitious blueprint for reimagining India’s educational landscape, embraces multilingualism as a tool for inclusion and enrichment. It echoes the spirit of India’s linguistic diversity while cautioning against cognitive overload in young learners. The three-language formula is present, yes—but not as an imposition from Grade I, and certainly not as a one-size-fits-all diktat.

Specifically, Section 4.12 and its ancillary provisions within the NEP 2020 propose a gradual and sensitive introduction of multiple languages. The document makes it abundantly clear that in the foundational stage (up to Grade II), children should primarily be taught in their mother tongue or regional language. The rationale is rooted not in politics but in developmental science: foundational literacy and numeracy are to be the bedrock of early education.

Further, the policy advises that the introduction of additional languages be phased and considerate, factoring in the child’s cognitive capacity, the linguistic context of the region, and the availability of competent teachers and materials. It recognises that young minds thrive not in linguistic congestion but in conceptual clarity and gradual exposure.

Thus, the Maharashtra government’s policy to introduce three languages simultaneously from Grade I not only lacks a constitutional compulsion, but stands at odds with the vision, tone, and intent of NEP 2020. What was meant to be a roadmap for empowering learners has here been translated into a premature burden on their still-forming minds.

X. Toward a New Vision: Rethinking the Language Ladder

What then is the way forward?

Foundational Literacy First: Begin with the mother tongue or dominant regional language to build strong literacy skills. This is backed by UNESCO’s Global Education Monitoring Report (2022), which shows children learn best when taught in their home language during early grades.

Bilingual Scaffold Later: Introduce English or Hindi (or both) gradually, from Grade 5 or 6, depending on regional contexts. Allow one language to take root before planting the next.

Scientific Temperament as a Core Objective: Dedicate early grades to cultivating curiosity, problem-solving, and hands-on inquiry. Replace some language load with activities in reasoning, coding, storytelling, or even philosophy for children.

Teacher Empowerment: Train educators in language pedagogy with sensitivity to cognitive loads. Equip them to recognize signs of overload and adapt accordingly.

Curriculum Audit: Regularly review and revise textbooks to ensure linguistic content is developmentally appropriate and culturally relevant.

Let the Child Breathe

Let us not reduce education to a battlefield of identity politics. The future of India cannot afford to be lost in the trenches of linguistic pride. If we must uphold unity, let it be unity in purpose, not in prescription.

Let the child breathe. Let her ask questions. Let her write messy sentences. Let her invent words, build rockets from cardboard, and draw the solar system on the floor with chalk. Let her learn one language well, before burdening her with three. Let her fall in love with learning—not because she must recite “Ramdhari Singh Dinkar” in one period and “Kusumagraj” in the next—but because she sees magic in atoms and poetry in the stars.

In the end, education is not about what we teach; it is about what they retain, question, and create. And for that to happen, less is more, depth over display, and always, child before curriculum.

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On the Threshold of the Fourth Industrial Revolution: Maharashtra at the Crossroads of Opportunity or Omen?

The first revolution of life did not begin in a forge, a field, or a factory—but in the unfathomable silence of a primordial Earth, over 3.8 billion years ago. In the hush of that cosmic anonymity, life flickered into being—a spark emerging not from human intellect, but from the mysterious alchemy of existence. What followed, across countless millennia, was not merely evolution but a sacred biological odyssey—a slow, intricate tapestry woven with strands of mutation, survival, and adaptation.

When the species we call “human” appeared some 200,000 years ago, the universe handed us a pen, and we began to write the story of civilization. But it was not until fifteen to twenty thousand years ago, when the first seed was sown in the tender embrace of soil, that man performed his first self-created revolution—agriculture. That singular act, simple in appearance, was a tectonic shift: it anchored communities, gave rise to cities, and turned survival into surplus.

Centuries slipped by. Empires rose and fell. Then came the first Industrial Revolution in 1776, with the whistling steam engine and the clang of machines. Muscle gave way to mechanism. Humanity was catapulted into a new era where machines inherited the might of man and beast. And yet, as the wheels turned in Western foundries, the Indian subcontinent, bound in colonial chains, stood sidelined—watching the parade of progress go by.

