When the Red Flag Fades

Srijit Mukherji is arguably the most prolific filmmaker in Bengali cinema. His prodigious output inevitably raises questions about his versatility and creative consistency, just as his impressive tally of awards invites scrutiny of his artistic credentials. Yet his recent films, Shotti Bole Shotti Kichu Nei and Padatik, a bio-fiction on filmmaker Mrinal Sen, demonstrate his creative range and assured choice of subjects. With Winkle Twinkle, Mukherji reinforces his standing as one of the more...

min read

Srijit Mukherji is arguably the most prolific filmmaker in Bengali cinema. His prodigious output inevitably raises questions about his versatility and creative consistency, just as his impressive tally of awards invites scrutiny of his artistic credentials. Yet his recent films, Shotti Bole Shotti Kichu Nei and Padatik, a bio-fiction on filmmaker Mrinal Sen, demonstrate his creative range and assured choice of subjects. With Winkle Twinkle, Mukherji reinforces his standing as one of the more distinctive and enduring filmmakers in Indian cinema. Sixteen years after his directorial debut, Autograph, a personal take on Satyajit Ray’s Nayak, he continues to experiment with form and subject. Like several of Mukherji’s films, Winkle Twinkle draws inspiration from a celebrated Bengali play of the same name, written by Bratya Basu and staged in 2002. Basu, a formidable figure in Bengali theatre before turning to full-time politics, had drawn on Washington Irving’s Rip Van Winkle, first published in 1819. Irving’s protagonist falls asleep and wakes up years later to discover that the world has changed beyond recognition while he remains essentially the same. Mukherji and screenwriter Padmanabha Dasgupta transpose this premise to contemporary Kolkata, turning it into a sharp political allegory. Sabyasachi Sen, a committed Communist activist, is presumed killed in police firing during the Emergency in 1976. His body is never found. In reality, he falls asleep and awakens in 2002, physically unchanged but confronted by a world that has moved on without him. The shock begins at home. His wife has aged, and his children have grown up. His son, Indro, who idolised Che Guevara alongside his father as a child, has become an active supporter of the Trinamool Congress. He has little patience for his father’s unwavering allegiance to the CPI(M), a party whose ideological universe has been shaken by the collapse of the Soviet Union. His daughter, born after his disappearance, studies at Indira Gandhi University, a name that evokes for Sabyasachi only the prime minister associated with the Emergency. Posters announcing Mamata Banerjee’s rise confront him on Kolkata’s streets. The political landscape has changed beyond recognition, but Sabyasachi cannot accept that the movement to which he devoted his life has lost its former certainty. Technology bewilders him. More distressing, however, is the discovery that an old party comrade has become a leader of a new political formation and amassed wealth through dubious means. The revolutionary’s world has not merely changed; its moral foundations appear to have crumbled. His wife, once his comrade and fellow traveller, offers him refuge, welcoming his return with affection. Their son, however, refuses to accept him readily. The father-son conflict becomes a confrontation between two political generations: one shaped by ideological conviction and sacrifice, the other by a more pragmatic politics of power. The film moves back and forth through time, mirroring Sabyasachi’s bewilderment and drawing the audience into his confusion. Politics, technology, education and popular culture have all changed, often in ways he cannot comprehend. Some of the sharpest moments are also the most humorous. Sabyasachi recalls filmmaker Ritwik Ghatak marching in a Marxist procession, unaware of how cinema has changed and that another Hrithik — Roshan — is now the more familiar name. When a man at a tea stall expresses astonishment that he has never heard of Sachin Tendulkar, Sabyasachi walks away, explaining that the only Sachin he knows is Sachin Dev Burman. A particularly telling image captures the film’s political imagination: a street magician’s scarf changes from red to green. The symbolism is unmistakable. The red of the Left, once dominant in Bengal, gives way to the green associated with the Trinamool Congress. The cinematography is equally impressive, particularly the transition from colour to black-and-white when the narrative revisits the past. Ritwik Chakraborty is outstanding as Sabyasachi, convincingly conveying the bewilderment and stubbornness of a man unable to reconcile his convictions with reality. Anasuya Majumdar as his middle-aged wife and Sohini Sarkar as her younger self provide strong support. The sudden violence in the father-son confrontation is perhaps the film’s principal weakness, disrupting an otherwise nuanced exploration of ideological estrangement. Yet, Winkle Twinkle remains one of Mukherji’s finest films. Its central insight is both poignant and political: Sabyasachi’s tragedy lies not simply in having lost years of his life, but in discovering that history has moved on without him and that the revolution he believed would change the world has itself become a relic of the past. (The writer is an National Award-winning film scholar.)

From Force to Fellowship

Praveen Dixit

Feb 22

4 min read

India’s laws and policing must finally shed their colonial skin and learn to govern by consent rather than coercion.

India’s legal and policing architecture still carries the unmistakable imprint of the Raj. Its instincts are adversarial, its reflexes coercive, and its imagination confined to order rather than justice. That gap between authority and legitimacy is not merely administrative but philosophical, and it urgently needs repair.

Let us turn to statecraft as explained in the Valmiki Ramayana. In a dialogue in the Ayodhya Kand, Lord Ram explains the meaning of justice to Bharat. It is worth revisiting these ideas in the original epic to appreciate the values emphasised there and apply them to our present circumstances. Justice, in that telling, is not domination by law but moral authority exercised for public welfare. Modern India, for all its constitutional sophistication, has drifted far from that intuition.

