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Correspondent

21 August 2024 at 10:20:16 am

Crimson Rot

For decades, Kerala’s Marxists had cultivated an image of ideological austerity by speaking the language of class struggle and public morality while portraying their opponents as corrupt bourgeois opportunists. The CPI(M), particularly under former Chief Minister Pinarayi Vijayan, had perfected this moral theatre. Today, with its political fortunes on the wane, the party’s carefully constructed halo is collapsing under the weight of its own contradictions. The Enforcement Directorate raids...

Crimson Rot

For decades, Kerala’s Marxists had cultivated an image of ideological austerity by speaking the language of class struggle and public morality while portraying their opponents as corrupt bourgeois opportunists. The CPI(M), particularly under former Chief Minister Pinarayi Vijayan, had perfected this moral theatre. Today, with its political fortunes on the wane, the party’s carefully constructed halo is collapsing under the weight of its own contradictions. The Enforcement Directorate raids connected to the CMRL ‘monthly payment’ scandal symbolise the unravelling of a political mythology built over generations. The raids at the residences linked to Vijayan, his daughter Veena Vijayan, and former minister Mohammed Riyas expose a deeply embarrassing spectacle for a party that lectured the nation about probity and ideological purity. The case concerns Cochin Minerals and Rutile Ltd, which allegedly paid Rs. 1.72 crore to Veena Vijayan’s firm, Exalogic Solutions between 2017 and 2020 for consultancy and software services that investigators allege were never actually rendered. According to findings flagged by the Income Tax Settlement Board, these payments allegedly continued because of her “relationship with a prominent person.” This is the oldest form of capitalist cronyism, family connections functioning as political currency. The comrades who once thundered against “bourgeois exploitation” by the likes of Adani now find themselves defending precisely the ecosystem of privilege they claimed to despise. The hypocrisy is staggering. Under Vijayan, the CPI(M) had increasingly ceased to resemble a cadre-based ideological movement and instead acquired the traits of a tightly centralised family enterprise. Despite Kerala’s Marxists fiercely denouncing personality cults, they constructed one of their own around Vijayan’s dominating personality. The most revealing aspect of this scandal has been the collapse of moral legitimacy. The Indian Left long claimed that while others amassed wealth, communists alone stood with clean hands. That illusion has steadily eroded across India, but nowhere is its collapse more dramatic than in Kerala. The party that once romanticised workers now appears inseparable from elite privilege. Its leaders move within circles of influence, patronage and dynastic entitlement strikingly similar to the political classes they once condemned. Kerala’s Marxists increasingly resemble what George Orwell warned revolutions often become: new aristocracies wearing the vocabulary of equality. Vijayan may continue to dismiss the allegations as attempts to tarnish his image. His loyalists may continue shouting conspiracy. But public perception has irrevocably shifted. The image of ED officials entering the former Chief Minister’s residence while probing payments linked to his daughter is politically devastating, irrespective of eventual legal outcomes. Skeletons are tumbling from the cupboard because the cupboard itself was built on deception. The tragedy is that a movement which once promised moral seriousness and ideological discipline has descended into the very decadence it spent decades denouncing. Kerala’s self-proclaimed moral vanguard now stands exposed by the very decadence it once claimed to fight. The comrades preached revolution. What they perfected instead was entitlement.

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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