India—more poignantly, Maharashtra—lost much in those early innings of industrial upheaval. Once a global economic beacon, the nation found itself relegated to an exploited periphery. The second Industrial Revolution, marked by electricity, internal combustion, and assembly lines, changed the face of the modern world—but India remained an obedient cog in the colonial machinery.

It was only with independence and the arrival of the third revolution—computerization—that India, hesitantly at first, and more confidently by the 1990s, began to stake a claim. The Indian IT sector blossomed, and cities like Pune, Bangalore, and Hyderabad emerged as symbols of technical prowess. Maharashtra, too, caught a glimpse of digital dawn. But for all the promise, India remained more a provider of services than a creator of systems. The dream of leading the technological tide remained a flickering possibility, not a sustained momentum.

And now, at the precipice of the Fourth Industrial Revolution, we find ourselves gazing into an abyss that is both dazzling and daunting. Artificial Intelligence, robotics, blockchain, 3D printing, quantum computing, cloud systems, genomics—these are no longer the pages of science fiction but the very blueprint of the new world order. This is not merely another technological chapter; it is a rewrite of civilization’s fundamental grammar.

As this revolution gathers momentum, it promises transformation that rivals the genesis of life itself. We are entering an age where the creation of synthetic life, lab-grown food, and human-designed biology are no longer hypothetical. Humanity is evolving into its own creator. And yet, this promise bears a shadow. This revolution does not knock politely. It storms the gates.

The first hammer blow will fall on jobs, especially those defined by routine and manual dexterity. One projection suggests that up to 65% of today’s employment may disappear within the next 20–25 years. This is not a dip in employment, but a paradigm collapse. Automation, by its very nature, is indifferent to nostalgia and loyalty. It is efficient, ruthless, and relentless. It does not ask, “Whom will I displace?”

Herein lies the paradox: the very technologies that elevate our capabilities could equally erode our livelihoods. To adopt them blindly is to walk into a glittering trap; to ignore them is to become irrelevant. The only viable path is to engage critically, consciously, and courageously.

Globally, the centres of this new industrial dawn are circling like titans—China and the United States leading the charge. India, despite its demographic advantage, is struggling to find its footing. Maharashtra, long hailed as the economic engine of India, stands at a crucial crossroads. Will it remain a consumer of foreign technologies, or will it rise as a creator and exporter of innovation?

Maharashtra is not without its assets. It boasts a literate, tech-savvy youth population; premier academic institutions; industrial experience; and a historical openness to reform. Yet, if these strengths are squandered on populist subsidies or cosmetic urban beautification, we risk trading long-term prosperity for short-term applause. Grand slogans and hollow proclamations cannot substitute for strategic vision.

Consider South Korea—half our population, a fraction of our landmass, and yet ranked among the top fifteen global economies. Why not Maharashtra? What impedes our ascent? The answer lies in our orientation. We have for too long been enamoured with consumption technologies—those that serve rather than create, that decorate rather than construct. The time has come to pivot toward productive technologies—those that generate exportable value, intellectual property, and economic sovereignty.

Some initiatives are indeed commendable—employing AI in governance, using drones for precision agriculture, digitizing health infrastructure. But these are not enough. Maharashtra’s policy machinery must be recalibrated toward reducing dependence on agriculture, boosting manufacturing productivity, and harnessing service exports to drive GDP growth. The goal must be not to digitize poverty, but to digitize prosperity.

To lead India into this uncharted age, Maharashtra must transform from a reactive administrator to a proactive architect. It must unshackle its policies from electoral compulsions and reimagine itself as a laboratory for the future. This will require leadership that is visionary, fearless, and future-ready—leaders who understand that technology is not a toy, but a tool; not an indulgence, but a necessity.

If Maharashtra chooses this path, it could become not merely the vanguard of Indian progress, but a global case study in adaptive governance. If not, it risks becoming yet another spectator in a drama whose script was written elsewhere. The Fourth Industrial Revolution will not wait for us to catch up. It will surge ahead—with or without us.

This is no “Amrit Kaal.” This is the Iron Age of Innovation—and Maharashtra stands at its lion-gated threshold. Let it not falter. Let it not flinch. Let it stride forward—not as a submissive user, but as a sovereign maker of technology. For in this revolution, there will be no middle ground. You either build the future, or you are buried by it.

The clock does not tick in decades anymore. It ticks in quantum pulses.

And Maharashtra must now choose—to lead, or to lag.

