top of page

By:

Abhijit Mulye

21 August 2024 at 11:29:11 am

The Unequal Cousins

Raj Thackeray’s ‘sacrifice’ saved Shiv Sena (UBT) but sank the MNS Mumbai: In the volatile theatre of Maharashtra politics, the long-awaited reunion of the Thackeray cousins on the campaign trail was supposed to be the masterstroke that reclaimed Mumbai. The results of the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) elections, however, tell a story of tragic asymmetry. While the alliance has successfully helped the Shiv Sena (UBT) stem the saffron tide and regain lost ground, it has left Raj...

The Unequal Cousins

Raj Thackeray’s ‘sacrifice’ saved Shiv Sena (UBT) but sank the MNS Mumbai: In the volatile theatre of Maharashtra politics, the long-awaited reunion of the Thackeray cousins on the campaign trail was supposed to be the masterstroke that reclaimed Mumbai. The results of the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) elections, however, tell a story of tragic asymmetry. While the alliance has successfully helped the Shiv Sena (UBT) stem the saffron tide and regain lost ground, it has left Raj Thackeray’s Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS) staring at an existential crisis. The final tally reveals a brutal reality for the MNS - Raj Thackeray played the role of the savior for his cousin, but in the process, he may have become the sole loser of the 2026 mandate. The worse part is that the Shiv Sena (UBT) is reluctant to accept this and is blaming Raj for the poor performance of his party leading to the defeat. A granular analysis of the ward-wise voting patterns exposes the fundamental flaw in this tactical alliance. The vote transfer, the holy grail of any coalition, operated strictly on a one-way street. Data suggests that the traditional MNS voter—often young, aggressive, and driven by regional pride—heeded Raj Thackeray’s call and transferred their votes to Shiv Sena (UBT) candidates in wards where the MNS did not contest. This consolidation was critical in helping the UBT hold its fortresses against the BJP's "Infra Man" juggernaut. However, the favor was not returned. In seats allocated to the MNS, the traditional Shiv Sena (UBT) voter appeared hesitant to back the "Engine" (MNS symbol). Whether due to lingering historical bitterness or a lack of instructions from the local UBT leadership, the "Torch" (UBT symbol) voters did not gravitate toward Raj’s candidates. The result? The UBT survived, while the MNS candidates were left stranded. ‘Second Fiddle’ Perhaps the most poignant aspect of this election was the shift in the personal dynamic between the Thackeray brothers. Decades ago, they parted ways over a bitter dispute regarding who would control the party helm. Raj, refusing to work under Uddhav, formed the MNS to chart his own path. Yet, in 2026, the wheel seems to have come full circle. By agreeing to contest a considerably lower number of seats and focusing his energy on the broader alliance narrative, Raj Thackeray tacitly accepted the role of "second fiddle." It was a pragmatic gamble to save the "Thackeray" brand from total erasure by the BJP-Shinde combine. While the brand survived, it is Uddhav who holds the equity, while Raj has been left with the debt. Charisma as a Charity Throughout the campaign, Raj Thackeray’s rallies were, as always, electric. His fiery oratory and charismatic presence drew massive crowds, a sharp contrast to the more somber tone of the UBT leadership. Ironically, this charisma served as a force multiplier not for his own party, but for his cousin’s. Raj acted as the star campaigner who energised the anti-BJP vote bank. He successfully articulated the anger against the "Delhi-centric" politics he accuses the BJP of fostering. But when the dust settled, the seats were won by UBT candidates who rode the wave Raj helped create. The MNS chief provided the wind for the sails, but the ship that docked in the BMC was captained by Uddhav. ‘Marathi Asmita’ Stung by the results and the realisation of the unequal exchange, Raj Thackeray took to social media shortly after the counting concluded. In an emotive post, he avoided blaming the alliance partner but instead pivoted back to his ideological roots. Urging his followers to "stick to the issue of Marathi Manoos and Marathi Asmita (pride)," Raj signaled a retreat to the core identity politics that birthed the MNS. It was a somber appeal, stripped of the bravado of the campaign, hinting at a leader who knows he must now rebuild from the rubble. The 2026 BMC election will be remembered as the moment Raj Thackeray proved he could be a kingmaker, even if it meant crowning the rival he once despised. He provided the timely help that allowed the Shiv Sena (UBT) to live to fight another day. But in the ruthless arithmetic of democracy, where moral victories count for little, the MNS stands isolated—a party that gave everything to the alliance and received nothing in return. Ironically, there are people within the UBT who still don’t want to accept this and on the contrary blame Raj Thackeray for dismal performance of the MNS, which they argue, derailed the UBT arithmetic. They state that had the MNS performed any better, the results would have been much better for the UBT.

