The constitutions of liberal democracies owe their moral and institutional foundations to the ideas of Western political philosophers. From Locke’s theory of natural rights to Rousseau’s social contract, from Montesquieu’s doctrine of the separation of powers to Mill’s principled defence of liberty and reasoned dissent, these frameworks emerged not just from political necessity, but from intellectual conviction -often nurtured in the lecture halls and libraries of European and American universities.
For centuries, these institutions have served as both fountainheads and guardians of liberal thought. They have cultivated freedom of expression, the spirit of critique, and the value of dialogue – qualities that are not merely academic ideals, but essential to the functioning of any liberal democracy.
And yet, today, universities find themselves under siege.
Across the world, populist leaders have mounted rhetorical and institutional attacks on centres of learning and critique. Donald Trump’s disdain for expert opinion, Viktor Orbán’s crackdown on independent academic institutions, and Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s mass purges of university staff are not isolated acts. They are part of a broader populist playbook that seeks to undermine independent sources of authority, question the legitimacy of knowledge producers, and recast complexity as elitism.
These leaders have mastered the art of turning the university into a symbol -not of enlightenment, but of detachment, arrogance, and ideological bias. In populist narratives, the academic becomes an enemy of the people: too theoretical, too liberal, too disconnected from “real life.” This characterisation is not just politically convenient -it’s dangerously effective.
And here’s the deeper irony: the intellectuals who shaped our democratic ideals anticipated this moment.
Alexis de Tocqueville warned of the tyranny of the majority and the pressures of conformity in democratic societies. Mill argued for the protection of minority opinions -not despite democracy, but for its preservation. Hannah Arendt diagnosed the fragility of truth in the face of political power. Karl Popper, in The Open Society and Its Enemies, cautioned that democracy can only be sustained by institutions capable of welcoming dissent and resisting ideological closure.
These warnings were not abstract. They now resonate with uncomfortable clarity.
Let’s be honest: asking an intellectual to be an entrepreneur is like asking a cat to swim laps. Sure, it might happen… but you’re better off not watching.
And handing over a philosophy department to an entrepreneur? Brace yourself for a TED Talk titled:
“Optimising the Socratic Method for Scalable Impact.”
The core issue? Intellectuals think too much. Entrepreneurs think differently. Often with less hesitation, and more espresso.
1. The Intellectual’s Business Plan
Picture this: an intellectual pitching a startup. They begin with:
“First, let us deconstruct the very concept of ‘value.’”
Their PowerPoint has footnotes, a bibliography, and an appendix titled “Ontology of Disruption.”
By slide three-somewhere between Hegelian Dialectic and Late Capitalist Consumer Conditioning-half the investors have quietly left the room.
But the intellectual isn’t rattled.
“Even failure is a construct,” they murmur, already drafting a paper on why their startup deserved to collapse.
2. The Entrepreneur’s Thesis Defence
Now flip the scenario. An entrepreneur walks into academia, takes the stage at a philosophy colloquium, and announces:
“I have a 3-step plan to monetise Kierkegaard.”
They propose turning existential dread into a subscription model:
“Anxiety-as-a-Service (AaaS): Guaranteed Identity Crisis in 30 Days or Your Money Back!”
The ethics professor has a mild nosebleed. The Dean discreetly updates his LinkedIn profile.
3. Time Horizons
Intellectuals think in decades-sometimes centuries. They’re focused on “long-term human flourishing.”
Entrepreneurs? They’re focused on “short-term Series A funding.”
Ask an intellectual how long it’ll take to launch their idea, and you might hear:
“Depends. Are we using Aristotelian, Newtonian, or quantum time?”
Ask an entrepreneur, and the answer is:
“Next quarter. Unless we pivot.”
(They don’t know where yet. Just… somewhere new.)
4. Tolerance for Ambiguity
Intellectuals thrive in grey zones. They bathe in nuance.
Entrepreneurs? Not so much. They hear “maybe” and immediately break into a sweat.
Where the intellectual distrusts easy answers, the entrepreneur needs one:
“Move fast and break things.”
To the intellectual, that’s a cautionary tale.
To the entrepreneur, it’s a motivational poster.
