Enforcement demands courage. Authority demands humility.
A few days ago, I wrote in praise of Tukaram Mundhe’s uncompromising enforcement of food safety laws. I argued that the rule of law acquires meaning only when it is applied without fear or favour, irrespective of the status or influence of the offender.
I stand by that view.
But public life has a way of reminding us that principles are rarely one-dimensional.
In recent days, two developments involving Tukaram Mundhe have attracted public attention. One was his much-discussed remarks about Saoji mutton, a cuisine that many in Vidarbha regard not merely as food but as a cherished part of their cultural identity. The other was more consequential. The Bombay High Court ordered the restoration of the suspended licence of an eatery after observing that the Food and Drug Administration had continued to sit over the matter even after the establishment had reported full compliance with the deficiencies pointed out by the authorities. The Court reportedly questioned who would compensate the business for the losses caused by this administrative delay.
Taken together, these two episodes illuminate an issue much larger than either of them.
They remind us that competence in one field does not automatically confer authority in every other.
Nor does the power to enforce the law relieve one of the obligation to exercise that power with fairness, proportionality and humility.
One of the occupational hazards of success is that applause in one field often creates the illusion of authority in every other field.
The brilliant surgeon opines confidently on economics.
The successful entrepreneur lectures us on culture.
The popular actor ventures into public policy and morality with breathtaking certainty, revealing more prejudice than understanding.
The political leader talks confidently about medical science.
The accomplished civil servant is not immune either. Administrative success can create the illusion that decisiveness is a universal virtue, equally applicable to culture, cuisine, history and society.
It is not.
Every discipline has its own methods, its own standards of evidence and its own traditions of inquiry.
Administration rewards decisiveness.
Science requires proof as well as scepticism.
History requires evidence as well as openness.
Culture requires sensitivity.
Everyone is entitled to personal preferences. One may enjoy or dislike a particular cuisine. But when a respected public figure offers sweeping judgments on a culinary tradition that generations have nurtured with pride, the statement carries a weight that extends far beyond personal taste. It risks reducing a rich cultural inheritance to an off-the-cuff opinion.
The High Court’s observations point to a different but equally important lesson.
Strong enforcement is indispensable. Regulatory capture, selective action and fear of vested interests have damaged public confidence for decades.
Officers willing to act firmly deserve appreciation.
Yet enforcement is only one half of justice.
The other half is fairness.
Once a citizen or a business has complied with the law, the State has an equal obligation to respond promptly and reasonably. Administrative delay should not become a hidden punishment.
The purpose of regulation is to secure compliance, not to perpetuate punishment after compliance has been achieved.
The rule of law demands both courage and restraint.
Courage to act against violations.
Restraint to ensure that power does not forget its purpose.
In that sense, the Bombay High Court’s intervention was not a rebuke to enforcement. It was a reaffirmation of constitutional governance. Regulators are expected to be firm, but they are equally expected to be fair.
Justice is measured not merely by how swiftly the State acts against violations, but equally by how swiftly it restores rights once compliance has been achieved.
None of this diminishes Tukaram Mundhe’s reputation as an officer of exceptional integrity and determination. If anything, it points to the standards by which all public authorities—including the best among them—must be judged.
There is, however, a lesson that extends far beyond one officer.
We live in an age where visibility is often mistaken for wisdom, and confidence for competence. Social media rewards certainty far more than reflection. Public figures are encouraged to have opinions on everything, and audiences are increasingly willing to mistake fame for expertise.
The most thoughtful individuals I have encountered share a common trait: they recognise the limits of their knowledge. They are willing to say, without hesitation, that a subject lies outside their competence.
That recognition is not hesitation.
It is discipline.
It is the quiet restraint that prevents authority from becoming arrogance, and confidence from hardening into error.
In the end, the true measure of public power is not how widely it speaks, but how carefully it listens—and how readily it steps back when it should.
Because authority, at its highest form, is not the assertion of certainty.
It is the practice of restraint.
And restraint begins with humility.
Editorial Disclaimer: This article appears in TheNews21 Opinion section. The views, opinions, interpretations and conclusions expressed are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of TheNews21 or Kalpak Digital Media LLP. The article has been edited for clarity, language and style, and factual references have been reviewed to the extent reasonably possible at the time of publication. Responsibility for the opinions and analysis expressed rests entirely with the author.
