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By:

Rajendra Pandharpure

15 April 2025 at 7:55:54 pm

The BJP’s Ganesha Gambit

Pune’s Ganeshotsav has become an enormous civic and political stage, and the ruling party has proved adept at occupying it. Pune: The city’s Ganeshotsav is entering its final phase, but the festival has already demonstrated something beyond its extraordinary crowds and familiar spectacle: the extent to which it has become a political stage. This year, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) has left a particularly visible imprint on the festivities, using an event that reaches deep into the city’s...

The BJP’s Ganesha Gambit

Pune’s Ganeshotsav has become an enormous civic and political stage, and the ruling party has proved adept at occupying it. Pune: The city’s Ganeshotsav is entering its final phase, but the festival has already demonstrated something beyond its extraordinary crowds and familiar spectacle: the extent to which it has become a political stage. This year, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) has left a particularly visible imprint on the festivities, using an event that reaches deep into the city’s neighbourhoods as an opportunity for public outreach. The political appropriation of the festival has not, however, been without a counter-current. Demands were raised for curbs on noise pollution, loudspeakers and the volume of dhol-tasha performances. The argument was not against Ganeshotsav itself, but for moderation - notably, a complete ban on DJ music and limits on the number of dhol and tasha instruments used by performing troupes. Familiar Troubles The festival’s reality has been rather different. Major roads have been occupied by mandaps. Processions celebrating the arrival of Lord Ganesha have unfolded amid punishing noise. DJ music, while subject to restrictions, has continued. Traffic congestion has become a familiar feature of the festival, with the movement of political leaders adding another layer to the city’s already strained roads. The Peth areas have remained crowded deep into the night. The Shrimant Dagdusheth Halwai Ganpati temple has drawn enormous crowds for darshan from the opening day. From the old city to housing societies and neighbourhood mandals, Ganeshotsav touches virtually every part of Pune. For a political party seeking a direct connection with citizens, few occasions offer such a ready-made network of people, institutions and local influencers. The BJP enters this festival with an unusually formidable organisational base. It has two MPs, seven MLAs and more than 100 corporators in Pune. Murlidhar Mohol, one of the city’s MPs, is a Union Minister of State. Chandrakant Patil is a Cabinet minister in the Maharashtra government, while Madhuri Misal is a Minister of State. The party’s presence also extends into the festival’s organisational architecture. Its influence is visible across numerous mandals, large and small. BJP MLA Hemant Rasane is General Secretary of the Shrimant Dagdusheth Halwai Sarvajanik Ganpati Trust. Kunal Tilak, a member of Lokmanya Tilak’s family, is a BJP corporator. The political and cultural histories of Pune therefore intersect in ways that are difficult to ignore. The BJP’s senior leadership has also made the most of the occasion. National President Nitin Nabin visited Pune to seek Lord Ganesha’s blessings, while Chief Minister Devendra Fadnavis visited the city before and during the festival. Such visits are about more than religious observance. In a festival watched by millions and embedded in the city’s social life, political visibility comes almost automatically. There is also talk in Pune that the BJP provided substantial financial support to Dhol-Lezim troupes and their organisers, with claims that some major mandals received financial backing as well. These claims would require independent verification, but the perception itself points to the depth of the political contest around Ganeshotsav. BJP workers, according to local observers, have also sought to make their presence more conspicuous than that of festivities organised by housing societies. Useful Expedient The festival arrives at a politically useful moment for the BJP. The party has faced disquiet on several fronts. Young people have been agitated over the paper-leak controversy. Broader public dissatisfaction has been voiced over inflation and unemployment, while government policies relating to ethanol and charges associated with UPI transactions have also generated criticism. While a political party can defend a policy in a press conference and advertise its achievements, during Ganeshotsav, its workers can be physically present in neighbourhoods, among processions, mandals, cultural groups and devotees. Politics thus becomes less about argument and more about visibility. That is the BJP’s advantage in Pune. Ganeshotsav, after all, is not simply a sequence of religious rituals. It is an elaborate civic network involving local organisers, volunteers, cultural groups, businesses, residents and political representatives. Whoever has influence over that network acquires a powerful channel of communication with the city. The BJP appears to understand this particularly well. Its strength in Pune’s electoral politics has been reinforced by a presence that extends beyond elections and into the institutions and social spaces that organise public life. The irony is that the very scale of the festival that makes it politically attractive also magnifies the civic costs. The political value of Ganeshotsav and the civic burden it creates are therefore two sides of the same phenomenon. For Pune, the larger question is not whether politics has entered Ganeshotsav. It has done so for decades. The more consequential question is whether the festival’s extraordinary social capital will remain primarily a vehicle for political outreach or whether the same influence can be used to reconcile celebration with the ordinary civic needs of the city. For the moment, the BJP seems to have understood the first proposition better than most.

Golden Voice

Correspondent
Apr 13
2 min read

The passing away of Asha Bhosle feels less like the death of a singer and more like the silencing of an entire sensibility. For nearly eight decades, she was not merely a voice behind the screen but the sound of Indian cinema learning to be bold, expressive, irreverent and when it wished, delightfully unruly.


Born into the formidable Mangeshkar family, the younger sister of Lata Mangeshkar, Asha Bhosle was destined for music but not for imitation. Where Lata Didi embodied a near-divine purity, being the nation’s conscience set to tune, Asha Tai became its alter ego: playful, sensuous, restless and daring. Together, the sisters defined the golden age of Bollywood playback singing.


It is tempting and lazy to frame Asha Bhosle as the ‘other’ sister. Yet her genius lay precisely in refusing such a hierarchy. If Lata was the nightingale, Asha was the jazz improviser who was willing to bend rules, borrow from the West, and infuse Hindi film music with cabaret, pop and a certain urban irreverence. From smoky nightclub numbers to aching ghazals, her voice could inhabit characters that Hindi cinema itself was only just learning to write.


Her catalogue, which runs into the tens of thousands of songs across languages, was a veritable parallel archive of post-Independence Indian music. She sang for heroines who ached, wept, vamped, seduced and survived. In doing so, she lent legitimacy to emotions that polite society often preferred to keep offstage.


Her life, too, resisted neat composition. A teenage elopement, a troubled marriage, years of financial struggle and single parenthood were formative movements. Thrown out of her marital home, she returned to her family not as a prodigy but as a provider, singing to sustain three children while rebuilding a career. That she emerged not diminished but emboldened says much about the steel beneath the silk.


Her later partnership with the composer R. D. Burman was both romantic and revolutionary. Together, they reshaped the soundscape of Hindi cinema by fusing Indian melody with global rhythm and producing songs that still feel improbably modern. When Burman died, she endured another personal rupture; yet her return in the 1990s was a striking reassertion of relevance.


It is in relation to Lata that the poignancy of her passing sharpens. Their journeys began in the same household under the stern tutelage of their father, the classical musician Deenanath Mangeshkar, and ended in parallel arcs that now feel like the closing of a cultural epoch.


Between them, the sisters had mapped the emotional geography of Hindi cinema so comprehensively that what follows risks sounding like a shallow echo. The age of playback singing, where voices were larger than actors, and the songs outlived the films, has been quietly receding. Asha Bhosle belonged to a time when a singer could define an actress, and a song could define a decade. Her death marks the near-complete passing of a generation that turned cinema into a musical civilisation.

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