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From Healing the Sick to Fostering the Healthy: Maharashtra’s 75-Year Health Odyssey and the Road Ahead

By any measure, the health journey of Maharashtra over the past seventy-five years is a story of transition—marked by aspiration, innovation, neglect, and paradoxes. Yet, to narrate this tale in isolation from national and global currents would be akin to understanding the tides without regard to the moon. For the evolution of public health in Maharashtra has been inseparably entwined with the larger saga of India’s post-independence metamorphosis and the world’s own flirtation with health, disease, and the marketplaces they now populate.

Let us begin, not at the beginning, but at a statistic that startles by the sheer distance we have travelled. Seventy-five years ago, the average life expectancy in India stood at a mere thirty-three years—half a life, if life it can be called. Today, it hovers around seventy. This doubling is not the consequence of divine benevolence or genetic miracle. It is the hard-won result of medical science, pharmaceutical breakthroughs, the spread of medical education, and the expansion of healthcare infrastructure. Significantly, these were all midwifed by the public sector in its earnest years.

However, as the decades passed, a subtle erosion began. Private enterprise slowly replaced public commitment, and in time, galloped ahead with astonishing, if disturbing, speed. What began as a complementary force became a dominant overlord. So much so, that rather than expanding state-run medical education and healthcare services, the trend reversed—privatisation became the norm, and public provisioning was left to languish, often mocked as inefficient and expendable.

In this climate, insurance giants and private hospitals constructed a colossal economic edifice under the gilded banner of “healthcare,” when in truth it has become a thriving marketplace of illness.

Let it be acknowledged that Maharashtra has indeed expanded its healthcare services over the last three-quarters of a century. But the question is not one of quantum alone, but of proportion and equity. When juxtaposed against the global benchmarks—especially those laid down by the World Health Organization—we fall short. The ratio of hospital beds per thousand persons is still a sobering statistic. More disconcertingly, the number of high-cost beds in private hospitals far outpaces the availability of free or affordable beds in government facilities.

Thus, we are forced to confront a deeper question: What precisely is our vision of health for the next twenty-five years? Is it merely a future of more ICUs, more MRI machines, more pharma chains, and more insurance cards? Or is it a reimagined ecosystem where health is not the absence of disease, but the presence of well-being?

Herein lies the critical philosophical chasm. What the world today calls a “health system” is, in actuality, a “disease treatment system.” Its lexicon is replete with surgical precision—patients, prescriptions, procedures. Were we honest in nomenclature, institutions such as the “World Health Organization” would perhaps be more aptly named the “World Disease Treatment Organization.” Ministries of health might be better recognized as Ministries of Medical Interventions.

This is no mere semantic nitpicking. It is a profound indictment. The entire edifice is built not to nurture the healthy, but to service the sick. Health has been commodified, the human body reduced to a site of transaction. Illness has become the currency.

Therefore, the imperative before us is not incremental reform but fundamental transformation. Maharashtra must take the lead in reversing the tide. We must abandon the reactive model of “curative health” as the centerpiece, and instead enthrone “promotive” and “preventive” health. The State must aspire not to treat more illnesses, but to create conditions in which fewer illnesses arise at all.

Imagine a policy framework where the success of a health department is not measured by how many hospital beds it adds, but by how few are needed. Where the metrics of governance celebrate fewer prescriptions, fewer operations, fewer ICU admissions—not because of denial, but because of robust public health that forestalls disease in the first place.

During my tenure as Municipal Commissioner of Pune in 2011, I had the privilege of drafting such a forward-looking health policy—not a treatment policy, mind you—but a health policy. It was embedded in the municipal budget and shared with the state and central governments. Yet, like so many meaningful ideas, it was neither embraced nor understood. Those in the higher echelons of power lacked either the intellectual gravitas or the moral courage to carry it forward. And so it was shelved—politely, quietly, irretrievably.

If we are serious about charting a new course for the next twenty-five years, our approach must be radical in the true sense of the word—returning to the root. We must identify the causes of premature death and eliminate them at source. Instead of “clinics” and “hospitals,” we must build “Centres for Healthy Living,” “Institutes of Wellness Advancement,” and “Health Promotion Nodes.”

