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23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Poison Politics

The Muharram plot uncovered by Mumbai Police deserves to rank among the gravest terror conspiracies thwarted in recent years. Investigators say that Fayyaz Premji, a Pune-based businessman, spent nearly two weeks in a Dongri hotel assembling thousands of capsules containing zinc phosphide, a highly toxic rodenticide, before allegedly distributing them to Shia mourners during Muharram as purported painkillers. Nearly 15,000 poisoned capsules were reportedly recovered from his hotel room....

Poison Politics

The Muharram plot uncovered by Mumbai Police deserves to rank among the gravest terror conspiracies thwarted in recent years. Investigators say that Fayyaz Premji, a Pune-based businessman, spent nearly two weeks in a Dongri hotel assembling thousands of capsules containing zinc phosphide, a highly toxic rodenticide, before allegedly distributing them to Shia mourners during Muharram as purported painkillers. Nearly 15,000 poisoned capsules were reportedly recovered from his hotel room. Eleven people fell ill after consuming some of those already distributed. Had the conspiracy unfolded on the scale allegedly intended, Mumbai could have witnessed a sectarian massacre of horrifying proportions. The case has immediately acquired another dimension because of the political commentary surrounding it. Even before investigators have completed their inquiry, familiar voices have begun suggesting that the affair is somehow too convenient to be true. The case is politically awkward precisely because it refuses to fit India’s preferred ideological templates. The intended victims were Shia Muslims. The alleged perpetrator had once belonged to the Khoja Shia community before publicly renouncing Islam and embarking upon an increasingly bitter campaign against Shia religious institutions. According to investigators, the motive appears rooted in sectarian hostility rather than the Hindu-Muslim polarisation that usually dominates India's political discourse. For decades, India’s debate on communalism has become increasingly one-dimensional. Much attention has, understandably, been devoted to majoritarian politics and Hindu-Muslim relations. Yet sectarian violence within religious communities has rarely received comparable analytical attention despite its devastating record elsewhere. The Sunni-Shia schism has fuelled conflicts from Iraq and Syria to Pakistan, Afghanistan and Yemen, claiming hundreds of thousands of lives over successive decades. It is among the oldest unresolved religious fault lines in the world. India has largely avoided importing that conflict on any significant scale. But that does not mean the fault line does not exist. The Mumbai case therefore deserves to be examined as a reminder that religious extremism wears many faces. It does not always conform to the narratives that dominate television studios or election campaigns. Sometimes its victims belong to the same broad religious community as its perpetrators. This is also a moment for introspection among those who pride themselves on opposing communal politics. Genuine secularism cannot operate selectively. It cannot acknowledge only those forms of religious hatred that reinforce pre-existing political convictions while treating others as inconvenient anomalies. More troubling still is the eagerness with which some commentators appear willing to transform an ongoing criminal investigation into another chapter of partisan warfare. To see every act of terror principally through the prism of electoral advantage is itself a form of communal politics. The courts are the bodies to determine guilt. But if the allegations are ultimately sustained, India should recognise the conspiracy for what it was: not merely an attempted mass poisoning, but a warning that sectarian extremism is neither geographically distant nor historically extinct.

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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