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By:

Jitendra Zavar

5 April 2026 at 4:30:23 pm

From barren land to lush green Devrai

The inspiring journey of Nashik’s ‘Tree Man’ Shekhar Gaikwad Nashik: If a person sets their mind to it, they can make the impossible possible. A prime example of this is the 'Mountain Man' of Bihar, Dashrath Manjhi, who carved a road through a mountain using only a hammer and chisel. His life story was even adapted into a highly successful film. Such passionate personalities are found in many places, and Shekhar Gaikwad of Nashik is one of them. He has taken up the mission of making the city...

From barren land to lush green Devrai

The inspiring journey of Nashik’s ‘Tree Man’ Shekhar Gaikwad Nashik: If a person sets their mind to it, they can make the impossible possible. A prime example of this is the 'Mountain Man' of Bihar, Dashrath Manjhi, who carved a road through a mountain using only a hammer and chisel. His life story was even adapted into a highly successful film. Such passionate personalities are found in many places, and Shekhar Gaikwad of Nashik is one of them. He has taken up the mission of making the city green. Regardless of whether he receives help or not, he has continued his work. Dedicated to tree conservation for the past three decades, this enthusiast is known today as the 'Tree Man' of Nashik. He has planted more than 1.5 lakh trees. A mechanical engineer by profession, Shekhar Gaikwad always had a passion for the environment. This led him to start his afforestation work in 1998. He conducted an in-depth study of native species that are beneficial to the environment and launched plantation drives in various parts of Nashik. The most significant milestone in this journey is the 'Fashicha Dongar' (Hangman's Hill) area near Satpur. This historical hill, where freedom fighters were hanged during the British era, lay barren. It was covered with 'Gliricidia' trees, which degrade the soil quality. Taking it as a challenge, Shekhar Gaikwad sought permission from the Forest Department to transform this hill. On June 5, 2015, the site was named 'Devrai' (Sacred Grove). Since then, the hill began to turn lush green. Today, more than 35,000 trees of native species are thriving across this 100-acre expanse. This area is no longer just a forest but has become a 'Biodiversity Park' rich in life, providing a natural habitat for many birds and wildlife. The hill has now become a center for nature tourism. Gaikwad's devotion to nature is astounding. While managing his business, he spends every Saturday and Sunday in this Devrai without fail. He prioritises manual labour (Shramdaan) over family functions or weddings. Consequently, his friends and relatives now plan their events on days other than Saturday or Sunday. Initially, he had about 15 volunteers, but that number gradually decreased. Now, he carries out this work himself along with two security guards. Due to the dense forest, the presence of leopards has increased, and he often encounters snakes while working, yet his mission continues unabated. Without Aid Shekhar Gaikwad implements all his environmental projects solely through community participation, without any government or political assistance. The monthly expenditure, including the salaries of two security guards and other costs, amounts to approximately Rs 90,000. He manages this expense through his own funds and with the help of nature-loving citizens. Gaikwad does not stop at tree conservation; he loves animals and birds equally. He treats injured birds at his own expense. Today, due to the "concrete jungle," sparrows are on the verge of extinction. Therefore, he is also running a campaign to save sparrows. To provide them a space in homes, he creates sparrow nests and sells them on a 'no profit, no loss' basis. Gaikwad has also started a unique experiment of a 'Nature Library' within the Devrai forest. The library houses numerous books providing information on trees, grass, bamboo, shrubs, vines, birds, animals, snakes, butterflies, and bees.

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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