1961–1962
Confidence does not announce when it becomes dangerous.
It stops listening.
The first sign was not protest.
It was certainty.
Ministries stopped asking whether targets were realistic and began asking why they had not been met yet. Planning reviews became performances. Data was defended before it was examined.
This was not corruption.
It was belief protecting itself.
The unevenness had become visible enough that it could no longer be explained away.
Some regions moved with purpose—factories running, towns swelling, political confidence rising. Others spoke of "future phases" that never arrived on schedule.
The gap was no longer economic.
It was psychological.
Parliament reflected this shift.
Speeches sharpened. Comparisons multiplied. Development was no longer described as collective progress but as regional entitlement.
Why them and not us?
This question echoed louder than any ideology.
I noticed something else.
Criticism had not disappeared.
It had changed tone.
Earlier, critics questioned policy.
Now they questioned intent.
That shift matters.
When intent is questioned, correction becomes personal.
The Planning Commission submitted a mid-term review.
It was competent.
It was cautious.
It was ignored.
Not dismissed.
Ignored.
That is how systems signal they believe themselves finished.
I asked for internal audits.
They arrived sanitized.
No lies.
Just softened edges.
Truth diluted by consensus.
The civil service had adapted.
Efficiency was now measured by compliance, not clarity. Risk-averse decisions multiplied. Files moved faster, but thinking slowed.
Speed replaced judgment.
Judgment requires doubt.
The loudest pressure came from success.
Industries that had benefitted now demanded acceleration. States with projects wanted more autonomy. Leaders who had been validated by growth mistook momentum for mandate.
Success had created impatience.
I met with a group of younger ministers privately.
They spoke with confidence that unsettled me.
"The country is ready," one said. "People want boldness now."
Another added, "Hesitation looks like weakness."
I did not disagree.
I asked a question instead.
"What happens when boldness fails?"
Silence followed.
Not defiance.
Unfamiliarity.
Failure was no longer part of the vocabulary.
That night, I wrote:
"We have crossed from caution to pride."
Pride is not loud.
It is certain.
The most troubling realization came slowly.
The system no longer needed me to restrain it.
It had internalized momentum.
If I intervened too forcefully now, I would not correct the system.
I would fracture it.
That paradox is the final trap of leadership.
I thought of all the solutions I knew.
The corrections I could make.
The warnings I could issue.
And I knew what would happen if I did.
They would be followed briefly.
Then resented.
Then reversed by quieter means.
Restraint had reached its limit.
But recklessness was not an option.
What was required now was redirection, not correction.
I began preparing quietly.
Not speeches.
Not directives.
Preparation.
I asked for military readiness reviews—not announcements. I asked for scientific capacity assessments—not budgets. I asked for foreign policy briefs focused on vulnerabilities—not opportunities.
No one connected these requests yet.
That was intentional.
Because the system was about to be tested.
Not by collapse.
By contact.
I wrote one final sentence that year, knowing it marked an ending:
"When belief hardens, reality arrives."
India had learned to believe in itself.
The next lesson would come from outside.
Not as punishment.
As consequence.