Education in India was never meant to be a mechanical system of degrees, boards, and bureaucratic bills. It was a civilizational discipline—a tapasya of truth. Our ancient thinkers understood this with a depth that modern policy often fails to grasp. Maharshi Kanada searched for the smallest particle of existence; Varāhamihira mapped the skies with scientific precision; Sushruta dissected the human body with clinical mastery; Patanjali explored the mind with the rigour of a psychologist. They were scientists and sages at once. Their classrooms were forests, their curriculum was inquiry, and their goal was not employment but enlightenment.

Sri Aurobindo captured this essence when he wrote: “The first principle of true teaching is that nothing can be taught.” He meant that education is not the transfer of information but the awakening of the soul’s own power to know. Swami Vivekananda echoed the same truth: “Education is the manifestation of the perfection already in man.” These were not poetic lines; they were philosophical frameworks. They insisted that the purpose of education is to discover truth—not to manufacture conformity.

Western thinkers, too, understood this humility before knowledge. Sheldon Wolin warned that democracy collapses when systems become over‑centralized and citizens lose participation. David Held argued that real democracy requires shared power, not concentrated authority. Dante Germino reminded us that political systems must evolve through research, critique, and lived experience—not through rigid imposition. None of them claimed their theories as final truths; they offered them as evolving inquiries.

Against this backdrop, the present moment in India feels unsettling. If NEP 2020 was meant to be a transformative blueprint, why does the nation suddenly need a new Viksit Bharat Adhiyan Bill 2025? What failure is being corrected? What urgency demands a new architecture? And why does this new bill seem to move further away from the very principles that once made Indian education a civilizational force?

The most troubling signal is the centralization of power. The breaking down of UGC, AICTE, and the entire teacher‑training ecosystem into a single authority under the ministry—HEFA—may appear efficient on paper, but philosophically it contradicts the democratic spirit of education. Teacher training, which should be the most decentralized, context‑sensitive, and community‑rooted process, risks becoming a uniform administrative pipeline. Wolin would call this “inverted democracy”—where participation shrinks and representation becomes ornamental.

And then there is the uncomfortable data. If the government truly believes in a commune‑style, inclusive education system—like the ancient gurukulas where Krishna and Sudama learned together—why have over one lakh government primary schools been shut down in the last decade? How does a nation that still distributes 5 kg ration to millions imagine that a capitalist model of education will not deepen inequality? How can a bill claim to democratize learning when its structure concentrates authority and reduces local autonomy?

The deeper tragedy is conceptual. A system that once produced seekers of truth now produces seekers of certificates. A civilization that once valued inquiry now values compliance. A nation that once believed education was a spiritual journey now treats it as an administrative file.

The failure, therefore, is not merely in the bill—it is in the imagination behind it. It is the failure to understand what Aurobindo meant when he said nothing can be taught. It is the failure to remember what Vivekananda meant by the perfection within. It is the failure to honour what Kanada, Varāhamihira, Sushruta, and Patanjali practiced: research as a way of life, not a line item in a budget.

If India truly seeks to become “Viksit,” it must first reclaim the meaning of education—not as a system to be controlled, but as a truth to be discovered. Only then can policy become philosophy, and reform become renaissance.

 When Policy Centralises What Civilization Once Decentralised

If the first part of this story is about forgetting the meaning of education, the second part is about the structural consequences of that forgetting. Because when a nation misunderstands the philosophy of learning, it inevitably misdesigns the machinery that delivers it. The Viksit Bharat Adhiyan Bill 2025 is not merely a policy document—it is a mirror reflecting the deeper confusion of a state that wants global rankings but ignores ground realities, that speaks of democratization while building centralization, and that invokes ancient wisdom while dismantling its modern equivalents.

The most glaring contradiction lies in the centralization of educational governance. The bill proposes collapsing UGC, AICTE, NCTE (teacher‑training bodies), and multiple regulatory frameworks into a single authority under the ministry. On paper, this looks efficient. In practice, it is the opposite of what both Indian and global educational philosophy recommends. Teacher training—arguably the most critical pillar of any education system—cannot be standardized like a factory process. India has over 17,000 teacher‑training institutions, many of which serve local linguistic, cultural, and pedagogical needs. What happens when this diversity is forced into a single mould? What happens when the teacher, who is the first philosopher a child meets, becomes a product of bureaucratic uniformity rather than intellectual autonomy?

