India, celebrated for its relentless growth, its rising GDP, and its swelling demographic dividend of over 140 crore people, offers an impressive feat of numbers and optimism, served with some inconvenient truths. A country as diverse, managing with wealth inequality, yet working hard on lifting its poor with targeted welfare schemes and giving them a chance at dignity.
But if there is one adversary we consistently fail to conquer, it is corruption, so deeply rooted in governance that our attempts at change are stuck in a loop, returning only familiar disappointment. Take the Lokpal, our designated guardian against corruption. What makes headlines? Not convictions, but an open tender inviting bids for BMWs worth `70 lakh each for their seven-member body that was formed to bring more accountability and to uphold justice. An RTI by Ajoy Bose reveals, between inception and March 2023, the Lokpal received over 6,200 complaints, disposed of most, but didn’t secure a single conviction.
No surprise then, the one time the institution grabbed national attention was when parliamentarian Mahua Moitra was accused and “investigated.” Recently, front-page news recounted the tragic deaths of 24 infants in Madhya Pradesh, victims of contaminated cough syrup, their organs failing before their lives had a chance to unfold. The tragedy faded and, as always, we moved on from headlines and turned away from accountability for the corrupt system. India’s spirit of moving on from one tragedy to another deserves an acknowledgement of its own.
Our officials, meanwhile, offer indifference; a Chief Minister, when asked a question by a local journalist, said he had already spoken on the issue a day prior, so he didn’t feel it was important enough to be answered again. The state Government has shielded the Health Minister from taking any responsibility, drug controllers remain comfortably protected in their posts, and any blame is deflected to doctors and junior staff, as if those at the bottom bear the weight for crimes rooted above. We also saw politics play out with the state blaming Tamil Nadu for the deaths, but no one will ask the question as to how these syrups passed the drug quality test. But this pattern isn’t new.
Three years ago, in Gambia, 70 children under the age of three fell to the same fate after consuming a contaminated cough syrup from an Indian manufacturer. The contaminant in question is diethylene glycol, or DEG, an industrial solvent commonly used in antifreeze, paints, brake fluids, and plastics. While cough syrups need solvents too, the preferred choice lies with glycerine, a safer and approved solvent for pharmaceutical use. With DEG being cheaper over pharma-grade glycerine, these companies, to make money and keep the drug authorities’ nexus well-greased, make the hazardous choice over the lives of humans. The adulteration isn’t some inadvertent result of negligence or poor hygiene. This is a deliberate malpractice to cut costs. The want of Indians for the best bargain or cheap price knows no bounds, even venturing into bargaining with the lives of infants. Why aren’t we angrier back home? Corruption permeates every junction: A 2023 accusation outlined how a state drug controller was paid INR 5 crore to “switch samples,” leading to unsafe medicines passing into the hands of the vulnerable. Marion Pharmaceuticals made the WHO’s medical alerts, yet its products kept streaming into overseas markets unhindered.
When 18 Uzbek children died from the same adulterated syrup, only Uzbek courts delivered strong sentencing. In India, regulatory action is fleeting; licences suspended, then quietly restored, as headlines pile atop each other, burying accountability deeper each month. This is where anger should ignite, but more often, resignation sets in. We are a country used to calamity followed by distraction, tragedy followed by routine.
The desire for cheapness, the indifference to systemic rot — these habits have consequences counted in graves, not rupees. Yet the rhetoric remains unchanged: someone else’s problem, someone else’s fault. The Indian Government is truly quite adept, that is, burying accountability under a pile of rubble disguised as news. What is the answer, then? It’s in demanding more — from our regulators, our ministers, and ourselves. Will we continue to allow apathy and privilege to outlast outrage and justice? Or will we finally refuse to let infant deaths, corrupt deals, and broken promises become yesterday’s forgotten news? The problem, sadly, is not confined to pharmaceuticals alone. Sometimes, what’s at stake is simply honesty in the labelling of lifesaving products, a battle fought for years by a Hyderabad doctor who, after a decade of painstaking advocacy, was brought to tears when the FSSAI finally banned misleading “ORS” labels on spurious drinks.
For ten long years, this one doctor persisted, refusing to let companies play fast and loose with public trust and the health of children suffering from dehydration. Her victory, when it came, was bittersweet; FSSAI’s action felt like justice not just for her, but for every parent tricked by clever packaging and corporate obfuscation. But in India, no win is ever absolute.
Almost as quickly as the ban arrived, the respite was snatched away by a swift order from the Delhi High Court, granting a stay that let the misleading labels creep back onto shelves once again. Is it any wonder that those who fight for public health in India are haunted by exhaustion and frustration just as much as by tragedy? How long can a single whistle-blower persist when the rules keep changing and when victories remain so fragile? India’s real strength should come from not just surviving its contradictions but resolving them. It’s time the country asks itself whether progress means more than the sum of GDP digits and the churn of new schemes. Dignity and safety, especially for the youngest and weakest, must not be negotiable, nor should truth be buried beneath convenience. In the end, the choice is collective —another cycle of silence, or a new demand for consequence and care. Will we allow tragedy to simply “pass”? The answer, once we, as a country, care enough to know, would probably change the entire story itself.
The writer is a Member of the Rajya Sabha