Sunetra Pawar’s Trial by Fire

The greatest challenge before Maharashtra’s first Deputy CM is not merely to govern, but to forge a political identity that is unmistakably her own. Politics often rewards the loudest voice. The modern political arena thrives on sharp sound bites, relentless television appearances and instant responses on social media. Yet, some leaders begin their journey not with thunder but with quiet resolve. Maharashtra’s Deputy Chief Minister Sunetra Pawar finds herself at precisely such a moment. In...

min read

The greatest challenge before Maharashtra’s first Deputy CM is not merely to govern, but to forge a political identity that is unmistakably her own. Politics often rewards the loudest voice. The modern political arena thrives on sharp sound bites, relentless television appearances and instant responses on social media. Yet, some leaders begin their journey not with thunder but with quiet resolve. Maharashtra’s Deputy Chief Minister Sunetra Pawar finds herself at precisely such a moment. In recent days, she has been drawn into an avoidable political controversy after the Maharashtra Congress dubbed her as “Gungi Gudiya” (“mute doll”) following a media interaction in which she chose not to answer journalists' questions. The remark quickly snowballed into a wider debate about the language used against women occupying high constitutional office. It also revived memories of the same epithet once directed at late Congress Prime Minister Indira Gandhi before she went on to become one of India’s most formidable political figures. Until recently, Sunetra Pawar remained largely outside the glare of frontline politics. She was better known in Baramati for her work in education, healthcare and social welfare than for fiery speeches or electoral campaigns. Her public image was that of a composed, private individual who preferred institution-building to political theatre. Political Limelight That changed in 2024 when she entered electoral politics, contesting the Lok Sabha election from Baramati against her sister-in-law, Supriya Sule. Though unsuccessful, she later entered Parliament through the Rajya Sabha, where she quietly focused on organisational responsibilities and social initiatives rather than cultivating a high-profile parliamentary persona. The defining moment came in January this year with the tragic death of her husband, Ajit Pawar, one of the state’s most experienced and influential political leaders. His passing created a political vacuum within the Nationalist Congress Party. At a moment of uncertainty, Sunetra Pawar stepped forward to shoulder responsibilities that few had imagined she would inherit so soon. Within days, she became Maharashtra’s first woman Deputy Chief Minister - a milestone in the state’s political history. But such transitions are rarely straightforward. Political parties often struggle when towering personalities disappear, and observers had predicted that the NCP might witness internal divisions. Maintaining organisational cohesion during a leadership transition is itself a considerable achievement, particularly in a state where political loyalties are often fluid and intensely personalised. However, much of the public conversation around Sunetra Pawar continues to be framed through comparisons with Ajit Pawar. The contrast is obvious. Ajit Pawar was known for his decisiveness, administrative grip and unmistakable public presence. Sunetra Pawar, by contrast, has generally remained soft-spoken, measured and reluctant to engage in unnecessary confrontation. Her supporters see restraint, dignity and maturity but critics see hesitation and insufficient public engagement. Neither assessment is entirely unfair. That is why the recent Beed incident acquired significance beyond a routine press interaction. When reporters sought her comments on law and order and she chose to leave without responding, the political vacuum was quickly filled by her opponents. The Congress’s “Gungi Gudiya” remark predictably provoked protests from the NCP and criticism from leaders across the ruling alliance, many of whom argued that such language diminished the dignity of a woman holding one of the state’s highest offices. Sunetra Pawar’s own response was notably restrained. She said she would offer a “fitting reply at the appropriate time.” The remark was consistent with the temperament she has displayed since entering public life. Leadership is ultimately judged not only by composure but also by visibility. Every major political figure eventually reaches a point where inherited legitimacy must give way to earned authority. Indira Gandhi had to step beyond Jawaharlal Nehru's towering legacy before she was recognised in her own right. Rajiv Gandhi, too, had to emerge from the shadow of Indira Gandhi while navigating extraordinary political circumstances. Their journeys were shaped by vastly different contexts, but they illustrate a universal truth: every successor must eventually become an original. Sunetra Pawar now confronts a similar, though far more modest, challenge. She must cease to be viewed primarily as “Ajit Pawar's wife” and come into her own. Distinct Identity That transformation cannot be achieved through symbolism alone. After all, lasting political stature is built through decisions, administrative outcomes and public confidence. To her credit, she has remained engaged with governance, regularly attending official programmes, reviewing development projects and interacting with citizens instead of chasing daily headlines. Yet the next stage of leadership demands something more. She will need to engage more confidently with the media, articulate her government's priorities in her own voice, and establish an administrative record that reflects independent judgement rather than inherited expectations. These are demanding tasks, but they are neither unusual nor unattainable. It is still too soon to measure Sunetra Pawar’s political legacy. She assumed responsibility at a moment when both her party and the state were adjusting to an unexpected transition, and has so far navigated that passage with composure. Yet political inheritance has a limited shelf life. While quietness, in itself, is neither a virtue nor a weakness, it acquires meaning only when it is accompanied by clarity and conviction. If Sunetra Pawar is to leave an enduring imprint on Maharashtra's politics, it will not be by echoing the style of Ajit Pawar or by answering every taunt from her opponents. It will be by developing a public voice that reflects her own instincts, her own priorities and, ultimately, her own leadership. (The writer is a political observer. Views personal.)

