Thaipusam – A Personal Reflection

 

Thaipusam is an annual celebration dedicated to Lord Murugan, one of the main Hindu deities.

Thaipusam

To Hindus, Thaipusam is a day of profound spiritual cleansing and victory. It honours Lord Murugan, the deity of youth and power, receiving the Vel or the divine spear of wisdom to defeat the forces of darkness. It is a celebration of the triumph of the human spirit over its own limitations, expressed through grand processions and acts of deep penance.

Worshippers carry the kavadis, which are a symbolic burden of atonement or repentance on their shoulders as they climb the hundred of steps to the temple, as in Batu Caves in Kuala Lumpur or walk long distances to the temple. Kavadis come in many shapes and forms, often in the shape of an arched wooden or steel frame decorated with flowers, peacock feathers (the peacock is Lord Murugan's mount), and images of deities.

The procession of the chariot

In the main temples in Malaysia, where Thaipusam is celebrated, the celebration starts a day earlier when the deity's statue is carried in chariots from the temple of his abode to the one where the rituals are held.

The Rhythm of the Streets

Until a few years ago, when my left knee began to act up, I walked in the procession from the Sri Mahamariamman Temple on High Street to Baru Caves, ten miles away on the old road leading to Ipoh and the North.

To walk with the chariot is an experience one never forgets. You don’t walk alone but with a throng of people keeping pace with the chariot.

The air is filled with the smell of jasmine and incense, vibrating with the primal thrum of the urumi drums and trumpets. But look closely at the crowd, and you see the true miracle of our nation. It is a long, winding river of humanity where Indian, Chinese, and Malay faces blend into a single moving entity.

A Shared Journey

Shop owners along the route, regardless of their faith, offer fruits and flowers as the chariot passes. In those moments, the deep but obvious message of Thaipusam reveals itself: religion need not be a barrier that divides, but a bridge that connects. That is the Vel of wisdom.

The Lion and the Chariot

Nowhere is this unity more enchanting than in the greeting of the lion dancers. This tradition emerged spontaneously in our urban centres as a beautiful gesture of respect from the Chinese community toward their Hindu neighbours. To see the vibrant, coloured lions bow and dance before the silver chariot is to witness a sight that speaks to the heart. Two different sounds from two ancient civilisations meeting on a Malaysian street.

Forged by the Winds

Malaysia is one of the few places on earth where the great monsoons meet. For centuries, the winds brought travellers, traders, and seekers from every corner of the globe to these shores. In this crucible, the cultures and religions of the world were forged together, not by force, but by the necessity of coexistence.

This, I believe, is the first lesson of being Malaysian. We are remarkably different, yet we are united by the mysterious ways of history. We are a people woven together by a narrative much larger than ourselves—a tikar mengkuang (a traditional mat woven from palm leaves) created by the long, overlapping shadows of our ancestors.

I am made of these memories. Though my knee may no longer allow me to keep pace with the chariot, the spirit of that walk remains within me. It reminds me that we are a country where the sacred and the secular, the ancient and the modern, and the lion and the deity, all walk the same path. We are different. Yes. But we are bound by a shared history that has taught us how to move as one, even if it is to different rhythms.

In my younger days, as a clerk with the National Electricity Board, my union was one of the movers of the Batu Caves celebrations, together with those of the Telecoms and PWD. I remember the weight of those two nights spent as a volunteer. Chopping vegetables, boiling the dhal and cooking mountains of rice, all under a tent in the heat of a dozen wood-burning stoves.  This was followed the next day by the sheer joy of serving the food and drinks for the thousands who arrived in waves. It was service in its purest form, fuelled by the same mysterious history that brought us all to this land.

Today, 1 February 2026, marks a rare and auspicious alignment in Malaysia as we celebrate both Thaipusam and Federal Territory Day. For Hindus, this sacred day commemorates Lord Murugan receiving the Vel (divine spear) from his mother, Goddess Parvati, to vanquish the demon Soorapadman—a powerful symbol of wisdom overcoming ignorance. 

