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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 Pallbearer’s Tragedy

Three decades after its premiere, Rangakarmee’s Mayyat remains a searing theatrical indictment of caste.

Rangakarmee is perhaps the only theatre group that has been producing and performing plays in Hindi in Kolkata for 50 years this year.  Founded and headed by the late Usha Ganguly, it is still as active and dynamic in presenting Hindi plays mainly new and sometimes recreating for the new audience, old plays that are timeless in their content and their appeal.


The amazing feature of Mayyat is that it was first performed by Usha Ganguly and her troupe way back in 1997 and has already performed around 500 shows spanning 30 years and signifies the cross-generational reach and popularity of the play. We saw a group of absolutely new actors dedicated to Rangakarmee. Their performance defined the strict discipline, the constant workouts and rehearsals to keep mobile and flexible because the very big cast needed to be perfect in body, mind and spirit during each 45-minute performance.

 

What does the word Maiyyat mean? It is said to have its roots in Arabic and literally, it translates as ‘dead body’ or ‘corpse.’ The play is rooted in the deep internalization among the low castes of their exploitation and torture by the Brahmins of their village. The Brahmins are proud in their gait, their body language and even in their pure form of dress with the holy thread of Brahminism proudly on display. The custom of the proud, arrogant and rude Brahmins is to choose at least one among the four untouchables to become the pall-bearer when someone of the upper-caste dies. Instead of feeling sad or insulted, the chosen untouchable feels blessed and proud for being allowed by this strange custom of becoming a fake “Brahmin” if even for one day. Lakku is one such untouchable who lives somewhere near Aurangabad and leads a miserable life of poverty with the burden of a mentally deranged, motherless son he takes care of.

 

The pall is decorated heavily with flowers and instead of looking like a bourse, it is decorated with lots of flowers like a palanquin. Someone obviously among the Brahmins is dead and the other Brahmins draw lots to find out which untouchable will be chosen to offer his shoulder to the bourse. `When Lakku’s name comes up in the shuffling of the paper chips, he is thrilled that at least for one day, he will enjoy the ‘blessing’ of becoming a “Brahmin.” But forced to run through the village on an empty stomach and with a weak body, Lakku collapses and dies before the bourse can reach the crematorium. Now, the question is – who will carry his body and carry it to the cremation ground?

 

The entire performance, with 23 theatre actors, originally scripted, designed and directed by Usha Ganguly, is now performed by a new young cast under the guidance, training and supervision of Amal Saha, Deepesh Rajak, and Anirudh Sarkar. It has been conceived and designed like a musical opera with every Brahmin member of the cast, including the young women, dressed traditionally in pristine white with lots of marigold garlands and a sandalwood tikka adorning their foreheads.

 

Though there are dialogues in the performance, these are either among the leading and decisive members among the Brahmins or scoldings and threats from the Brahmins to the four members from the untouchable tribe, each one representing a different low caste. These four men, alongwith Lakku and his mentally retarded son, keep waiting eagerly in one corner of the proscenium for the results of the lots to be drawn. They hug each other for joy when their names are announced and Lakku specially is thrilled with the responsibility of being pallbearer and becoming a Brahmin for just one night. Whose corpse is being carried in the bourse is not important. What is important is who are the pall bearers? At least, the Brahmins are not.

 

What one carries home after watching a performance-play like Mayyat is the marvellous synchronization of the entire female cast wandering right around the proscenium space singing songs in complete harmony with not a note of error and the Brahmin men discussing, arguing and quarrelling over not how the corpse will be cremated but which low-caste man will become the pallbearer for one night. The bottom-line is caste is a continuous, historical evil. But should it remain so?


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

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