Police & Pandits: Biggest Beneficiaries of Devotion

Updated: Jan 29, 2025

Corruption is rampant at Kalighat Mandir under CM Mamata Banerjee's nose

Kalighat Mandir

Kolkata: The Uber ride from my hotel to Kalighat Mandir was only fifteen minutes, but it felt like a journey into another world. A cold and crisp Tuesday morning in Kolkata, known as the City of Joy, set the stage for my reluctant pilgrimage to one of Hinduism’s holiest shrines. Reluctant because, as someone who believes you don’t need to stand in line to meet God, I’ve never been much of a temple-goer. But family insistence has a way of bending even the firmest resolve, and so I found myself en route to the famed temple of Goddess Kali.


Kalighat’s significance in Hindu mythology is immense. Believed to be the site where Maa Sati’s right toe fell, it is one of the 51 Shakti Peethas, sacred abodes of the goddess. Yet, the sanctity of the temple often feels at odds with the chaos surrounding it. The hotel receptionist had warned me: Tuesdays draw larger crowds, as the day is considered auspicious for Maa Kali. I braced myself for long queues, pushy devotees, and the unpredictable chaos that defines India’s spiritual epicentres.


The temple’s entrance was just as expected, teeming with energy and opportunists. Before I could even locate the gate, an elderly man in a traditional kurta and dhoti appeared at my side. His demeanour was calm but calculated, his movements choreographed for maximum effect. “The gate is there,” he pointed, steering me toward one of the many pooja stalls lining the entrance.


Within moments, I was engulfed by men preparing a pooja thali before I could even process what was happening. Hibiscus garlands, a coconut, incense sticks and bangles were swiftly piled into a bamboo basket while chants in Sanskrit were murmured over my head. Prices were declared in quick succession as though I were at an auction rather than a temple.


My self-appointed guide led me to the main entrance. “VIP entry?” he asked with casual authority. I hesitated but handed him Rs. 200 - the price of convenience. Inside, two lines diverged: one, a snaking queue of ‘ordinary’ devotees under the sun; the other, a shorter line dominated by Pandits, exuding an air of hierarchy.


At the inner sanctum, a separate system operated. Two men collected money on either side of the deity, while the main priest handled offerings. The cramped space was packed with devotees in a single line. “Sister, give only Rs. 20, not more,” my Pandit advised. “If you give Rs. 100, they’ll demand even more outside.”


The idol of Maa Kali was a stunning, terrifying figure - her blackened face adorned with gold and silver, her four arms poised with weapons and gestures of blessing. The priest stationed before her barked at devotees, his temper short and his hands quick to push overzealous worshippers back into line. When a group of rural women, wide-eyed and eager, tried to touch the idol’s feet, they were scolded and physically pushed away. The irony was stark: here stood the goddess of empowerment and strength, worshipped in a space that thrived on intimidation and control.


As I exited the sanctum, my Pandit guide ushered me toward a coconut-breaking shrine. Another man waited there, collecting Rs. 500 notes from devotees who sought to add this ritual to their spiritual checklist. I negotiated down to Rs. 100 and cracked the coconut, watching as the pieces were whisked away, ostensibly to be distributed as prasad. “Didi, idhar sab paise se chalta hai,” the Pandit muttered matter-of-factly. Everything here, it seemed, came at a price: access, blessings, even the right to break a coconut.


Back at the pooja stall, I was handed a bill of Rs. 1700. “Round it up to Rs. 2100,” the Pandit suggested, offering to arrange a Bhandara in my name. He even presented a QR code for online payment. Faith, it seems, has embraced fintech.


As I waited for my Uber, an elderly woman persistently pleaded for money, and I reluctantly gave her Rs. 100 - yet another addition to the temple’s bustling economy. In just 30 minutes, I had spent Rs. 2730 for a fleeting glimpse of divinity.


Situated in the heart of Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee’s constituency, Kalighat Mandir presents a stark paradox: women jostled within its sacred walls and left begging beyond its gates.


As my Uber pulled away, I couldn’t help but marvel at the audacious commercialization of faith in a space meant to transcend worldly concerns. “Jai Maa Kali,” I muttered under my breath, the irony unmistakable.

Comments

bottom of page