top of page

By:

Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Swift Justice

The rape and murder of a three-and-a-half-year-old girl in Maharashtra’s Nasrapur village was one of those crimes that momentarily dissolves the distinction between legal outrage and moral revulsion. Such acts seem to defy language as much as law. The Pune Special POCSO Court deserves commendation for demonstrating that justice need not be paralysed by delay. Its decision to sentence the convicted perpetrator, Bhimrao Kamble, to death within two months of the crime was notable not merely...

Swift Justice

The rape and murder of a three-and-a-half-year-old girl in Maharashtra’s Nasrapur village was one of those crimes that momentarily dissolves the distinction between legal outrage and moral revulsion. Such acts seem to defy language as much as law. The Pune Special POCSO Court deserves commendation for demonstrating that justice need not be paralysed by delay. Its decision to sentence the convicted perpetrator, Bhimrao Kamble, to death within two months of the crime was notable not merely for the punishment imposed, but for the court’s insistence on an unbroken chain of forensic and circumstantial evidence, scrupulous adherence to due process, and a reasoned application of the “rarest of rare” doctrine. The Nasrapur case demonstrates that the criminal justice system can function with remarkable efficiency when its various arms work in concert. The court proceeded without avoidable delay while ensuring due process. Conviction came within sixty days of the crime, followed swiftly by sentencing. Such timelines should be exceptional only because every criminal trial ought to aspire to them. This matters because deterrence rarely flows from the theoretical existence of the death penalty. Criminological research across jurisdictions has struggled to establish that capital punishment, by itself, prevents violent crime. A justice system that delivers certainty is a greater deterrent than one that merely promises severity. Long delays, hostile witnesses, poor investigations and collapsing prosecutions weaken public confidence far more than the absence of harsher laws. India scarcely suffers from a shortage of stringent laws. Successive amendments to criminal legislation and the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act have steadily increased penalties over the past decade. The larger deficit has been institutional capacity, be it competent investigation, scientific evidence gathering, witness protection and efficient adjudication. The verdict serves as a reminder that justice ultimately depends on institutions that function, not merely on laws that promise severity. The debate over the morality or efficacy of capital punishment is unlikely to disappear. But whatever one’s position on the death sentence, few could dispute the importance of a judgment rooted in painstaking evidence rather than emotional clamour. The Nasrapur case exposed the uncomfortable truth that the convicted man had acted with a sense of impunity, emboldened by his criminal history. This points to a recurring institutional failure. Dangerous repeat offenders cannot be allowed to slip repeatedly through administrative cracks. Effective policing is not merely about solving crimes after they occur; it is equally about identifying habitual offenders, monitoring them appropriately and preventing opportunities for further violence. The true precedent of Nasrapur should be that every victim, irrespective of public attention or political pressure, receives an investigation anchored in science, a prosecution built on evidence and a trial conducted without needless delay. Justice earns public confidence not because it is swift or severe in isolation, but because it is both scrupulous and certain.

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.

Comments

bottom of page