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By:

Vappala Balachandran

19 September 2024 at 11:21:31 am

Where the Krushna Flows

Mohan Deshmukh’s book From the Banks of Krushna River, originally published in Marathi as Krushnakathavarun, reminds me of my stay in Sangli district (1965-1969), which was one of the most memorable periods in my long government service. His book is a delightful account of Sangli’s rich cultural and artistic heritage. It also tells the story of how a village boy from the district - the son of an honest and upright junior police officer - rose to become a leading builder and later president...

Where the Krushna Flows

Mohan Deshmukh’s book From the Banks of Krushna River, originally published in Marathi as Krushnakathavarun, reminds me of my stay in Sangli district (1965-1969), which was one of the most memorable periods in my long government service. His book is a delightful account of Sangli’s rich cultural and artistic heritage. It also tells the story of how a village boy from the district - the son of an honest and upright junior police officer - rose to become a leading builder and later president of the Maharashtra Chamber of Housing Industry (MCHI), where he sought to bring order to Maharashtra’s often chaotic real-estate sector. More remarkably, it recounts how he walked away from a flourishing business in 2013 in search of inner peace through Vipassana. Although I joined the Maharashtra cadre in 1960, my earlier postings gave me little opportunity to immerse myself in Marathi culture and literature. It was only in Sangli that I came to appreciate, in any depth, the district’s rich traditions of poetry and theatre. In that sense, I was fortunate. Soon after I assumed charge as Superintendent of Police, Sangli, the government acquired a tract of land that had once belonged to the legendary Marathi playwright Govind Ballal Deval (1855–1916). It was chosen as the site for a new police headquarters, complete with a vast parade ground and 300 constabulary quarters, the construction of which became one of my principal responsibilities. Deval wrote at least seven Marathi plays, among them the celebrated Samshay Kallol, broadly inspired by Molière's Sganarelle, or The Imaginary Cuckold. By a happy coincidence, I had watched Samshay Kallol during my district training in Solapur in 1960, long before fate brought me to the land once owned by its author. By 1969 I was able to construct a well-equipped police recreation auditorium and get government approval to name it after the late Deval. The naming ceremony was done by the well-known Marathi writer, the late Padma Bhushan Vishnu Sakharam Khandekar, who later won the Jnanpith award in 1974 for his novel ‘Yayati.’ Sangli was aptly known as Natya Pandhari (“the pilgrimage of Marathi theatre.”) It was here that Vishnudas Bhave, the pioneer of the Marathi stage, premiered Sita Swayamvar, the first Marathi play, in 1843. In my time, nearly every major new Marathi play opened in Sangli. Equally memorable was hearing artistes such as Hirabai Barodkar of nearby Miraj and the poet-lyricist G.D. Madgulkar (Ga Di Mā) of Atpadi, whose Geet Ramayan, beautifully rendered by Sudhir Phadke, became a cherished Sunday ritual on All India Radio. Mohan Deshmukh’s mention of Krushna river, the lifeline of Sangli, its basin and confluence with Warana river also reminds me of my experience of the discordance in Sangli district’s political life. He quotes Ga Di Mā’s wistful poem which had narrated Krushna’s beauty together with its hidden contradictions and sorrows: “Sant vahate Krishnamai, tiravarlya sukhadukhanchi, janiv tijhala nahi” (author’s translation: “Calmly flows Mother Krushna, untouched by the joys and sorrows on her shores”). That was my experience too. Sangli introduced me to some of Maharashtra's political giants—Yashwantrao Chavan, Vasant (Dada) Patil and Rajaram Bapu Patil. Despite my being an outsider, they treated a young police officer with warmth and trust. The pleasantries, however, were brief. Soon after taking charge in 1965, I found myself confronting a violent anti-famine agitation led by the Shetkari Kamgari Paksh in Tasgaon. For days, protesters clashed with the police as they tried to march on the taluka office. During one confrontation, a young demonstrator struck me on the head with a lathi, blaming me for the violence. It was an early glimpse of the defiant spirit that the author captures so well. Sangli, he writes, has long been a land of self-respect and resistance, from its defiance of Mughal rule to the freedom struggle, when "Krantisingh" Nana Patil established the Prati Sarkar, alongside revolutionaries such as Kisan Veer and G.D. Bapu Lad. The book traces the author’s childhood in Tasgaon, Budhgaon and neighbouring villages, his struggle for education, and the timely support he received from the Police Welfare Fund. Running through it is his father’s simple creed: remain honest, however poor, and rise only by lawful means. (The writer is a former Special Secretary, Cabinet Secretariat and member of the two-man high level committee appointed by Govt.of Maharashtra to enquire into the systemic errors during 26/11 Mumbai terror attacks. His latest book, ‘India and China at Odds in Asian Century,’ was published by Hurst London and by Pentagon Press, New Delhi)

