Imagine waking up one morning to find your pillow covered in hair. Not just a few strands, but clumps; entire patches detached from your scalp overnight. After a few hours, hundreds of villagers across Buldhana discovered they had gone completely bald. No warning signs. No symptoms of illness. No genetic connections. Just one terrifying common denominator: all had consumed wheat from the same government ration shops.

This wasn’t some bizarre curse or unexplainable phenomenon. It was something far more critical; a government failure so fundamental that it poisoned the very people who depended on it most. The wheat these families consumed contained selenium levels 14 times above safety limits. While selenium is necessary in modest amounts, at these giant levels, it causes fast hair loss, nerve damage, and hormone disturbance.

“The system is not broken,” as the saying goes, “it’s functioning exactly as designed”—a design that apparently prioritizes cutting corners over cutting out toxins in the food supply. When the wheat that passes through multiple “quality checks” still contains 14.52 mg/kg of selenium (compared to the safe limit of 0.1 to 1.9 mg/kg), we must ask: what exactly are these checks checking? Perhaps they’re merely checking boxes on a form while turning a blind eye to the actual content- a new form of corruption.

What Actually Happened In The Selenium Scandal Of Maharashtra?

Let’s be crystal clear about what happened in Buldhana. This was neither a tragic accident nor a little carelessness. The wheat distributed through government Public Distribution System (PDS) shops, which were meant to be a lifeline for the economically underprivileged, contained selenium at levels that made this essential ration for livelihood into a dangerous toxin.

Dr. Himmatrao Bawaskar, a physician known for investigating unusual medical cases, noticed the pattern after encountering multiple patients with identical symptoms of total hair loss, numbness in extremities, and disrupted hormone levels. Rather than treating the symptoms and moving on, as many would have done in a system designed to process rather than heal, he launched an investigation.

What makes Dr. Bawaskar’s intervention even more remarkable is that he spent Rs 92,000 from his own pocket to conduct laboratory tests. This wasn’t his first case, either. In 2010, when residents from 200 villages in the same district reported kidney disease, it was Dr Bawaskar who traced the problem to high levels of cadmium and lead in the local water supply. Once again, a government failure was only exposed through the dedication of an individual acting outside the system.

The selenium-contaminated wheat had somehow passed through multiple quality check stations, each supposedly staffed by experts trained to detect exactly this kind of contamination. The FSSAI, the FCI, and state-level food inspection departments all have protocols in place that should have caught this toxic wheat long before it reached consumers. Yet somehow, the wheat was bagged, stamped with approval, and distributed to families who had no alternative food source.

When confronted with the evidence, officials initially questioned Dr. Bawaskar’s findings. Some suggested the hair loss might be due to “emotional stress” or “changing lifestyles”—as if hundreds of villagers had simultaneously decided to join a fashion trend of baldness. It was only after media attention grew that the government acknowledged the issue and began recalling the tainted supplies.

By then, the damage was done. Hundreds of villagers suffered the immediate effects of selenium poisoning; however, the long-term impacts till remain hidden. As per the medicines, selenium toxicity can cause lasting neurological damage, reproductive issues, and metabolic disruptions that may not be apparent for years, but will develop gradually. The government has promised medical follow-up, but if history is any indication, these promises will evaporate once public attention shifts elsewhere, and the media of India, the broken fourth pillar of Indian democracy will find any new ways to distarct the public.

How the Safety Net of the Government became the Danger?

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” cautioned Virgil in the Aeneid, and perhaps Poor people of India should also be cautious of governments providing subsidized meals. The PDS, introduced as a mechanism to ensure food security for poor, has instead become yet another vehicle for corruption, negligence, and outright danger.

The bitter irony is palpable. Families who depend on government rations do so not by choice but by necessity. When your economic situation leaves you with no alternatives, you accept what’s offered, even when what’s offered might be slowly poisoning you. This creates a particularly cruel form of captive consumerism where the “consumers” cannot vote with their wallets or seek alternatives when quality fails. They must accept what they’re given and deal with the consequences. This dynamic plays out across India’s relationship with its economically disadvantaged citizens.

From substandard education in government schools to dangerously understaffed public hospitals, from contaminated water supplies to toxic rations, the message is consistent: if you’re poor in India, your safety is an afterthought, your health a footnote, and your very life a statistic rather than a priority.

The selenium scandal in Maharashtra exemplifies this pattern perfectly. Had similar contamination affected premium grain sold in upscale urban markets, the response would have been immediate and comprehensive. But what happens to the poor in rural Maharashtra? The wheels of justice move not just slowly but reluctantly as if being pushed uphill.

