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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.)

No Honour Among Spies: Revisiting The Kremlin Letter

Scarcely a day goes by without being worn down by the Maxwell murk, the sordid doings of the incarcerated Ghislaine Maxwell still dominate news pages, as does the spectre of her deceased father, the larger-than-life media mogul Robert Maxwell who died under mysterious circumstances. It has been alleged that Robert Maxwell was a triple agent, doing business with the Mossad, the MI6 and the KGB.

 

In the sordid grey zones where money, state secrets and sexual leverage collide, the Maxwells seem more like characters out of a certain kind of cinema. The one film where they might have fit seamlessly is John Huston’s ‘The Kremlin Letter’ (1970) - a Cold War film so unrelentingly bleak and acidic in its moral vision that it makes ‘The Spy Who Came in from the Cold’ feel almost sentimental.

 

‘The Kremlin Letter,’ an adaptation of Noel Behn’s now-forgotten Cold War bestseller, follows a rogue network of spies tasked with retrieving a forged American letter that if discovered, could spark a global conflagration by suggesting a US-Soviet collusion to topple Red China.

 

The plot is a confounding skein of codenames, betrayals and reversals. But plot is beside the point as the film hurtles the viewer into a pitiless world where everyone is lying and no one believes in anything.

 

If John le Carré entrenched a bleak chiaroscuro in Cold War fiction, painted in the greys of bureaucratic compromise and personal corrosion, then ‘The Kremlin Letter’ takes amorality to a stratospheric level. Where le Carré’s George Smiley manoeuvres through a fog of conscience and betrayal, Huston’s spies are 24-carat nihilists who give two figs about democracy or Communism.

 

Huston dives into the material’s absurdity with deadpan relish. What ‘The Kremlin Letter’ ruthlessly dissects is not just the spy game, but the very conceit that espionage ever had anything to do with ideals.

 

Huston, who so memorably tackled human failing in classics like ‘The Maltese Falcon’ (1941) and ‘The Treasure of the Sierra Madre’ (1948) was one of the few directors who could match the material’s cynicism beat for beat and still find artistry within the sordidness. Even serious espionage films of the 1960s typically required a centre of gravity or some redemptive arc. ‘The Kremlin Letter’ strips everything away, offering no comfort to the viewer.

 

Yet, the stellar cast makes the murk mesmerising. While Patrick O’Neal anchors the film with a cool, affectless poise, it is those surrounding him who truly crackle with menace and charisma. George Sanders appears, improbably and irresistibly, in drag while Orson Welles (as the bloated Russian general Bresnavitch) delivers menace with the languor of a man perpetually between meals.

 

Bergman regular Max von Sydow plays a KGB officer so reptilian he might be made of permafrost. Another Bergman favourite Bibi Andersson, best known for her ethereal turns, embodies Nordic spy kink, playing seduction not as erotic art but as bizarre psychological warfare.

 

The real scene-stealer of these strange proceedings, however, is Richard Boone. Relegated too often to television Westerns, Boone delivers an effortless performance of casual menace, with sadism simmering just below the surface. As Ward, a shady operator whose true affiliations are unclear to the end, Boone fuses paternal charm with ancient cunning, coming across as a genuinely scary spook.

 

The bleak worldview espoused by The Kremlin Letter was not conjured in a vacuum. With the arrival of le Carré on the literary scene, disillusionment is spy fiction was taken to another level, leaving behind even Eric Ambler and Graham Greene. Works like ‘The Spy Who Came in from the Cold’ and ‘The Looking Glass War’ exposed the grey underbelly of Western intelligence.

 

This simultaneously translated in film, with a distinct anti-Bond cinematic tradition emerging in the 1960s with ‘The Ipcress File,’ ‘The Deadly Affair,’ ‘A Dandy in Aspic’ and ‘The Quiller Memorandum’ that completely de-glamorized the genre, depicting its protagonists as world-weary functionaries undone by bureaucracy and betrayal.

 

‘The Kremlin Letter’ inhabits the tail end of this tradition, standing as a relic of a brief, brilliant period that painted espionage in its most un-heroic colours. The film’s demands attention, and its convoluted narrative left most viewers and critics baffled upon its release.

 

But for those willing to persist, it stands as one of the most sinister and slyly subversive entries in Cold War cinema. With our epoch increasingly marked by great power cynicism and intelligence skulduggery, ‘The Kremlin Letter’ feels all too prescient.

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