Selective Outrage

India’s left-liberal media has long prided itself on being the torchbearer of secularism, dissent and moral rectitude. In the aftermath of ‘Operation Sindoor,’ the precision military strike launched by the Modi government against Pakistan-based terror camps, it has revealed its not a principled commitment to peace or truth, but a disturbing penchant for ideological prejudice, performative sanctimony and selective outrage.


The operation itself was a textbook display of calibrated force and geopolitical prudence. Prime Minister Narendra Modi, often caricatured as ‘authoritarian’ by the ‘liberal’ English-language commentariat, chose patience over provocation. He consulted opposition leaders, held detailed discussions with defence chiefs and took key international stakeholders, notably the United States and Russia, into confidence before authorising limited military action. The symbolism of ‘Operation Sindoor’ was also carefully crafted: a pointed reminder that the attack’s real victims were Hindu women widowed by Pakistan-sponsored militants in Kashmir. The government’s briefings were also strategic and symbolic as two ranking female officers, one of them Muslim, were made the public face of the mission, underlining a new Indian confidence that blends military muscle with democratic pluralism.


But this was unacceptable for India’s entrenched ‘left-liberal’ press, steeped in academic jargon, Western validation and a knee-jerk hostility to anything remotely ‘Hindutva.’ That a Muslim officer briefed the nation on ‘Operation Sindoor’ was branded ‘tokenism’ by such commentators. Others crudely alleged that the April 22 Pahalgam massacre was the logical culmination of reported atrocities against Muslims since Modi came to power in 2014.


The semantic nitpicking over ‘Operation Sindoor’ was maddening. An editor of a prominent magazine dubbed the operation’s name as ‘patriarchal’ and coded in Hindutva tropes. In a bizarre case of moral inversion, sindoor was likened to symbols of ‘honour killings’ and gender oppression, ignoring both its cultural resonance and the cruel reality that these women had lost their husbands in cold blood. For years, India’s ‘secular’ commentariat nurtured a preordained binary: the Congress may be flawed but was at least ‘secular’ while the BJP was an inveterate ‘fascist.’ Thus, the 2002 Gujarat riots are always focused upon but the Congress-backed pogrom of the Sikhs in 1984 is either downplayed or rationalised. Terrorism in Kashmir is tragic, but state retaliation is ‘jingoism.’ A strong Muslim voice in government is ‘tokenism’ but its absence is ‘exclusion.’ Even journalistic rigour is selectively applied. When Pakistan claimed to have downed Indian jets, some Indian outlets rushed to amplify the story before verification, inadvertently echoing enemy propaganda.


Dissent is vital in any democracy. But when its becomes indistinguishable from disdain, when editorial choices are dictated by ideological conformity, then the press becomes a caricature of itself. Ironically, many of these journalists enjoy robust free speech and loudly lament India’s supposed slide into ‘fascism’ from the safety of their X handles. Yet they turn a blind eye to Putin’s repression, Erdogan’s purges or Xi Jinping’s camps. In their eyes, Modi remains the greatest threat to democracy even as they broadcast their outrage freely, without fear of censorship or reprisal. ‘Operation Sindoor’ was a statement of cultural self-confidence. That confidence has rattled those who have spent their careers gatekeeping Indian discourse. Today, their monopoly is over. The people are watching and they no longer believe that the emperor has clothes.

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