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Correspondent

21 August 2024 at 10:20:16 am

Tearful Harvest

Despair once again prevails in Maharashtra’s onion belt as angry farmers have launched protests across Nashik, Sambhaji Nagar and Solapur in wake of onion prices crashing to absurdly low levels. For cultivators who spent months battling erratic weather, rising fertiliser costs and mounting debt, the arithmetic is devastating. At such prices, farmers are unable even to recover transportation costs, let alone repay loans or sustain their households. In the past, Governments in Delhi have risen...

Tearful Harvest

Despair once again prevails in Maharashtra’s onion belt as angry farmers have launched protests across Nashik, Sambhaji Nagar and Solapur in wake of onion prices crashing to absurdly low levels. For cultivators who spent months battling erratic weather, rising fertiliser costs and mounting debt, the arithmetic is devastating. At such prices, farmers are unable even to recover transportation costs, let alone repay loans or sustain their households. In the past, Governments in Delhi have risen and fallen over onion prices. In 1980, soaring onion prices contributed to public anger against the Janata Party government. In 1998, the BJP lost the Delhi Assembly elections amid voter fury over onions becoming prohibitively expensive. Few commodities possess such emotional resonance in Indian politics. Yet there is a cruel irony in India’s onion economy, namely that while consumers revolt when prices rise, farmers suffer when prices crash. Farmers in Maharashtra are demanding procurement at Rs. 32 per kg, while the state government has announced an assured procurement price of Rs. 1,580 per quintal. Leaders of the opposition Maha Vikas Aghadi have openly challenged the Mahayuti government to show where procurement at those rates was actually taking place. Yet the crisis illustrates a larger structural failure that no emergency meeting can fully conceal. India’s onion economy remains trapped in a cycle of volatility. When production dips, governments rush to ban exports, impose stock limits and flood markets with imports to calm urban consumers. But when production surges, farmers are abandoned to market collapses. The result is a deeply distorted agricultural ecosystem where cultivators bear the risks while political actors chase short-term electoral optics. Maharashtra, which accounts for a substantial share of India’s onion production, has witnessed such turmoil repeatedly. The protests of 2018, when farmers dumped onions on roads in Nashik after prices crashed below cultivation costs, should have served as a warning. They did not. Nor did earlier agitations led by the Shetkari Sanghatana in the 1980s and 1990s, which highlighted the asymmetry between urban-centric policymaking and agrarian realities. The present crisis is especially troubling because it strikes at a moment of already fragile rural sentiment. Farmer indebtedness remains acute. Climate variability has made cultivation increasingly precarious while input costs have risen steadily. Against this backdrop, a market collapse becomes a social issue, feeding anger, migration and, in the worst cases, suicides. The answer lies not in episodic procurement announcements or reactive subsidies, but in deeper reforms. India requires better agricultural storage infrastructure, predictable export policies and decentralised food-processing networks that can absorb production gluts. Most importantly, policymakers must stop treating farmers merely as electoral constituencies to be placated during crises. The onion has often moved governments because it affects the urban middle class. But a republic that ignores the tears of those who grow it risks a far deeper reckoning.

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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