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By:

Rajendra Pandharpure

15 April 2025 at 2:25:54 pm

Policing a Restless City

The Pune police’s crackdown on nightlife and assemblies exposes the uneasy nexus between crime, politics and public security AI generated image Pune: Pune likes to think of itself as Maharashtra’s cultured capital, a city of students, software engineers and retirees. But in the past decade or so, that reputation has taken a beating with the city increasingly turning into a netherworld where criminal gangs operate with growing audacity and where citizens are no longer certain that the state...

Policing a Restless City

The Pune police’s crackdown on nightlife and assemblies exposes the uneasy nexus between crime, politics and public security AI generated image Pune: Pune likes to think of itself as Maharashtra’s cultured capital, a city of students, software engineers and retirees. But in the past decade or so, that reputation has taken a beating with the city increasingly turning into a netherworld where criminal gangs operate with growing audacity and where citizens are no longer certain that the state can guarantee their safety. Faced with mounting public anxiety over deteriorating law and order, the Pune Police have recently imposed two stringent restrictions. Night-time checkpoints now dot the city's roads after 10 p.m. while food stalls, carts and riverside eateries are being ordered to shut early. Simultaneously, authorities have enforced a 14-day prohibition on public assemblies, effective from May 26. The measures have triggered an intense political debate. Crime Wave The immediate backdrop is an unmistakable rise in criminal activity. Across several neighbourhoods, local strongmen known as ‘Bhais’ and ‘Dadas’ continue to wield influence. Their reach extends beyond mere street-level intimidation. Many residents believe these figures enjoy varying degrees of patronage from political parties, creating a perception that law enforcement is either reluctant or unable to act decisively against them. Such perceptions erode public confidence in the police and strengthen the atmosphere of fear. Particularly troubling has been the escalation of gang rivalries. Violent confrontations involving koytas have become alarmingly common. What was once an occasional occurrence has evolved into a recurring feature of the city’s urban life. Attacks now take place in crowded public spaces and during daylight hours, signalling a brazen disregard for authority. The phenomenon has spread to Kothrud, regarded as one of Pune’s quieter and more settled suburbs. The area has found itself drawn into the orbit of gang violence, most notably through the turbulent history of the Andekar gang. The murder of Vanraj Andekar, a former corporator associated with the Nationalist Congress Party, marked a dramatic turning point. Investigators subsequently found that members of his own extended family were allegedly involved in the crime. Retaliatory killings followed as violence spilled onto major roads and public gatherings, while one accused gangster reportedly fled abroad. The rise of the so-called ‘Koyta Gang’ has become emblematic of this trend. To outsiders, the preference for machetes over firearms may appear puzzling. Yet law-enforcement officials argue that such weapons are often used to ensure a killing is completed. Their symbolism is equally important: the koyta serves not merely as a weapon but as an instrument of intimidation, projecting fear in neighbourhoods where gangs seek to establish dominance. Public Nuisance At the same time, the city’s authorities are grappling with a different, though related, challenge. Pune’s burgeoning night-time food culture has transformed several streets and riverside stretches into lively social spaces. But these gathering spots have also generated complaints about drunkenness, disorderly conduct and public nuisance. Residents have increasingly demanded intervention. The police response therefore reflects not only concerns about crime but also an attempt to restore civic order. Whether these measures prove effective remains uncertain. Restricting late-night activity may reduce opportunities for disorder, but it also affects legitimate businesses and social life.

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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