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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.)

The Night the World Stood Still

Far more than an iconic boxing match, ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ was a spectacle of race, politics and redemption that turned Muhammad Ali into a global myth

It was October 30th, 1974, and the air in Zaire’s Kinshasa was thick not just with equatorial heat, but with expectation. Under the floodlights of the Stade du 20 Mai, 60,000 spectators roared as two men entered the ring. One was the most feared puncher alive; the other, a poet-warrior who had lost his title, his license, and nearly his soul. By dawn, the world had changed. Muhammad Ali, the challenger and underdog, had defeated George Foreman and, in doing so, reclaimed his crown as the greatest boxer - and perhaps the greatest sportsman - of all time.


The ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ (as the fight memorably came to be known) was never just a fight. It was a collision of cultures, a spectacle of politics and race played out in the heart of Africa, and a contest of brains against brute strength. For Zaire’s dictator, Mobutu Sese Seko, it was a propaganda opportunity. For Ali, it was a stage to prove that charisma, intelligence, and conviction could overcome raw power.


At 32, Ali was widely dismissed. He had spent three years in exile after refusing to serve in the Vietnam War, stripped of his heavyweight title and vilified by the establishment. Across the ring stood George Foreman, 25, unbeaten and terrifying. In the preceding year he had demolished Joe Frazier and Ken Norton - both men who had beaten Ali. Foreman was the embodiment of brute force; Ali, a relic of a bygone era.


Boxing experts predicted a massacre. The Las Vegas bookmakers had Foreman winning within three rounds. But Ali was never one to follow a script.


In the weeks leading up to the bout, Ali baited his opponent with a mixture of humour and psychology. “Your hands can’t hit what your eyes can’t see,” he taunted. The words would prove prophetic.


The fight began in the early hours of the morning to suit American television. As Foreman charged forward, swinging thunderous blows, Ali unveiled his secret weapon: the “rope-a-dope.” He leaned back against the ropes, absorbing punches with his arms and gloves, letting the elasticity of the ring do the work of defence. Each blow sapped Foreman’s strength.


By the seventh round, the younger man’s punches had lost their venom. Ali whispered, “Is that all you got, George?” Foreman, exhausted and bewildered, found himself facing an opponent who refused to fall. Then, in the eighth round, Ali sprang from the ropes, launching a blur of combinations. A right-hand landed flush. The invincible Foreman fell, knocked out for the first time in his career. Ali had defied the odds, his critics, and the limits of the human body.


For Africa, it was a moment of pride. A black man, derided and dismissed by Western sports writers, had conquered the world from African soil. For black America, it was a symbol of resilience. Ali, once stripped of everything for his beliefs, had reclaimed his glory on his own terms.


Culturally, the fight was groundbreaking. Organised by a young promoter named Don King and financed by Mobutu’s regime, it was the first truly global sporting event. An estimated one billion people watched it live on television - an unprecedented audience in 1974. Both fighters earned $5 million each, a fortune at the time.


For Mobutu, the spectacle was meant to showcase Zaire as the “beating heart of Africa.” He had poured resources into the event after his earlier cultural festival, ‘Zaire 74’ failed to make waves. Yet, the dictator’s propaganda backfired. The world saw not Zaire’s regime, but Muhammad Ali’s charisma.


Ali’s triumph transformed boxing. For years, the heavyweight division had been dominated by brute strength. The Kinshasa fight restored the value of strategy, timing and intellect. Ali’s rope-a-dope became a metaphor for endurance under pressure.


Ali was already a civil-rights hero and anti-war icon, a man who refused to fight a war he believed unjust. After Kinshasa, he became a global symbol of black pride and human dignity. Children in Lagos, Chicago and Karachi alike saw in him not just a champion, but a vision of what courage could look like.


The fight’s legacy endures in literature and film. Leon Gast’s ‘When We Were Kings,’ which won the 1996 Academy Award for Best Documentary, revived the magic of that night for a new generation. Half a century later, it remains the yardstick against which all great sporting moments are measured.


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

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