The republic of the diya

 When a Prime Minister’s Birthday Becomes a Month-Long Government Festival, and “Seva” Becomes the Most Photographed Form of Governance

By Ramphal Katraia

“In the new Republic, a pending file is invisible; a lit diya is evidence.”

“The citizen is asked to save the nation’s oil, fuel, gold and foreign exchange. The State merely asks him to spend his time, money and enthusiasm differently.”

“When governance becomes a celebration, the photograph begins to matter more than the work.”

There was once a time when a Prime Minister’s birthday was simply a birthday. There might be greetings, perhaps a few charitable activities, perhaps a party function, and then the country would return to the much less glamorous business of governing itself. That quaint arrangement now appears to belong to another constitutional era.

The 17th of September has acquired a rather more ambitious destiny. It is no longer merely the birthday of Narendra Modi. It is the opening ceremony of a month-long national spectacle called “Seva Sankalp Abhiyan”, running from 17 September to 17 October and commemorating, among other things, his 25 years in public life. The programme includes blood donation, plantation, cleanliness drives, rallies, public outreach, school competitions, cultural activities, “Seva Mera Yogdan”, “Aangan Milan Seva”, “Seva Jyoti Kalash Yatra” and, naturally, the lighting of the “Aashirwad Ka Diya”.

In Haryana, citizens were specifically urged to light an “Aashirwad Ka Diya” at 7 p.m. on 17 September, while programmes were scheduled across the State until 17 October.

One cannot help admiring the imagination.

The Indian administrative vocabulary has been transformed into a poetic universe. Nothing can simply be called a programme anymore. It must be an Abhiyan. An Abhiyan must contain a Sankalp. The Sankalp must contain a Seva. The Seva must become a Milan, Utsav, Jyoti, Setu or Samarpan. Somewhere a committee is probably already considering whether the next initiative should be called “Sankalp Se Samriddhi: Samagra Seva Samarpan Jan-Jyoti Abhiyan.”

And because the occasion belongs to the Prime Minister, the machinery of the State naturally begins to hum.

Officials are assigned.

Meetings are convened.

Orders are issued.

Districts are instructed.

Photographers are engaged.

Banners appear.

Reports are demanded.

Photographs are uploaded.

WhatsApp groups become active.

And somewhere, in some forgotten corner of a government office, an ordinary file sits quietly on a table wondering whether it too should learn to light a diya.

“The modern file has discovered its greatest enemy: the Prime Minister’s birthday.”

The philosophical difficulty begins here.

There is nothing objectionable about blood donation, plantation, cleanliness, public service or helping the poor. These are worthwhile activities regardless of whose birthday provides the occasion. The question is not whether such activities are good. The question is why the ordinary machinery of government requires a birthday festival to perform them with such extraordinary enthusiasm.

Why must service to the citizen be converted into an annual spectacle?

Why must public administration acquire the grammar of political celebration?

Why must every department suddenly become a stage-management agency?

And why does the calendar of governance seem to become unusually efficient whenever there is a camera?

That last question deserves attention.

India has become a country in which governance increasingly has two lives.

One is the life of the file: slow, invisible, procedural and mostly photographed only when something goes wrong.

The other is the life of the event: colourful, immediate, branded, carefully arranged and photographed from twelve angles.

The first one governs.

The second one communicates that governance is happening.

The second, unfortunately, photographs much better.

The diya is perhaps the perfect symbol of this new administrative philosophy.

The diya is inexpensive, traditional and emotionally powerful. It looks magnificent in photographs. A few thousand flames become an event. A few lakh become a spectacle. And millions become a narrative.

In Odisha alone, the birthday celebrations included 11,000 “Ashirwadara Deepa”, while other States and organisations organised their own lamp-lighting activities.

But there is an amusing little contradiction hiding inside the mustard oil.

Only a few months ago, on 10 May 2026, the Prime Minister appealed to Indians to reduce petroleum consumption, avoid non-essential foreign travel, reduce gold purchases, consume less edible oil and conserve foreign exchange amid the West Asian crisis.

The advice was economically intelligible.

Petrol and diesel consume foreign exchange.

Gold consumes foreign exchange.

Edible-oil imports consume foreign exchange.

Foreign travel consumes foreign exchange.

So the citizen was asked to sacrifice a little for the national economy.

And the citizen, being patriotic, presumably nodded.

Then September arrived.

And suddenly the nation needed lamps.

Many lamps.

More lamps.

Still more lamps.

Perhaps the Ministry of Finance should introduce a new category in the balance of payments:

“Current Account Deficit — excluding birthday diyas.”

“Reduce edible oil, said the nation.
Light the diya, said the celebration.”