As one villager from Buldhana put it with resigned wisdom: “We know the food is probably not good. But when your children are hungry, you don’t have the luxury of asking questions. You take what you get and pray it doesn’t harm you.” This line seems like “when survival itself eats all your energy, food safety becomes an far sight luxury for the poor”.

Can We Say Rations as Control As Our Colonial Gift?

India’s approach to feeding its poor bears the unmistakable imprint of its colonial past. The British established rationing not primarily as welfare but as a mechanism of social control; a way to manage populations through the most basic human need, the hunger. Post-independence, we’ve maintained the structure while merely changing the managers.

During the colonial era, rations were distributed to prevent social unrest rather than from any humanitarian concern. The quality was often abysmal, but recipients were expected to be grateful for whatever they received. Today’s PDS sometimes feels like it operates on the same principle—be grateful for what you get, even if what you get makes your hair fall out.

This attitude reveals itself in the language officials use when addressing such crises. Note how often the term “beneficiaries” appears in government communications about ration recipients. Not “citizens” with rights, but “beneficiaries” receiving charity for which they should be grateful. This framing transforms a basic right—access to safe food—into a benevolent gift from the state, one that apparently comes with fine print: “Safety not guaranteed.”

The colonial mindset also manifests in how investigations into such incidents are conducted. Rather than addressing and solving systemic headaches, authorities try to make individual scapegoats, usually at the lowest levels of the hierarchy. In the Buldhana case, initial investigations focused on the local ration shop owners and district supply officers while leaving untouched the senior officials who design and oversee the system itself.

This approach ensures that while faces might change, the system remains intact, precisely as colonial administrators designed it to function. The British needed Indians to run their administration but ensured the system itself served imperial interests. Today, we’ve maintained that structure, merely replacing British administrators with Indian ones while the system continues to prioritize control over care.

How Can We Detect A Historical Pattern of Poisoning the Poor?

This is hardly the first time the Indian government has served toxicity on a platter to its citizens. The pattern stretches back through our history. During the Bengal famine of 1943, while millions starved, government-controlled ration shops distributed grain so contaminated with dirt and debris that it caused mass dysentery among those desperate enough to consume it. The colonial administration’s response? A shrug and continued export of grain from India to Britain.

After independence, did things improve? The 1967 Bihar famine saw relief wheat distributed with dangerous levels of fungal contamination, causing outbreaks of ergotism—a condition that restricts blood flow and can lead to gangrene. Villagers called it the “burning disease” as their extremities felt like they were on fire before eventually requiring amputation.

In the 1980s, the infamous “dropsy epidemic” in Delhi resulted from mustard oil adulterated with Argemone oil in government ration shops. Over 60 people died, and thousands were hospitalized with symptoms ranging from severe oedema to heart failure. The government’s response? A delayed investigation penalized a few low-level distributors while the system itself remained untouched.

More recently, in 2013, Bihar witnessed tragedy when 23 children died after consuming a midday meal prepared with cooking oil stored in a container previously used for insecticides. The food was provided under a government program meant to improve nutrition and school attendance. Instead, it delivered poison to the plates of children whose only “crime” was being born poor.

This latest selenium scandal simply adds another chapter to this grim historical narrative of a story in which the poor are repeatedly treated as experimental subjects, or rather say neglects, or mere vote banks; rather than citizens with rights.

Vote Banks and Empty Stomachs: The Political Economy of Hunger

Politicians love to invoke the phrase “food security” during election seasons. They point to the PDS as evidence of their commitment to the poor. But what is the reality? These same politicians view PDS recipients not as citizens to be served but as vote banks to be managed, who are nothing more than human containers to be filled with promises during elections and just forgotten immediately after.

The math is simple and cynical: providing some form of ration, even contaminated ones, costs less politically than providing nothing. The bare minimum maintains dependence while creating the illusion of care. True food security would mean empowering people economically to make their own food choices, but that would disrupt the patron-client relationship that defines Indian politics.

Politicians vow to increase ration benefits during election seasons. They make no mention of the safety of consuming such portions. Voters choose quantity above quality assurance. Thus, the system prioritizes numbers over health outcomes, coverage above treatment, and volume over safety.

Think about how official reactions tend to emphasize compensation over rectification. The government’s initial response to the Buldhana incident was to offer compensations for impacted families rather than having an eagle eye to already existing testing procedures or implementing new safety measures. This method of  applying bandages to a broken system that requires surgery is like treating symptoms rather than causes!

The political calculation is clear that paying off victims costs less politically than reforming the system that victimized them. It’s cheaper to compensate a few hundred baldness victims in Buldhana than to implement rigorous testing that might reveal similar contamination across multiple states. The former generates positive headlines about government responsiveness; the latter would expose the depth of the crisis.

