SANJAY PANDITA
There are men who rise in life by the sheer force of ambition, and there are others who rise because duty finds them worthy. Mr. Vijay Bakaya belongs to the latter kind — a man whose brilliance never shouted for attention, and whose humanity illuminated every role he held. To many, he has been a distinguished bureaucrat, an able administrator, a principled leader, and a scholar with a heart that felt before it acted. But to those who truly knew him, he was — and remains — above all, a genuine human being. In an age when power often corrodes tenderness, he stands as one of those rare figures whose gentleness of spirit survived the stern demands of public service.
Born with a temperament more suited to the arts than to authority, Bakaya’s early life was painted with the hues of theatre, literature, and cricket. His mind was trained to seek meaning, not merely success. In the lanes of Jaipur, where he pursued English Honours and later a Master’s in History, his name became synonymous with the stage. Theatre lovers in Rajasthan still recall those luminous evenings when he transformed into a living portrait of emotion — the “Dilip Kumar of Rajasthan,” as the press fondly called him. His performances in plays such as Azar Ka Khwab, Dhai Aakhar Prem Ka, Shutrmurg, Hatya Ek Aakar Ki, Aashar Ka Ek Din, and Khamosh Adalat Jari Hai were greeted with standing ovations. The newspapers the next day would be filled with glowing reviews of his impeccable acting, his command over emotion and diction, and his ability to bring life to words. He was that rare actor who did not perform — he became the role he played.
But destiny, always fond of irony, had other plans. The man who dreamt of being a writer, a journalist, or a cricketer was destined for the rigours of the Indian Administrative Service. In 1970, he was selected into the IAS, stepping into a world far removed from the theatre lights of Jaipur. Yet even as he exchanged the stage for the Secretariat, he carried with him the same emotional depth, sensitivity, and understanding of the human condition that had made him such a compelling artist. These qualities would become the foundation of his remarkable career as one of the most humane faces of bureaucracy in Jammu and Kashmir.
In the labyrinth of administration, where efficiency often outweighs empathy, Bakaya was an exception. He saw files not as paperwork but as portraits of people — as lives awaiting justice, attention, and care. He believed that governance, if stripped of compassion, becomes nothing but a mechanical exercise. It was this philosophy that defined his decades of service, making him a beacon of integrity and understanding wherever he was posted.
His early years in service quickly revealed the steel beneath his gentle demeanour. As Deputy Commissioner of Pulwama — only his fourth posting — he built a reputation for honesty, fairness, and accessibility. He made his office a space where the humblest citizen could walk in without fear. In a period when public recruitment was often marred by favouritism, his transparent and merit-based selection of teachers was hailed across the district as a rare act of fairness. People spoke of a young DC who listened with patience and acted with precision, whose kindness did not diminish his authority.
It was during his tenure in Pulwama that he faced one of the most defining moments of his career — an incident that would test not only his courage but his conviction in humanity itself. In 1981, the nearby town of Shopian erupted in agitation, demanding district headquarter status. The situation escalated quickly, and law and order hung by a thread. As tension peaked, the CRPF deployed there panicked and withdrew, leaving Bakaya alone amid a furious crowd. In that moment of chaos, he chose restraint over violence. Remembering Falstaff’s timeless wisdom that discretion is the better part of valour, he refused to order firing on the crowd.
As the mob surged, stones and sticks rained down upon him. Severely injured and bleeding, he stumbled into a courtyard, seeking shelter behind a closed door. He knocked desperately, and when the door opened, it was not the state but humanity that came to his rescue. A Muslim couple, unaware of his identity, took him in. The woman, moved by compassion, gave him milk to drink and comforted him, while her husband ran out to fetch help. When they later discovered that the battered stranger was the Deputy Commissioner himself, they were aghast — but by then, a bond had already been formed that transcended religion, status, and circumstance. To this day, that woman treats him as her brother, a living reminder that in the heart of conflict, the purest faith is humanity.
That night in Shopian became a lifelong lesson for Bakaya — that a civil servant’s true authority does not flow from his position but from his moral strength. When the agitators later came to the hospital in handcuffs to seek forgiveness, it was not the power of punishment that silenced them, but the power of compassion. They saw in him not an officer to be feared but a human being to be respected. The agitation dissolved without another word being fired.
From that day onward, his administrative philosophy became a living practice: conflicts could be softened not by force, but by fairness; and order could be restored not by fear, but by empathy. His name began to travel across the state as that of an officer who was tough without being harsh, and decisive without being arrogant.
