Over the past decade, Indian higher education has achieved something unprecedented. The 2026 edition of the QS Asia University Rankings features 294 Indian institutions, an astonishing rise from just 24 in 2016. Seven have made it to Asia’s top 100, and twenty are among the top 200. Indian Institute of Technology (IIT) Delhi leads the country at 59th place, holding its position as India’s top-ranked institution for the fifth year in a row.It sits alongside Indian Institute of Science (IISc) Bengaluru, IIT Madras, IIT Bombay, IIT Kanpur, IIT Kharagpur, and Delhi University, which all secured spots in the top 100. On the global front, India has crossed another milestone: 54 higher education institutions have entered the QS World University Rankings 2026, the highest number ever for the country.IIT Delhi again led India globally, at the 123rd position. Naturally, these numbers have been celebrated. Prime Minister Modi took to X to express delight at this “record increase,” calling it proof of the government’s commitment to strengthening quality education, research, and innovation. He reminded the nation that this growth is a reflection of India’s rising visibility in global academia.Of course, such recognition holds value: international collaborations, student mobility, research partnerships, and institutional competitiveness often hinge on rankings. For students, seeing their institutions climb these ladders feels like a long-overdue acknowledgement of years of hard work. In a country where higher education often seems overshadowed by other national priorities, this upward trend gives a sense of momentum, even pride.However, while these achievements matter, they can also create a convenient illusion: an impression that if the rankings are rising, the universities must be thriving. This is where the celebration begins to feel strangely out of sync with what many teachers quietly experience every day. Behind the glossy announcements and government praise lies a question we rarely pause to ask: what is the real cost of these rankings? What happens to the soul of a university when the spotlight is fixed so intensely on external validation? And what does this surge truly mean for the people who hold universities together—the faculty?Here is where Peter Fleming’s notion of the “zombie university” becomes uncannily relevant. Fleming warns that universities can appear energetic and successful on the outside while slowly losing their inner life. They may shine in rankings, yet simultaneously hollow out the very core of what makes them educational institutions: curiosity, reflection, community, and human well-being. His argument is not that these universities are dead, but that they are so immersed in the performance of activity that they forget what real academic life looks like.If you talk to the faculty today of any university, private or public, it becomes hard to ignore how accurate Fleming’s metaphor feels. Many say they are exhausted, not by teaching or research, which they still believe in, but by the relentless pressure to tick boxes, upload proofs, meet compliance demands, and constantly showcase productivity.For them, the soaring rankings do not reflect the burnout they quietly battle. While the nation rejoices over the jump from 24 to 294 ranked institutions, teachers on the ground often feel more burdened than ever, as if they must now “perform” institutional excellence rather than experience it. And this disconnect, between public celebration and private exhaustion, is precisely the tension that Fleming cautions against.In fact, when Fleming wrote Dark Academia: How Universities Die, he coined a phrase that has lingered with many academics: the “zombie university.” Actually, he wasn’t describing institutions that are literally dead, but those that appear busy and energetic while slowly losing their soul. In his view, the zombie university is hyperactive on the surface but hollow at the core, driven by metrics, managerialism, and spectacle rather than real scholarship or community.Walk into any campus – public or private, old or new – and you’ll find it buzzing with activity. Posters announce webinars, expert talks, panel discussions, innovation contests, cultural events, and training sessions. A Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) is always being signed; a centre is being launched; a workshop is underway. The social-media team captures it all as proof of vibrancy. From the outside, the university seems more alive than ever. However, behind the public performance of energy lies a profound, quiet exhaustion.Many faculty feel stretched, drained, and oddly disconnected from the purpose of their work. Some are already burnt out; many more are close to it. Almost everyone senses that something is slipping away, even if they can’t fully name it. This is precisely the contradiction Fleming warns us about in the book: outward liveliness masking inward depletion. The zombie university is not a dying institution; it is an institution so busy pretending to be alive that it forgets how to live.A persistent myth about academic burnoutA persistent myth about academic burnout is that it’s an individual failure. Faculty are told to “manage time better” or “practise mindfulness,” as if the problem were personal. But in the zombie university, as Fleming argues, burnout isn’t about weak individuals – it’s the inevitable result of rising demands and shrinking autonomy, support, and meaning.A single teacher in India today juggles far more than teaching. Research, administration, accreditation paperwork, mentoring, events, outreach, endless upskilling – the list never ends. NAAC, NIRF, NBA, AISHE, IQAC, QS, THE, and similar frameworks function like an alphabet of surveillance, demanding proof, uploads, and metrics for every task. It’s not enough to teach or research; you must continually demonstrate measurable “impact” and package every contribution to fit institutional rubrics. Fleming calls this “toxic professionalism”: the pressure to appear endlessly productive, passionate, and perfect. In such a system, burnout isn’t accidental. It’s inevitable.Meanwhile, the university’s inner life keeps shrinking even as its outward performance grows louder. As a matter of fact, institutions have learned to stage excellence: the hollower they feel inside, the more frantic the activity outside. Visibility becomes survival. Rankings and accreditation turn campuses into a competitive theatre where each must look busier and more innovative than the next. Thus, the cycle continues – more events, more documentation, more noise. However, inside the campus, something vital is fading. Intellectual community – the conversations, debates, reading circles, and shared curiosity that make a university feel alive – keeps shrinking.Faculty meetings centre on compliance, not ideas. Research turns transactional, driven by deadlines rather than questions. Teaching is squeezed between administrative tasks, losing the space that sparks creativity. The university starts to resemble a bureaucratic machine with academic décor. Students notice this too. They enjoy the facilities and events, but quickly sense when teachers are drained. A burnt-out faculty cannot ignite imagination. A zombie university may look lively from the outside, but it cannot nurture learners who think deeply or question boldly.Perhaps the most troubling consequence of this transformation is the quiet cynicism it breeds. Faculty know that much of the activity is performative, that documentation doesn’t necessarily create quality, and that many events exist mainly for the sake of auditors and social media. Yet they participate because opting out is risky. Fleming calls this “communal cynicism”: everyone sees the absurdity, but no one can stop it.Tragically, if universities continue to hollow out, if teachers remain exhausted and intellectual life continues to thin, reforms will only worsen the problems they claim to address. A zombie university can’t build a knowledge society; it produces only paperwork and not ideas.The way forward starts with a simple truth: faculty are not data-generating machines. Their value cannot be reduced to metrics. Their time and autonomy must be protected, and their administrative burden genuinely reduced. Accreditation must stop rewarding documentation and instead recognise culture, curiosity, and community – the things that make education meaningful.Most of all, universities must reclaim their inner life. They need to make space again for reading, reflection, slow thinking, and shared intellectual play. These are not optional add-ons. They are the heartbeat of a living university. A university that looks alive on the outside but feels dead on the inside has failed its purpose.P John J Kennedy is a former professor and dean of a prestigious Bengaluru university.