During a high-profile technology expo meant to showcase India’s AI talent, a faculty member from Galgotias University introduced a robotic dog dubbed “Orion,” describing it as a product of the university’s Centre of Excellence.

Almost immediately, keen observers and technology enthusiasts identified the robot as a Unitree Go2 — a commercially available quadruped robot manufactured by a Chinese company, not an original research output of the university.

Videos from the summit circulated widely on social media, and within hours the episode had sparked ridicule, criticism, and questions about transparency and authenticity in India’s tech showcases.

Reports claimed that organisers asked the university to vacate its stall and even had the power at the pavilion switched off in response to the controversy — though the university later contested whether an official expulsion order was issued.

In short: what was meant to signal India’s AI capabilities became a cautionary tale about careless representation, inadequate academic ethics, and short-term showmanship.

Why it matters: Beyond a single mistake 

This episode is not just a PR (public relations) embarrassment — it also opens up deeper questions about the culture of higher education in India, the politics of innovation, and the gap between rhetoric and reality in national technological ambition.

1. Education ethics and quality control 

Universities — especially those with public visibility — are expected to uphold standards of transparency and academic integrity. Presenting an imported product as original research, even unintentionally, reflects a failure in basic accountability and clarity — a breakdown not just of communication, but of institutional rigor.

For students and faculty, hands-on interaction with advanced devices is legitimate. But conflating exposure to technology with actual development — and doing so in a high-stakes international forum — shows a worrying inferiority complex towards genuine innovation.

A Galgotias “research scholar,” Dharmendra Kumar, published a paper claiming that Covid-19 could be destroyed by sound vibrations from clapping or bells in the Journal of Molecular Pharmaceutical and Regulatory Affairs (Vol. 2, Issue 2, 2020). The claim echoed the March 22, 2020 Janata Curfew clapping exercise promoted by Prime Minister Narendra Modi—an idea later rejected by the scientific community as pseudoscience.

2. Government priorities in practice: Scientific progress vs the religion industry

A comparison of public spending on science, education, and AI with allocations—direct and indirect—towards religion-centric infrastructure reveals more than budgetary arithmetic; it exposes the political priorities shaping India’s future.

The Union government often cites education spending as evidence of commitment to knowledge-building. The Ministry of Education was allocated ₹128,650 crore in 2025–26, with ₹78,572 crore for school education and around ₹47,000–48,000 crore for higher education in recent years. While these figures appear substantial, they must sustain one of the world’s largest student populations, thousands of colleges and universities, and a chronically underfunded research ecosystem. Much of this money merely keeps institutions running rather than creating globally competitive laboratories, doctoral programmes or long-term research capacity.

Technology and AI funding shows a similar contradiction. The Ministry of Electronics and Information Technology received about ₹26,000 crore in 2025–26. Initiatives such as the IndiaAI Mission (around ₹10,300 crore over multiple years) and a ₹500-crore Centre of Excellence in AI for Education suggest ambition. Yet this funding is scattered across missions and pilots, favouring visibility and announcements over sustained investment in universities, basic science, and large PhD pipelines—the foundations of genuine innovation.

In contrast, the religion industry—pilgrimage infrastructure, temple-linked tourism, and heritage projects—commands political attention far exceeding its formal budget share. However, two factors amplify its impact. First is political signalling: religious projects are paired with high-profile inaugurations and constant symbolism. Second are off-budget flows—large temple trusts such as Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanams handle multi-thousand-crore revenues, shaping infrastructure and public priorities without appearing in Union Budget comparison (s) .

The result is an imbalance where science receives headline funds but limited depth, while religion-centred projects enjoy visibility, legitimacy and multiple funding streams.

3. Spectacle Over Substance

The controversy also highlights a broader phenomenon in modern institutional and political culture: preference for spectacle over substance.

Political rhetoric around AI and technological leadership in India has grown aggressively in recent years, with grand claims about digital prowess, global tech leadership, and indigenous innovation. But when those claims are measured against reality, episodes like this reveal a gap between promotional narratives and actual research output.

Rather than noble ambition, this can resemble marketing masquerading as innovation — a dynamic that critics have long pointed to in sectors beyond education.

4. The BJP-RSS Context: Aspirations, perceptions, and overselling

The Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) and the ideological ecosystem around it, often associated with the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), have frequently championed narratives of technological self-reliance, cultural renaissance, and national resurgence. These themes have strong resonances in public discourse.

But when such grand narratives are paired with weak empirical substance, they risk becoming vacant rhetorics rather than effective policy frameworks.

The AI Expo controversy — wherein an institution aligns itself with big claims (Rs. 350 crore AI investment, “in-house innovation” at a global summit) only to be unmasked over a misrepresented robot — can be seen as a symptom of larger systemic issues: an overreliance on image management, lack of emphasis on foundational science and research, and the temptation to equate presence with excellence.

