From Tina Dabi Row to Influencer Bureaucracy: When Civil Servants Chase Fame
The Barmer incident where students were detained after calling the District Collector a “reel star” should have ended as a minor footnote in local administration. Instead, it has exposed an uncomfortable truth about India’s bureaucracy in 2025. This was not about an insult. It was about power reacting defensively when its carefully curated image was questioned. The remark mattered less than the fact that authority felt mocked. And that is precisely the problem.
At the centre of the controversy was Tina Dabi, one of the most publicly visible IAS officers in the country. Students were protesting fee hikes and civic issues. Somewhere in that protest, a line was crossed in the eyes of the administration. Calling a Collector a “reel star” triggered police action. The message was clear. Criticise policy if you must, but do not question the persona. Governance responded not with dialogue but with muscle.
This response would be absurd if it were not so revealing. India’s bureaucracy was once defined by anonymity. The office mattered, not the officer. Files moved quietly, decisions were taken without cameras, and authority did not require applause. That ethic is now eroding. In its place has emerged a new archetype. The influencer bureaucrat.
Across states and cadres, IAS and IPS officers today maintain carefully managed social media profiles. Reels, short videos, background music, slow-motion walks through offices, surprise inspections edited for impact, and enforcement drives framed like trailers are no longer rare. Officers insist this is “public outreach”. But outreach does not require cinematic edits or follower counts. Branding does.
Consider Deepak Rawat, one of the earliest and most prominent examples of a serving IAS officer building a massive YouTube and Instagram following around administrative work. His model showed that bureaucracy could be made visible and popular. That visibility soon became a template. What began as communication has morphed into performance.
Then there is the viral enforcement culture. B Chandrakala became nationally known through videos of surprise inspections and public reprimands. These clips circulated widely, not because they solved systemic issues, but because they looked tough. Authority became content. The problem is not enforcement. The problem is when enforcement is designed for the camera first and governance second.
Lifestyle media has poured fuel on this shift. Officers like Navjot Simi, Srushti Jayant Deshmukh, and Aishwarya Sheoran are repeatedly profiled in “beauty with brains” features and viral galleries. There is nothing wrong with celebrating achievement. But when civil servants are framed like celebrities, the incentive structure changes. Popularity begins to matter. Image management creeps in. Criticism starts to feel personal.
The line between official duty and personal branding is crossed most dangerously when public office itself becomes a prop. Amar Kataria has been cited in public reporting for blurring that boundary, using official settings and authority in social media content. Taxpayer-funded offices, uniforms, and institutional power are not personal marketing tools. Treating them as such is not innovation. It is conduct unbecoming.
Some defenders argue that visibility improves transparency. That is a convenient half-truth. Transparency is about information, not theatrics. It does not require dramatic edits or curated narratives. More importantly, transparency invites scrutiny. You cannot claim openness and then recoil when citizens comment on what they see.
That is where the Tina Dabi episode becomes instructive. Once bureaucrats internalise influencer logic, criticism stops being a democratic right and starts feeling like an attack on identity. The state then reacts not as an institution, but as an offended individual. Police stations become instruments to protect reputations. Law and order is invoked to defend image.
This is not strength. It is fragility.
There was a time when senior officers like Smita Sabharwal and Parikipandla Narahari were known for public engagement that centred on grievance redressal and institutional outcomes. Visibility served function, not fame. The contrast with today’s follower-driven ecosystem could not be sharper.
Civil service conduct rules exist for a reason. They speak of dignity, restraint, neutrality, and behaviour becoming of the office. Yet enforcement appears selective. Students can be detained for a remark. Citizens can be warned for speech. But influencer-style self-promotion by officers is treated as harmless, even celebrated. Rules seem to apply only downward.
The democratic cost of this culture is real. When students see criticism punished, they learn silence. When citizens see authority obsessed with optics, they disengage. A bureaucracy that cannot tolerate mockery cannot handle accountability either. Respect earned through fear or curated admiration does not last.
Public office is not a stage. Civil servants are not content creators. Governance is not performance art. Authority does not need filters, background music, or police action to defend it. It needs outcomes, restraint, and the humility to accept criticism.
The Tina Dabi incident should not be brushed aside as a misunderstanding. It should be treated as a warning. If India does not rein in influencer bureaucracy now, it risks hollowing out the very ethos that once gave the civil services their legitimacy.
