Over four and a half decades ago, I was among the journalists invited to take part in the Navy Day celebrations off the Bombay (now Mumbai) coast. We were aboard the latest frigate, INS Dunagiri, alongside President Neelam Sanjeeva Reddy and Defence Minister Jagjivan Ram.

The President took the salute as ships participating in the celebrations passed by. Among them was INS Vikrant, India's only aircraft carrier at the time. A jackstay was used to connect the two ships, and we journalists were told that one of us could move from one ship to the other and return the same way.

A jackstay is an overhead cable that links two ships. The ships must move at the same speed and maintain a consistent distance. If they come closer, the cable loses tension; if they move apart, the cable might snap.

Although I was a little scared, I got the opportunity because I was the youngest journalist in the group. After the President, it was my turn. I had an eerie feeling looking down at the blue waters of the Indian Ocean while hanging from a steel rope.

My confidence was bolstered by having seen an automatic, pilotless aircraft launched from the INS Vikrant earlier. After it reached a certain height, it was shot down by a gun on our ship, and sailors used a boat to retrieve it. Someone mentioned that the aircraft was worth Rs 3 lakh, while the President's monthly salary was Rs 10,000. The only person I knew with a higher salary was GK Reddy of The Hindu, whose reports and commentaries from Delhi were a treat.

I was impressed by the smartness of the naval personnel in their all-white dress. It was a proud day for them, as Navy Day commemorates the achievements and role of the Indian Navy in the country's defence. December 4 was chosen because, during Operation Trident on that day in 1971, the Indian Navy sank four Pakistani vessels, including PNS Khaibar, killing hundreds of Pakistani Navy personnel. On this day, those killed in the Indo-Pakistan War of 1971 are also remembered.

Last year, however, the day was celebrated differently. Instead of the President, who is the Supreme Commander of the Indian Armed Forces, Prime Minister Narendra Modi was the Chief Guest. The highlight of the function was the unveiling of a statue of Shivaji at Rajkot Fort in Maharashtra's Sindhudurg district.

The fort is believed to have been built during Shivaji's reign. The Prime Minister unveiled the statue in the presence of the state Governor, Chief Minister, and Deputy Chief Ministers, and there is a picture of them proudly posing before the statue.

The statue was 35 feet high, depicting a Shivaji Maharaj with a drawn sword, standing on a pedestal. I wanted to ask the authorities why the king was shown in a menacing posture when he could have been portrayed with a benign look. But then, everyone's question about why Ram's picture was promoted without Sita, Lakshman, and Hanuman in Ayodhya was never answered.

Less than nine months later, the statue crashed to the ground, causing a stir not only in Mumbai but also in New Delhi. Statues are built to last centuries.

There were dozens of statues of British rulers in New Delhi when India became independent. The authorities had a tough time removing them, and they were dumped in the ridge, not far from Delhi University. Seven decades later, the statues can still be seen there, undamaged, although they are not on a pedestal, and no one visits them.

Unlike those statues, the Sindhudurg municipality was responsible for maintaining Shivaji's statue. Yet, it fell within 10 months of being erected. Chief Minister Eknath Shinde was the first to blame nature for the collapse, claiming that a wind speed of 45 km lashed the coast, and the statue couldn't withstand it. This was the most laughable explanation. One of his deputies, who still resents losing the chief ministership, blamed the Indian Navy for the tragedy.

The Navy's job is to defend India's coastline from foreign aggressors. However, they failed to notice a Pakistani ship anchoring near the Gujarat coast, and some people from it moving in an inflatable vessel to Mumbai. Their arrival in the country went unnoticed by the Navy, the Coast Guard, and the Maharashtra and Gujarat police until they occupied the Taj Hotel in Mumbai, leading to the infamous Mumbai terror attack. I am sure the Navy has learned its lessons.

Their job has never been to build statues of political leaders portrayed as anti-Muslim, nor mythical characters. Historians know that Shivaji had Muslim commanders in his army, trusted for their loyalty and competence. The question arises: was it necessary to build a statue there for any strategic purpose? It provided just another easy landmark for a spying aircraft to identify the fort.

I am certain that naval personnel did not insist on building the statue. Someone forced them to get involved in the project, only to sully their image ten months later. Now, everyone is blaming the sculptor, a young man named Jaydeep Apte, who got the assignment due to his political connections.

He is now hiding from the police as if he is the only one to be blamed. Everyone knows that a chain is as strong as its weakest link. The statue was fastened to the pedestal using nuts and bolts, which were constantly corroded by the saline sea breeze. A week before the collapse, a local PWD official reported that the statue and its nuts and bolts were rusting and needed to be replaced. It would have been scandalous to remove the statue for repairs within 10 months of its unveiling, so the political masters in Mumbai ignored the warning.

Now, my dear readers, let me offer you two dates to ponder: September 23, 2023, and December 4, 2023. These dates, though separated by a mere 72 days, tell a story far more significant than the brief span suggests. I didn't pluck these dates out of thin air; they were dictated by the inexorable march of bureaucratic timelines.