These are not problems unique to any one institution, but they are exacerbated when political discourse prioritises bravado over authentic capacity building.

Conclusion: A moment of reckoning — or repetition?

The Galgotias AI Expo debacle is uncomfortable because it holds up a mirror: it reflects not only the pitfalls of one university’s presentation, but also the gap between aspiration and achievement in India’s drive toward global tech leadership.

If the goal is genuinely to build an AI-savvy workforce and world-class research ecosystem, then substance must matter more than spectacle, and integrity must undergird promotion. This requires honest assessment, a political leadership that promotes scientific progress over religious industry, rigorous academic culture, and an intellectual climate that values long-term capacity over short-term optics.

Only then can institutions — and the nation — move beyond tall claims and hollow applause toward genuine innovation, learning, and progress.

(The author is a mechanical engineer and an independent commentator on history and politics, with a particular focus on Rajasthan. His work explores the syncretic exchanges of India’s borderlands as well as contemporary debates on memory, identity and historiography; he can be contacted on adityakrishnadeora@gmail.com)

Disclaimer: The views expressed here are the author’s personal views, and do not necessarily represent the views of Sabrangindia.

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Located in the Hanumangarh district of northern Rajasthan, near the fringes of the Thar Desert, Gogamedi is not merely a pilgrimage site but a living archive of north-western India’s syncretic past. The shrine, popularly known as Gogamedi, is dedicated to Gogaji Chauhan, also revered as Jaharveer Gogga, a 11^th century medieval Rajput warrior-saint whose veneration cuts across religious boundaries. For centuries, Gogamedi has drawn Hindu and Muslim devotees alike—peasants, pastoralists, warriors, and traders—making it one of the rare sacred spaces in Rajasthan where religious identity has historically been secondary to lineage, memory, and shared devotion.

It is precisely this inclusive character that has recently come under strain. On January 26 this year, Riddhima Sharma, a Jaipur-based social media influencer, visited Gogamedi and posted videos and statements that were widely perceived as communal and inflammatory. Circulated extensively on social media, the content appeared to question the legitimacy of Muslim participation at the shrine and deployed a language of exclusion alien to Gogamedi’s lived traditions. The episode led to public confrontations at the site and drew condemnation from local devotees and Rajput organisations like Kshatriya Parishad , who accused Sharma of attempting to communalise a shrine historically rooted in Hindu–Muslim coexistence.

What unfolded at Gogamedi was not an isolated provocation by an individual influencer. It was symptomatic of a broader political project—one that seeks to recast shared folk shrines into narrowly defined, Brahminical Hindu spaces, erasing inconvenient histories and displacing long-standing custodial communities. Gogamedi, with its Rajput genealogy and Muslim priesthood, stands as a stubborn obstacle to this project. Hindutva, the political project that this country is under siege currently from, is both Brahmanical and exclusivist.

Gogamedi, Gogaji Chauhan, and the Rajput Custodianship of a Shared Cult

Gogaji Chauhan, also known as Jaharveer Gogga, occupies a distinctive place in north-western India’s folk-historical memory.

To understand why Gogamedi resists easy communal categorisation, one must return to the figure of Gogaji Chauhan himself. Remembered in bardic traditions, oral epics, and folk memory as a protector of pastoralists and farmers, Gogaji was a Chauhan Rajput chief of Jangaldesh or Dadarewa (present-day Churu district) and a contemporary of Mahmud of Ghazni as per historians like Dasarath Sharma, RC Temple and sources like Kayamkhan Raso and Jain text Shrawak-Viatudi-Atichar. These historical references tell us that he was a feudal under the Imperial Chauhans of Rajasthan and the region he ruled, from Fazilka in Haryana to Dadrewa in Churu was called Chayalwara, after the Chauhan subclan – Chayal, to which he belonged.

During the era of Firoz Shah Tughlaq, many Chayal chiefs embraced Islam under the influence of Sufis, one of which was Dadrewa’s Raja Karamchand Chauhan, who became Kayamkhan. His and his brother’s descendants, collectively called Kayamkhanis, have produced excellent soldiers to this day, including many who have been awarded Vir Chakras and Sena Medals. The cities of Jhunjhunu and Fatehpur (near Sikar) were founded by Nawab Mohammad Khan and Nawab Fateh Khan – both Kayamkhani rulers.

Hence, unlike Sanskritic deities absorbed into Brahminical ritual hierarchies, Gogaji belongs to the world of historical figures turned folk hero-saints—figures whose authority emerged from martial ethics, local sovereignty, and popular reverence rather than scriptural sanction.

A crucial, often deliberately obscured fact is that the chief priests of Gogamedi have historically been Muslim Rajputs of the Chayal (Chauhan) lineage, regarded as descendants of Gogaji himself. Their presence is not a later “accommodation” but intrinsic to the shrine’s history. In Rajasthan’s folk religious landscape, lineage frequently outweighs doctrinal religion, and Gogamedi exemplifies this logic. The priesthood here is hereditary, tied to blood and ancestry rather than to Brahminical ritual qualifications.

