Dilip Cherian | Foreign Service Or Forest? IFS In A Tizzy Over Acronym Wars

Only in India can two of the country’s most elite services find themselves in a turf war over… three letters: IFS.

Not policy. Not budgets. Not national interest. Initials.

In 2016, the ministry of external affairs essentially told the forest fraternity: “We were born in 1946. You arrived in 1966. Seniority applies. Kindly relocate to IFoS.” It was the bureaucratic equivalent of “We were here first.”

The ministry of environment, forest and climate change was not amused. It shot back with a deliciously pedantic question: how can a service be both “Indian” and “Foreign”? Is it homesick? Confused? Philosophically unstable? Perhaps, they suggested, the diplomats should rebrand — maybe Indian Diplomatic Service. Or Indian External Affairs Service. Problem solved.

And then came the heritage card. Forest administration in India dates back to the 19th century under the British. So, if this is the longest-standing claim contest, shall we rewind the clock further?

What makes this episode priceless isn’t just the pettiness but the straight-faced seriousness with which it was pursued. Letters were written. Files were moved. Arguments were crafted. Somewhere in North Block and South Block, oxygen was consumed over consonants.

Meanwhile, citizens may have assumed IFS officers were either protecting India’s interests abroad or protecting its forests at home. Instead, they were protecting brand identity. In a system obsessed with hierarchy, acronyms are rank badges. And in Delhi’s ecosystem, reputation often begins with initials.

Three letters. Two egos. Zero irony. If this is what counts as inter-service rivalry, perhaps the tigers were the only calm participants in the entire affair.

The defamation duel in Karnataka’s top ranks

If Karnataka’s babudom had a prime-time slot, this saga would be running in its third season.

In the latest episode, the Karnataka high court has declined to quash the defamation proceedings filed by IPS officer D. Roopa Moudgil against IAS officer Rohini Sindhuri. This feud, which began as an unfiltered exchange of accusations and social media posts in 2023, has now matured into full-fledged criminal litigation. What started as a very public bureaucratic spat has acquired affidavits, counter-affidavits, Supreme Court detours, mediation suggestions, and enough procedural drama to exhaust even seasoned court reporters.

Frankly, civil servants occupy offices that demand discretion, restraint and a certain steel-trap composure. Instead, Karnataka watched two senior officers conduct what looked less like administrative disagreement and more like gladiatorial combat with screenshots.

Roopa alleges reputational harm. Sindhuri wants the case scrapped. The High Court’s message is refreshingly simple: argue it out before the trial court. In other words, no shortcuts.

There’s a larger discomfort here. When elite officers turn adversarial in public, the damage isn’t confined to personal reputations. It chips away at institutional credibility. Bureaucracy thrives on the perception of neutrality and professionalism. Public crossfire erodes that mystique fast.

One can’t help asking: is this about justice, vindication, ego, or all three?

Either way, the real winner so far is litigation. And perhaps a lesson lurks beneath the wreckage: in the age of instant outrage and permanent digital records, even India’s steel frame can rust in public view.

When turbulence hits, Air India calls a familiar pilot

When the skies get rough, you don’t experiment with new pilots. You bring back someone who’s flown the route before.

That’s what Air India appears to be doing by appointing former civil aviation secretary Pradeep Singh Kharola as senior advisor. The move comes amid a leadership reshuffle and just ahead of the Aircraft Accident Investigation Bureau's much-anticipated final report on the AI-171 crash. Coincidence? Unlikely.

Mr Kharola isn’t an ornamental hire. He has been CMD of Air India in its government avatar and later, as aviation secretary, oversaw its disinvestment to the Tata Group. Few people understand the airline’s bureaucratic DNA and its regulatory pressure points better.

Industry chatter suggests he’ll function as a bridge with the directorate general of civil aviation. In plain English: when the regulator knocks, it helps if someone inside knows exactly how hard that knock can get.

For Tata Sons chairman N. Chandrasekaran, this is textbook consolidation: tighten oversight, steady the narrative, and ensure there are no mixed signals at cruising altitude. The simultaneous changes in corporate communications only reinforce the sense that this is about control, clarity, and getting ahead.

Air India’s makeover under the Tatas has been bold, expensive and highly visible. But aviation has a cruel memory. Safety questions don’t fade with rebranding exercises.

Bringing Mr Kharola back into the fold sends a clear message that when scrutiny intensifies, experience beats experimentation. In this business, reputation flies first class, or it doesn’t fly at all.