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By:

Abhijit Joshi

31 August 2024 at 10:09:24 am

Nasrapur’s Lost Child

The rape and murder of a four-year-old girl has left Maharashtra grieving and demanding accountability from a system that failed to stop a known offender. She was only four years old. She was spending her summer holidays at her grandmother’s house in Nasrapur, a quiet village in the Bhor area of Pune district. She liked playing outside. On the afternoon of May 1, 2026, a 65-year-old man from the same village walked up to her and said he would show her a calf. She smiled and followed him. She...

Nasrapur’s Lost Child

The rape and murder of a four-year-old girl has left Maharashtra grieving and demanding accountability from a system that failed to stop a known offender. She was only four years old. She was spending her summer holidays at her grandmother’s house in Nasrapur, a quiet village in the Bhor area of Pune district. She liked playing outside. On the afternoon of May 1, 2026, a 65-year-old man from the same village walked up to her and said he would show her a calf. She smiled and followed him. She never came back. What happened next in a cattle shed nearby is too painful to describe in full. The man — identified by police as Bhimrao Prabhakar Kamble — sexually assaulted the little girl, killed her, and hid her body under a pile of cow dung. Repeat Offender CCTV footage from a camera outside a neighbour’s house recorded Kamble walking away with the child. By the time the child was found, it was too late. The doctors said she had already passed away. Kamble was found near a river in the village. He said he had done nothing. But the camera had told the truth. The police arrested him the same evening. He was sent to police custody by a Pune court. Here is something deeply troubling about this case. Bhimrao Kamble was not a first-time offender. He was accused of molestation in 1998. A court let him go. In 2015, he was accused again — this time of harming a young girl. He was let go again. In 2019, a court acquitted him in a case involving his own niece. Each time he walked free, he came back to live in the same village. Nobody was keeping a close eye on him. No one warned the village. And the little girl’s family had no way of knowing that this man, their neighbour, had harmed children before. When the news spread across Nasrapur and then across Maharashtra, people were heartbroken — and furious. Hundreds of villagers came out on the streets. They blocked the busy Pune-Satara Highway (also part of the Pune-Bengaluru National Highway) for hours through the night. On May 2, a complete shutdown (bandh) was called in Nasrapur. All shops and schools remained closed. The next day, a bandh was observed across the Bhor and Rajgad tehsils as well. Protestors carried signs and slogans demanding the death penalty for the accused. They wanted justice — and they wanted it fast. The little girl’s last rites were held late at night, after midnight, under police protection. The child’s father, a Hindu priest, recorded a video message that went around on social media. In it, he said he did not want to meet any politician. He had only one request: that the accused be given the death penalty through a fair trial. He said no politician should visit their home until justice was given to his daughter. Swift Justice Maharashtra Chief Minister Devendra Fadnavis called the crime deeply saddening and said it was “highly shameful.” He announced that the case would be tried in a fast-track court, which means the trial will move much faster than a normal court case. He also said a special public prosecutor — a lawyer hired just for this case by the government — would be appointed to make sure the accused gets the strongest punishment possible. Maharashtra Deputy Chief Minister Sunetra Pawar said, as a mother, she could feel the pain of the victim’s family. She promised the government would not rest until the family got justice. BJP legislator Chitra Wagh said the incident had shaken society and that the fight for justice must continue till the end. Opposition leaders were sharp in their criticism of the government. NCP-SP MP Supriya Sule called the crime “inhuman.” She questioned how a man who had committed similar crimes twice before was ever given bail. She also pointed out that the Maharashtra Women’s Commission does not currently have a chairperson, asking: “Where are we supposed to go to ask for justice?” She demanded the case be heard in a fast-track court and that the accused be given the death penalty. Slanging Match Congress Legislature Party leader Vijay Wadettiwar targeted the Home Ministry and said the “fear of the law has vanished” under the present government. He called for a complete overhaul of how children are kept safe. NCP-SP’s Rohit Pawar also questioned how a known repeat offender was free to roam around the village without any police watch. The National Commission for Women took up the case on its own and asked the government to file a chargesheet quickly under the POCSO Act. The Maharashtra State Commission for Protection of Child Rights also stepped in, asking the government to appoint a special public prosecutor and move the case to a fasttrack court. The Pune rural police have set up a Special Investigation Team (SIT) of six officers, including two women police officers. Keeping children safe is not just a job for the police. It is the responsibility of every adult in a community — teachers, neighbours, grandparents, shop owners. If any adult behaves strangely around children, that should be reported immediately. Children themselves must know that if any grown-up makes them feel scared or uncomfortable, they should run to a trusted adult and tell them. There is no shame in speaking up. Speaking up can save a life. The police are working to ensure Bhimrao Kamble faces the full weight of the law. That is necessary. But justice for this little girl also means making sure no child in Nasrapur — or anywhere in Maharashtra or India — ever has to go through what she went through. She deserved to grow up. She deserved to go to school, make friends, and see many more calves in many more summers. (The writer is a political observer. Views personal.)

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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