Gogamedi is also part of a wider constellation of shrines associated with the five Panchpirs of Rajasthan, all of whom are remembered in regional tradition as Rajput warrior-saints – some of them are Pabuji Rathore, Mehaji Mangliya, Ramdevji Tomar and Harbuji Sankhla. In each of these shrines, custodianship has historically remained with the saint’s own descendants, irrespective of whether they identify today as Hindu or Muslim. This pattern unsettles modern communal frameworks but makes perfect sense within the pre-colonial social world of the region.

Far from being a marginal or neglected site, Gogamedi has repeatedly served as a space of political and social convergence. In June 2025, the town hosted a meeting attended by members of BAMCEF (an Ambedkarite organization) and its Rajput offshoot-wing KMM, with participation from both Hindu and Muslim Rajputs. These gatherings underscored Gogamedi’s continuing role as a node of Rajput solidarity cutting across religious lines—an aspect rarely acknowledged in mainstream narratives.

The shrine’s inclusive ethos was also formally recognised by the princely state. In 1911, Maharaja Ganga Singh Rathore of Bikaner undertook the renovation of the Gogamedi complex. Importantly, this was a vital act of historical preservation. Ganga Singh ensured that the Muslim priests of Chayal Chauhan ancestry were accorded due respect by Hindu devotees, granted state patronage, and paid for their maintenance as descendants of Gogaji Chauhan. The Bikaner ruler’s intervention reinforced the shrine’s syncretic and Rajput-centric character.

Gogamedi, therefore, is not simply a symbol of abstract Hindu–Muslim harmony. It occupies a unique socio-political position, binding Hindu Rajputs and Muslim Rajputs—particularly Kayamkhanis—into a shared sacred and historical universe. Any attempt to communalise the shrine necessarily threatens this fragile but enduring bond.

Influencer Politics, Brahminical Assertion, and the Targeting of a Rajput Shrine

Against this historical backdrop, the actions of Riddhima Sharma acquire a sharper political meaning. Sharma is not a local devotee shaped by Gogamedi’s traditions but a Brahmin influencer from Jaipur, whose social media persona is built around performative religiosity and viral provocation. Her intervention at Gogamedi was not an innocent act of devotion but an intrusion into a space structurally and historically divorced from Brahminical authority. What was at stake was more than a generic Hindu–Muslim tension.

The language deployed, and the specific focus on Muslim priests, pointed towards an attempt to engineer fissures between Hindu Rajputs and Muslim Rajputs, particularly Kayamkhanis, who have long been integral to the region’s political and social fabric. By questioning Muslim custodianship, such interventions seek to delegitimise Rajput lineage-based authority and replace it with a Brahmin-centred religious hierarchy.

This is a familiar pattern. Across north India, shared folk shrines—whether associated with warrior-saints, pastoral deities, or local pirs—are increasingly being targeted for “purification”. The process typically involves reframing the shrine within a Sanskritic idiom, introducing Brahmin priests, marginalising hereditary custodians, and reinterpreting history to align with a homogenised and Brahminised Hindu identity. Gogamedi’s resistance to this process lies precisely in its Rajput genealogy and Muslim priesthood, which together obstruct the consolidation of Brahminical socio-political supremacy.

Seen in this light, the Gogamedi episode is less about one influencer’s statements and more about a struggle over power, memory, and control. Control over the shrine implies control over donations, narratives, and regional influence. Displacing Muslim Rajput priests would not only communalise the site but also dismantle a long-standing Rajput polity in the region—one that has historically operated outside Brahminical mediation.

The backlash therefore, should not be read as a mere defensive reflex. It represents a conscious assertion that Gogamedi belongs to a non-Brahminical, lineage-based sacred order, and that attempts to hijack the Gogaji cult into a Brahminical socio-political structure amount to historical distortion and cultural aggression.

Conclusion: Defending Gogamedi Is Defending History Itself 

The controversy surrounding Gogamedi is a reminder that India’s religious past is far messier, richer, and more plural than contemporary political projects allow. Shrines like Gogamedi survived precisely because they resisted rigid boundaries—between Hindu and Muslim, between priest and warrior, between devotion and lineage. To communalise such spaces is not to “protect” tradition but to falsify it.

What is unfolding at Gogamedi today is a test case.

Will shared sacred spaces be allowed to exist on their own historical terms, or will they be forcibly assimilated into a homogenised religious order that privileges one caste and one narrative over all others? Defending Gogamedi is not merely about preserving harmony; it is about defending the right of history to remain complex, uncomfortable, and inclusive. In that sense, the struggle over Gogamedi is not peripheral.

It goes to the heart of how India chooses to remember itself.

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गोगामेड़ी: राजपूत–मुस्लिम परंपरा और उस पर होते सांप्रदायिक दावे

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