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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.)

Superstar, Interrupted

No actor in India has commanded mass hysteria like Rajesh Khanna. His rise was meteoric, his decline Shakespearean.


“Upar aaka, neeche Kaka” went the saying in the early 1970s. Roughly translated as “God above, Rajesh Khanna below.” In a country that has always fused cinema and divinity, no mortal has soared as high—or fallen so fast—as India’s first true superstar.


On July 18, 2012, as Mumbai reeled under monsoon rains, thousands lined the streets to bid farewell to the man who had once ruled their hearts with a force that bordered on the supernatural. Between 1969 and 1974, Rajesh Khanna didn’t just dominate Hindi cinema but embodied the collective fantasies of an entire nation. Girls smeared lipstick on his car, married his photos, and reportedly used the dust under his wheels as sindoor. When he once caught a fever, a girls’ hostel reportedly sprinkled water on his photo to help him recover.


Men too fell under his spell. They mimicked his signature nod, his lazy half-smile and above all, his style—be it the guru kurta, the belt slung over a shirt, or the bandana from Dushman. He was a national mood board.


Born Jatin Khanna in 1942 in what is now Pakistan, he was adopted by wealthy relatives and raised in Mumbai. A product of KC College and later FTII Pune, Khanna won the 1965 United Producers Talent Hunt, edging out Vinod Mehra. Even his struggle had a touch of flamboyance—he was the only newcomer who arrived at auditions in a Chevrolet Impala. His debut film Aakhri Khat (1966) made little impact, but by 1969, he would redefine fame in India.


That year saw Aradhana ignite the box office, followed quickly by Do Raaste, Ittefaq, Bandhan, and Doli. Khanna had arrived and with him, a frenzy never seen before or since. Between 1969 and 1971, he delivered 17 consecutive hits—15 of them solo. Films like Anand, Haathi Mere Saathi, Kati Patang, Safar and Aan Milo Sajna transformed him into a box-office juggernaut. The streak was so dazzling it even eclipsed the reigning trinity of Raj Kapoor, Dilip Kumar and Dev Anand.


In his wake, older actors like Manoj Kumar and Sunil Dutt faded, while Kishore Kumar’s voice, resurrected and reimagined by being Khanna’s on-screen echo, overtook even Mohammad Rafi’s once-unshakable reign. Such was the hysteria that the BBC’s Jack Pizzey produced a documentary in 1973, Bombay Superstar, calling him “a man with the charisma of Rudolph Valentino and the arrogance of Napoleon.”


By 1972, the glow began to dim. Though Dushman, Amar Prem and Apna Desh were hits, other films began to falter. The industry murmured about his late arrivals and mood swings. Directors grew wary, co-actors irritated. Internally, the machine sputtered even as audiences still yearned for more. It was a classic business parable: the internal ecosystem began rejecting the very product that the market still adored.


Still, he managed comebacks. Daag in 1973 launched Yash Chopra’s solo directorial career, and 1974 brought more hits in Aap Ki Kasam, Prem Nagar, Roti and Ajanabee. But the tide was turning. India, too, was changing. Economic shocks, the Emergency and rising political angst needed a new kind of hero. The quiet, tragic romantic of Khanna’s world couldn’t hold against the angry, brooding Amitabh Bachchan, who came to personify a restless nation. Bachchan himself would later admit: “I became famous just because I was in Anand with Rajesh Khanna.”


Khanna’s refusal to evolve hurt him. His roles remained one-dimensional, even as the audience craved complexity. Films flopped—Mahachor, Bandalbaaz, Mehbooba—and the hysteria curdled into nostalgia. He resurfaced briefly with Amardeep in 1979 and had a second wind in 1983 with Avtaar, Souten, and Agar Tum Na Hote. But by the late 1980s, he was more relic than reigning monarch.


He entered politics in 1992, serving as an MP from New Delhi until 1996, but remained a shadow of his former self. Family troubles, loneliness and declining health followed. He died at 69, but the memory of his superstardom remained vivid.


Amitabh Bachchan, with typical precision, put it best: Khanna’s peak popularity was “ten times” his own. Salim Khan, the writer behind many of Bollywood’s biggest blockbusters and father of Salman Khan, once told his son, “Your popularity is nothing compared to what Rajesh Khanna had.”


In a city known for apathy, his funeral in 2012 felt like a state occasion. Crowds braved torrential rain to catch a final glimpse of the man they had once worshipped. As the chants of “Rajesh Khanna amar rahein!” rang out, his signature line from Anand—“Anand mara nahin karte, Anand kabhi marte nahin”—suddenly felt prescient.


Even in death, the man who embodied hysteria refused to be forgotten.


(The author is a political commentator and a global affairs observer. Views personal.)

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