By Dilip Cherian
The death of Rakesh Mehta, former Chief Secretary of Delhi, is deeply saddening. But beyond the shock of a respected former civil servant taking such a drastic step lies a more uncomfortable truth: we rarely know what is happening behind the composed exterior of people we believe we know well.
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Mehta had an accomplished career, serving in several senior positions in Delhi and playing an important role in the city’s civic, transport and power infrastructure. He was also at the helm of the administration during the 2010 Commonwealth Games. Yet none of that tells us what he may have been confronting in his personal life.
The reported reference to prolonged illness only underlines how complicated such struggles can become. Illness, ageing, loneliness, loss of professional purpose and the transition from a life of authority and responsibility to a quieter existence can weigh heavily, often without producing visible warning signs. That is perhaps the most unsettling lesson from Mehta’s death.
Sadly, someone I knew and respected should opt for such a drastic step. It tells you how deeply disturbed someone close to you could be, without you having a clue. We tend to assume that people who have spent their lives handling crises and making difficult decisions are somehow better equipped to deal with their own. They are not necessarily.
Perhaps we need to look beyond the usual question: “Is everything all right?” and become more willing to notice when something is not. Because sometimes people who appear perfectly fine are carrying burdens that nobody else can see. And by the time we realise it, it may be too late.
The IAS exit door is telling us something
The resignation of an IAS officer is still treated as an aberration in India’s administrative culture. An RTI disclosure, however, suggests it may be time to look beyond individual cases. At least 32 IAS officers had their resignations accepted between 2010 and 2026, with West Bengal recording the highest number of exits, followed by Maharashtra, Chhattisgarh and Karnataka.
Six resignations were accepted in 2010, while the numbers thereafter generally remained in single digits. Thirty-two officers over 16 years is hardly an exodus from a service numbering thousands. Yet the number is significant because every resignation represents a considerable investment in recruitment, training and administrative experience. More importantly, the reasons behind these departures deserve greater scrutiny.
As reported by your columnist last week, Divya Mittal’s decision to quit after 13 years brought the issue back into focus. Her resignation, however, has not yet been formally accepted and therefore does not figure in the RTI tally.
That distinction matters. The government itself acknowledges that it does not maintain a central record of resignations subsequently withdrawn.
The bigger question, therefore, is not whether 32 is a large number. It is whether the system is learning anything from those who choose to leave.
IAS officers do not necessarily resign because they are disillusioned. Some leave for entrepreneurship, politics, personal priorities or simply because they want to try something different. Roman Saini is an obvious example.
But others have spoken, directly or indirectly, about frustration with transfers, institutional constraints and the shrinking space for professional autonomy.
If capable officers are walking away, the system should at least be curious enough to ask why.
When babu becomes the brand
Tukaram Mundhe has done something rather unusual for an IAS officer: he has become more popular than the politicians he serves.
Recent Instagram data puts the Maharashtra FDA commissioner ahead of Chief Minister Devendra Fadnavis and Deputy Chief Minister Eknath Shinde in followers and, more strikingly, engagement.
Mundhe managed it with barely a dozen posts.
But the numbers are less interesting than what lies behind them. Mundhe has spent the past few months doing what babus are generally expected to do quietly: enforcing rules. His FDA has conducted more than 3,100 inspections, suspended around 165 licences and issued more than 750 improvement notices. Restaurants, dairies, food chains and even large e-commerce players have felt the regulatory heat.
That visibility has made him popular and controversial. Critics have questioned whether some enforcement actions have been proportionate, while the Bombay High Court has recently raised concerns over procedure in a case. Mundhe has said procedural errors, if established, should be corrected. There is an obvious lesson here, though perhaps not the one politicians or babus would prefer.
Mundhe’s followers are unlikely to be turning up for carefully choreographed government publicity. They are watching an officer who acts, takes positions, and occasionally steps on toes. The danger, of course, is when the officer becomes bigger than the institution.