University Ranking - Must this be our Game?

Global university rankings have grown into a powerful industry since their emergence in 2003, shaping public perception and institutional behaviour far beyond what their methodologies justify. 

In Malaysia, as in many Asian countries, rankings have become an obsession among university leaders, driving questionable practices and diverting scarce resources into gaming the system rather than strengthening teaching, research, or student support. Governments, the media, and the public often use rankings to praise or condemn institutions without understanding what these metrics actually measure.

Malaysia’s higher-education landscape highlights the limitations of global rankings especially clearly. Public universities operate under ethnic‑based admissions quotas and national policy objectives designed to address historical inequalities. Private universities, by contrast, function as fee‑dependent businesses whose survival depends on enrolment rather than research intensity or global visibility. These structural differences mean that institutions are not competing on equal terms, nor are they pursuing the same mission. Yet global rankings treat them as if they are identical, producing distorted comparisons that penalise universities fulfilling national responsibilities and reward those optimising metrics irrelevant to local needs.

A further omission in global ranking criteria is academic freedom, an essential attribute of any true university. Ranking systems do not measure whether scholars are free to teach, research, and publish without interference. In Malaysia, statutory laws such as the Statutory Bodies (Discipline and Surcharge) Act, along with policy and administrative restrictions, place significant limits on academic expression and institutional autonomy. These constraints challenge the very definition of what a university is meant to be, yet rankings remain silent on this foundational issue. A system that cannot measure academic freedom cannot claim to measure academic quality.

To counterbalance the distortions of global rankings, the Ministry of Higher Education has developed domestic evaluation systems such as SETARA and MyQUEST. These instruments assess teaching, learning, governance, and programme quality — dimensions far more aligned with Malaysia’s educational priorities than international rankings. However, despite their strengths, public discourse continues to prefer global league tables, often to the detriment of institutional integrity and long‑term development.

Across Malaysian academia, scepticism toward rankings is growing. University governors and academics warn that rankings encourage superficial strategies, inflate marketing budgets, and shift attention away from widening access, improving pedagogy, and supporting first‑generation learners. 

Students and parents, meanwhile, often misinterpret rankings as indicators of teaching quality or programme suitability, unaware of how little these metrics reveal about the actual student experience.

If higher education is to serve its essential purpose — expanding opportunity, cultivating knowledge, and strengthening society — Malaysia must prioritise rigorous accreditation, academic freedom, and context‑sensitive evaluation over global prestige contests. The real measure of a university lies not in its position on a commercial list, but in its commitment to its students, its mission, and the nation it serves.

When the World Turns Imperial Again, the Individual Vanishes — As Always

I have been thinking a great deal about the origins of government, not as an abstract academic exercise but as a way of making sense of the world I inhabit today. My concerns have deepened as I watch, from afar, how democratic institutions in the United States—long held up as a global model—are dismantled by those seeking to consolidate power. This unravelling has forced me to revisit the classical theories of governance, not to admire their elegance, but to understand how easily structures we assume to be stable can be hollowed out from within. The more I reflect on these theories, the more I find myself returning to a troubling conclusion: that governments, with few exceptions, have evolved into systems for extracting wealth and controlling populations for the benefit of a small elite.

The illusion begins with law. We are taught that laws maintain order and protect rights, that civil and criminal codes form the backbone of a just society. But the more I observe how laws are applied and interpreted, the more I see how they function as instruments of control rather than guardians of justice. Rights are loudly proclaimed yet unevenly protected. The powerful navigate the legal system with impunity, while ordinary citizens are reminded constantly of the consequences of disobedience.

The illusion deepens through elections. We are told that the ballot box expresses the will of the people, that governments derive legitimacy from the majority. But elections often serve as symbolic performances rather than genuine transfers of authority. They rotate faces, not structures. Choices are narrow, managed, and shaped by the same interests that dominate the economy. The result is a political system that appears participatory but remains insulated from the people it claims to represent.