5. Their Relationship with Reality
Intellectuals are obsessed with describing reality.
Entrepreneurs are obsessed with ignoring it-just long enough to bend it.
One might sit in a library asking, “Does truth exist?”
The other is out raising $10 million for a startup called Truthify-a blockchain-powered platform to verify facts (which may or may not be facts).
6. The Entertainment Factor
That said, there’s one place where both tribes come together beautifully: entertainment.
When two ego-driven entrepreneurs go head-to-head-neither weighed down by the burden of intellectual humility-we intellectual types grab the popcorn.
(Some of you were thinking Musk and Trump, weren’t you?)
We sip tea, sketch game theory models, quote Machiavelli, and make bold predictions.
And we’re usually wrong-because the winner isn’t the cleverest… just the one with the better marketing team.
Still, it’s good fun for all involved.
In Conclusion
Intellectuals want to understand the world before acting.
Entrepreneurs want to act before the world realises what they’re doing.
Put simply:
If you ask an intellectual to build a boat, you’ll get a 300-page treatise on the ethics of floating.
Ask an entrepreneur, and you’ll get two soda bottles duct-taped to a door.
“I searched for God and found only myself. I searched for myself and found only God.”
-Rumi
“Who am I?”
-Ramana Maharshi
And then there are ‘men of God’ !
These men-and thankfully, sometimes women-deliver sermons, write thick books, and produce elaborate theological frameworks, possibly with diagrams. They explain the grand scheme of God, in which, they assure you, you have a place.
Preferably a humble one.
And if you follow the rules, pay attention, and attend the right seminars, you might even upgrade your spiritual seating arrangement.
📜 The Men of God: Spiritual Bureaucrats?
These holy professionals are the architects of celestial systems. They give us:
Doctrines to follow.Prayers to recite . Behavioural KPIs.
They are like divine travel agents, promising package tours to paradise with a stopover in purgatory if you forget to fast on the right day.
They mean well. One hopes.
But then…
🧘 The Mystics Enter the Scene
And now, ladies and gentlemen, cue the mystic.
He shows up barefoot, probably late, and says one sentence-maybe two.
And suddenly, your soul leans in.
“You were never born, and you will never die.”
-Nisargadatta Maharaj
What?
Just that. No syllabi. No ten-part series.
The mystic doesn’t explain the mystery.
He becomes it. Or better, he reminds you that you are it.
The Grand Scheme vs. The Grand Shrug
Let’s be clear: The men of God have their place. They give us structure, direction, and answers to spiritual FAQs.
They hand out cosmic flowcharts with boxes like “Karma,” “Grace,” and “Advanced Level Devotee.”
Meanwhile, the mystic sips his tea (probably herbal), looks at the chart, and says:
“Burn the map. You are already home.”
It’s infuriating. And oddly liberating.
🤔 So Who’s Right?
It’s not a contest.
The men of God offer guidance. The mystics offer a glimpse.
One comforts the mind.
The other disarms it.
We need both.
The men of God keep the spiritual trains running on time.
Mystics remind us there’s no station, no train, and no timetable-just the vast stillness of being.
Men of God tell you to prepare yourself to meet God.
Mystics chuckle and whisper:
“You’ve never been apart.”
So next time someone tries to explain God’s grand scheme with footnotes and a whiteboard, smile.
Then go sit quietly under a tree.
Ask yourself,
“Who am I?”
And wait.
The answer may not come in words.
But if it does, it’ll likely fit on a post-it note-or a poem.
I met him first when I walked up to the reception desk at the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration in August 1986. He was standing nearby, peering intently at a register. Turning around, he extended his hand with a smile and said softly, “Keshav.”
He was older than me, dressed nattily in a tweed jacket, corduroy trousers, and a rather dainty silk scarf. His tousled hair and twinkling eyes behind his glasses gave him a distinguished yet approachable air. I introduced myself, still unsure who this gentleman was. Keshav nodded, said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and walked away, humming a tune -lost in his own thoughts, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. It was a sight I would grow familiar with in the weeks to come.
