When a Vice-President’s visit to a college campus becomes a logistical nightmare for thousands of commuters, it’s easy to forget that such events are more than just ceremonial pageantry. They’re microcosms of power, priorities, and the invisible cost of prestige. Rajagiri School of Engineering and Technology’s silver jubilee isn’t just a celebration of academic milestones—it’s a political statement wrapped in a ribbon-cutting ceremony. Let’s unpack why this matters far beyond the college auditorium.
The list of attendees alone tells a story. Governors, chief ministers, union ministers, and religious leaders converging on a single venue isn’t just about optics. It’s about signaling legitimacy. When a school’s anniversary gets the attention of national and state-level figures, it elevates the institution to a symbolic battleground for political capital. Personally, I think this reflects a growing trend where education isn’t just a sector—it’s a stage for political theater. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the event’s scale mirrors the ambitions of those involved. A silver jubilee isn’t just 25 years of teaching; it’s 25 years of navigating bureaucratic favor and funding battles.
But let’s talk about the traffic chaos. The police have drafted a labyrinth of restrictions that will turn Kochi into a maze of detours and frustration. From 12 noon to 6 p.m., commuters will face the wrath of diverted routes and parking crackdowns. This isn’t just about logistics—it’s about power dynamics. Who gets to move freely, and who bears the inconvenience? The irony isn’t lost on me: a celebration of progress requires regressing to the chaos of pre-planned disruption. What many people don’t realize is that these restrictions aren’t just about safety—they’re about control. By limiting movement, authorities subtly assert dominance over the city’s arteries, turning a day of pomp into a test of civic patience.
The industry-academia summit scheduled for the same day adds another layer. On paper, it’s a meeting of minds between educators and corporate leaders. But in practice, it’s a dance of mutual benefit. Universities crave industry partnerships for funding and relevance, while companies seek talent pipelines and research opportunities. However, what this really suggests is a deeper crisis: the commodification of education. When a college’s anniversary is paired with a summit focused on collaboration with businesses, it raises questions about whose interests are truly being served. Is this about innovation, or is it about aligning academic goals with corporate profit margins? The answer likely lies in the pockets of donors and the policies of policymakers.
And then there’s the symbolism of the silver jubilee itself. Twenty-five years is a long time to build something, but it’s also a reminder of how quickly institutions can become relics. In my opinion, the fact that this event is happening at all speaks volumes about the institution’s resilience—or its reliance on political patronage. What stands out to me is the contrast between the celebratory tone and the underlying tension. A school surviving 25 years in a competitive field isn’t just a feat; it’s a survival story. But survival in what ecosystem? One where funding is tied to political connections, where academic freedom is often a myth, and where every anniversary is a potential PR opportunity for those in power.
Looking ahead, this event could set a precedent. If high-profile inaugurations become routine for educational institutions, it might normalize the idea that academia exists to serve political agendas rather than intellectual ones. The traffic disruptions, meanwhile, are a glimpse into the future of urban planning in India—where large events are treated as existential threats to daily life, rather than as opportunities for community engagement. A detail I find especially interesting is how little public discourse focuses on the human cost of these events. While politicians and CEOs network, ordinary citizens bear the brunt of the inconvenience. This raises a deeper question: who gets to define what’s important in our society? The answer, I fear, is always those with the loudest megaphones and the most powerful cars.
