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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.)

Small Town Stories, Big Screen Impact

Fifty years after Sholay, Bollywood returns with Dum Laga Ke Haisha, Bareilly Ki Barfi, Stree, and Laapata Ladies, offering honest small-town tales that break stereotypes and showcase India’s diverse cultures as audiences seek authenticity beyond urban glamour.


The glamour and glitz of Bollywood cinema are often associated with the 'big, bad, beautiful' megacities—Mumbai, Delhi, Bangalore, Kolkata, Chennai, and other major metros. The characters in these films embody the gloss and chutzpah of big-city life through costumes, make-up, revealing outfits, item numbers, and bold romance, including intimate scenes. In contrast, small-town communities often appear marginalised and overshadowed by big-budget productions with permissive values, polished visuals, lavish sets, and the full spectacle of sound, colour, music, and dance.


However, India is vast, with a diverse population beyond its major cities. Its people lead varied lives, speak different languages, and have distinct cultures—festivals, music, dance, food, theatre, and literature. As the world’s largest film producer, India’s growing media networks mean audiences outside big cities seek films they can relate to—in stories, settings, songs, and emotions. Bollywood has created a market for small-town movies. These films use local stories and settings that appeal to both regional and national audiences.


The small-town story began long ago. Ramesh Sippy’s Sholay (1975), set in the fictional village of Ramgarh, offers radical portrayals of men and women, showing that small-town characters like Jay, Veeru, Thakur, and Gabbar Singh—real or fictional—should not be underestimated. Sippy carefully crafted distinct speech patterns for each character. The two main female leads provide speech contrasts: one extremely talkative, the other silent, adding depth. Radha (Jaya Bachchan), now silent post-widowhood, is shown in flashbacks as a lively, film-loving maiden. Basanti (Hema Malini), an orphan who drives a tonga ferrying villagers and city folk, is smart, bold, brash, and fearless. Jay and Veeru are rootless, aimless, but good-hearted thieves, courageous enough to face a villain like Gabbar Singh. Sholay’s enduring popularity over 50 years, with global repeat viewings, proves that small towns and villages are far from insignificant.


The small towns and pockets of villages have found strong popularity among the mass audience across the country because the audience in those geographical pockets feels happy with the identification they find in seeing the cities and villages they belong to on-screen, telling some of their own stories.


Over the past decade, Bollywood has switched gears from urban romances like Jaane Tu… Ya Jaane Na (2008), Wake Up Sid (2009), and Break Ke Baad (2010) to romantic comedies set in small towns like Dum Laga Ke Haisha (2015), Bareilly Ki Barfi (2017), and Stree (2018). The marked shift is reflective of certain changes in India’s cultural landscape, shaped by a myriad of socio-economic factors that Bollywood is attempting to keep up with.


Set in the North Indian town of Bareilly, Bareilly Ki Barfi breaks away from big-city romances to present real people—with stammers, crushes, and meddling matchmakers-in a charming small-town love story. Its leading ladies are bold, smart, and assertive, defying the ‘cute and shy’ stereotype often associated with small-town girls. Linking this and a similar film is Chirag Dubey (Ayushmann Khurrana), a modern-day Devdas pining for his Bubbly, now married to someone else. Avinash Das’ Anaarkali of Arrah (2017) follows Anaarkali (Swara Bhaskar), a young woman from Bihar’s Arrah who inherits her mother’s profession—performing erotic song-and-dance numbers for all-male audiences, arranged by a local orchestra and its owner (Pankaj Tripathi). Amid whistles, catcalls, and dancing men, she sways in shimmering costumes to suggestive lyrics. Though far from the virginal ideal, Anaarkali owns her choices and owes no explanations-not even to the man who employs her. The Tanu Weds Manu films (2011, 2015), starring R. Madhavan, Kangana Ranaut, and Jimmy Shergill, explore the charm and humour of Kanpur. Set in real locations, the films’ authenticity and relatable characters stem from their grounded setting. Masaan (2015) weaves two parallel stories exploring class, corruption, love, and loss. Set against the Banaras ghats, the film captures the city’s essence and the tragedy of death.


Small towns as backdrops now resonate with audiences from the hinterlands. While smaller-town viewers relate to these stories, metro audiences may welcome their unpretentiousness as a break from fast-paced life. This cultural shift towards honest portrayals has also driven Bollywood’s de-urbanisation.


The prize goes to Kiran Rao’s hit Laapata Ladies (2024), set in a village and highlighting the cleverness of two small-town brides who are accidentally swapped because their identical red veils covered their faces. Over 100 years after such practices were common, the film proves this custom endures—brides still conceal faces, heads, shoulders, and torsos. If the face is hidden, how can the husband be blamed for picking the wrong bride?


(The writer is a film scholar. Views personal.)

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