There is no need to accuse anyone of hypocrisy. The contradiction is capable of speaking for itself.

The same is true of foreign travel.

The May appeal asked citizens to avoid non-essential foreign travel for a year. The government subsequently announced measures within the Agriculture and Rural Development Ministries to reduce official travel, implement car-pooling and restrict official visits as part of the frugality drive.

Excellent.

That is precisely how public policy should work.

But then the citizen naturally acquires a question of his own:

If austerity is a national virtue, should the State not apply the same standard to every expenditure that exists primarily for symbolism?

If extravagance is acceptable because the event is politically significant, then perhaps the citizen deserves to know what distinguishes “national necessity” from “ceremonial necessity”.

And if the answer is that government expenditure on official events is necessary while private foreign holidays are discretionary, fair enough.

But then say so.

The problem is not the exception.

The problem is pretending that there is no exception.

This is where Indian politics has perfected an extraordinary linguistic technology: renaming contradiction until it becomes policy.

When sugar prices rise, somebody discovers its health benefits.

When imports fall, it is self-reliance.

When imports rise, it is globalisation.

When citizens consume less, it is sacrifice.

When citizens consume more, it is economic growth.

When the government spends, it is development.

When the citizen spends, it is discretionary consumption.

When the State lights lamps, it is cultural participation.

When the citizen buys a foreign product, it is a threat to the rupee.

The vocabulary changes.

The economics remains.

The spectacle grows.

And the citizen is expected to clap.

We have seen this theatre before.

During Covid, the country was asked to stand at balconies and beat thalis and clap in appreciation of health workers. Later, citizens were asked to switch off lights and light diyas, candles and mobile phone flashlights for nine minutes as a symbolic expression of collective resolve. These exercises were explicitly presented as gestures of unity and morale during an extraordinary national crisis.

There is nothing inherently wrong with symbolism.

Nations need symbolism.

People need hope.

Societies need rituals.

But symbolism becomes dangerous only when it starts pretending to be a substitute for administration.

A hospital needs oxygen.

A school needs teachers.

A flood victim needs a house.

A farmer needs income.

A government department needs competent personnel.

A file needs a decision.

None of these things can be solved by the brightness of a diya.

“A candle can illuminate a room. It cannot illuminate a pending government file.”

That is the difference between symbolism and governance.

And perhaps the country should be especially cautious about the growing habit of converting every governmental achievement into a celebration of one individual.

A government is not a private birthday committee.

A Prime Minister is not the State.

The State is the Constitution, Parliament, judiciary, bureaucracy, armed forces, local governments, elected representatives, millions of public servants and, above all, the citizen who pays for it all.

Yet the vocabulary of the present moment increasingly merges the individual, the party, the government and the nation into one enormous celebratory sentence.

The Prime Minister's birthday becomes “Seva Diwas”.

The birthday campaign becomes national outreach.

Government schemes become material for celebration.

Party workers and government machinery appear in the same broad ecosystem of activity.

The line may remain legally visible.

Politically, however, it becomes increasingly difficult for the ordinary citizen to see it.

That is precisely why the question deserves to be asked.

Not as an accusation.

As a constitutional question.

When does public service stop being public service and become political celebration?

And perhaps nowhere is this question more uncomfortable than in the middle of disaster.

While the country prepares month-long celebrations, parts of India have been struggling with floods and other natural calamities. Assam, for example, suffered substantial flood impacts earlier this year, with deaths and large numbers of people affected.

Bihar too has been facing severe flooding.

Floodwater does not understand political calendars.

It does not wait until the Seva Sankalp Abhiyan concludes.

It does not care whether there is a banner.

It does not applaud.

It does not participate in a human chain.

It simply enters the house of a poor family.

That is the cruel difference between disaster management and political spectacle.

One requires boats.

The other requires balloons.

One requires rescue teams.

The other requires stage management.

One requires money to reach the victim.

The other requires money to reach the programme.

And, of course, both require a photograph.

Foreign policy provides its own collection of paradoxes.

India has repeatedly called for dialogue, diplomacy, de-escalation and humanitarian concern in the conflicts of West Asia. At the same time, India has had to balance its relationships with Israel, Iran, the United States, Russia and the Arab world while protecting its energy and economic interests.

This is not an easy task.

Nor should it be reduced to slogans.

But that is precisely why serious diplomacy deserves something more substantial than the politics of spectacle.

The same country that speaks of strategic autonomy must constantly navigate pressure from competing great powers.

The United States has now passed a sanctions-and-tariff measure that gives the President authority to impose tariffs of up to 100 percent on countries making significant purchases of Russian energy. India has warned that the legislation could affect bilateral relations and global energy markets, while affirming that it will protect its trade and energy interests.

