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By:

Quaid Najmi

4 January 2025 at 3:26:24 pm

FDA braces for Tukaram Mundhe’s strong dose

Mumbai: An unyielding and upright IAS officer Tukaram Haribhau Mundhe was awarded with his 25th transfer order in 21 years’ service – as the new Commissioner of Food & Drug Administration. The latest shunting comes barely a couple of months after his last assignment, Principal Secretary, Disaster Management, Relief and Rehabilitation, which was stayed before he could take charge. Mundhe, 50, holds the current ‘national record’ for being an IAS officer who has suffered maximum transfers;...

FDA braces for Tukaram Mundhe’s strong dose

Mumbai: An unyielding and upright IAS officer Tukaram Haribhau Mundhe was awarded with his 25th transfer order in 21 years’ service – as the new Commissioner of Food & Drug Administration. The latest shunting comes barely a couple of months after his last assignment, Principal Secretary, Disaster Management, Relief and Rehabilitation, which was stayed before he could take charge. Mundhe, 50, holds the current ‘national record’ for being an IAS officer who has suffered maximum transfers; prior to him were two retired Haryana IAS officers holding a similar honour. In an era when public confidence in institutions is wavering, examples of uncompromising and righteous officers like Mundhe shine bright and endear themselves to the masses. Humble Family Born into a humble farmer family of Beed, Mundhe’s childhood was bereft of luxuries and had to struggle even for bare necessities for which he disciplined himself, toiled and never faltered – strong qualities that help him stand ramrod straight even today. A bright kid, Mundhe helped his parents in the scorching fields during the day and spent hours at night poring over books under the dim light of kerosene lamps, completed his schooling with distinction, plus earned his graduate and post-graduate degrees from Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Marathwada University, Aurangabad. With a burning desire to work for the welfare of the masses and society in general, Mundhe appeared for the UPSC exams and finally cleared his IAS in 2005 to enter public service. As he plunged himself headlong to wield the power of his position for public benefit, he quickly became a villain in the eyes of many vested elements, including politicians of different hues. No-nonsense Boss Mundhe proved to be an inflexible no-nonsense boss, abhorred indiscipline, a stickler for rules, curbed malpractices, public-centric result-oriented – making him the darling of the masses and in constant media glare. From his early years, he paid the price for his integrity, nature and working style. As per regulations, officers at certain levels are expected to serve for minimum three years in any post, but the much-feared Mundhe worked for barely a month in some of his postings, and hardly a few where he served for a year or more. Over the years, the people who watched Mundhe and the antics of his opponents, saluted him with many labels – ‘Singham’, ‘Youth Icon’, ‘Fearless Officer’, ‘Peoples Hero’, etc. Till May 26, in his 21-year long career, Mundhe has 25 transfer orders under his belt, ostensibly for refusing to bend rules or bending before the powers-that-be, irrespective of any political group or party in power. What most would consider a punishment transfer, Mundhe grabbed it headlong, not only challenging the system but infusing fresh challenges in the assignment, converting it into a ‘hot seat’, setting new standards which the next incumbent was forced to follow or fall out. For instance, after his appointment as Solapur Collector (November 2014), Mundhe cracked the whip on illegal mining operations and became a serious target of the powerful sand mafia there, but he was undeterred. In his 8-month long but eventful tenure as Nagpur Municipal Commissioner, Mundhe launched a transparency drive, overturned entrenched administrative practices that had evaded scrutiny, dared to question unsanctioned expenditures from the civic body’s coffers and many came under the radar. However, he was shunted to Mumbai in a fresh assignment before there were casualties. Lasting Impact Probably, the most striking aspect of Mundhe’s bureaucratic journey is that in every posting, he managed to leave a lasting impact and set new benchmarks. As in Solapur, he contributed to making at least 7 municipal bodies defecation-free in a tenure of barely 18 months (Nov. 2014-May 2016). A retired civil servant described Mundhe as “a champion of citizen-centric governance, ensured that the administration connected to the last man, treated his work not with authority but as a responsibility and worked not merely efficiently but empathy for the masses – who adored him”. Shattering traditions even at home In April 2026, while on election duty in West Bengal, Tukaram Mundhe learnt that his mother Asarabai breathed her last at 90 in Pune. He rushed back for the last rites held in his native village, Tadsona in Beed district. Breaking conventions, Mundhe and his brother skipped all the traditional rituals, and instead of immersing her residue in a holy river, they planted a Banyan sapling on her ashes as a dual tribute to her and the environment.

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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