Breaking news! Breaking news! Hold on to your samosas, ladies and gentlemen, because the Ministry of Education—yes, that ministry, the one meant to sharpen minds and sculpt futures—has just declared war… on fried food.
Not on failing schools. Not on outdated syllabi. Not on students memorizing for marks instead of learning for life. No sir. The big villain of the day, according to our intellectual giants at the helm, is the humble bhajiya.
Yes, the ministry that should be announcing revolutionary reforms, better pay for teachers, tablets for students, and trauma counselling for exam-stressed teens… is proudly flashing headlines about banning bhajiyas and pakoras in its canteen.
Bravo! Clap, clap. Let’s all stand and applaud. Not for what they’ve achieved, but for what we’ve become. A country that’s satisfied with sizzle, not substance.
I can just picture a brainstorming session at the ministry headquarters:
“Sir, our literacy levels?”
“Later!”
“Our government schools collapsing?”
“Minor detail!”
“What about French fries, bhajiyas and pakoras in the canteen?”
“Fry it! No, wait—ban it!”
“Brilliant, Sir!”
“Now tweet it. That should keep the masses entertained for the week!”
And the masses? Oh, how we cheer. “Yes, yes! Fried food is bad for health,” we say while munching on our roadside vada pav. We celebrate symbolism over solutions. It’s like setting fire to your neighbour’s mosquito coil and declaring you’ve eradicated malaria.
But maybe we’re the problem too, aren’t we? We don’t ask for real change anymore. We don’t demand better books, better classrooms, or better thinking. Instead, we settle for drama. We giggle when English is mocked, cheer when history is rewritten like a badly scripted soap opera, and nod solemnly when told we’re “on par with the world”—even as we slip in every global ranking.
All this while countries race ahead with AI-driven education, we’re busy banning aloo bondas. It’s almost poetic.
It’s no longer about education, you see. It’s about ensuring we don’t think. Because an educated population would ask uncomfortable questions. Like, “Why are children still sitting on the floor?” “Why are teachers unpaid?” “Why is critical thinking missing from classrooms?” “Why are we friends with a country that invades another?”
So, instead, we get distractions. A new dress code here, a moral policing diktat there, and now, deep-fried censorship.
And soon, wait for it, the next policy will come: “No salt in sambhar!” Why? Because salty food leads to high BP, and high BP leads to students asking tough questions—and we can’t have that, can we?
So here’s to the new education policy—less about brains, more about bhajiyas. Because when the frying stops, apparently, enlightenment begins.
But until then, my dear reader, go grab that last samosa at the college gate. Because in this land which is slowly becoming bheja fried, at least our chutney still speaks the truth…!