By Rajdeep Sardesai
Last week, Maharashtra’s Food and Drug Administration turned its attention to eateries run by ISKCON, the highly popular Krishna Consciousness movement. For millions of devotees, ISKCON is far more than just another institution. It is a global religious and spiritual movement with an enormous following and a powerful public presence. But the message from Maharashtra FDA Commissioner Tukaram Mundhe was unmistakable: no one is above the law. Not even an institution with the popularity and influence of ISKCON.
The data is clear: in the 100 days since he took over, the Mundhe-led FDA has exposed more cases of food adulteration than in the previous 18 months. In fact, Mundhe’s raids have also taken place ahead of Ganesh Chaturthi, the most widely celebrated festival in Maharashtra. When I spoke to him about it, his response was characteristically direct: the law is not religion-specific. Anyone who violates it will be brought to task.
That, in many ways, explains why Mundhe is increasingly being dubbed a real-life Singham, a reference to the blockbuster Hindi film about a super-cop who takes on political corruption.
There is something deeply revealing about the reaction to his recent crackdown on adulterated and unsafe food. Among those businesses that have got used to lax regulation, there is fear of losing their licences. Among ordinary citizens, there is hope. And perhaps there is also a quiet sense of relief.
Finally, someone seems to be asking a question that the government should have been asking all along: what exactly are you feeding us?
We live in an age when eating out has become part of everyday life. We order food online without a second thought. We buy milk, paneer, ghee, spices, sweets and packaged food, assuming that someone, somewhere, is checking whether what we consume is safe. But every raid that exposes unhygienic kitchens, adulterated ingredients or blatant violations of food safety norms shatters that comfortable assumption.
The problem is not that the laws do not exist. The problem is that they are too often not enforced. And that is why Mundhe has struck such a chord. He hasn’t invented a new law. He hasn’t announced a revolutionary scheme. His most powerful weapon is not particularly cinematic. It is the law.
And perhaps that is precisely why he appears exceptional. In a system where rules are routinely bent, negotiated, selectively enforced or simply ignored, an official who decides to enforce them without fear or favour can look almost revolutionary.
Which brings us to the larger question: why should an officer simply doing his job have to be seen as a superhero?
Tukaram Mundhe has no superpowers. He does not need background music or cinematic punch lines. Yet the Singham tag has stuck because citizens have grown so accustomed to seeing the powerful find ways around the system that an officer who refuses to look the other way becomes a hero.
At last, someone is doing something.
Indians don’t necessarily dislike regulation. What they dislike is selective regulation. If the law is to have meaning, it must apply equally.
We don’t need bureaucratic Rambos. We don’t need officials who confuse shouting with courage. We need public servants with a spine. Public servants who are willing to ask not, “Who will be upset?” but, “What does the law require?”
Perhaps the most revealing aspect of the Mundhe story is not that he is being called a real-life Singham. It is that we, the people, seem so desperate for one.
Food safety should not depend on whether Tukaram Mundhe happens to head the FDA. Restaurants should not suddenly become hygienic because a particular officer has begun conducting raids. Adulterators should not be frightened only when a tough commissioner is in office.
The system should work even when the Singham leaves.
That is ultimately the difference between a hero and an institution. A hero can transform a moment. An institution transforms everyday life.
And yet, until our institutions become consistently reliable, individuals like Mundhe will continue to matter enormously.
Imagine, then, if every public servant did what Tukaram Mundhe likes to say he is doing: his duty. No grandstanding. No favouritism. No fear of the powerful. No calculation of caste, religion, political connections or social status. Just a straightforward commitment to enforce the law fairly and do the job for which the taxpayer is paying them.
India has no shortage of laws, policies, schemes and committees. What it often suffers from is a crisis of implementation.
Imagine if every public servant simply did his or her duty with honesty, independence and a spine. India’s governance crisis might just become a little less overwhelming.
And perhaps we would no longer need to search for real-life Singhams. Because doing one’s duty would no longer be seen as heroism. It would simply be normal.
Postscript: Last week, I asked a senior minister from Maharashtra, “So, what do you think of Mr Mundhe?”
“Oh, he is a mad chap!” came the sharp response.
Maybe we do need more public servants with a touch of madness, who are committed to citizen welfare and not to the needs of their political bosses.
The writer is senior journalist and author.
