The Sentiment of Farewell

On January 3, 2014—just before the end of his second term—Dr. Manmohan Singh, whose name and that of his government had been linked to the Coalgate scam, Commonwealth Games scam, 2G spectrum scam, and the helicopter deal scandal, said in his defense: “I hope that when history is written, historians will be kinder to me than the contemporary media has been.” Perhaps while saying this, Dr. Singh forgot that Indian history records many dates when “a moment’s mistake carried the punishment of centuries.” Despite his attempt to fault the media, if Dr. Singh were to look back at his own record, he would find unresolved knots that he himself never untied. Why, then, should history untie them for him?

What answer does he have to the fact that while he threatened to resign over the nuclear deal, he had to resort to bribery of MPs to prove his majority in Parliament? At the time, newspapers and television channels splashed the news of MPs waving bundles of cash inside the House, claiming they were offered bribes by the ruling alliance to ensure the deal passed. Did Dr. Singh really not know? Similarly, in the 2G spectrum scam, the Public Accounts Committee recorded that then telecom minister A. Raja had kept the Prime Minister informed of every step. On January 23, 2008, Singh’s private secretary even noted on file: “The Prime Minister wishes to informally convey his views to the Ministry of Communications. He does not want any formal discussion. The PMO should be kept away from this.” The CAG later estimated a loss of ₹1.76 lakh crore due to the flawed allocation. On such an enormous financial loss, why would a Prime Minister prefer informal conversation to formal accountability?

In the Commonwealth Games, despite the organizing committee asking for funds as a long-term loan, Singh’s cabinet provided them as a grant. This generosity allowed Suresh Kalmadi to preside over open corruption. Similarly, the Coalgate allocations, handled under Singh himself as Coal Minister, violated rules, benefited select players, and left 157 files missing.

Even earlier, when Singh was Finance Minister under P.V. Narasimha Rao, the Harshad Mehta securities scam shook the nation, causing losses of ₹5,000–10,000 crore. Parliament committees blamed the Finance Ministry for failing to prevent it. Singh even offered to resign, but Rao refused. Critics noted that the scam was enabled by Singh’s own policy changes in the early 1990s, such as relaxing daily reporting requirements for banks, which Mehta exploited.

How many such “coincidences” can be brushed aside as mere chance? How should history evaluate Singh—by overlooking them, or by recognizing that under the banner of globalization, India was pushed into the jaws of blind materialism while social values disintegrated at a pace unseen in centuries?

But not only Singh—many leaders have cloaked their careers in sentimental farewell speeches. On the eve of leaving office, President R. Venkataraman lamented the erosion of humanity under selfish pursuits. Yet throughout his five-year term, the Rashtrapati Bhavan remained silent on burning issues—from student self-immolations over reservations, to the Bofors scandal, to temple-mosque violence. He acted as a rubber stamp, issuing warnings one day and rolling back ordinances the next. How does such inconsistency serve humanity? When famine stalked the land and newspapers reported children being sold from hunger—even as the government declared that food scarcity was under control—what meaning did presidential gratitude to the nation hold?

This is the paradox of India’s constitutional head of state: established as guardian of the Republic’s dignity, yet too often reduced to a ceremonial rubber stamp under Article 74(1), bound to the advice of the Council of Ministers. Little wonder that their “farewell sentiment” speeches ring hollow, echoing what was unsaid during their tenure.

Our tradition values both presence and absence—welcoming and farewell alike. At a professor’s retirement ceremony in Lucknow University, colleagues showered her with wishes. One confessed, after 30 years of silence, that he had loved her since student days. She replied simply: “If only you had said so earlier.” Even delayed acceptance can be a form of satisfaction.

But for Presidents and Prime Ministers, farewells should not be mere sentiment. They must leave behind more than they take. At Gonda railway station once, a retired postal worker departed with garlands, a copy of the Ramcharitmanas under his arm, and joy on his face. The tradition there is to gift retirees the Manas—so they continue to live in dharma. He left with something, and gave back something too.

When our highest offices change hands, however, they leave only with what they have taken. A true farewell should involve giving—so gratitude is not one-sided, and history does not question their legacy. Departure is eternal; achievement lies in leaving behind something lasting. As one child remarked: “A person doesn’t die the day they pass away. They die the day the last person who remembers them also dies.” Should we not then strive to live and act so that someone always remains to remember us?