Nagpur: For Tukaram Mundhe, rules are not merely written provisions in government files. They are a shield, a compass and, more often than not, a weapon against a system he believes must work strictly within the law.
Now serving as Maharashtra Food and Drug Administration (FDA) Commissioner, the 51-year-old bureaucrat has once again grabbed headlines with an aggressive crackdown on food safety violations. But long before his latest campaign against adulterators, restaurants, canteens and food businesses, Nagpur had already witnessed the making of the officer who became synonymous with an uncompromising style of administration.
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Mundhe’s relationship with Nagpur has been particularly significant. He has served the city on more than one occasion, with his most high-profile stint coming as Nagpur Municipal Commissioner during the first wave of the Covid-19 pandemic.
His tenure at the Nagpur Municipal Corporation (NMC) became a study in contrasts. While a large section of citizens applauded his handling of the unprecedented health crisis, his critics accused him of adopting an excessively rigid and authoritarian approach.
Yet Mundhe remained unmoved.
His philosophy has remained remarkably consistent through 21 years of service and around 25 transfers: follow the law, enforce the rules and accept whatever consequences follow.
Nagpur and the Mundhe phenomenon
Mundhe’s Nagpur postings helped transform him from a tough administrator into a public figure.
During the Covid crisis, when fear and uncertainty gripped the city, his administration’s strict approach won him considerable public appreciation. His methods, however, also generated political opposition and criticism. A complaint was even lodged against him with the Prime Minister’s Office by Union Minister Nitin Gadkari.
When he was transferred after only about seven months, the reaction was extraordinary. Citizens gathered outside his residence to protest his removal, reflecting the unusual popularity he had acquired during his short tenure.
But Mundhe himself viewed the episode with characteristic detachment.
“Immediately after the hype, there was a downside. You have to be resilient to cope with that,” he has recalled.
That attitude perhaps explains how he has survived a career marked by frequent transfers, political friction and controversy without abandoning his administrative style.
From Nagpur to Maharashtra’s food-safety battlefield
His current FDA assignment has once again placed Mundhe at the centre of public attention.
Since taking charge on May 26, he and his team have conducted more than 3,000 inspections and suspended the licences of nearly 165 establishments. Restaurants, clubs, quick-commerce warehouses, school and government canteens and businesses accused of violating food safety norms have all come under scrutiny.
His basic argument is deceptively simple: laws already exist; enforcement must follow.
“I haven’t made these laws; they have been in place for years. I am just following them,” he has said.
That philosophy is strikingly similar to the approach he adopted during his earlier postings, including Nagpur.
A rulebook forged through confrontation
Mundhe’s obsession with rules took shape early in his career.
After clearing the UPSC examination in 2005 with an All India Rank of 20, he was involved in a demolition drive against illegal encroachments in Barshi while serving as a probationer in Solapur. The operation triggered intense opposition, including demands for his resignation and an FIR against him under the Prevention of Atrocities Act.
Rather than retreat, the experience forced him to confront the central question that has guided his career ever since: whether an action is legally justified and in the public interest.
He eventually developed his own three-point test, whether an action is legal, whether it serves public morality and whether it is in the public interest. For him, an action need not satisfy all three, but it must clear at least two.
That uncompromising approach subsequently took him into direct confrontation with sand mafias, encroachers, government employees and political critics.
It also resulted in his first death threat while posted as Assistant Collector near Deglur in Nanded.
The Nagpur chapter in a long career
Nagpur was not merely another posting in this journey.
During his earlier stint in the city and later as Municipal Commissioner, Mundhe repeatedly demonstrated his preference for direct intervention rather than bureaucratic delay.
His Covid-era administration became particularly prominent. At a time when the city was struggling to contain the pandemic, his strict implementation of restrictions and administrative measures earned him both praise and criticism.
The public response following his transfer underlined the extent to which his administrative persona had connected with citizens.
But his Nagpur experience also reinforced another lesson, popularity offers little protection to a bureaucrat against the machinery of government.
Mundhe’s own response to repeated transfers remains matter-of-fact: the government has the authority to transfer officers, and it is for the government to decide when and where they should serve.
From water conservation to public health
The Mundhe style has not been confined to enforcement.
When he returned to drought-hit Solapur as District Collector, he implemented an ambitious water-conservation programme covering around 13,000 hectares in five months. The district emerged as a top performer and he received the best collector award, earning him the sobriquet “waterman of Maharashtra”.
Later, as Commissioner of Family Welfare under the National Health Mission, he ordered surprise midnight inspections at Primary Health Centres and acted against doctors allegedly running private practices during government working hours.
That stint too ended quickly with his transfer.
But it gave him another insight that now informs his FDA campaign: public health is not limited to hospitals and medicines. What people eat and drink is equally important.
‘A healthy nation’
That belief now lies at the heart of his FDA campaign.
Mundhe argues that a healthy nation requires healthy people, which in turn requires safe food and medicines. The regulator, therefore, cannot afford to remain passive.
His approach has sometimes attracted judicial criticism. The Bombay High Court questioned FDA action against an Amazon Retail India warehouse, asking whether the department was “killing a mosquito with a sword” and raising questions about procedural safeguards.
Mundhe, however, returned to his familiar defence, the law.
His position is that where legislation permits immediate action because contaminated food poses a potential health hazard, the regulator must act instead of waiting for harm to occur.
The episode also produced a revealing moment. After the court questioned whether the FDA was targeting private establishments while overlooking government-run facilities, Mundhe’s team inspected three canteens inside the High Court itself. Two, according to him, were operating without licences.
For Mundhe, the lesson was obvious: rules cannot have different standards for different institutions.
The man behind the rulebook
Mundhe’s uncompromising outlook has roots in his childhood.
He grew up in Tadsonna, a small village in drought-prone Beed district, in a farming family. He has recalled selling onions for just five paise a kilogram and once having to destroy the produce because there were no buyers.
That experience appears to have shaped his understanding of how government decisions affect ordinary people.
Today, he describes himself simply as a “public servant”, resisting the “Nayak” and “man on a mission” labels that have followed him.
His popularity, however, has made that distinction increasingly difficult to maintain.
His current food-safety campaign has turned him into a household name far beyond the bureaucracy. Yet the central character remains the same officer Nagpur saw during the Covid crisis, intensely rule-bound, willing to take unpopular decisions and apparently prepared to face the consequences.
‘If I cannot, who else can?’
Mundhe knows that his tenure could end abruptly, just as previous postings did.
He has been transferred roughly 25 times in 21 years and has rarely enjoyed the kind of uninterrupted tenure that allows an officer to pursue a long-term agenda.
But he says he does not measure his success by how long he remains in a post.
His philosophy is summed up in one line: “Finding the gap in the system and closing it, without expecting somebody else will do it for you.”
And then comes the question that perhaps best captures the Mundhe approach: “If I cannot, who else can?”
For Nagpur, where his most celebrated and controversial administrative chapter unfolded, Mundhe’s current FDA campaign offers a reminder of a familiar phenomenon.
The department may change. The city may change. The issue may change.
But the rulebook remains the same, and Tukaram Mundhe remains determined to enforce it.
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