A Maze in Chhattisgarh

Shoma A. Chatterji
Aug 12, 2025
3 min read

How a small state’s dialect cinema won India’s highest film honour in 2019.

Chhattisgarh, a heavily forested state in central India, is better known for its temples, waterfalls and tribal markets than for its cinematic output. Sirpur, a temple town on the Mahanadi River near the capital Raipur, boasts the red-brick Lakshmana Temple, adorned with carvings from Hindu mythology. In the far south, Jagdalpur hosts the bustling Sanjay Market on Sundays, a barter hub for local tribes. The thunderous Chitrakoot Falls, further northwest, is the state’s postcard image. Cinema, at least until recently, barely featured in its cultural landscape.

Yet, slowly and stubbornly, a film industry in the local Chhattisgarhi dialect has taken root. These films are aimed squarely at local audiences, and at preserving and projecting Chhattisgarhi culture through simple, often intimate, storytelling.

In 2019, the industry scored an unprecedented breakthrough after ‘Bhulan, The Maze’ became the first Chhattisgarhi film to win a National Award, India’s highest official recognition for cinema.

The film, adapted from Sanjeev Buxy’s novel ‘Bhulan Kanda.’ was directed and produced by Manoj Verma, with his wife Aarti Verma as co-producer. The title refers to a plant found in Chhattisgarh’s forests. Step on it, legend says, and you lose your way, condemned to wander until someone touches you and breaks the spell. Verma uses this folklore as a metaphor for a judicial system that has lost its moral compass, and for the villagers’ own ideas of justice.

Language is central to the film’s authenticity. Villagers speak in Chhattisgarhi; Raipur townsfolk in Hindi; court proceedings in Hindi too, though lawyers lapse into Chhattisgarhi when interrogating rural witnesses.

The story is disarmingly simple. In Mahubhata, a tribal village, two illiterate farmers - Bhakla and Birju - quarrel over land boundaries. One is unaware that the local law has recently changed. In a scuffle, Birju falls on a plough and dies. Bhakla, though innocent, faces the prospect of arrest. Instead, villagers hand over Ganjha, an old, homeless man. His ‘confession’ is motivated by hunger; prison, he reasons, offers food, clothing and shelter.

The plot twists when Ganjha’s good behaviour prompts a kindly jailor to petition the high court for a retrial. The truth emerges that Bhakla was responsible, albeit accidentally. The entire village, however, rallies behind him, arguing he is incapable of malice and must support his wife and children. Their collective deceit leads to mass arrests. Bhakla is sentenced to death. Two different men have now been punished for the same crime. What does that say about the justice system? Has it, too, stepped on the mythical Bhulan Kanda?

Verma’s ending delivers a quiet jolt. The court acquits Bhakla in a rare reversal, underscoring the film’s central question: can a society so wedded to procedural law recognise justice grounded in humanity, solidarity and harmony? “When I read the novel, I found the subject was global,” Verma says. “The metaphor of Bhulan Kanda could portray the actual condition of the social and judicial system anywhere.”

The film’s road to production was, in its own way, a test of local pride. Verma recalls attending the International Film Festival of India (IFFI) in 2011. Introduced to a group of producers as hailing from Chhattisgarh, he was met with incredulity: did the state even have a film industry? One asked, mockingly, whether Chhattisgarhi films ever went beyond the state’s borders.

Verma’s career began in 2009 with Mahun Deewana Tahun Deewani, followed by Mister Tetkuram in 2011 and Du Lafadu in 2012. Bhulan, The Maze proved his most ambitious work, winning awards at various Indian festivals and featuring in non-competitive screenings elsewhere.

Shot across three locations, the film grounds its narrative in the textures of Chhattisgarh. The primary setting is Mahubhata, a Bhunjiya tribal village near Gariyaband, about 130km from Raipur. Prison scenes were filmed at the newly built Khairagarh Jail; courtroom sequences in Raipur. The soundtrack mixes local folk traditions with ghazal poetry by Mir Taqi Mir, set to music by Verma and Praveen Pravaah, and sung by Kailash Kher and others. The cast blends recognisable television faces with non-professional locals, creating the illusion of a documentary.

For all its moral questioning, Bhulan, The Maze is unabashedly mainstream yet its flavour is distinct from Bollywood’s formulaic spectacle. It entertains without diluting its regional essence, proving that small industries can produce cinema that is both culturally specific and nationally resonant.

(The author is a noted film scholar and a double-winner for the National Award for Best Writing on Cinema. Views personal.)