As his career advanced, his responsibilities deepened. As Finance Secretary, he was confronted with the daunting task of addressing revenue deficits and resource constraints. But Bakaya approached these issues with the same blend of analytical precision and humane pragmatism that had marked his earlier work. Later, as Planning Commissioner, he faced the challenge of accelerating capital expenditure while ensuring equitable growth. His ability to think beyond conventional solutions and raise resources through innovative methods won him wide respect. He was never content with mere numbers; he looked at every economic decision as a social responsibility.
His tenure as Divisional Commissioner, Jammu, remains particularly remembered for the resettlement of over two lakh displaced Kashmiri Pandits during one of the darkest chapters of the Valley’s history. The enormity of the task could have overwhelmed anyone — but Bakaya handled it with rare composure and compassion. He worked tirelessly to provide relief and dignity to families uprooted from their ancestral homes, often visiting camps personally, listening to grievances, and ensuring that people did not feel forgotten. In those days of collective despair, his presence offered reassurance. He did not merely administer relief — he restored hope.
During the peak years of militancy, when fear and suspicion clouded the air, Bakaya continued to work with unflinching dedication. He refused deputation to the Government of India, choosing instead to serve his own troubled state. It was a decision born not of ambition but of belonging — a quiet declaration that true service is not about convenience but commitment.
Recognizing his deep understanding of social undercurrents, the government appointed him as Grievances Commissioner, in addition to his regular duties as Secretary. It was here that his humane instincts found their purest expression. His office became a refuge for anxious parents and disillusioned youth — a place where grievances were heard, not dismissed. He understood that behind many frustrations lay despair, and that a patient ear could often do what punishment never could. By offering employment to deserving young men on daily wages, he prevented many from crossing over to the other side. It was his way of saving lives quietly, one decision at a time. Even militants, it was said, respected him for his fairness and his refusal to discriminate. His name became synonymous with trust, and his reputation as a people’s officer was firmly sealed.
In every role, whether as administrator, policy-maker, or counsellor, he embodied the same truth — that good governance is not a matter of systems but of souls. His colleagues admired his calm, his subordinates adored his accessibility, and the public revered his decency. In an atmosphere where cynicism often overshadowed sincerity, Bakaya’s moral clarity became a guiding light.
Yet, behind the formal façade of office, the artist in him never died. The years may have taken him away from the theatre, but the theatre never left him. His sense of drama, timing, and empathy enriched his approach to life and leadership. His love for writing, his passion for cricket, and his curiosity for literature continued to nourish him privately. Those who interacted with him were struck not only by his intellect but by the graciousness of his manner. His humour was gentle, his conversations textured with wisdom, his judgments balanced and humane. He wore authority lightly and carried compassion deeply.
Even after his retirement, Bakaya has continued to engage with society through writing, mentoring, and sharing his experiences with younger generations. To them, he remains a living example of how integrity, sensitivity, and professionalism can coexist beautifully within one human frame. His life reminds us that the essence of administration is not control, but care — not power, but purpose.
Looking back, one can see in his journey a rare consistency of spirit — from the idealistic student of Jaipur who breathed life into words on stage, to the courageous officer who stood his ground in Pulwama and Shopian, to the statesman who guided the destiny of thousands with empathy and fairness. His is a story not merely of achievements, but of values — of how a man can walk through corridors of power without losing the fragrance of his humanity.
For those who have known him, he is more than a retired bureaucrat; he is an institution of grace. In a world increasingly obsessed with success, he reminds us of the greater virtue of goodness. In a bureaucracy often accused of heartlessness, he proved that compassion can coexist with competence. And in a time when public life is often divorced from morality, he showed that dignity and decency are still possible.
The story of Vijay Bakaya is, therefore, not just the chronicle of an accomplished career. It is a parable of conscience — of how power, when guided by empathy, can become a force for healing. He entered the civil service as an artist and left it as a statesman, but through all his transformations, one truth remained unchanged: he was, and will always be, a human being first.
Perhaps that is why, when people speak of him today, they do not remember only his positions or titles. They remember the warmth of his handshake, the fairness of his decisions, the calm in his voice, and the light in his eyes. They remember a man who made governance humane, who proved that in the heart of administration, there can still beat the rhythm of compassion.
And when history looks back upon the bureaucrats who made a difference, it will find in the name of Vijay Bakaya not just an officer of exceptional calibre, but a soul that served with sincerity, courage, and love — a reminder that power, at its purest, is not about command, but about care.
The writer can be reached at sanjaypanditasp@gmail.com