We must regulate, with legal teeth and moral conviction, the market forces that have turned human vulnerability into profit margins. Adulterated food, unnecessary cosmetics, polluted air, and contaminated water—these are not mere externalities, they are assassins of health. The state must intervene, unflinchingly.

Laws must be enacted and enforced to ban tobacco, curb sugar and starch overconsumption, eliminate spurious food products, and improve environmental quality. Let us remember, that sugar—consumed by humans for just the last two millennia—has wrought more havoc on health than many known poisons. A regime of regular exercise, clean air, sunlight, movement, and strengthened immunity must form the bedrock of any public health strategy.

This is not idealism. It is realism—enlightened and long overdue.

We must also reassess road accidents and trauma within the public health domain, not merely as traffic concerns but as preventable epidemics of urban misgovernance. During my tenure as Commissioner of Food and Drug Administration in Maharashtra, I faced firsthand the brutal resistance of economic interests when I banned gutkha, pan masala, and scented supari. It became clear then: the economy is often an adversary to health. A government must decide—does it serve public health or private profit? Anything else is a betrayal of democracy.

Among all the threats to genuine public health, perhaps the most insidious is health insurance. Let it be stated unambiguously: insurance is not healthcare. It is a lucrative business masquerading as social protection. It does not heal, it harvests.

What good is an economic superpower if its citizens are chronically ill? If India wishes to be counted among the superpowers of happiness and human development, it must first become a superpower of health. That requires a brave policy choice—to publicly fund all health services as a matter of right and dignity.

Of course, even this commitment may soon be rendered transitional. The Fourth Industrial Revolution has already ushered in dramatic shifts. Genetic editing, stem-cell therapies, synthetic biology—these will soon render the very idea of “disease and its treatment” obsolete. Illness itself may vanish from the lexicon of advanced civilizations. Humanity will move beyond its present evolutionary constraints.

But until that Promethean leap occurs, Maharashtra must lead by example. It must transform its treatment system into a true health system. From illness management to wellness creation. From curing disease to cultivating vitality. From profit to prevention. From the sickbed to the sunbeam.

The future belongs not to those who react, but to those who reimagine.

And in this reimagining, may Maharashtra be not a reluctant follower, but a luminous pioneer.

-Mahesh Zagade

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A Second Chance at Enlightenment: Rewriting India’s Educational Destiny

History is a river with many tributaries—some clear, some murky, all converging to form the complex current of the present. The educational voyage of the Indian subcontinent is precisely such a river. It has never flowed in a single, unified stream; rather, it has bent, broken, merged, and meandered under the pressures of culture, conquest, and cosmic beliefs. Now, as the tides of global transformation swell, India finds herself at a decisive bend—offered, perhaps for the first time in millennia, a chance to re-script the very grammar of learning and rectify the historical wrongs inflicted upon the collective intellect of her people.

In the Beginning: A Landscape of Learning

Long before scripts were inked on bark or stone, the seeds of scientific curiosity were sown in the alluvial soils of what would become India. The great migrations from Africa to South Asia, occurring roughly 40,000 to 60,000 years ago, brought with them not merely survival instincts but rudimentary sparks of reasoning and observation. The ruins of Mohenjo-daro and Harappa whisper of minds that could orchestrate intricate urban planning, systematic water management, sewage system and civil engineering. This was not mere instinct but the expression of an organized epistemology—a silent testimony to an educational framework that predated priests and psalms.

Though we have no surviving scrolls from those eras, the evidences etched in fired bricks and drainage channels suggest the presence of a culture rooted in empirical and scientific understanding. It would not be far-fetched to infer that learning, in those times, was experiential, inclusive, and pragmatic—traits any modern education system would envy.

The Fork in the Path: When the Abstract Replaced the Analytical

But then, somewhere around 1500 BCE, the winds from Central Asia carried new waves of settlers bearing the Vedic worldview—an intricate tapestry of spiritual verses, cosmologies, and rituals. With them came Sanskrit, a beautiful but inaccessible tongue to the majority, and with it, the doctrine that knowledge was the privilege of a chosen few. The earlier scientific and civic bent of Indian learning began to buckle under the growing weight of metaphysical abstraction and priestly exclusivity.

The shift was not just philosophical; it was architectural—structuring a society where learning was no longer a right but a ritualistic inheritance. The Manusmriti, that grim ledger of social hierarchies, encoded knowledge into a tightly guarded vault, locked with caste, and guarded with gender. For centuries, the Indian intellect, save a slender echelon of pseudo upper-class males, was systematically starved.