Meanwhile, the same politicians who express shock and concern about these incidents often have direct or indirect connections to the very supply chains that caused the problems. The nexus between food procurement contractors and political funding is one of India’s worst-kept secrets; take example of last year PDSs scams of West bengal and Chhattisgarh. A thorough investigation into how contaminated wheat entered the system would likely lead to uncomfortable questions about these relationships—questions that remain conveniently unasked.

Dr Bawaskar: The Hero India Needs But Doesn’t Deserve

Perhaps the most telling aspect of the Buldhana selenium scandal is that it was exposed not by government food safety officials, whose job it is to prevent exactly this type of incident; but by a vigilant physician acting on his own initiative and at his own expense.

Dr. Himmatrao Bawaskar represents a dying breed in Indian public life: the civic-minded professional who sees responsibility extending beyond their immediate duties.

When patients began arriving with unexplained baldness, he could have treated the symptoms and moved on. Instead, he noticed patterns, asked questions, and launched an investigation that ultimately cost him Rs 92,000 from his personal funds.

This wasn’t the first time Dr Bawaskar had stepped up where government agencies fell short. His earlier work uncovering heavy metal contamination in water supplies that caused kidney disease saved countless lives in the same region. His research on scorpion venom and snake antivenom has been internationally recognized. Yet here he was, doing the basic safety monitoring that multiple government agencies failed to perform.

In a functioning system, Dr. Bawaskar’s findings would have triggered immediate comprehensive testing across all ration supplies in the region. Officials would have traced the contamination to its source, held responsible parties accountable, and implemented new protocols to prevent recurrence. Rather, he faced opposition and skepticism at first, and officials only recognized the issue when media attention increased.

Dr Bawaskar’s intervention highlights a painful truth that India’s food safety system doesn’t fail despite dedicated individuals but because it relies too heavily upon them. No system can function properly when it depends on extraordinary individual effort rather than robust institutional processes. For every Dr Bawaskar who catches a problem, how many similar contamination cases go undetected because there isn’t a vigilant doctor present?

However, the government’s health response was almost entirely focused on the acute and apparent signs of hair loss. Medical personnel went to impacted communities gave multivitamins and reassured residents that hair will regenerate.  There was little discussion of long-term monitoring or therapy for the unseen symptoms of selenium intoxication. There were no plans to follow potentially impacted pregnancies or child development in affected populations.

This restricted focus on instantly evident symptoms nicely captures the shortsightedness of India’s public health strategy. Problems are addressed only when they become impossible to ignore, then “solved” with the minimum intervention necessary to remove them from public attention. The underlying damage—to bodies, communities, and trust in institutions—remains unaddressed.

From Outrage to Action, Can We Ever Break The Cycle?

The cycle of food safety scandals in India follows a depressingly familiar pattern of shocking discovery, media outrage, official promises, cosmetic changes, collective forgetting, and eventual repetition, as seen earlier in the case of the Bounvita controversy, the Nestle scandal, and even our own domestic MDH scam.

Finally, we need to amplify the voices of those most affected by these failures. Experts, bureaucrats, and urban consumer activists continue to dominate talks about food safety in India. On the other end, the real receivers of government rations, those with the most at stake, are rarely involved in policy discussions or reform initiatives, which is wrong, as their lived experience provides an important viewpoint without which any improvements will be incomplete.

What Are The Bitter Lessons From Buldhana?

The selenium poisoning in Buldhana represents far more than an isolated incident of contamination. It is a perfect case study of how India’s food safety systems fail those most dependent on them and how these failures reflect deeper dysfunctions in governance.

When hundreds of citizens can lose their hair overnight due to toxic rations, the problem is not just contaminated wheat, but it’s contaminated priorities of our corrupt politicians. It’s a system that values politics over the public! It’s an approach to governance that sees certain citizens as means to leverage their vote banks rather than people to be served.

The true tragedy of Buldhana is not what happened but what is likely to happen next: a temporary burst of activity followed by a return to business as usual. A few low-level officials may face suspension. Some wheat batches may constitute recalls. There may be promises of improved testing. However, without fundamental restructuring, comparable crises would eventually occur.

The selenium victims in Buldhana lost their hair, but they’re at risk of losing much more in the long term—their health, their trust in institutions, and perhaps even years of their lives. Until we build food safety systems that truly protect all citizens equally, we’re just setting the stage for the next scandal, the next batch of victims, and the next cycle of insufficient responses.

Finally, the question is not whether India can afford greater food safety—it is whether we can afford the personal and societal costs of continuing to use failed systems. The baldness pandemic in Buldhana must be acknowledged for what it is: not simply a health catastrophe but a governance disaster, a failure of testing, and a failure to care. And unless that understanding leads to significant change, the painful harvest of these failures will continue to fall on those who can least afford it.