Seva or Strategy?

What we give matters — but why we give matters far more

As the grand chariots of Lord Jagannath, Lord Balabhadra, and Devi Subhadra majestically roll along the Grand Road of Puri, a sea of humanity surges forward in devotional ecstasy. The Rath Yatra is far more than a festival — it is a living embodiment of faith, a moment of collective spiritual renewal, and an unbroken thread of cultural continuity. Yet in recent years, a new phenomenon has quietly woven itself into this sacred tapestry: the surge of corporate-sponsored free meal drives, promoted under the noble banner of seva, or selfless service.

Today, major corporate houses publicly claim to have served lakhs of meals to pilgrims during the Rath Yatra, often highlighted in advertorials camouflaged as news, replete with headlines touting their “generosity.” On the surface, these acts appear altruistic. But a deeper reflection raises uncomfortable questions — not just about the intent behind these offerings, but about the subtle impact they have on the sanctity of service itself.

In the Hindu tradition, seva is a sacred act — an offering made with humility, without expectation of reward or recognition. It is meant to be quiet, self-effacing, and pure in motive. But when such acts are followed by high-decibel media campaigns, prominent brand placements, and meticulous counts of meals served, one must ask: is this still seva, or has it morphed into strategy?

If the intention is truly devotional, why must it be declared in newspaper ads the next morning? If the goal is punya — spiritual merit — why must it be tallied like quarterly profits?

There’s another dimension that often goes unnoticed — the spiritual responsibility of the recipients. In Hindu dharma, receiving food is not just about satisfying hunger; it is a moral exchange, a transfer of sankalpa (intent). While Anna daan (offering of food) is considered among the highest forms of charity, scriptures urge caution: the purity of the donor’s intention is paramount.

One is reminded of the episode in the Mahabharata when Lord Krishna declined the opulent feast offered by Duryodhana, instead choosing the simple meal of Bidura, a humble devotee. Krishna’s preference was not about the food, but the intent. It was love over luxury, sincerity over spectacle.

In today’s Rath Yatra, as thousands line up at gleaming food stalls sponsored by business conglomerates, do they ever pause to ask: Whose food am I accepting? For what purpose is it being given? Is this truly seva, or is it part of a larger image-making exercise?

Let us be clear — receiving food given with ego, ambition, or self-promotion does not always lead to punya. On the contrary, when the underlying intent is transactional or self-serving, the spiritual value of the act erodes — for both the giver and the receiver.

Corporates now frequently announce that they’ve served 10 lakh, 20 lakh, even 40 lakh meals during the festival. But who verifies these numbers? Are they credible, or do they serve more to boost CSR metrics and claim tax benefits?

In the absence of transparency, such figures prompt skepticism rather than admiration. When Anna daan becomes a public relations activity, it risks diluting a sacred act into a calculated marketing opportunity.

The danger lies not in the act of feeding, but in the erosion of its soul. What should be an expression of compassion is increasingly becoming a carefully choreographed performance — aimed at headlines, not hearts.

There’s also the question of long-term impact. Feeding thousands during a festive window may generate praise, but does it contribute to lasting change? The same funds could build schools, health centres, libraries, water infrastructure, or support rural artisans and entrepreneurs. These efforts might not yield immediate limelight — but they carry the power to transform lives sustainably.

Moreover, indiscriminate mass feeding can create logistical burdens, food wastage, and dependency. The line between support and superficiality becomes perilously thin when temporary gestures are mistaken for structural solutions.

Rath Yatra is more than a spiritual extravaganza — it is also a magnet for policymakers, bureaucrats, and media glare. This convergence of faith and governance makes it fertile ground for quiet brand-building. By positioning themselves as generous benefactors of the festival, corporates subtly cultivate goodwill — an asset that can later be leveraged for land deals, mining leases, regulatory relaxations, or political influence.

When charity begins to serve corporate ambition, the boundary between seva and soft lobbying becomes dangerously blurred.

This is not a denunciation of feeding the hungry. On the contrary, sharing food remains among the most compassionate acts in any tradition. But when the act is hijacked by vanity, inflated for publicity, or weaponized for strategic gains, it loses its spiritual essence.

We must ask ourselves: Would Lord Jagannath be more pleased with a quiet meal shared in sincerity, or with lakhs served under the glare of cameras?

As a society, and as individuals, we must reclaim the soul of seva. Let us give. Let us serve. But let us do so with honesty, humility, and awareness. For in the end, what we give matters — but why we give matters far more.

(The author preferred anonymity — from a desire to let the truth speak louder than the byline.)