The man I had met at the reception – Keshav Desiraju -was a civil servant himself, serving as the course director at the training academy for new recruits like me. The academy was located in Mussoorie, a British-era hill station known, among other things, as the hometown of Ruskin Bond, the beloved Indian author who writes in English.
I was 24; Keshav, in his mid-thirties, was already a “seasoned” civil servant. Unlike some of the other instructors /charismatic, larger-than-life figures who regaled us with tales of their adventures and achievements – Keshav was unassuming, shy, and soft-spoken. Everyone liked him, but he wasn’t necessarily seen as a role model in the way some of the more flamboyant officers were. He rarely used the first-person singular, except in a self-deprecating manner.
In some ways, Keshav was an odd man out in that environment. Yet, I never heard anyone speak ill of him – then or later. He was always well-liked, though never hero-worshipped.
A few weeks into the course, a handful of us, including me, took up Keshav’s open invitation to drop by his cottage in the evenings if we wanted to discuss anything. We knew he was single, so we wouldn’t be intruding.
My first visit to Keshav’s home, a quaint cottage standing alone a short distance from the academy, was a delightful surprise. His cozy space was filled with books, vinyl records, and art. It felt like stumbling upon hidden treasures. A jigsaw puzzle on a table lay half-finished. I was fascinated – not just by the surroundings but by the many layers of the man I had so far only encountered in the formal setting of the training academy.
Keshav’s hospitality was warm and effortless. The delicious South Indian vegetarian food he served paired surprisingly well with the wine from his modest but thoughtfully stocked bar. We were hungry and thirsty greenhorns, and he indulged us with kindness and gentle laughter. I soon became a regular. Being somewhat quiet myself, I simply soaked in the atmosphere – scintillating conversation, good music, and Keshav’s easy companionship. When he discovered my love for jazz, he made sure to play it whenever I was around.
Keshav came from a family of renowned scholars and civil servants. His maternal grandfather, Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, was a philosopher and India’s second President. Keshav himself had studied at Cambridge. Yet, while his family legacy and intellectual depth left some of us in awe, he wore it lightly. His humor was wry, his generosity boundless, and his concern for us always genuine.
I felt very close to Keshav and enjoyed his company. He seemed to enjoy mine as well. He could make sly, even mischievous, observations about people, but never in an unkind or judgmental way. Despite his uncompromising ethics, he carried no bitterness.
After our training in Mussoorie, Keshav, who had been on temporary deputation to the academy, returned to his original cadre. Over the years, he held key positions in the governments of Uttar Pradesh and later the Union (federal) Government of India until his retirement.
I have always been somewhat of a loner, which made me admire how Keshav, despite being an introvert, managed to stay in touch with so many friends across different walks of life. We didn’t meet often – only when work brought him to Mumbai or me to Delhi – but our bond remained strong. Keshav never married. I suspected that the women he would have liked to marry were either already taken or that he had waited too long, unable to overcome his shyness.
At some point, without even realizing it, Keshav became my pole star. Throughout my career in the Indian Administrative Service, whenever I faced a difficult decision – particularly when my sense of public duty clashed with the demands of an elected politician – I would ask myself, What would Keshav do? I hardly ever discussed these dilemmas with him, yet he had become my internal compass for integrity and honesty.
Once, I was offered the role of private secretary to a minister in the Union Government in New Delhi. It was considered a prestigious position for a young civil servant, given the perks and influence that came with it. I called Keshav for his opinion. He asked me just one question: “Would you find job satisfaction working under a minister who has not distinguished himself in any way?”
His words were a damper, but I immediately understood his point. I declined the offer.
Keshav himself paid a price for his integrity. Towards the end of his career, as Union Health Secretary, he was transferred because he refused to accommodate his minister’s wishes on a matter of principle. He moved on quietly, without protest, as always. He shunned publicity, but his work left a lasting impact, earning him deep respect from colleagues and admirers alike.
His contributions to mental health awareness in India and the establishment of institutions to address its challenges were extraordinary. He would have done much more had it not been for the ego of one minister and the indifference of the system. I understood this well – as a civil servant myself, I had seen how many idealistic and principled officers in India’s still-young democracy faced similar situations. Some gave up, some became martyrs, and some compromised their principles in exchange for a safe, smooth, and sometimes lucrative career.