Sanskrit, which might have become the language of logic and law, was instead weaponized as a gatekeeper of knowledge. Women, Shudras, Dalits—vast oceans of potential—were excommunicated from the very pursuit that defines humanity: the quest to know. The consequence? A continent of thinkers reduced to reciters; a civilization of makers, turned into mystics.

A Struggle Rekindled: Modernity Pierces the Cloister

The 19th and 20th centuries were not merely epochs of rebellion—they were a resuscitation of reason. When Jyotiba Phule opened the first school for girls, when Savitribai Phule braved abuse to teach them, when Vidyasagar challenged orthodoxy, when Dr. Ambedkar rose from untouchability to rewrite India’s Constitution—they were not just fighting for access to books. They were liberating the Indian mind.

Even the British, though their motives were coloured by imperial convenience, introduced an education system that breached the old fortresses. It brought English, not as a tool of cultural dominance alone, but as a bridge to modernity. Science, rationalism, and a sense of global belonging slowly returned to Indian classrooms.

Independence brought with it not merely self-rule but the constitutional guarantee of education as a fundamental right. The establishment of IITs, IIMs, national research centres, and public universities heralded a new dawn—an India willing to invest in its intellect once more. And the fruits were swift: from nuclear science to space exploration, from software exports to startups, India began to reclaim her rightful place in the global intellectual arena.

And Yet, The Shadows Persist

But here lies the paradox: a country that now boasts the world’s largest youth population still struggles to answer a foundational question—education, for what?

Are we merely churning out degree-holders for an increasingly narrow job market? Are our institutions preparing students for a life of inquiry and innovation, or merely survival? The answer, sadly, is ambivalent.

Curricula too often lack vision. The marketplace dictates educational priorities more than societal needs. Worse still, troubling reports suggest attempts to dilute scientific temper and sneak back archaic, faith-based ideologies into classrooms under the guise of “cultural renaissance.” Such regression is not a revival—it is a betrayal.

The goal of education must not be restricted to employability; it must awaken empathy, instill ethics, provoke imagination, and nurture reason. The child who enters Class I today will graduate into a world ruled by artificial intelligence, genomic manipulation, and machine-human hybrids. If their education is shackled to rote learning and spiritual fatalism, they shall be adrift in a future they neither comprehend nor control.

Correcting the Course: The Mandate of the Next 25 Years

The next quarter century is not a planning horizon; it is a destiny window. If we fail now, the costs will be civilizational.

India must design education policies that are future-ready and philosophically sound. The curriculum must be dynamic, multilingual, and multicultural, but rooted in scientific methodology. Pedagogy must shift from memorization to exploration. Skills must be interwoven with values—creating citizens, not just workers.

Moreover, our institutions must begin producing intellectual property at a scale that reflects our demographic strength. With 17% of the world’s population, we contribute a negligible fraction of global patents. That is not a statistical quirk—it is the legacy of millennia of intellectual suppression.

To reverse this, we must invest not just in education but in educated environments—libraries, labs, makerspaces, public science forums, community colleges, vocational hubs. The goal must be clear: transform India from a consumer of global knowledge to a creator of global paradigms.

The Ethical Imperative: Education with Humanity

And let us not forget: the best minds can also become the most dangerous when devoid of moral compass. Our emphasis must be not just on what is taught, but how it shapes the soul. Compassion, critical thinking, collaboration—these must become the cornerstones of every school and university.

For too long, education in India was a weapon of exclusion. Now it must become an instrument of inclusion.

For too long, learning was a ladder only for the few. Now it must become a bridge for the many.

A Call to Conscience

We stand today with history in our hands. It has offered us a second chance—rare, precious, and perhaps final. If we ignore the lessons of the past and allow ignorance to wear the garb of tradition, we will have not only failed ourselves, but betrayed the memory of those who fought to educate us.

But if we act—deliberately, inclusively, and courageously—we may yet become the society we once aspired to be: curious, just, luminous with knowledge.

Let this be the century in which India does not merely reclaim her lost legacy of learning, but redefines what it means to educate a nation—and through it, the world.

