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23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Buried Lives

Pimpri-Chinchwad is fond of advertising itself as a model city. Its gleaming roads, industrial estates and ambitious infrastructure projects have helped make the Pimpri-Chinchwad Municipal Corporation (PCMC) one of India’s wealthiest civic bodies. The shocking accident in which eight labourers died after a massive garbage heap collapsed onto the administrative building of the Waste-to-Energy plant at Moshi, exposes the rot beneath PCMC’s outwardly prosperous edifice. The contrast is...

Buried Lives

Pimpri-Chinchwad is fond of advertising itself as a model city. Its gleaming roads, industrial estates and ambitious infrastructure projects have helped make the Pimpri-Chinchwad Municipal Corporation (PCMC) one of India’s wealthiest civic bodies. The shocking accident in which eight labourers died after a massive garbage heap collapsed onto the administrative building of the Waste-to-Energy plant at Moshi, exposes the rot beneath PCMC’s outwardly prosperous edifice. The contrast is impossible to ignore. A civic body flush with resources failed to prevent workers from being buried alive under its own waste. The facility should have been governed by the most basic principles of engineering and workplace safety. The Indian Army, the National Disaster Response Force, firefighters, police and municipal personnel have worked for days in dangerous conditions. Heavy excavators painstakingly removed unstable concrete while specialist teams searched for survivors. But their professionalism has only served to highlight the incompetence that had made their deployment necessary in the first place. Garbage dumps do not collapse without warning. Any administrative building situated in the shadow of such an unstable waste mass should have been subjected to rigorous risk assessment. If those assessments existed, they evidently failed. If they did not, the negligence is even graver. The tragedy also raises uncomfortable questions about the Waste-to-Energy project itself. It was inaugurated with much fanfare as a technological milestone, boasting India’s largest boiler of its kind. International engineering expertise and sophisticated machinery were proudly showcased. Yet impressive technology is meaningless if basic occupational safety is treated as an afterthought. Grand inaugurations make headlines. Routine maintenance rarely does. But it is the latter that determines whether workers return home alive. Municipal administrations have developed an unfortunate habit of measuring success in kilometres of roads laid, flyovers inaugurated and crores spent. The true measure of governance is far simpler. Can the poorest employee leave work safely at the end of the day? At Moshi, the answer is a devastating no. While compensation packages and promises of inquiries will inevitably follow and committees will submit reports, the danger is of responsibility becoming diluted across the chain of contractors, engineers and officials until accountability disappears into bureaucracy. That familiar script must not be allowed to play out again. PCMC cannot plead poverty nor cite a lack of technical expertise. It cannot claim that the dangers of unstable waste dumps were unknowable. A corporation with such financial strength possesses the means and the obligation to enforce the highest safety standards. The dead were casualties of preventable negligence. The wealth of a city is ultimately measured not by the size of its municipal budget, but by the value it places on the lives of those who keep it running. At Moshi, that value proved tragically cheap.

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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