The consequences are visible everywhere. Wealth is concentrated in the hands of a tiny minority, often less than ten percent controlling most national resources. This is not an accident or a quirk of capitalism; it is the logical outcome of a system designed to legitimise extraction. The law protects property more fiercely than people. Policies preserve the interests of those who already hold power. And when the system is challenged, the state responds with the full force of its machinery—legal, economic, and sometimes violent. The events unfolding in the US is a stark example of this.

Closer to home, the pattern is unmistakable. The withdrawal of prosecutions through mechanisms such as the DNAA has become a stark reminder of how the legal system bends to accommodate those in positions of influence. When individuals with political or economic power are shielded from accountability, the message is unmistakable: the law is not neutral but pliable, adjustable when the stakes are high enough. These episodes erode public trust not because they shock us, but because they confirm what many have long suspected—that the system protects itself and its beneficiaries, not the people it claims to serve.

Another method by which power sustains itself in this country is through the deliberate manipulation of ethnic and religious divisions. Instead of nurturing a shared national identity, those in authority often emphasise difference, suspicion, and historical grievance. Communities are encouraged to see one another as threats rather than partners in a common future. Policies and rhetoric reinforce the idea that each group must cling to its protectors or risk losing its place. A divided population is easier to manage, easier to distract, and easier to mobilise selectively when political survival is at stake. These divisions are not organic; they are cultivated. And once internalised, they become self‑perpetuating, making it even harder to imagine a politics grounded in solidarity.

In moments like these, I find myself asking whether there is any way out of this cycle. History offers examples of mass movements that have attempted to challenge entrenched power, but most have been crushed or co‑opted. The state’s monopoly on force, its control of information, and its ability to criminalise dissent make collective action extraordinarily difficult. Even when movements achieve temporary victories, the structures of power often reconstitute themselves in new forms.

And yet, we live in a time when new technologies—social media and artificial intelligence—have transformed how individuals communicate and understand the world. For a brief moment, social media seemed to democratize information, allowing ordinary people to bypass traditional gatekeepers. But it also revealed how easily these platforms could be manipulated, surveilled, and weaponised. Algorithms amplify division and shape public perception in ways that are largely invisible. The same tools that empower can also entrap.

Artificial intelligence presents an even deeper paradox. It can expand knowledge and democratize expertise, but it can also be centralised and used to reinforce existing hierarchies. If data and digital infrastructure remain in the hands of the same small group that controls wealth and political institutions, AI may become the most efficient instrument of domination in human history. The danger is not the technology itself, but the structures into which it is absorbed.

So I am left with a difficult question: are we witnessing tools that can break the cycle of exploitation, or simply new instruments for the same old pattern? History suggests that every new technology begins with a democratic promise before being captured by entrenched interests.

And yet, I resist despair. For all the ways power manipulates law, divides communities, and captures institutions, there remains one space that has not been fully colonised: the human mind. As an educationist, I have always believed that genuine transformation begins with the ability to see clearly. If the illusion of government is sustained by ignorance, fear, and manufactured division, then the antidote must be an education that cultivates critical thought, historical awareness, and moral courage.

This requires more than teaching facts. It demands a curriculum that exposes the mechanisms of power, that teaches young people how narratives are constructed, how laws can both protect and oppress, and how fear is used to divide communities that might otherwise stand together. If we can reshape education in this way, perhaps the next generation will be less easily divided, less easily controlled, and less easily persuaded that the structures around them are natural or inevitable.

I do not pretend that education alone can overturn centuries of entrenched power. But I have seen how a single classroom discussion can shift a young person’s understanding of the world. If there is a way out of the cycles that have defined human history, it may begin with the simple act of teaching people to think for themselves. My hope rests in education—honest, critical, and humane—as the seed from which a different future might yet grow.