-Mahesh Zagade

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मुहूर्ताचा मोह: एका कल्पित शुभक्षणाचे अवडंबर 

मानवी जीवन म्हणजे प्रवाह—अनुभवांचा, आकांक्षांचा, आणि निर्णयांचा अखंड प्रवाह. या प्रवाहात एखादा क्षण ‘शुभ’ असतो तर दुसरा ‘अशुभ’—अशी एक धारणा आपल्या समाजाने संस्कृतीच्या नावाखाली आत्मसात केलेली आहे. ‘मुहूर्त’ ही संकल्पनाही त्याच प्रवाहातील एक काल्पनिक वाटा आहे, जिच्यावर आजही अनेकांची श्रद्धा असून, व्यवहार, विवाह, घरप्रवेश, नवोदयाचे स्वप्न अशा अनेक महत्त्वाच्या घटनांची सुरुवात ‘मुहूर्ता’वरच केली जाते. परंतु, जेव्हा आपण विज्ञानाच्या निर्मळ प्रकाशात ही संकल्पना तपासून पाहतो, तेव्हा या विश्वासाचे बुडाशी उभे असलेले अंधश्रद्धेचे पाय मूळासकट ढासळताना दिसतात.

कशाला हवा मुहूर्त?

‘मुहूर्त’ म्हणजे काय? काही निवडक ग्रह-ताऱ्यांची स्थिती, तिथी, वार, नक्षत्र यांचा एक मिलाफ, ज्याला पुरोहित किंवा जोतिषी शुभ अथवा अशुभ म्हणतात. पण एक प्रश्न विचारावासा वाटतो—काय खरंच आकाशातील ग्रह आपल्या निर्णयांवर परिणाम घडवतात का? जर पृथ्वीवरील एखाद्या व्यक्तीने व्यवसाय सुरू करायचा ठरवले, आणि तोच ग्रहसंयोग आफ्रिकेतील एखाद्या अनोळखी गावातही तसाच असेल, तर तिथल्या व्यक्तीचंही जीवन त्याच मार्गाने चालेल काय?

या प्रश्नाचे उत्तर जर ‘हो’ असेल, तर विज्ञानाचे सारे सिद्धांत फोल ठरावेत. पण वस्तुस्थिती अशी नाही.

शास्त्र आणि अंधश्रद्धा: दोन टोकांची यात्रा

शास्त्र आपल्याला सांगते की ‘काळ’ (Time) हा एक सातत्याने प्रवाहित होणारा आयाम आहे, ज्यात कोणताही क्षण स्वतःहून ‘शुभ’ किंवा ‘अशुभ’ असू शकत नाही. कोणत्याही क्षणाचे मूल्य हे केवळ त्या क्षणी आपण केलेल्या कृतीने ठरते, त्या क्षणाची कोणतीही आकाशीय ‘गुणवत्ता’ नसते. उलट, एखादी संधी गमावण्यामागे मुहूर्ताच्या प्रतीक्षेचा मूर्खपणा कारणीभूत ठरतो, हेच शास्त्रीय दृष्टिकोन सूचित करतो.

इतिहासाचा आरसा: कुठे होते मुहूर्त?

इतिहासात डोकावून पाहा. अलेक्झांडरने मोहिमा काढताना ‘शुभ वेळ’ शोधला होता का? आल्बर्ट आइनस्टाइन किंवा आयझॅक न्यूटन यांनी आपली महान संशोधनयात्रा मुहूर्त पाहून आरंभ केली होती का? मुघल आक्रमक, ईस्ट इंडिया कंपनी, किंवा आपलेच स्वातंत्र्यवीर, महाराणा प्रताप, छत्रपती शिवाजी महाराज इ नी कोणाचा इतिहास एखाद्या पंचांगाच्या पानावर ठरवलेला होता? त्यांनी वेळ निवडली नव्हती, वेळ घडवली होती.

यातून हे स्पष्ट होते की यशाची गुरुकिल्ली ही आकाशात नाही, ती मनात आणि कृतीत असते. महानता ही मुहूर्तावर नव्हे, तर निर्धारावर उभी राहते.

