Reservation policies in India have always been a battleground between equity and efficiency, but what’s happening in Maharashtra right now feels like a calculated assault on the very principles these policies were meant to uphold. Let’s cut through the bureaucratic jargon and look at the real story: a system designed to uplift marginalized communities is being weaponized to exclude them, and no one seems to care—until the courts force their hand. This isn’t just about quotas; it’s about power, accountability, and the absurdity of pretending to follow the law while systematically undermining it.
The Maharashtra National Law University (MNLU) in Nagpur recently became the poster child for institutional hypocrisy. Last year, they allocated 23 out of 35 Ph.D. seats to reserved categories but then handed out 22 spots to open-category applicants—effectively nullifying the reservation. Not one SC or ST student got a seat, and only three OBC candidates were selected. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the university framed it: ‘We’re not breaking rules; we’re just not finding eligible candidates.’ But where were these ‘eligible candidates’ when the university had the power to create them? This isn’t about merit—it’s about choosing who gets to exist in the system. And if you think that’s just one bad actor, you’re wrong. This is a pattern.
Take the case of Dipak Kharat, an NT-C (Nomadic Tribes Category C) applicant who fought for his Ph.D. seat in court. He spent ₹60,000–70,000 to prove he deserved a spot, only to be told his admission was denied during an interview. The court eventually ruled in his favor, but the damage was done. What does it say about our democracy when someone has to sue for a seat at a university? It’s not just about Dipak—it’s about every marginalized student who has to navigate a labyrinth of legal battles to access education. The fact that the university’s vice-chancellor claimed he ‘wasn’t aware’ of the NCSC’s notice is both laughable and terrifying. This isn’t ignorance; it’s willful negligence.
And then there’s the institutional nepotism angle. A rule change in 2023 allowed the 2022 Ph.D. batch to shorten their registration period by nearly a year, enabling some scholars to graduate faster. But here’s the kicker: this rule was applied retroactively to benefit a select few, including the daughter of the vice-chancellor. Her coursework started in November 2022, and she completed her thesis draft, presentation, and viva voce in under 40 days. That’s not academic rigor—that’s a loophole exploited for personal gain. If this isn’t corruption, I don’t know what is. RTI activist Rajiv Khobragade called it a ‘blatant violation of the law,’ and he’s right. Public institutions shouldn’t be playgrounds for private interests. Yet here we are, watching a university rewrite the rules to protect its own.
Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the room: why do private universities face strict reservation laws, but government ones get a pass? Maharashtra’s Private Universities Act mandates 50% reserved seats for SC/ST/OBC, with severe penalties for non-compliance. But when a government-run institution like MNLU flouts these norms, there’s no consequence. This double standard is not just unfair—it’s a moral failure. If the state can’t enforce its own laws, what hope do the people have? The irony is that while private colleges are forced to comply, public institutions like MNLU can operate in the shadows, claiming they’re ‘just not finding eligible candidates’ while their own policies ensure no one from marginalized groups ever applies.
What this really suggests is that reservation isn’t the problem—it’s the implementation. The system is designed to fail. When universities like MNLU have the power to manipulate rules, exclude candidates, and shield themselves from accountability, the entire purpose of reservation is undermined. The solution isn’t more rules; it’s less bureaucracy and more transparency. We need to stop treating marginalized communities as exceptions to be accommodated and start seeing them as integral to the system. Otherwise, we’ll keep having cases like Dipak Kharat, where justice is a privilege, not a right.
In the end, this isn’t just about Maharashtra or MNLU. It’s a microcosm of a larger issue: when institutions prioritize self-preservation over social justice, everyone loses. The question is, will we continue to let this happen, or will we finally demand the kind of accountability that makes reservation policies meaningful? The answer might depend on whether we’re willing to fight for it—or if we’ll let the system keep winning.
