The power corridors are abuzz again, but not over taxes or budgets this time. Eyeballs are fixed on who’ll get to wield the next big regulatory stick. The government’s hunt for new full-time members of SEBI, the capital markets watchdog, has thrown up two clear frontrunners, according to sources: VS Sundaresan, a SEBI insider and former Executive Director, and Sandeep Pradhan, an Indian Revenue Service (IRS) officer with a taste for enforcement.
What’s interesting is the sheer number of IRS officers who’ve thrown their hats in the ring, showing just how irresistible the lure of regulatory power is. Sundaresan represents the old-school SEBI DNA: steady, experienced, and predictable. He knows the rulebook and how to wield it. In a system jittery about credibility, that’s comforting. But comfort can also breed complacency. Regulators risk turning inward, mistaking process for progress.
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Pradhan, on the other hand, brings the enforcement reflex of the tax service, decisive, sometimes draconian, and often disruptive. That might sound refreshing to investors tired of mild wrist-slaps. But if the revenue mindset dominates, we could end up with a market that fears its regulator more than it trusts it.
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The deeper question is whether SEBI is becoming just another ba bu playground. Its early years drew professionals from markets and academia. Today, the generalist babu seems to be winning. This subtly shifts the regulator’s temperament from entrepreneurial to administrative.
If the government wants SEBI to keep pace with AI-led trading, complex derivatives, and global capital flows, it needs more than hierarchy-hardened mandarins. Whoever gets the job should be chosen not for seniority or service background, but for agility, domain knowledge, and the courage to stay independent, from both babus and brokers.
A litigant without a Bench
If irony needed a case study, it would look a lot like Sanjiv Chaturve di’s. Sixteen judges have recused themselves from hearing the Indian Forest Service (IFS) officer’s case. What began as a legal proceeding has evolved into a kind of judicial relay race, with the baton being passed endlessly and never received.
The latest to step aside was Justice Alok Verma of the Uttarakhand High Court, who recused himself from hearing Chaturvedi’s contempt petition. No reason given, just a quiet “list before another bench.” It’s hard not to wonder what makes this case so radioactive. After all, Chaturvedi isn’t just another babu. He’s one of India’s best-known whistleblowers, whose exposés, from corruption in Haryana’s forestry projects to irregularities at AIIMS, earned him admiration and enemies in equal measure. He’s paid the price in transfers, inquiries, and now, apparently, in judicial limbo.
Those who take on entrenched systems often end up isolated, and Chaturvedi’s case captures that perfectly. To be fair, judges have every right to recuse if they see a conflict or risk of bias. But public trust would be better served if reasons were stated, even briefly. Transparency protects both the litigant and the institution.
For all our lip service to “protecting whistleblowers,” India’s record shows a preference for celebrating them from afar, not standing with them when it counts. Chaturvedi’s long fight is more than a personal battle; it’s a test of whether the system still has space for honesty that makes it squirm.
He deserves, at the very least, his day in court.
Administrative invisibility
In other countries, every human life matters, regardless of the person’s nationality. When Portugal’s health minister resigned after the death of an Indian tourist, it wasn’t just a political gesture, but a statement of accountability. Hard to imagine that happening here. In India, dozens died recently from toxic cough syrups exported under official watch, and not a single babu’s chair even creaks, let alone a minister. Our babus, after all, have perfected the ancient art of administrative invisibility. When things go right, they’re the “unsung heroes”. When things go wrong, they’re “still investigating”. The cough syrup deaths didn’t just kill children; they exposed a regulatory system run on paperwork and plausible deniability. And yet, not one resignation. Not one face of responsibility. The minister stays, the regulators stay, and the files stay exactly where they were, probably gathering dust beside a few expired drug samples.
In Portugal, a minister steps down over a single death. Here, we have a body count, and yet, nobody blinks. Maybe that’s what real immunity looks like: not from disease, but from consequences.
