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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.)

Marriage, Midlife, and a Marathi Play

My personal take on Adwait Dadarkar’s Eka Lagnachi Pudhchi Goshta — a Marathi play that held up a mirror to my marriage.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the idea of boredom in a marriage. Memories of the dreadful lockdown have come rushing back. I’ve finally admitted to myself that the pandemic didn’t just upend our careers, health, and daily routines — it also brought a seismic shift in our relationships.

 

That’s when I came across the play Eka Lagnachi Pudhchi Gosht listed at the NMACC (Nita Mukesh Ambani Cultural Centre). I booked a ticket without hesitation, hoping it might offer some clarity about the changes in my marriage — changes that, while seemingly natural, still left me searching for understanding. I wanted to see others in similar situations and, perhaps, find some validation for what I was feeling.

 

Now, let’s get the elephant in the room out of the way. I am a Gujarati girl born in Surat and bred in Mumbai, erstwhile Bombay. I am ‘quite fluent’ in Marathi, thanks to my shejaris (neighbours) who fed me garam-garam aamti bhaat in my favourite 4-compartment steel plate almost every afternoon while my mother was dutifully caring for a paralysed relative. My uncle had been bedridden for eight years after he was in an accident. During this difficult time, my paternal grandmother and mum took turns to look after him, whereas I spent a significant part of the first six years of my life frolicking in and out of our neighbours’ house.

 

It is there that my ability to speak Marathi and my immense love for aamti bhaat were born. That was before I tasted the Malwani kombdi wade and was completely blown away, but let’s save that topic for another day. The point is, I give the credit for my Marathi-speaking skills to my Maharashtrian neighbours and not the Marathi manus I am married to. I honestly feel my husband even looks a bit like Manoj (...only better) - played by Prashant Damle. 

 

You don’t have to see the famous ‘Eka Lagnachi Gosht’ to make sense of the sequel. Even in isolation, this play is a complete story. Manoj and Manisha (Kavita Lad-Medhekar) are nearing their 20th wedding anniversary, not without turbulence. The story is told from Manisha’s point of view, who is left to figure out alone how to ‘service’ their marriage, like they service their car. Her resilience to keep her marriage alive in the face of her husband’s complete emotional absence is tested as she struggles to resign herself to the loss of her own youth. Even then, she fortifies herself emotionally to tolerate her husband’s bickering, which has become quite a second nature to him. Manisha does not want to leave her husband. Period. There is no question about it. He is the man she adores, the wonderful human being she married. She never loses sight of all the reasons to stay with him, even though he stops seeing her. She becomes invisible to him while their son still remains the apple of his eye.

 

As much as she is struggling to come to terms with her own mid-life crisis, she is hurt by the double standards of her husband. How come the son comes soaring above even as tempers fly with other people? Manisha spells out this deeply disturbing question, even though it is not easy for a woman to say it out loud. Never mind the barrage of jokes and the roars of laughter in the theatre, if you are a woman seeking rebalance in her marriage, there is no way you will forget this line because it strikes such a deep chord.

 

It is the son who comes to his mother’s rescue. He hatches a plan to end Manisha’s misery using psychological tricks. Manisha follows it to the T, not without repeated warnings to the audience that this method is specific to her situation and is dangerous to replicate. 

 

These days, after every story I’ve read to my toddler, he asks me, ‘What is the moral of the story?’. Of course, I would not tell him this story for many more years to come, but when I do, I will tell him that, like your vehicle, your marriage also requires regular servicing. How you maintain it is your prerogative. The bottom line is - find your own way to solve a problem that is so common to all marriages. Also, all the members of a family won’t necessarily love each other in equal measure. That shouldn’t be a reason for hurt. Why put a number on love as long as you always have each other’s back.

 

(The writer is a journalist based in Mumbai.)

 

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