According to reports, it was on September 23, 2023, that a contractor was handed a work order, a ticking clock set to culminate in the grand unveiling of the statue on Navy Day.

Not long ago, I took a contemplative journey to a memorial dedicated to one of Kerala's literary giants, the poet Kumaran Asan, at his birthplace near Thiruvananthapuram. What struck me most wasn't just the serene beauty of the place but the tenacity of the artist Kanai Kunhiraman, who took a whole decade to perfect his sculpture there—ten years of dedication, care, and craftsmanship!

Contrast that with the Statue of Liberty, once the world's tallest statue, until Narendra Modi took the helm and pushed through the construction of the Statue of Unity in Gujarat at breakneck speed. But here's the kicker: Lady Liberty wasn't the product of a governmental decree. No, it was the good citizens of Paris who pooled their resources—not the French government—to create this enduring symbol of freedom. It was an exemplary example of people's power!

Enter Joseph Pulitzer, a Hungarian-American politician and newspaper magnate who played a pivotal role in rallying support for the Statue of Liberty. His appeal through his newspaper, the 'New York World,' was nothing short of legendary, with thousands of readers chipping in, be it a modest sum or a hefty contribution. The government, for once, didn't have to open its coffers—unlike the scenario with the Statue of Unity, which has, quite literally, become a hard sell to tourists.

Recently, in a rather desperate bid to lure back visitors, the state cabinet held a meeting at the statue's site. Even the central government has jumped on the bandwagon, holding various events there to artificially boost the dwindling footfall. It's almost as if they're trying to stage a comeback for a flop movie.

Now, let's talk about the sculptor behind this latest statue fiasco. He proudly claims he completed what was essentially a two-year job in just two months. Hats off to his speed, but let's not kid ourselves—sculpting is no sprint; it's a marathon. Especially when you're sculpting a figure as iconic as Shivaji, whose likeness is etched in the collective memory through countless paintings and images.

The challenge here isn't like depicting a mythological figure such as Lord Shiva, whose appearance can be as creative as the artist's imagination allows. No, this is Shivaji—a historical figure with a well-documented visage. That's what makes the task of the sculptor so demanding.

We might never know the exact budget or how much of it greased the palms of officials, but what we do know is this: the sculptor completed the statue in record time. But as anyone who's ever assembled flat-pack furniture knows, speed often comes at a price. Perhaps that's why the nuts and bolts succumbed to rust in no time at all.

Which brings us to the question: what was the rush? Was there some burning necessity to erect this statue at warp speed? I recall a lady officer in the Indian Army who, along with her team, built a sturdy bridge in Wayanad that could accommodate trucks—all in less than 48 hours. The people of Kerala showered them with gratitude.

But here, what was the urgency? Was there a war I missed? Couldn't the government have given the sculptor a more reasonable timeline—say, two years—to ensure a masterpiece rather than a monstrosity? A capable artist would have welcomed that time to truly hone his craft.

Instead, by caving to the government's demands for haste, the sculptor has now forever tied his name to a statue that crumbled in less than a year. He'll go down in history not as a master artist but as the man behind a 10-month catastrophe.

It's said that in 90 per cent of crimes, you can identify the culprit by figuring out who stands to benefit. So, who really pushed for this statue's installation? Was it Defence Minister Rajnath Singh, or perhaps someone else pulling the strings? The true beneficiary, however, is clear as day—it was none other than the Prime Minister, who was keen to harness Shivaji's legacy for electoral gain. The timing was critical; any delay in the unveiling would have meant the model code of conduct kicking in, preventing any grand pre-election displays.

Yet here's the real kicker: nobody's pointing the finger at Modi, whose cheerleaders likely twisted Apte's arm to throw caution—and sculpting best practices—to the wind. It's rather ironic, isn't it? The very leader who supposedly champions Indian heritage ends up being responsible for this sorry spectacle, disrespecting the legacy of Shivaji Maharaj in the process.

Success, as they say, has many fathers, while failure is an orphan. Now, everyone involved is playing the blame game. To add insult to injury, the government has set up a multi-member expert committee to find out who's responsible for this debacle. How very predictable!

But let's not stop at statues. Just look at the bridge across the Ganga in BJP-ruled Bihar, which collapsed even before it saw a single vehicle cross its span. In fact, within a short time, 15 bridges have met a similar fate in the state. Then there's the prestigious sea bridge in Mumbai that's already showing cracks, and let's not forget the airport canopies in Delhi that caved in during a rainstorm.

What do all these disasters have in common? A toxic mix of corruption, incompetence, and favouritism. The Shivaji statue wasn't placed on a pedestal of strong brick and mortar; instead, it teetered on a shaky foundation of shoddy work, bureaucratic shortcuts, and political manoeuvring. So when a mere gust of wind—not even a cyclone—swept through Sindhudurg district, down came the statue, leaving a trail of embarrassment in its wake.

Those even remotely connected with this statue debacle should be hanging their heads in shame. Let there be no mistake about it.