The data on school closures deepens the concern. Between 2014 and 2024, more than 1 lakh government primary schools were shut down, largely due to “low enrolment.” But low enrolment is not a natural phenomenon—it is the result of policy neglect, migration, poverty, and the rise of private schools that many families cannot afford but feel compelled to choose. If the state truly believed in the commune‑style, inclusive education system of ancient India—where Krishna and Sudama learned together—why would it allow the collapse of the very schools that serve the poorest? How does a nation that still distributes 5 kg free ration to 81 crore people imagine that a market‑driven education model will not deepen inequality?

The bill’s defenders argue that centralization ensures accountability. But political theorists like Sheldon Wolin warned that centralization creates “managed democracy”—a system where participation shrinks and citizens become spectators. David Held argued that real democracy requires distributed power, not concentrated authority. If education is the foundation of democracy, then what does it mean when the foundation itself becomes centralized? How can a child learn freedom in a system that is designed around control?

The government claims the bill will modernize research. But research cannot be commanded; it must be cultivated. India spends less than 0.7% of GDP on R&D, far below the global average of 2.2%. China spends 2.4%, South Korea 4.8%, the US 3.5%. The crisis is not regulatory—it is financial, cultural, and philosophical. Aurobindo warned that “nothing can be taught”—meaning that learning emerges from inner curiosity, not external compulsion. How does a centralized bill ignite curiosity? How does it create thinkers, not clerks?

The deeper debate, then, is not about one bill. It is about the direction of a civilization. Are we moving toward an education system that awakens the mind, or one that manages it? Are we building a democracy of participants, or a bureaucracy of spectators? Are we honouring the legacy of Kanada, Sushruta, Patanjali, and Aurobindo—or reducing education to a policy checklist?

The Viksit Bharat Adhiyan Bill 2025 may claim to build a developed India. But development without philosophical clarity is construction without foundation. And a nation that forgets the meaning of education risks forgetting the meaning of itself.

 Can a Centralised Bill Build a Participatory Nation?

The debate around the Viksit Bharat Adhiyan Bill 2025 ultimately returns to three foundational pillars of any democratic education system—centralisation, representation, and participation. These are not abstract political terms; they are the living architecture of how a society learns, thinks, and evolves. When these pillars weaken, education becomes administration. When they strengthen, education becomes transformation.

Centralisation is the sharpest fault line in the new bill. By merging UGC, AICTE, NCTE and the entire teacher‑training ecosystem into a single authority under the ministry, the bill creates a vertical structure where decisions flow downward, not outward. This may appear efficient, but efficiency is not the soul of education—freedom is. A system that once thrived on decentralised gurukulas, community‑run pathshalas, and region‑specific pedagogies now risks becoming a uniform grid. The question is not whether centralisation is bad; the question is whether centralisation can coexist with creativity, autonomy, and inquiry. History suggests it cannot.

Representation is the second fracture. A democratic education system must represent the diversity of its learners—linguistic, cultural, economic, regional. But when regulatory power is concentrated in one central body, representation becomes symbolic rather than structural. Who speaks for the tribal child whose school was shut down? Who represents the rural teacher whose training institution has been dissolved? Who carries the voice of the 81 crore Indians dependent on ration when education becomes increasingly market‑driven? Representation cannot be a paragraph in a bill; it must be a lived reality in governance.

Participation is the deepest concern. Sheldon Wolin warned that democracies collapse not through coups but through “managed participation”—where citizens are allowed to watch but not shape decisions. Education is the first place where participation is learned. When teachers, parents, local communities, and state bodies lose their role in shaping curricula, training, and institutional governance, the democratic instinct weakens. A child raised in a centralised system learns obedience, not inquiry; compliance, not courage. And a nation raised on compliance cannot innovate.

The bill, therefore, is not merely a policy—it is a philosophical crossroads. If India chooses centralisation without participation, it risks building an education system that is administratively strong but intellectually fragile. If it chooses representation without autonomy, it risks creating a system that listens but does not empower. The challenge is to blend these forces, not replace one with another.

A more balanced path is possible. First, decentralise teacher training—allow states, universities, and local bodies to shape context‑specific models while maintaining national standards. Second, restore community participation through school management committees with real authority, not ceremonial roles. Third, protect government schools as the backbone of social equity—stop closures, strengthen infrastructure, and ensure that public education remains a viable, dignified choice. Fourth, increase R&D spending beyond the current 0.7% of GDP—because no nation becomes “viksit” without investing in curiosity. And finally, embed the philosophical wisdom of Aurobindo and Vivekananda into policy—not as slogans, but as structural principles that honour the learner’s inner capacity.

The real question is simple: Can a centralised bill create a participatory future? If the answer is no, then the bill must evolve. Because a nation that once taught the world how to think cannot afford an education system that teaches its children only how to follow.