That is a serious economic and diplomatic problem.

It affects oil.

It affects exports.

It affects the rupee.

It affects consumers.

It affects India's strategic autonomy.

And yet the political calendar remains occupied by a month-long celebration.

Perhaps that is the real genius of the spectacle.

It gives the public something bright to look at while complicated questions remain complicated.

The United States can threaten tariffs.

Russia can sell oil.

Iran can face sanctions.

Israel and Palestine can remain locked in conflict.

The Strait of Hormuz can remain strategically dangerous.

The rupee can worry economists.

And somewhere in Haryana:

“At 7 PM, all households shall light the Aashirwad Ka Diya.”

There is almost something beautifully Indian about it.

The world burns.

India lights a lamp.

The only question is:

Which one is supposed to illuminate the other?

“When the country has difficult questions, governments often discover the convenience of easy ceremonies.”

There are other contradictions scattered throughout the last twelve years.

Demonetisation was presented in 2016 as a dramatic assault on black money, counterfeit currency and terror financing. Citizens stood in queues for cash. The policy generated enormous disruption, while subsequent assessments and debates complicated the original claims about how much illicit currency would actually disappear.

The slogan was revolutionary.

The queue was ordinary.

The citizen paid the immediate price.

The explanation came later.

Then came the great promise of Minimum Government, Maximum Governance.

India subsequently acquired an astonishing number of campaigns.

Swachh Bharat.

Make in India.

Digital India.

Skill India.

Startup India.

Stand Up India.

Fit India.

Vocal for Local.

Atmanirbhar Bharat.

Viksit Bharat.

And now:

Seva Sankalp.

There is nothing inherently wrong with campaigns. Some have produced real outcomes. Some have created public awareness. Some have mobilised resources that conventional administration might struggle to mobilise.

But a campaign cannot become the permanent substitute for institutions.

A nation cannot be continuously inaugurated.

A government cannot permanently remain in campaign mode.

At some point, somebody has to govern.

At some point, somebody has to answer the file.

At some point, somebody has to repair the school.

At some point, somebody has to recruit the teacher.

At some point, somebody has to clear the hospital queue.

At some point, somebody has to compensate the flood victim.

At some point, somebody has to ask why the department spent three weeks organising an event while its routine work remained pending.

And at some point, the citizen must be permitted to ask the most impolite question of all:

“Who paid for the celebration?”

Not because every rupee spent on a public programme is wasteful.

Not because every government celebration is illegitimate.

But because public money deserves public scrutiny.

Public servants deserve time to perform public service.

And government machinery should primarily serve citizens rather than personalities.

The irony is particularly sharp because the slogan itself is Seva.

Service.

If the objective really is service, then perhaps the finest celebration of a Prime Minister's 25 years in public life would not require a month of ceremonies.

Perhaps it would require a month in which every government department cleared its oldest pending file.

Every district hospital published its waiting list.

Every school reported teacher vacancies.

Every municipality fixed its worst sanitation problem.

Every department disclosed its unused funds.

Every grievance older than thirty days received a decision.

Every flood-affected family received the assistance due to it.

Every government office worked without interruption.

No stage.

No slogan.

No giant portrait.

No ceremonial diya.

Just work.

Imagine the photographs.

There would be very few.

And that may be the problem.

A completed file does not look impressive on television.

A repaired drain has no ribbon-cutting ceremony.

A teacher reporting to school is not particularly cinematic.

A government clerk clearing 300 old files does not produce a spectacular drone shot.

A flood victim receiving compensation cannot be arranged into a perfect stage backdrop.

A working government is almost boring.

A campaigning government is magnificent.

It has music.

It has slogans.

It has colour.

It has flags.

It has hashtags.

It has drone cameras.

It has Sankalp.

It has Samarpan.

It has Seva.

And, naturally—

it has the diya.

So perhaps the real Seva Sankalp should be a slightly different one.

Let the citizen light one diya.

Let the government light another.

But before the second one is lit, let someone ask whether the first one has actually illuminated anything.

Let the Prime Minister's birthday be celebrated if people wish to celebrate it.

Let political parties organise their programmes.

Let supporters express affection and gratitude.

Let citizens participate voluntarily.

But let government remain government.

Let public money remain accountable.

Let bureaucracy remain focused on administration.

Let welfare remain welfare.

Let service remain service.

And let the Republic remember one small constitutional truth:

The government belongs to the people.

Not to a birthday.

Not to a party.

Not to a slogan.

Not to an image.

Not even to the man whose birthday happens to be on 17 September.

The State does not exist to celebrate its rulers.

The State exists to serve its citizens.

And perhaps that is the one Sankalp that requires neither a banner nor a diya.

Only work.