‘शुभ काळ’ हे व्यावसायिक तंत्र

कुठल्याही वस्तूला जर किंमत द्यायची असेल, तर ती दुर्मीळ ठरावी लागते. मुहूर्त सांगणाऱ्या जोतिषी यांनी सिद्धांताचा वापर केला. ही तत्कालीन सर्व जनतेला अत्यावश्यक अशी बाब निर्माण करून “सेवा” हा प्रोडक्ट तयार केला आणि त्याचे अव्याहतपणे आणि कोणत्याही जाहिरातीशिवाय त्याचा प्रसार आणि भीती निर्माण करण्यासाठी त्यांनी वेद, ज्योतिष आणि ग्रंथ यांच्या साहाय्याने लोकांना पटवले की केवळ काही क्षणच शुभ असतात आणि उर्वरित सारे काळ अशुभ. त्यातून त्यांना एक हमखास अर्थार्जनाचा व्यवसाय तयार झाला जो वंशपरंपरागत पुढे चालू राहील आणि ग्राहकांची अजिबात वानवा भासणार नाही. या कल्पनेमुळे लोक संभ्रमित झाले. परिणामी, ‘शुभ काळ’ ओळखून सांगणारे एक संपूर्ण व्यावसायिक वर्ग उभा राहिला—पुरोहित, पंचांगकर्ते, जोतिषी इत्यादी.

ही सेवा म्हणजे एक प्रकारची अनिर्बंध ‘अंतःविक्रय व्यवस्था’ झाली. प्रत्येक विवाह, गृहप्रवेश, व्यवहार, खरेदी, अगदी केस कापण्यापासून नवजात बालकांच्या बारशापर्यंत—सर्व गोष्टींसाठी एखादा ‘शुभ वेळ’ सांगून शुल्क आकारले गेले. यामध्ये समाजातील भयग्रस्तता, अज्ञान आणि ‘देव रागावेल ’ अशा मानसिकतेने खूप मदत केली.

प्रगतीचा अडसर ठरलेली परंपरा

शास्त्र आणि तंत्रज्ञानाच्या क्षेत्रात भारत जगभरात नाव कमावत असताना, समाजाच्या मानसिकतेत मात्र हा पुरातन विषारी अंकुर अजूनही ठाण मांडून बसलेला आहे. आपण ‘चंद्रयान’ चंद्रावर पाठवतो, पण ‘मुहूर्त पाहून रॉकेट उडवले का?’ असा प्रश्न आजही काही मंडळी विचारतात. एवढंच नव्हे, तर कित्येक शासकीय योजनांच्या उद्घाटनांसाठीही ‘मुहूर्त’ शोधला जातो, जणू काही वेळेचे चक्र कोणाच्या आज्ञेवर चालते.

खरे शुभ म्हणजे धैर्य आणि निर्णायक कृती

कुठलाही क्षण शुभ असतो का? हो, जर त्या क्षणी तुम्ही योग्य निर्णय घेऊन धैर्याने कृती केली, तर तो क्षण शुभ असतो. अन्यथा तोच क्षण भय, विलंब आणि शंकांनी भरलेला असतो. इतिहासातील महान वैज्ञानिक, लेखक, नेता किंवा योद्धा यांनी कधीही ‘मुहूर्त’ पाहून कृती केली नाही. त्यांनी वेळ घालवला नाही—वेळ घडवला!

काय करायला हवे?

आजच्या आधुनिक काळात शिक्षण, वैज्ञानिक जागृती आणि विवेकाचा सन्मान यांचा प्रसार करणं आवश्यक आहे. कोणताही तरुण किंवा तरुणी त्यांच्या आयुष्यातील महत्त्वाचे निर्णय घेताना शुद्ध विचार, योग्य नियोजन आणि आत्मविश्वास यांचा आधार घ्यावा, न की एखाद्या ज्योतिषांनी सांगितलेल्या मुहूर्ताची वाट पाहावी.

‘मुहूर्त’ ही संकल्पना म्हणजे एका समाजात  पेरलेली, एक निरंतर चाललेली आणि हमखास खरेदीदार उपलब्ध होणारी व्यावसायिक संधी आहे, जी आजही अनेकांच्या अंधश्रद्धांवर पोसली जाते. या क्षणभंगुर कल्पनां आता तरी हद्दपार व्हायला हव्यात. आपण त्यांच्यावर वैज्ञानिक सत्याचा शिडकावा करायला हवा. कारण माणूस त्याच्या कर्माने मोठा होतो, वेळेच्या सूचनेने नव्हे. 

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