Unruly Dissent

Consider the management of protest where roads are blocked, railways paralysed, campuses shut down often in the name of peaceful dissent. Courts are increasingly impatient with this theatre of disruption. In January 2026, while rejecting bail for Umar Khalid and Shajeel Imran, the Supreme Court of India held that a “terrorist act” under UAPA could extend to disruption of essential supplies and civic life even without overt violence. Universities have followed suit. Delhi University recently warned that “unrestricted public gathering” risks escalation and deterioration of law and order.

Some time back, when Manoj Jarange-Patil proposed to bringthousands of agitators in Mumbai in support of his demand forreservation for Maratha community, his advocates had furnishedwritten undertakings to the Bombay High Court stating they would not disrupt normal life in the city. However, things happened exactly opposite and when theHigh Court called for his explanation, Jarange submitted that the personswho did obstruct normal life were not his followers. Thus, protestleaders do not take the responsibility for the escalation of thesituation which takes unruly turn.

The right to protest does not include the right to paralyse normal economic and civil activity. The habit of defying law enforcement has roots in the freedom struggle, when M.K. Gandhi deployed non-cooperation as a weapon against foreign rule. After independence, however, mass protests that disrupt everyday life must be curtailed through clear legal provisions and broad political consensus.

No one has the right to block roads or railways while claiming peaceful intent. Protest leaders cannot disown responsibility when crowds turn unruly. A republic cannot function on perpetual exception.

If protest reveals the state’s weakness, corruption reveals its rot. Across South Asia, Africa, Latin America and Eastern Europe, recent upheavals share a common cause: youth anger at unaccountable, corrupt governance. According to the Berlin-based watchdog Transparency International, India ranks 91st on the Corruption Perception Index 2025. Its warning is stark: corruption hollows out hospitals, infrastructure and the hopes of young people.

Colonial Hangover

India’s anti-corruption framework remains a colonial hangover. The Prevention of Corruption Act was born amid wartime shortages, not democratic expectations. Today, there is a widespread perception that no routine work moves without greasing palms, often at the behest of seniors. Pay commissions have raised salaries handsomely; corruption has nevertheless escalated. Trap cases take a decade to be heard and disproportionate-assets cases languish. Even judicial officers are no longer immune from suspicion. In countries such as Japan, South Korea and Singapore, Prime Ministers and Presidents go to jail when wrongdoing is proved. In India, deterrence is weak and delay is the norm. Unless corruption is tackled in earnest, the fruits of growth will remain far from the common citizen.

Nowhere is the colonial inheritance clearer than in policing. The system of district superintendents under magistrates, and commissioners with magisterial powers, was designed to perpetuate imperial rule while maintaining a façade of order. Police were agents of authority, not partners of the public. That model persisted after 1947 with few changes. It is now overburdened and distrusted. The results are familiar: frequent breakdowns of law and order; the rise of organised crime, terrorism, narco-trafficking and cyber offences; political interference; and public hostility so intense that policemen are attacked even during routine duties. Police have become a reactive force, arriving after the damage is done.

Innovative Solutions

Yet India has changed. It has a youthful demographic surplus, socially committed citizens, and many able elderly people willing to contribute to public life. Policing must adapt accordingly. With this in mind, I experimented with a different approach while serving as Commissioner of Police in Nagpur between 2008 and 2010 in form of the ‘Police Mitr’a scheme.

In this, every police station involved vetted local volunteers - men and women, from all communities - to assist the police under strict supervision. They were trained to prevent rumours, identify suspicious objects, help missing children, assist senior citizens, manage traffic at peak hours, and regulate crowds during festivals and public meetings. They did not act independently. Volunteers performed tasks only under police guidance; no identity cards were issued to prevent misuse.

The effects were tangible. Street-level crime fell by over 15 percent. Complaints about non-registration of offences nearly disappeared. There were no custodial deaths and no allegations of third-degree methods. This was not vigilantism Volunteers helped uncover serious crimes, reduced corruption by increasing transparency, and educated neighbourhoods about cybercrime, fraud and radicalisation. They acted, quite literally, as ambassadors of peace and justice.

Encouraged by these results, I expanded the scheme across Maharashtra after 2015 (excluding Mumbai). Over 200,000 citizens volunteered. Assaults on vulnerable groups declined by more than 10 percent. Street crime fell sharply. Several radicalised youths were identified early and restored to normalcy. Coastal volunteers assisted with maritime security; rural volunteers helped prevent armed robberies; urban volunteers managed massive crowds during Eid, Ganapati and Navratri. The scheme had no financial burden and required no legal amendment, only leadership and trust.

Its limitation is revealing. The scheme survives only where senior officers support it. Without institutional backing or integration into police training, such initiatives remain fragile.

Legal reform in India need not mean endless new statutes. It requires a shift in attitude - from suspicion to trust, from force to fellowship. A state that distrusts its citizens will always need coercion. One that trusts them may finally earn peace and govern a truly modern republic.

(The author is former Director General of Police, Maharashtra. Views personal.)

When the Red Flag Fades

From Force to Fellowship

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