The Padma system, like our Railways, runs on mechanics as well as mystery: some trains halt everywhere, others like Vande Bharat pass by with aristocratic indifference. A passenger—armed with heavyweight luggage of achievement—learns that his reservation is only against cancellation. After a while, he will stop questioning the chaos and master the noble dharma of platform patience.
The Padma list for 2026 arrives, and our veteran citizen studies it like a railway chart. There it is again: his name missing! His membership of the PLA (Padma Losers Association) is intact for the seventh successive year. He reacts as a man does when the train departs without him—dignified but somewhat demoralised. Soon, speculation takes over. By evening, he constructs data-based theories.
Our aspirant observes that the Padma awards list arrives each year like the monsoon—usually on time, but is unevenly distributed. His research assistant, more loyal than fate, informs him that his linguistic community, a respectable 8 per cent of the nation, has managed less than 2 per cent of the honours in the last 10 years. The Padma bloomed generously for artists (23 per cent), politely for litterateurs and educators (20 per cent), and precisely for scientists (10 per cent).
The names move from faintly familiar to surprisingly close. A banker whom he mentored, his favourite dentist, and even a junior colleague from IIT—each has found a berth. The list, meant to settle excellence, now unsettles his mind. He notes that absence is now routine; it is presence that surprises. He congratulates the winners he knows in person. What interests him, however, is not merit but timing. His admirers, students and former colleagues now stare at him from their profiles, suitably pinned with Padma. A small curiosity stirs: is recognition alphabetical, astrological, or simply accidental? Does the Republic reward bridge and chip-builders more than mind-builders?
He recalls, without fuss, that he had turned down an opportunity to serve in the world’s topmost university to build a world-class institution in Bharat. How he wrote mind-mending books, grew global talent, and fiercely defended ideas and ideals! Then, he consoles himself gently: perhaps the Republic has marked his file for a grander occasion—preferably one that does not require him to be present or even remain alive.
He soon discovers that the PLA is a very large and rather distinguished body. Its members have built institutions, trained generations, and quietly missed the train. The arithmetic itself is comforting—when a hundred odd are chosen from a billion, omission is the rule, not the exception. Disappointment ripens into philosophy. He recalls the phrase, nishkama karma: deserve first, desire later. Awards, he realises, belong either to yesterday or tomorrow; work alone keeps an honest appointment with today. The moment one expects an award, work-life shrinks into a waiting room with uneasy chairs.
Repeated omission, therefore, proves liberating. Desire, finding no audience, quietly retires. Next year, the aspirant will no doubt scroll the list again—old habits have a longer tenure than governments. He will congratulate the fortunate, smile at the machinery of recognition, and return, without ceremony, to his desk—where the only award is the work that insists on being done.