When we did meet, we rarely spoke of serious matters. Instead, we discussed books. He was always ahead of me in the number he had read. A role model yet again.
After retirement, Keshav moved from Delhi to Chennai, where he lived alone, devoting his time to reading and writing. His deep love for Carnatic music led him to write a biography of the legendary singer M.S. Subbulakshmi, in addition to numerous articles on various subjects.
Every year on September 5th, India’s Teachers’ Day – celebrated in honor of his grandfather, Dr. Radhakrishnan – I made it a point to wish Keshav. A few years ago, just days before I could send my message, I received the shocking news that he was gone. By all accounts, he had seemed fit and fine, but a massive cardiac arrest ended his life.
Only a month earlier, during a long conversation, I had promised Keshav that once COVID-related restrictions were lifted, I would visit him in Chennai for a few days. He was pleased, and I was excited at the prospect of finally catching up with him in a real sense after all these years.
Even now, I sometimes imagine spotting Keshav from behind in an unfamiliar city or along a mountain path. I see myself catching up with him, walking alongside him, mirroring his unhurried pace – soaking in the sights, the sounds, and the scents – searching for the right words to describe the journey.
As the West grapples with political polarisation, rising populism, and an erosion of public trust, it is fair to ask: Is the model of Western democracy and capitalism -once the world’s most admired export -losing its sheen?
For decades, the United States and its allies offered a compelling vision: free markets, liberal democracy, and robust institutions. But today, that vision appears increasingly fractured: • Polarisation is replacing consensus • Institutions are under stress • Economic growth no longer guarantees social cohesion • And truth itself is often contested
Amid this uncertainty, India’s journey offers a striking and hopeful contrast.
Despite its vast diversity, significant economic disparities, and the pressures of an ever-expanding electorate, India’s constitutional democracy appears to be maturing and steadying. The sheer scale and complexity of India’s political and social fabric could easily lend itself to instability. Yet, the country has shown an increasing capacity for democratic resilience.
A recent example stands out: the Government’s deft handling of tensions with Pakistan, which was complemented by responsible and articulate support from opposition parliamentarians in presenting a unified national stance. In an era when partisan divides often weaken democratic responses, India demonstrated that political competition need not come at the cost of national coherence.
This is not to suggest India is without its challenges. But it does show that democracy -messy, noisy, and imperfect- can still work in diverse and developing contexts when anchored in constitutional values and collective responsibility.
Perhaps, the democratic renewal the world is looking for will not emerge solely from the old guard in the West, but from vibrant and evolving democracies like India – grounded in ancient civilisations yet shaping modern aspirations.
We may be witnessing not the end of democracy, but its rebalancing – with new models, new voices, and new sources of legitimacy.
Something my son Siddharth said about the sadness of goodbyes reminded me of my Mani Mausi ( my mother’s late younger sister). I spent a lot of time with some of my mother’s ( then unmarried ) sisters in my maternal grandfather’s house in Cuttack as my grandmother was admitted in hospital with a terminal illness and my Mom was by her side often.
I was around eight years old and my favourite Mausi was Mani Mausi. She used to ask me to sing ‘ Meri Sapnon ki Rani kab ayegi tu’ as the film Aradhana was released around that time and it’s songs were a great hit. Soon after my grandmother passed away Mani Mausi’s marriage was fixed with Dibakar Mausa who worked in the USA. A few days after the wedding we went to see off Mani Mausi and Dibakar Mausa at Cuttack railway station as they had to go to Kolkata by train to catch the flight to New York. As the train started rolling out of the station with my ‘ sapnon ki Rani’ waving at us, tears rolled down from my eyes… ..Many years later Dibakar Mausa drove my son Siddharth Ratho to Connecticut college from New Jersey. Mani Mausi passed away a few years ago. Their son Deepak ( Dipu) , a Doctor, is married to a Korean, and the younger one, Seema is married to a white American. Dipu had come recently to Cuttack along with his daughter to see my mother, my sister and my brother. From the pictures of the visit, I realised that Deepu’s daughter looks a lot like Mani Mausi.
An ordinary life 