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By:

Abhijit Joshi

31 August 2024 at 10:09:24 am

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...

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 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.)

Love in the Time of Glasnost

As the Cold War entered its twilight and Gorbachev’s glasnost began to thaw decades of ideological frost, Australian director Fred Schepisi gave us ‘The Russia House’ (1990) from John le Carré’s 1989 novel - a bruised, adult meditation on trust and love, wrapped in the attire of a spy thriller.


While it proved too cerebral and ‘slow burn’ for most audiences at the time, it is time today to recognise Schepisi’s film as one of the most accomplished adaptations of a le Carré’s novel, surpassed only by The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1965) and the twin Alec Guinness-led BBC mini-series of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and Smiley’s People.


Blessed with a cracking screenplay by Tom Stoppard, the central premise of ‘The Russia House’ is that decency requires sacrifice and that truth in a world of professional liars is the most dangerous thing of all. The result is not so much a thriller as a conversation between two weary cultures, carried out through jazz, vodka and the furtive optimism of people no longer quite sure what they believe in.


Barley Blair (played by Sean Connery) is no Bond. He is a man out of time, a dishevelled, jazz-loving, boozy London publisher who shambles through his own life with a blend of charm and remorse. Blair is drafted into an amateur game of espionage when a manuscript from a dissident Soviet physicist code-named ‘Dante’ (the magnetic Klaus Maria Brandauer) is delivered to him via a luminous Muscovite, Katya Orlova (Michelle Pfeiffer). The manuscript, a blueprint for the weakness of the Soviet military complex, threatens to disrupt the delicate detente.


But this is no standard spy caper. The real secrets here are emotional. What does it mean to risk oneself for another?  “Today one must think like a hero to behave like a merely decent human being,” Barley declaims.


The Western intelligence services - British and American alike - are shown as bureaucratic machines blind to humanity (a running le Carrean theme since ‘The Spy who came in from the Cold’). And love, when it arrives, is “inconvenient” and ultimately redemptive.


Connery gives a performance of immense subtlety and self-effacement. His Barley is no action man, but a man of regrets, illusions and unexpected conviction. He is a man in late middle age grappling with the possibility that ideals can still matter. Pfeiffer, poised and tragic, makes Katya more than a cipher. Her strength is in her dignity and soft defiance of a system that devours its children. Together, they convey an intelligent, unshowy and profound middle-aged love rarely seen on screen (never mind espionage cinema).


Around them, the supporting cast hums with restrained brilliance. James Fox is splendid as the sympathetic spymaster Nedsky while Roy Scheider’s CIA man exudes that peculiar blend of charm and menace only an American can project in a le Carré story. The difference in spycraft cultures - patient British cynicism versus American pragmatism and force - is elegantly suggested rather than declaimed.


The film’s mood is immeasurably enhanced by Jerry Goldsmith’s superb jazz-inflected score, featuring Branford Marsalis on the saxophone. The music itself is a lament - sinuous, melancholic and oddly hopeful. Ian Baker’s cinematography captures the wan, grey beauty of Moscow and Leningrad in the thaw of the Soviet empire’s last days. There is something elegiac about it all.


As the Cold War collapses not with a bang but a shrug, ‘The Russia House’ captures the existential confusion of a world that no longer knows how to divide right from wrong.


There are no heroes here, only fallible people navigating collapsing ideologies. The West’s self-congratulatory assumption that it has “won” the Cold War is gently punctured in Barley’s idealistic choice to sell the ‘shopping list’ to the Soviets to save Katya and her family - a decision driven by love and conscience, two things intelligence agencies across the world regard as liabilities.


Schepisi steers the film with unhurried elegance and intelligence, trusting in the power of silence, of glances held a second too long. That makes ‘The Russia House’ too slow for attention-deficit audiences raised on explosions and double-crosses. But for those attuned to its wavelength, it offers riches few thrillers even aspire to.


Thirty-five years on, The Russia House remains an anomaly - a thinking person’s spy film that also functions as a poignant love story, a cultural document and a farewell to a world that once seemed more morally navigable. It is time we gave it its due.

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