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23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Hostage City

For a city that prides itself on never stopping, Mumbai has been brought to a grinding halt by the stoppage of one of its most indispensable services. The indefinite strike by employees of the Brihanmumbai Electric Supply and Transport (BEST) undertaking has effectively paralysed the city’s bus network, leaving millions of commuters stranded and exposing deep fissures in the management of one of India’s largest urban transport systems. BEST ferries around 25 lakh passengers daily through a...

Hostage City

For a city that prides itself on never stopping, Mumbai has been brought to a grinding halt by the stoppage of one of its most indispensable services. The indefinite strike by employees of the Brihanmumbai Electric Supply and Transport (BEST) undertaking has effectively paralysed the city’s bus network, leaving millions of commuters stranded and exposing deep fissures in the management of one of India’s largest urban transport systems. BEST ferries around 25 lakh passengers daily through a fleet of nearly 2,800 buses. Yet over the past three days, the city has witnessed the near-total collapse of this network. On the first day of the strike, only a few dozen buses operated. By the weekend, not a single BEST-owned or wet-lease bus was on the roads. Local trains, Metro services, taxis and autorickshaws have been forced to absorb the shock and are predictably straining under the burden. The strike may be illegal under the Maharashtra Essential Services Maintenance Act (MESMA), and the industrial court may have ordered employees back to work. Yet laws and court orders cannot substitute for sound governance. When a public utility reaches the point where thousands of workers are willing to risk disciplinary action and legal consequences, it signals a failure that predates the strike itself. The demands raised by the unions are hardly new. Employees have long sought implementation of the Seventh Pay Commission recommendations, settlement of retirement dues, an end to contractualisation and the merger of the BEST budget with that of the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation. Whether one agrees with every demand is beside the point. What is striking is that these issues have been allowed to fester for years without a credible roadmap for resolution. Equally troubling is the government’s reactive approach. Ministers and officials rushed into negotiations only after services collapsed and public inconvenience reached intolerable levels. Such crisis management has become a familiar feature of governance. The unions, too, must recognise the wider consequences of their actions. Public transport is the bloodstream of a city. Every day the strike continues, daily wage earners lose income and ordinary citizens bear higher travel costs. The disruption disproportionately hurts those who can least afford alternatives. Holding Mumbai hostage may attract attention to legitimate grievances, but also risks eroding public sympathy. Mumbai has spent years celebrating new Metro corridors, coastal roads and grand infrastructure projects. Yet the humble bus remains the most affordable and accessible mode of transport for millions. Policymakers often treat BEST as an ageing institution to be managed rather than a vital public service to be strengthened. The increasing reliance on contract workers and wet-lease operations may reduce immediate costs, but also weakens institutional stability and labour relations. A city of Mumbai’s scale cannot afford a public transport system perpetually balanced on the edge of financial distress, labour unrest and administrative uncertainty. Nor can it depend on emergency measures whenever disputes arise.

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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