On May Day, while the rest of us were honouring workers of the world, the Haryana government quietly launched a department that sounds like it belongs in a Christopher Nolan film: the Department of Future. No manifesto, no press conference, not even a cryptic mission statement—just a surprise government notification assigning two IAS officers, Amneet P Kumar and Dr Aditya Dahiya, to lead the charge into… well, no one’s quite sure where. Naturally, this sparked equal parts curiosity and amusement in bureaucratic circles. Some are wondering if it’s about long-term policy planning or AI governance. Others are betting on climate change, youth innovation, or just a very well-titled office for interdepartmental coordination. Given that one officer is also handling Fisheries and Archives, and the other juggles Parliamentary Affairs and Personnel, it’s hard to tell if this is serious futurism or an administrative afterthought. Now, before we laugh too hard, it’s worth noting that the idea of a future-facing government wing isn’t entirely outlandish. Countries like the UAE have full-blown Ministries of the Future—with budgets, AI roadmaps, and moonshot visions. But those departments usually come with vision documents, not just job titles. Still, the name alone is a bureaucratic fl ex. “Director, Department of Future” will look great on a business card—and LinkedIn, even better. Let’s just hope the department doesn’t end up like most visions of the future: perpetually postponed.
Red beacon and red flags
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Puja Khedkar has finally resurfaced. After playing a 282-day game of hide-and-seek with the Pune Police, the former IAS probationer accused of forging disability and OBC certificates has resurfaced and reported for questioning. Her case had already caused a storm last year—remember the Audi, the red beacon, and the VIP tantrums before she’d even completed training? What followed was even murkier: a trail of alleged fraud, sacking from service, and then, well… radio silence until now. What’s truly concerning isn’t just the accusations but how long she was allowed to vanish without consequence. For nearly ten months, this high-profile case went cold. No sightings, no real pressure, no public updates. If a regular citizen attempted this action, they would likely be tracked, detained, and served with a legal notice promptly. So, what gave Khedkar this extraordinary leeway? That’s the real question, and one that shouldn’t get buried under procedural updates and bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo. Was there quiet protection? Political shielding? Institutional indifference? Or are we expected to believe she just slipped through the cracks? This isn’t just about Puja Khedkar. It’s about how our system selectively forgets, forgives, and sometimes even facilitates misconduct, especially when it wears a government badge. If this case is allowed to fizzle out again, it won’t just be her reputation that’s damaged; it’ll be public faith in the steel frame of our civil services. And that’s a lot harder to recover than one elusive babu.
Babu who refused to blink
If bureaucracy were a sport, Ashok Khemka would be the chap who kept showing up to play fair, even after the referee, the crowd, and occasionally his team, tried to bench him. Now, as he finally calls it a day after 34 years and an eye-watering 57 transfers, it’s worth tipping our metaphorical hat to one of babudom’s most quietly defiant players. Not to sugarcoat it, in a system where discretion often wins over disruption, Khemka was the man with a highlighter and a conscience. Best known for cancelling the Robert Vadra-DLF land deal in 2012, which certainly earned him a place in administrative folklore, he kept questioning, investigating, and, more often than not, getting shunted for it. His transfer record alone could fill a thriller novel, or at the very least, a solid government file. But instead of throwing in the towel, Khemka chose to dig in his heels, wielding his pen and principles with equal fervour. Was he difficult? No doubt. Was he inconvenient? Definitely. But he was also necessary. In an age of blurred lines and backroom deals, Khemka reminded us that babbugiri wasn’t meant to be a rubber stamp for political ambition. It was supposed to be the spine. Now that he’s retired, the silence he leaves behind will speak volumes. One hopes the next Khemka doesn’t face the same trials in doing the right thing. But if they do, they’ll know it’s been done before.
Dilip Cherian
