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Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Ageing Wings

The crash of an Indian Air Force Antonov AN-32 during landing at Jorhat in Assam, which claimed the lives of five air force personnel, is a sombre reminder of the risks routinely borne by India’s servicemen and women. It also raises difficult questions about ageing military platforms that remain in service long after their intended prime. The Antonov AN-32 has been one of the unsung workhorses of the Indian Air Force. Since its induction in the 1980s, the Soviet-designed twin-engine turboprop...

Ageing Wings

The crash of an Indian Air Force Antonov AN-32 during landing at Jorhat in Assam, which claimed the lives of five air force personnel, is a sombre reminder of the risks routinely borne by India’s servicemen and women. It also raises difficult questions about ageing military platforms that remain in service long after their intended prime. The Antonov AN-32 has been one of the unsung workhorses of the Indian Air Force. Since its induction in the 1980s, the Soviet-designed twin-engine turboprop has carried troops and equipment across some of the most inhospitable terrain on earth. From the icy heights of Ladakh to the dense forests of the Northeast, the aircraft has performed missions indispensable to India’s defence preparedness. During the Kargil conflict and subsequent military mobilisations, it proved its worth countless times. And yet, the Jorhat accident is the third major AN-32 crash in the past decade. In 2016, an aircraft disappeared over the Bay of Bengal, taking with it 29 personnel. In 2019, another AN-32 crashed in Arunachal Pradesh, killing 13. Together with Saturday's tragedy, these accidents have exacted a heavy human toll. Even if the aircraft enjoys a reputation as one of the more reliable platforms in the Air Force’s inventory, repeated crashes inevitably raise questions about fleet age, maintenance practices and technological obsolescence. Military aviation is inherently hazardous. It would be simplistic and unfair to attribute every accident solely to the age of an aircraft. But there is a broader issue that cannot be ignored. India’s armed forces continue to rely on several platforms designed during the Cold War. The AN-32 fleet was acquired in 1984. Though upgrades have been undertaken, including avionics modernisation and engine overhauls, the aircraft remains fundamentally a product of another era. Modernisation programmes have themselves been hindered by geopolitical disruptions, notably the deterioration of relations between Russia and Ukraine after the annexation of Crimea. The result has been a patchwork approach to sustaining an ageing fleet. This challenge extends beyond a single aircraft type. Across the world, military forces face the dilemma of balancing operational readiness against the enormous costs of replacing legacy platforms. India, with its vast security commitments and finite defence budget, is no exception. Yet every crash underscores the hidden costs of postponing difficult procurement decisions. Defence capability is not measured solely by fighter jets and warships showcased during national celebrations. It rests equally on logistics, maintenance infrastructure and safety culture. A military can project power only if it can reliably move people and equipment where they are needed. For now, the immediate priority is a thorough and transparent investigation. If systemic shortcomings are identified, they must be addressed without bureaucratic delay. The AN-32 has served India faithfully for four decades. But faithful service is not a reason to avoid hard questions. It is a reason to ask them.

The Soul of Bharat on the Big Screen

Mumbai: April 4, 2025, my heart feels heavier than it ever has. The news hit me like a monsoon storm—Manoj Kumar, the towering legend of Bollywood, the man who painted patriotism across our screens, is no more. At 87, he slipped away at Mumbai’s Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital, leaving behind a reel of memories that flicker in my mind like a projector that won’t stop spinning. As a movie fan who grew up with his films, I’m not just mourning an actor—I’m grieving the loss of a piece of my soul, a piece of India itself. They called him "Bharat Kumar," and oh, how he earned that name.


I remember the first time I saw ‘Upkar’ (1967). I was a kid, sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to our old TV. Manoj ji played Bharat, the farmer who gave everything—his dreams, his love—for his country’s soil. That song, “Mere Desh Ki Dharti,” wasn’t just a tune; it was a heartbeat, pulsing with pride and sacrifice. I’d hum it walking to school, feeling like I, too, could be that noble, that selfless. He won a National Film Award for that one, and rightly so—it wasn’t acting; it was living.

Then there was ‘Shaheed’ (1965), where he brought Bhagat Singh back to life. I’d sit there, popcorn forgotten, as he roared defiance against the British, his eyes blazing with a fire that could’ve lit up the darkest colonial night. It wasn’t just a film—it was a revolution on celluloid, a call to remember the blood that bought our freedom. Manoj ji didn’t just play the martyr; he became him, and every time I watch it, I feel that lump in my throat, that sting in my eyes. It’s no wonder it snagged three National Awards—his passion was a gift to us all.


Oh, and ‘Purab Aur Paschim’ (1970)—how do I even begin? He directed and starred as Bharat again, this time wrestling with the clash of East and West, showing us the beauty of our roots while the world tried to pull us away. I’d laugh at Saira Banu’s antics, then choke up when Manoj ji stood tall, singing “Hai Preet Jahan Ki Reet Sada.” It was a blockbuster, sure, but it was more—it was a love letter to India, penned in his signature hand-over-face style. That move, mocked by some, was his shield, his quiet strength, and I adored it.

And who could forget ‘Roti Kapda Aur Makaan’ (1974)? He directed and starred as Bharat—again, because who else could?—tackling poverty, injustice, and the gut-wrenching struggle for the basics of life. I’d watch, fists clenched, as he fought for the everyman, his voice cracking with raw emotion. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a mirror to our society, a cry for change. Seven Filmfare Awards across his career, they say, but this one felt like it carried them all—his heart bled through every frame.


Then there’s ‘Kranti’ (1981), the epic that had me on the edge of my seat. Manoj ji as the freedom fighter, leading Dilip Kumar and Hema Malini through a storm of rebellion—it was grand, it was gritty, it was everything Bollywood could be. “Zindagi Ki Na Toote Ladi” still echoes in my ears, a reminder of the battles he fought on screen, battles that felt so real I’d dream of joining the fight. He didn’t just direct that film; he sculpted a monument to resilience, and I’d cheer like a fool every time he outsmarted the British.


As I sit here, flipping through these memories, I can’t help but feel cheated. Manoj Kumar wasn’t just an actor or director—he was family. Born Harikrishan Goswami in 1937, he carried the Partition’s scars from Abbottabad to Delhi, turning pain into purpose. He gave us over 50 films in a career spanning four decades, snagging the Padma Shri in 1992 and the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2015—honors that felt too small for a man who gave India its cinematic soul. His last role in ‘Jai Hind’ (1999) might’ve flopped, but it didn’t dim his light in my eyes.


I’d read how he met Bhagat Singh’s mother before ‘Shaheed’, seeking her blessing—can you imagine the weight of that? Or how PM Lal Bahadur Shastri urged him to make ‘Upkar’ after the 1965 war, handing him “Jai Jawan Jai Kisan” like a sacred torch? That’s who he was—a man who didn’t just entertain but carried a nation’s dreams.


Manoj ji, you weren’t just “Bharat Kumar” to me—you were the uncle who taught me pride, the friend who shared my anger, the poet who sang my hopes. Your films weren’t movies; they were my childhood, my rebellion, my tears. I’ll miss you like I miss the India you dreamed of—flawed, fierce, and forever ours. Rest in peace, sir. Om Shanti.

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